Back Aa

Look to the Stars

Close

<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> He woke with a stifling sense of oppression. In that indefinite period between sleeping and waking, he struggled with a terrified conviction that the whole mass of the enclosing sphere was caving in on him, smothering, crushing his chest, grinding him against the floor. For some minutes, he seemed unable to move. Eventually, his head clearing somewhat, he struggled up, gasping for breath and fighting a surge of nausea. The crushing sensation had been so vivid that it was several minutes before he could overcome it. From an adjoining cubicle, the moans of the wounded outlaw penetrated his consciousness. He rose painfully, mindful of sore and stiffened muscles, and stumbled out onto the ramp. Overhead, the scattered lights which gave a faint illumination to the network of girders, were casting weird, swaying shadows, as they did after every lurch of the sphere. It was such a lurch, Marlin realized, that probably woke him. The floor, he noticed, had returned more nearly to level. Maw Barstow had spread her pallet across the bare opening of the outlaw's room, and lay there like a watchdog—anything but a lovely sight with her upturned face and open mouth. She was making hard work of sleep and did not stir when Marlin stepped over her and knelt beside the suffering figure inside. A rag was immersed in a pan of water at the side of the pallet. Surmising its purpose, he squeezed a little between the feverish lips and then wiped off the drawn face. The muddy stuff of the poultice had oozed out around the neck wound. Marlin wiped some of it away and adjusted the bandage, then pulled down the cover to see if other bandages needed similar attention. The outlaw, though wiry, seemed to have a rather frail physique. His face was smooth and boylike, almost sensitive, despite the hard set of the mouth. A tight bandage swathed the chest, but as Marlin's fingers felt along its edge he was struck by the soft, pliable texture of the flesh beneath. For a minute, he paused, considering the faintly moaning figure. For some strange reason, chills raced up his spine. Deliberately, he drew down the cover, until he could view the outstretched body. Then, very carefully, he restored the blanket to its place, tucking it carefully around the sleeping figure. The figure that was not a man—but a girl ... When he rose to leave a moment later, Pearl was framed in the doorway, her lips parted in the enigmatic smile which belied the innocent vacuity of her eyes. Marlin stepped over Maw Barstow's sleeping body and took the white-gowned girl gently by the arm. "Better get back to your covers," he advised; then, softly: "Girl, oh girl! Maybe you've got something after all!" <hr class="tb" /> When Marlin next awakened, it was to the rude shock of rough hands shaking him excitedly. He struggled up, his first impulse to strike out in resentment. It was DuChane. "Wake up, Dave! For God's sake, wake up! I've got something to show you!" Still half asleep, Marlin followed the other toward the ladder which led to the scaffold by which they had first entered. He felt strangely lightheaded, nauseated, wobbly on his feet, and his muscles ached. Unsteadily, he followed the other up to the scaffold. DuChane applied his eye to the periscope, then gestured. "Look!" His voice was scarcely more than a whisper. Marlin crouched before the eyepiece. He peered through it with vague bewilderment at first, then with growing interest—concern—amazement. He spoke at last—His voice strained and unfamiliar. "There's nothing out there! No ground—no hillside—no crater—no scaffolding—nothing! Nothing but stars. Stars and blackness." DuChane moistened his lips. "It's an illusion," whispered Marlin. "We can't be—" He glanced up at the girders. The shadows were still shifting in a weird dance to the cadence of swaying lights. "I know when it happened," he breathed hoarsely. "I woke up—a little past midnight—with a terrible sense of oppression. Felt as if I were being crushed. It must have been the acceleration." DuChane swallowed. "Nothing like that now. In fact, it's just the opposite—a touch of weightlessness. We'd better find Eli—have it out with him." The bearded scientist was snoring furiously on his pallet in the control room. They woke him without ceremony. DuChane interrupted the diatribe that trembled on the older man's lips. "What right had you to do this?" he accused. "How do you know you can get us back safely? Damn it all!" DuChane's anger rose as the full enormity of the situation broke over him. "How do you expect to steer the crazy thing—find your way back—land it? That dinky periscope is about as useful for guidance as a cigarette lighter in a blizzard!" Eli stiffened. "If you gentlemen will kindly explain what you are talking about!" "Why, you—!" DuChane broke off. "Mean to tell us you don't know?" The scientist's blank stare continued. "We're in space," Marlin informed him tersely. The older man seemed unable to comprehend. A momentary triumph lighted in his eyes, then faded into suspicion. "Go away!" he ordered gruffly. "I have no mood for silly jokes." Still, he submitted as they assisted him to his feet and hustled him toward the periscope. A few moments later, racing back to the control room, he began a feverish examination of instruments and dials. "I understand now. Yes—it is clear. I should have known, but in dealing with new forces—one lacks the guidance of experience. Lamberton—that imbecile? How I shall laugh. Charlatan eh! Yes, yes. It was necessary to build up a sufficient potential—to do that naturally took a great deal longer—" "Look here," interrupted DuChane. "Isn't it possible that the coating on the sphere somehow acted as a storage reservoir into which your current poured until it built up this—this terrific potential you've mentioned? I mean—well, perhaps this storing up of power multiplied the current generated by your dynamos, until they overcame the objection Lamberton pointed out—that of obtaining sufficient power to produce the atomic stress." "Nonsense!" Eli retorted reddening. "That imbecile has not the brains to grasp even my basic theory. There is no connection between my conversion coils and the mud coating!" "You have a ground of some sort, haven't you?" "Certainly. The steel shell of the sphere—" The inventor paused abruptly. "That dense outer coating of clay—Yes, yes. It might so act." He paused in exasperation. "Gentlemen! Please kindly go away! Is it not enough that I have great responsibilities, but you must come around with your childish theorizing?" By this time, the others had been awakened by the commotion, and were crowding around the control room entrance. "Wha—what's up?" demanded Link. Marlin looked at DuChane; DuChane returned the look. "Somebody has to break the news," said Marlin grimly. His eyes swept the gathering. "You may as well have it straight. We're no longer on earth; we're in space." "Whadda you mean—space?" Link was bewildered. "This is a space vessel isn't it—built to rise from the earth and fly off into the void? Well, contrary to expectations, it's doing just that. How far above earth we are, there's no way of telling—but I'm inclined to think it's one hell of a long way." <hr class="chap" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2