Rusty lay in the silent darkness, unable to move in the cramped cylinder. They would have to wait for the Bugs to leave. It might be days! The air was slowly becoming bad. He would have to open the port soon. He might be able to open it just a fraction, but those tendrils were thin, they might whip in. The place was stifling. His throat ached. There was bursting panic in his lungs.
Suddenly he was pressed against the bottom of the tube by an invisible force. They were moving.
But why? How? The Great Moon was not in position yet! They would miss it! He raised a hand to the port-lock. It would be better to jump. And the air—he could not breathe. He fumbled with the lock, could not open it. Weakly he clawed at the port. They would—drift—into—space....
Slowly, his mind relaxed into unconsciousness.
Rusty opened his eyes and breathed deeply of exquisite air. He saw green foliage above him. He was lying upon a verdant substance, soft and moist. It was very hot. His furs had been removed.
"It's time you came to!" said a voice, and Rusty sat up, saw the rotund Earthian approaching. He glanced around, saw the drift-lube nearby, half-buried in the mud. The others were standing beside it, their odd appearance increased by the removal of their heavy clothing.
They had made it. They had escaped! He was free!
"What happened?" he asked, head dizzy.
"Fool Bugs cut the ropes," said Spike. "We floated off Pluto. Several of them must have held on the rope-ends for a while. Their weight slowed us down till the moon came over, but we hit in the jungle—an ocean, either way, between us and the Plain."