Ahead of us had been the spark of luminescence that was a planet, astern of us the disc of fire that was a sun. We had done the things that had to be done—mechanically, not too inefficiently. But I was still seeing, in my mind's eye, the dull-glowing lens of the Galaxy, smoky crimson against the sooty depths of the ultimate night, still feeling, in my left hand and arm, the strain—the strain, and the crackling of the weakening, snapping stanchion. What was real and what was unreal? Was this world towards which we were headed some sort of latter-day Valhalla, a heaven (or hell?) for the souls of departed spacemen?
But we had done the right things—shortening sail, trimming sail, rotating the spars so that the black surfaces of some of the vanes were presented to the major luminary, so that their reflecting surfaces were catching the reflected light from the planet. We had slowed down sufficiently for the making of a safe approach.
"Even so," Ralph was saying, slowly and softly, "what world is it? What world can it be?"
I reached out for the big binoculars on their universally jointed mount. I thought, I'll play this for real. But it must be real. Or must it? Slowly, carefully, I adjusted the focus. What had been only short hours ago little more than a point of light was now a great shining sphere. I stared at it stupidly. About a third of the planetary surface was cloud-covered, mainly in the polar regions. I could observe clearly the seas and the continents—blue and brown and green, the snowclad peaks of the mountain ranges a sparkling white—the seas and the continents, the utterly unfamiliar configurations of land and water.
"What world is it?" asked Ralph again, addressing me directly this time.
"I don't know," I admitted, adding wryly, "But navigation in this ship—or these ships?—has been rather a lost art of late . . ."
"But not, unfortunately, rocketry," observed Sandra cattily.
"Pipe down," growled Ralph. "Pipe down. We've all of us come through, somehow, and we're back where we belong, in Flying Cloud. All we have to do now is to make a landing."
"But where, lord and master?" asked Sandra, too sweetly. "But where?"
"Does it matter?" he growled. "That looks to be a very pleasant world. Frankly, I shall be happy to set this scow down on any convenient stretch of calm water. After we're rested we'll see about getting our bearings . . ."
"In space?" she asked. "Or in time? Or both?"
"Does it matter?" he almost shouted. Then, "It's time we heard something from our tame telepath."
I said, "His amplifier up and died on him."
"I hope he hasn't dumped it," said Sandra, "although I never did fancy dog's brain in aspic. But Peter could make a curry of it."
"I'm not the cook," I told her coldly. "Not on this time track. And neither, my dear, are you the captain."
Ralph glared at us and then turned to the journalist. "Any luck, Martha?"
"Yes," she said, fiddling with the controls of her transceiver. "There are people there, and they're advanced enough to have radio. Their language is strange—to me, at any rate—but their music is human enough, even though it's a little corny for my taste." She switched over from headphone to speaker. There was a man singing, in a pleasant baritone, accompanied by some stringed instrument. The melody was hauntingly familiar, although the words were in that unknown tongue. Then, in spite of the shifts in key, the odd distortions of rhythm, I had it. In his own language, he was singing:
"Goodbye, I'll run
To seek another sun
Where I
May find
There are worlds more kind
Than the ones left behind . . ."
I said, "The Rim Runners' March . . ."
"You could be right," said Ralph doubtfully. Then, with growing assurance, he repeated, "You could be right. Even so, that piece of music is not the exclusive property of Rim Runners. It's old, old—and nobody knows how many times it's had fresh lyrics tacked on to it. But hearing it, on their radio, is evidence that Terran ships have been in contact with this world. The Survey Service, perhaps, or some off-course star tramp. But I think that we can expect a friendly reception, assistance, even . . ." He was beginning to look more cheerful. "All right. We'll get the rest of the way off this wagon now. This is the ideal approach, towards the sunlit hemisphere of the planet. You know the drill, all of you. Trim sails—black surfaces towards the sun, reflecting surfaces towards the source of reflected light. Start the pumps as soon as they have some atmosphere to work on."
His strong, capable hands played over the control panel. I watched the telltale screen. There was the ship as seen from directly ahead, scanned by the camera at the end of its long bowsprit, eclipsing the sun. Surrounding her were the geometric array of vanes and spars, some blindingly white, some sooty black. I watched—but there was no change in the design. I heard Ralph curse softly, I looked back to him. The control panel was alive with red lights.
The intercom speaker crackled and from it issued Peggy's voice. "The wiring's gone. The power supply to the trimming motors. Burned out."
"Manual trimming," ordered Ralph sharply. "Get along to the trimming motor room, all of you. And fast."
I was the first out of the control room, with Sandra, Doc Jenkins and Martha hard on my heels. We shuffled through the alleyways at speed, keeping the magnetized soles of our sandals in contact with the deck, knowing that to fall free would be to waste time rather than to gain it. But it was a nightmarish means of progression. As we passed the psionic radio room we ran into Claude Smethwick, who had just come out into the alleyway. I grabbed his arm and hustled him along with us, refusing to listen to what he was trying to tell me.
The trimming motor room stank of burned insulation, of overheated and melted metal and plastic, of ozone. Peggy was there, frantically stripping panels from the bulkhead sheathing, laying bare the damaged wiring. I heard Sandra say, "If you'd done this before, Miss Cummings, instead of playing around with homemade fireworks . . ."
"Shut up!" I shouted. Then, "Peggy, put the manual controls in gear!"
"Peter," Claude Smethwick was babbling. "Peter, I've made contact. This world . . ."
"Later," I snapped. "Tell me later. We have to get the way off the ship."
"But . . ."
"Get your paws on to that wheel, all of you! Now . . . now . . . together!" The hand gear was stubborn, and our actions at first were clumsy and uncoordinated. "Together!" I shouted again.
The worst of it all was that we were having to work in free fall conditions. All that held us to the deck was the magnetism of the soles of our sandals. We had no purchase. Yet, at last, the big wheel started to turn—slowly, slowly. I wondered how much time remained to us before we should plunge, a blazing meteorite, down through the planet's atmosphere.
I snatched a glance at the indicator and gasped, "Belay, there. Belay." So far, so good. The main drivers were trimmed. The auxiliary vanes still presented a greater reflecting surface to the sun than did the mainsails to the reflected light of the planet, but things were coming under control, the feeling of nightmarish urgency was abating.
Ralph's voice came through the intercom. "Trim 1 and 2 spinnakers. Then stand by."
"Turn back!" bawled Claude Smethwick. "We must turn back!"
"Why, Mr. Smethwick?" asked Ralph's disembodied voice coldly.
"I've been trying to tell you, but nobody will listen. I've been in touch with the telepaths on that planet. It's Llanith, one of the antimatter worlds. And they say, 'Turn back! Turn back!' "
"Mr. Malcolm," snapped Ralph. "Trim all sails!"
Again we strained and sweated, again we were driven by the nightmarish sense of urgency. The first pair of spinnakers was trimmed—and then, with the second pair of auxiliary vanes rotated barely a degree on their spars, the hand gear seized up. Peggy said nothing, just relinquished her hold on the wheel and walked rapidly to the spacesuit locker.
I demanded, "Where are you off to?"
She said, "I have to go outside."
"If there's time," muttered Sandra. "If there's time. Why don't you make another rocket, dearie?"
"What's the delay?" Ralph was demanding. "What's the delay?" Then, his voice suddenly soft, "Goodbye, all of you. It's been good knowing you. Goodbye, Sandra . . ."
She said fiercely, "I might be able to make it to control in time."
Dropping our hands from the useless wheel we watched her go. "Very touching," whispered Jenkins. "Very touching . . ." But, in spite of the slight edge of sarcasm to his voice, he was holding Martha Wayne very closely.
I said to Peggy, "This seems to be it. A pity, since everything's been tidied up so nicely."
She pushed the spacesuit back into its locker and came to stand beside me. She said, putting her hand in mine, "But this mightn't be the end, my dear. Even if there's no after life, we know that we're still living in the alternative Universes . . ."
"Or dying . . ." said Jenkins glumly.
And then—it's odd the way that the human brain works in a crisis—a snatch of archaic verse that I must have learned as a child rose from the depths of my memory, flashed across my mind:
And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept
On the reef of Norman's Woe . . .
But the crew of the schooner Hesperus had died a cold death—ours would be a fiery one. I hoped that it would be sudden.
The ship lurched and shuddered, as though she had in actual fact driven on to a roof. There was a rending, tearing noise, felt as well as heard—the spars and sails, I realized, bearing the brunt of our impact with planet's atmosphere, were braking us, slowing us down. There was the thin, high scream of air rushing over and through projections on our hull, the gaps in our shell plating. The temperature rose sharply. I held Peggy to me tightly, thinking, This is it.
The screaming died to a faint whistle and was drowned by a new sound, the throbbing of the air compressors.
Ralph's voice from the bulkhead speaker was faint and shaky, yet reassuring. He said, "All hands report to the control room. All hands report to control—to splice the main brace. And then we'll make it landing stations."