"All set," grunted Moore, squinting through a glass. "Going to skirt
the cavern?"
Ross nodded. "No use tipping Horta off at the outset. We may get a good
look without his knowing we're here."
As the last word left his lips a cry from the port lookout froze the
three in their places. They turned, fearfully. The lookout's face was
working. As they watched, tears began to stream down his face. He tried
to speak, but he could only point.
Ross sprang to the window. The sky was clear, save for the following
ships. Number Two, and Four, and Five. Six? Where was Six? And Seven?
He whirled on the lookout.
The man gulped, drew a deep breath, and said huskily, "There was a
flash, sir, and--and then--nothing! Nothing, where Number Seven was
flying! And then Number Six--went the same way!"
Ross and Moore stared frantically at one another. Then Ross sprang to
the signal post. "Jorgens! Where's Jorgens?"