The plane was a light cruiser, swift and well-armed. Probably the property of a wealthy merchant, it was luxuriously furnished.
Rusty gave the ship no more than a tired glance, waited for the take-off.
Jets roared in a steep ascension, then hushed to a restful drone. They passed out of the moon's heavy atmosphere. Rusty saw the stars cease to twinkle, change to a steady, burning light.
They were in space, dim and shadowy—headed home.
Rusty, Spike and the Vulcanian fell into berths as the ship was set on its course. Navigation was left to the Venusian. He did not sleep, gave no sign of fatigue. It was part of his nature.
Rusty slept dreamlessly and when he awoke, he found almost two days had passed. Mars glowed redly behind them and the star of Earth was bright before the view Plates.
Earth. Home. New York. He stared at the pin point of light, tried to locate the city. Millions of people there, at this distance—nothing. The Tele-news! A simple joy tingled within Rusty as he gazed at the distant planet. He was coming home. He had been far, he had a story to tell—one that had long outgrown its intended bounds. He saddened, however, as he remembered there would be no Skipper to hear his tale.
Spike came in.
"Gosh," said Rusty. "Is there anything to eat?"
"Not much," he answered. "We'll have to catch another liner before long."