"There are thin cirrus clouds directly beneath us. They're not moving."
Lawton gasped, the sense of being in an impossible situation swelling to
nightmare proportions within him. What could have happened?
* * * * *
Directly behind him, close to a bulkhead chronometer, which was clicking
out the seconds with unabashed regularity, was a misty blue visiplate
that merely had to be switched on to bring the pilots into view.
The Commander hobbled toward it, and manipulated a rheostat. The two
pilots appeared side by side on the screen, sitting amidst a spidery
network of dully gleaming pipe lines and nichrome humidification units.
They had unbuttoned their high-altitude coats and their stratosphere
helmets were resting on their knees. The Jablochoff candle light which
flooded the pilot room accentuated the haggardness of their features,
which were a sickly cadaverous hue.
The captain spoke directly into the visiplate. "What's wrong with the
ship?" he demanded. "Why aren't we descending? Dawson, you do the
talking!"
One of the pilots leaned tensely forward, his shoulders jerking. "We
don't know, sir. The rotaries went dead when the ship started gyrating.
We can't work the emergency torps and the temperature is rising."
"But--it defies all logic," Forrester muttered. "How could a metal ship
weighing tons be suspended in the air like a balloon? It is stationary,
but it is not buoyant. We seem in all respects to be _frozen in_."
"The explanation may be simpler than you dream," Lawton said. "When
we've found the key."