"There might be enough fuel for that--if it hasn't deteriorated. But
then what? We'd crash. Certain death. You know that."
Vanning clicked another button into its socket. "Let's see if the
visi-plate works."
It did. On a panel before him a dim light glowed. It gave place to a
picture, clouded and cracked across the middle. They could see the
square, with the Swamja swarming into it in ever-increasing numbers,
with the twisted buildings rising in the background, and the tower-tube
shining far away.
Vanning caught his breath. "Listen," he said. "There's still a chance.
A damned slim one--"
"What?"
The detective hesitated. If he took time to weigh this mad scheme, he
knew it would seem utterly impossible. Instead, he snapped, "Brace
yourselves! We're taking off for a crash landing!"
Callahan looked at Vanning's set, haggard face, and whirled. He picked
up Lysla's limp body and braced himself in a corner. Zeeth and Hobbs
did the same. Before any of them could speak, Vanning had swung the
power switch.
He was praying silently that there was still a little fuel left in
the chambers, just a little, and that it would still work. His prayer
was answered instantly. With a roaring thunder of rocket-tubes the
life-boat bulleted up from the ground!
The bellow died. There was no more fuel.
Vanning stared at the visi-plate. Beneath him the city of the Swamja
was spread, the elfin lights glimmering, the coral palaces twisted like
strange fungus growths. Automatically his hands worked at the corroded
guide-levers that controlled the wind-vanes on the ship's hull.