"He's crazy," Evans whispered.
"Cantrell, listen to me," Jarvis said.
But Cantrell was staring in horrified fascination at Earth dwindling below, at the space-animal watching him. "No!" he cried. "No, it's too late." And he shut off the radio and ripped the wires from their moorings.
Ahead of him lay the moon. He switched screens to look at it. It was chalky and pockmarked, like the skin of a diseased animal. Great iridescent veins glowed through its body. From a crater bed a great baleful eye regarded him.
Cantrell screamed again and frantically pressed studs on the control panel. The rocket shot flame from its side tubes and turned in a short arc, swinging the moon from sight. The forward viewscreens showed the stars now, and beyond them an infinite blackness.
"I'll be safe out there," Cantrell told himself.
The rocket leaped forward.
"You were right," Evans said bitterly, putting down the radiophone with a gesture of helplessness. "Now, what do we do?"
Jarvis shrugged. "Start over," he said. "What else is there to do? Find someone else to pilot another rocket."