another reading on the
object-compass. Their faces grew tense and drawn and their hearts turned
sick as second followed second and minute followed minute and the needle
still oscillated. Finally, however, it came to rest, and Seaton's voice
almost failed him as he read his figures.

"Two hundred and thirty-five light-years, Mart. They're lost, and still
going. Good-bye, old scout," holding out his hand, "Tell Vaneman that
I'll bring her back or else stay out there myself."

"You must be crazy, Dick. You know I am going."

"Why? No use in both of us taking such a chance. If Dottie's gone, of
course I want to go too, but you don't."

"Nonsense, Dick. Of course this is somewhat farther than we had planned
on going for our maiden voyage, but where is the difference? It is just
as safe to go a thousand light-years as only one, and we have power and
food for any contingency. There is no more danger in this trip than
there is in one to Mars. At all events, I am going whether you want me
to or not, so save your breath."

"You lie like a thief, Mart--you know what we are up against as well as
I do. But if you insist on coming along, I'm sure glad to have you."

As their hands met in a crushing grip, the bars were brought up and
loaded into the carriers. Waving good-bye to Wilson, they closed the
massive door and took their positions. Seaton adjusted the bar parallel
with the needle of the object-compass, turned on the coil, and advanced
the speed-lever until Crane, reading the pyro-meters, warned him to slow
down, as the shell was heating. Free of the earth's atmosphere, he
slowly advanced the lever, one notch at a time, until he could no
longer support the increasing weight of his hand, but had to draw out
the rolling support designed for that emergency. He pushed the lever a
few notches farther, and felt himself forced down violently into the
seat. He was now lying at full length, the seat having automatically
moved upward so that his hand still controlled the lever. Still he kept
putting on more power, until the indicator showed that more than
three-quarters of the power was in operation and he felt that he could
stand but little more.

"How are you making it, Mart?" he asked, talking with difficulty because
of the great weight of his tongue and jaws.

"All right so far," came the response, in a hesitating, almost
stammering voice, "but I do not know how much more I can take. If you
can stand it, go ahead."

"This