The weird terrain was slipping away from them; they felt themselves buffeted as the entire ship was rocked violently. “We’ve hit it,” yelled Bob.
Below them Hastur was already a sphere, and, as Timbie’s fingers pressed buttons releasing full fire on the rockets, it became again the incredible globe they had seen when approaching it. They were free.
Dorothy raised her hand to her face to wipe away a tear that was streaming down her cheek, smiled despite herself when her mailed finger touched the glassite of her helmet.
“Goodbye, Harry,” she whispered.
“We have here,” declared Edgar, picking his nose, “a small list of the mysteries of Hastur. So far as I can see, the only way really to break them is to make up another expedition sometime.”
“Read ’em off, bucko,” said Dorothy.
“First of all—what is Hastur made of? Why, with the terrific speed of rotation, doesn’t it fly to pieces?”
“I devoted five pages to that in my book,” put in Hartnett. “To sum up briefly: there’s no reason I know why it should be, but it is. Therefore, there must be a reason.” They glared at him. “Good way of wasting time,” he protested.
“Then,” continued Edgar, “we have the matter of the reverse English radio reception. And I shall personally slay and dismember anyone who tries to pass it off merely as ‘Einstein effect’.” He looked up. “Well?”