“The power unit is in readiness,” he said quietly.
“And we are likewise,” Toller replied, turning to meet Gotlon’s attentive eyes. “Take us away from here.”
Gotlon advanced the throttle without hesitation. The engine sounded at the rear of the ship, its roar muted by distance and the intervening partitions, and the crew members gradually floated downwards to take up standing positions on the deck. Toller looked out of the nearest porthole just in time to see the cluster of store sections and habitats slide away behind the ship. Some heavily muffled auxiliary workers were hanging in the air near the structures, all of them vigorously waving their farewells.
“This is quite touching,” Toller said. “We’re being given a rousing send-off.”
Zavotle sniffed to show his scepticism. “They are merely expressing heartfelt relief at our departure. Now, at last, they can quit the weightless zone and return to their families—which is what we would be doing if we had any sense.”
“You forget one thing,” Bartan Drumme said, smiling. “Which is…?”
“I am returning to my family.” Bartan’s boyish smile widened. “I get the best of both worlds, so to speak—because my wife is waiting for me on Farland.”
“Son, it is my considered opinion that you should be the captain of this ship,” Zavotle said solemnly. “A man needs to be crazy to set out on a journey such as this—and you are the craziest of us all.”
The Kolcorron had been under way for a little more than an hour when Toller began to feel uneasy.
He visited every compartment of the ship, checking that all was as it should be, but in spite of his being unable to find anything wrong, his sense of disquiet remained. Unable to attribute it to any definite cause, he chose not to confide in Zavotle or any of the others—as commander he had to provide resolute leadership, not undermine the crew’s morale with vague apprehensions. In contrast to his own mood, the others seemed to be relaxing and growing more confident, as was evidenced by the sprightliness of the conversation on the top deck.
Finding the talk distracting, Toller went back down the ladder and, feeling oddly furtive, positioned himself at a midships porthole, in a narrow space between two storage lockers. It was the sort of thing he had sometimes done in childhood when he needed to shut off the outside world, and in the contrived solitude he tried to pinpoint the source of his forebodings.
Could it be the fact that the sky had unaccountably turned black? Or could it be a deep-seated worry, an instinctive emotional protest, over the idea of building up to a speed of thousands of miles an hour? The main engine had been firing almost continuously since the start of the voyage, and therefore —according to Zavotle—the ship’s speed already had to be far in excess of anything in man’s previous experience. At first there had been a clearly audible rush of air against the hull, but as the sky darkened that sound had gradually faded away. Sunlight slanting in through the porthole made it difficult for Toller to perceive the outside universe clearly, but the eternal calm seemed to reign as always, yielding no evidence that the ship was hurtling through space at many hundreds of miles an hour.
Could that fact be related to his unease? Was some part of his mind troubled by the discrepancy between what he observed to be happening and what he knew to be happening?
Toller considered the notion briefly and pushed it aside—he had never been unduly sensitive, and travelling in space was not going to alter his basic nature. If he was going to be nervous it was more likely to be over some practical matter, such as having positioned himself so close to a porthole. The planking of the Kolcorron’s hull was reinforced with extra steel hoops on the outside and layers of tar and canvas on the inside, imparting great strength to the ship’s structure as a whole, but there were areas of vulnerability around the portholes and hatches. On one early test flight a porthole had blown out and a mechanic’s eardrums had been ruptured, even though the accident had not occurred in true vacuum.
A brief hissing sound from the upper deck indicated that somebody had mixed a measure of firesalt and water to renew the air’s life-giving properties. Perhaps a minute later its distinctive odour—reminiscent of seaweed—reached Toller’s nostrils, mingling with the smell of tar which seemed to have been growing stronger.
He sniffed the air, realising that the tarry smell was indeed more noticeable, and his sense of alarm suddenly intensified itself. On impulse he removed one of his gauntlets and touched the black surface of the hull beside him. It felt warm. The degree of heat was far short of what would have been needed to soften the tar, less than his skin temperature, but it was strikingly in contrast with the chill he had expected. The discovery burst open a gateway in his mind, and all at once he knew exactly what had occasioned all his vague forebodings…
His entire body felt uncomfortably warm!
The quilted skysuit had been designed to keep the fierce cold of the weightless zone at bay, and had been barely adequate for its purpose, but now it was proving so efficient that he was on the verge of breaking into a sweat.
This can’t be right! We can’t be falling into the sun!
Toller was striving to bring his thoughts under control when the sound of the engine died away and in the same moment he heard Zavotle calling his name from the upper part of the ship. Finding that he was again completely without weight, Toller dived through the air to the ladder and went up it hand over hand. He drew himself on to the top deck by means of a rail and faced the rest of the crew, all of whom, with the exception^ Gotlon, were clinging to their sleeping nets.
“Something strange is happening,” Zavotle said. “The ship grows warm.”
“I have noticed.” Toller looked at Gotlon, who was regarding him from the pilot’s seat. “Are we on course?”
Gotlon nodded vigorously. “Sir, we are exactly on course and have been since the outset. I swear to you that Gola has not departed the crosshairs for as much as one second.” Gola was a figure in Kolcorronian myth who appeared before lost mariners and led them to safe havens, and the name had been given to the guide star selected for the first part of the outward journey.
Toller addressed himself to Zavotle. “Couldn’t we nevertheless be moving sideways? Falling towards the sun, but with the prow of the ship pointed at Gola?”
“Why should we fall? And even if we were falling it’s too soon for extra warmth to manifest itself on that account.”
“If you look aft you’ll see that we are still in the same relationship with Overland and Land,” Berise added. “We are on course.”
“This is something for my flight log,” Zavotle said, almost to himself. “We have to take it that space is warm. It isn’t surprising, really, because in space there is eternal sunshine. But the sun also shines in the weightless zone—and there a terrible coldness reigns. It’s yet another mystery, Toller.”
“Mystery or no mystery,” Toller replied, deciding to act in a positive manner to offset the uncertainty which had been engendered by the first brush with the unexpected, “it means we can divest ourselves of these cursed suits, and that’s something for which to be thankful. We can at least enjoy a little comfort.”
By the third day of the flight a shipboard routine had become well established, much to Toller’s satisfaction. He was aware of the dangers of monotony and-boredom which could lie ahead, but those were predictable human problems and he felt capable of dealing with them. It was when nature itself became capricious, giving the lie to man’s most cherished beliefs, that he began to feel like a babe wandering in a dangerous forest.