I glanced covertly at Ventnor, at Drake—had I imagined, or had they too seen? Then I knew they had seen, for Ventnor's face was white to the lips, and Drake's jaw was set, his teeth clenched, his eyes blazing with anger.
“What's she doing to Ruth—you saw her face,” he gritted, half inarticulately.
“Ruth!” There was anguish in Ventnor's cry.
She did not turn again. It was as though she had not heard him.
The cubes were now not five yards apart. Drake gathered himself; strained to loosen his feet from the shining surface, making ready to leap when they should draw close enough. His great chest swelled with his effort, the muscles of his neck knotted, sweat steamed down his face.
“No use,” he gasped, “no use, Goodwin. It's like trying to lift yourself by your boot-straps—like a fly stuck in molasses.”
“Ruth,” cried Ventnor once more.
As though it had been a signal the block darted forward, resuming the distance it had formerly maintained between us.
The vanguard of the Metal Things began to race. With an incredible speed they fled into, were lost in an instant within, the luminous distances.
The cube that bore the woman and girl accelerated; flew faster and faster onward. And as swiftly our own followed it. The lustrous walls flowed by, dizzily.