* * * * *
He leaped to his controls. Once more the plaintive hum of the
hypatomics droned through the cabin, gears ground and clashed as the
motors caught, something forward exploded dully, distantly. The ship
rocked and trembled, but did not move. Again Dick tried to jet the
fore-rockets. Again, and yet again.
And on the fourth essay, there ran through the ship a violent shudder,
broken metal grated shrilly from forward, and the water began bubbling
and churning through the crack. Deeper and swifter. Dick cut motors and
turned, his face an angry mask.
"We can't get loose. The entire nose must be stove in! We're leaking
like a sieve. Look, everybody--get into your bulgers. We'll get out
through the airlock!"
Mom cried, "But--but our supplies, Dick! What are we going to do for
food, clothing, furniture--?"
"We'll worry about that later. Right now we've got to think of
ourselves. That-aboy, Bobby! Thanks for getting 'em out. You girls
remember how to climb into 'em? Eleanor--you take that oversized one.
That's right. There's room for you and The Pooch--"
The water was almost ankle deep in the control room by the time they
had all donned spacesuits. Bloated figures in fabricoid bulgers,
they followed Dick to the airlock. It was weird, and a little bit
frightening, but to Bobby it was thrilling, too. This was the sort of
thing you read stories about. Escape from a flooding ship....
They had time--or took time--to gather together a few precious
belongings. Eleanor packed a carrier with baby food for The Pooch,
Mom a bundle of provisions hastily swept from the galley bins; Pop
remembered the medical kit and the tool-box, Grampaw was laden down
with blankets and clothing, Dick burdened himself and Bobby with
armloads of such things as he saw and forevisioned need for.
At the lock, Dick issued final instructions.
"The air in the bulgers will carry you right to the surface. We'll
gather there, count noses, and decide on our next move. Pop, you go
first to lead the way, then Mom, and Eleanor, Grampaw--"
Thus, from the heart of the doomed _Cuchulainn_, they fled. The
airlock was small. There was room for but one at a time. The water
was waist--no, breast-deep--by the time all were gone save Bobby and
Dick. Bobby, whose imagination had already assigned him the command of
the foundering ship, wanted to uphold the ancient traditions by being
the last to leave. But Dick had other ideas. He shoved Bobby--not too
gently--into the lock. Then there was water, black, solid, forbidding,
about him. And the outer door opening.
He stepped forward. And floated upward, feeling an uneasy, quibbly
feeling in his stomach. Almost immediately a hard something _clanged!_
against his impervite helmet; it was a lead-soled bulger boot; then he
was bobbing and tossing on shallow black wavelets beside the others.
Above him was a blue-black, star-gemmed sky; off to his right, not
distant, was a rising smudge that must be the mainland. A dark blob
popped out of the water. Dick.
[Illustration: _Moira reached for the twisted branch._]
Dick's voice was metallic through the audios of the space-helmet. "All
here, Pop? Everybody all right? Swell! Let's strike out for the shore,
there. Stick together, now. It isn't far."