“Correct, but why get so excited about it?”
“Lots of reasons, Nick. We’re dopes, that’s why. There’s no sense in our going to the equator; our mass would be so terrific there that we could never get off.
“But, if there’s a point where the centrifugal force will throw us off, it’s between here and the equator.”
“She’s right!” screamed Edgar. “And I’m a seventh order moron not to have thought of it myself. If such a point exists, we must be pretty close to it now.”
The light flickered again. “All set,” said Joe. “Get ready; we’re moving.”
Again they grasped the stanchions, their hearts hammering in hopeful anticipation. Now the effect that Timbie had mentioned was painfully apparent. They saw him press the firing button, counted beneath their breath as they waited for the light which would indicate that the rocket had fired correctly—ordinarily, that light flicked so soon after the button was pressed that it appeared simultaneous—then braced themselves for a spurt ahead.
When it came the scene outside had altered again. Now the entire topography of Hastur seemed to be a vast concavity and they were climbing up the rim of the great cup. Ahead of them strange wrinkles appeared in the surface which became normal again as they approached nearer; behind them, the planetoid had become an incline sloping down to the edge where the great globes of stars wheeled in the abyss.
“Are we crazy—or is it Hastur?” burst out Bob Vickers.
Hartnett smiled. “These distortions are purely illusionary. It’s the effect of the rotation.”
Slowly, strangely slow, the Columbia dragged itself forward, sliding along the planetoid’s surface, more fantastically distorted to their eyes every instant. Now it seemed to shrink before them until it appeared that the entire world was smaller than their ship, that the Columbia was balancing precariously on the ridiculous little globe of it, and the first spurt from the rockets would send them off into space. Then Hastur was an incredible long, winding ribbon, lined with impassable mountains on either side, and they must travel along the millions of miles of it, as on a runway until at last they came to the rim. Then it was a geometrical nightmare, a riot of planes and angles which hurt their eyes to see; up from the surface reared hideously formed ridges and equally ghastly orifices yawned before them. And before them stretched leagues upon leagues of glassy surface. . . . then. . . .