Captain Torkel leaned back in his crash-chair. The rocket shook under the vibration of thundering atomic engines. He flicked a switch. Acceleration began.
"Brace yourselves, men! Earth, here we come!"
Before the rising acceleration froze his movements, he snapped on the starboard visi-screen.
He stared only for a second.
He stared at the mass of Sirians filtering out of the dark forest, their sleek bodies illumined by the crimson glare from the jets and by the trembling fires from their torches.
They were like red devils, their faces contorted in rage and hatred as they poured over the meadow. Captain Torkel shivered at the sight of the knives, stones, clubs in upraised hands, at the savage mouths spitting forth alien oaths. This was what mankind would meet when the refugee ships began to land, twelve years hence.... But they had twelve years to decide what to do about it.
Then the image was swept away in space like a red stone falling into the depths of a black pool.
Captain Torkel turned off the screen. Acceleration pushed him deeper and deeper into his chair.
Soon the thunder of the jets faded, and there was silence. The blackness of space pushed itself against the ports. Captain Torkel cut the engines.