“Do you suppose,” asked Marquis, “that the phrase ‘left and I am’ might mean that the person sending the signals is the only one left and he’s about at his rope’s end?”
“Maybe,” suggested Bob Vickers, “something happened to the crew as a result of their acceleration. ‘Horribly warped by effects of motion’ sounds ominous. Perhaps the crew went bats and they had to land to save the ship. Then something happened to them on the planet so that they ‘had to stay and one’—well, maybe he’s telling about the ghastly fate of one of them.”
“What—what about ‘too slight to lift’?” reminded Fred.
“As I recall,” said Nick in hushed tones, “there was one outstanding bad point about Dad’s setup. The contracel controls were pretty heavy and it took a strong man to work them alone. If but one man were on the ship, and he sick, or weak from hunger, he couldn’t lift those levers.” He stared a moment, then added, “Particularly if the gravity on whatever planet the ship is were greater than that of Earth.”
“I thought the controls were automatic,” protested Dorothy.
“They were. But Dad had manual controls installed just in case.”
At this point a wild-eyed, disheveled figure burst in upon them. “I’ve found them,” he cried in a high, strained falsetto. “They’re in a tight little orbit around Proxima Centauri.”
Dorothy Gilbert took his arm. “Come with me,” she whispered. “I have some more data for you; you’ve done wonderfully.”
The two left the room, heads close together. An instant later a faint shriek reached the ears of those in the control room, followed by gibbering noises. Nick made a dive for the exit, to find Edgar cackling faintly to himself as Dorothy led him away. “There, there,” she soothed, “it wasn’t your fault. Now you just go and get a nice long rest, then we’ll help you with the new calculations. . . .”