One of the meteorites slowly crumbled on top, the dust of disintegration hovering in a compact mass about the body. More and more of it melted away. The spinning motion grew irregular, eccentric, as the center of gravity was changed by the action of the ray.
Another ray, two more, centered on the wobbling mass. It was directly in our path, looming up larger and larger every second.
Faster and faster it melted, the rays eating into it from four sides. But it was perilously near now; I had to reduce power in order to keep all of it within the field of my disc. If—
The thing vanished before the very nose of the ship, not an instant too soon. I glanced up at the surface temperature indicator, and saw the big black hand move slowly for a degree or two, and stop. It was a very sensitive instrument, and registered even the slight friction of our passage through the disintegrated dust of the meteorite.
Our rays were working desperately, but disintegrator rays are not nearly so effective in space as in an atmosphere of some kind. Half a dozen times it seemed that we must crash head on into one of the flying bodies, but our speed was reduced now to such an extent that we were going but little faster than the meteorites, and this fact was all that saved us. We had more time for utilizing our rays.
We nosed upward through the trailing fringe of the swarm in safety. The great field of meteorites was now below and ahead of us. We had won through! The Ertak was safe, and—
“There seems to be another directly above us, sir,” commented Correy quietly, speaking for the first time since we had entered the area of danger. “I believe your disc is not picking it up.”
“Thank you, Mr. Correy,” I said. While operating on an entirely different principle, his two charts had certain very definite advantages: they showed the entire space around us, instead of but a portion.
I picked up the meteorite he had mentioned without difficulty. It was a large body, about three times the mass of the Ertak, and some distance above us—a laggard in the group we had just eluded.
“Will it coincide with our path at any point, Mr. Correy?” I asked doubtfully. The television disc could not, of course, give me this information.
“I believe so; yes,” replied Correy, frowning over his charts. “Are the rays on it, sir?”
“Yes. All of them, I judge, but they are making slow work of it.” I fell silent, bending lower over the great hooded disc.
There were a dozen, a score of rays playing upon the surface of the meteorite. A halo of dust hung around the rapidly diminishing body, but still the mass melted all too slowly.
Pressing the attention signal for Kincaide, I spoke sharply into the microphone:
“Mr. Kincaide, is every ray on that large meteorite above us?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied instantly.
“Full power?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well; carry on, Mr. Kincaide.” I turned to Correy; he had just glanced from his charts to the clock, with its jerking second hand, and back to his charts.
“They’ll have to do it in the next ten seconds, sir,” he said. “Otherwise—” Correy shrugged, and his eyes fixed with a peculiar, fascinated stare on the charts. He was looking death squarely in the eyes.
Ten seconds! It was not enough. I had watched the rays working, and I knew their power to disintegrate this death-dealing stone that was hurtling along above us while we rose, helplessly, into its path.
I did not ask Correy if it was possible to alter the course enough, and quickly enough, to avoid that fateful path. Had it been possible without tearing the Ertak to pieces with the strain of it, Correy would have done it seconds ago.
I glanced up swiftly at the relentless, jerking second hand. Seven seconds gone! Three seconds more.
The rays were doing all that could be expected of them. There was only a tiny fragment of the meteorite left, and it was dwindling swiftly. But our time was passing even more rapidly.
The bit of rock loomed up at me from the disc. It seemed to fly up into my face, to meet me.
“Got us, Correy!” I said hoarsely. “Good-by, old-man!”
I think he tried to reply. I saw his lips open; the flash of the bright light from the ethon tubes on his big white teeth.
Then there was a crash that shook the whole ship. I shot into the air. I remember falling… terribly.
A blinding flash of light that emanated from the very center of my brain, a sickening sense of utter catastrophe, and… blackness.
I think I was conscious several seconds before I finally opened my eyes. My mind was still wandering; my thoughts kept flying around in huge circles that kept closing in.
We had hit the meteorite. I remembered the crash. I remembered falling. I remembered striking my head.
But I was still alive. There was air to breathe and there was firm material under me. I opened my eyes.
For the first instant, it seemed I was in an utterly strange room. Nothing was familiar. Everything was—was inverted. Then I glanced upward, and I saw what had happened.
I was lying on the ceiling of the navigating room. Over my head were the charts, still glowing, the chronometers in their gimballed beds, and the television disc. Beside me, sprawled out limply, was Correy, a trickle of dried blood on his cheek. A litter of papers, chairs, framed licenses and other movable objects were strewn on and around us.
My first instinctive, foolish thought was that the ship was upside down. Man has a ground-trained mind, no matter how many years he may travel space. Then, of course, I realized that in the open void there is not top nor bottom; the illusion is supplied, in space ships, by the gravity pads. Somehow, the shock of impact had reversed the polarity of the leads to the pads, and they had become repulsion pads. That was why I had dropped from the floor to the ceiling.
All this flashed through my mind in an instant as I dragged myself toward Correy. Dragged myself because my head was throbbing so that I dared not stand up, and one shoulder, my left, was numb.
For an instant I thought that Correy was dead. Then, as I bent over him, I saw a pulse leaping just under the angle of his jaw.
“Correy, old man!” I whispered. “Do you hear me?” All the formality of the Service was forgotten for the time. “Are you hurt badly?”
His eyelids flickered, and he sighed; then, suddenly, he looked up at me—and smiled!
“We’re still here, sir?”
“After a fashion. Look around; see what’s happened?”
He glanced about curiously, frowning. His wits were not all with him yet.
“We’re in a mess, aren’t we?” he grinned. “What’s the matter?”
I told him what I thought, and he nodded slowly, feeling his head tenderly.
“How long ago did it happen?” he asked. “The blooming clock’s upside down; can you read it?”
I could—with an effort.
“Over twenty minutes,” I said. “I wonder how the rest of the men are?”
With an effort, I got to my feet and peered into the operating room. Several of the men were moving about, dazedly, and as I signalled to them, reassuringly, a voice hailed us from the doorway:
“Any orders, sir?”
It was Kincaide. He was peering over what had been the top of the doorway, and he was probably the most disreputable-looking officer who had ever worn the blue-and-silver uniform of the Service. His nose was bloody and swollen to twice its normal size. Both eyes were blackened, and his hair, matted with blood, was plastered in ragged swirls across his forehead.
“Yes, Mr. Kincaide; plenty of them. Round up enough of the men to locate the trouble with the gravity pads; there’s a reversed connection somewhere. But don’t let them make the repairs until the signal is given. Otherwise, we’ll all fall on our heads again. Mr. Correy and I will take care of the injured.”
