"-after the funeral muster Hargraves' room was sterilized at 400°."
The handwriting changed shortly thereafter. The city mother was growing so obviously discontented that they glanced only at the last two entries: "- Johnson continues to fail, but the natives are very helpful-"
"-my left hand is now useless. I have made up my mind to decommission the ship and take my chances in the hands of the natives. I shall take this log with me and add to it, if possible."
The handwriting was firm and clear; it was their own eyes that blurred it.
The mother-of-many immediately ordered up the party used to ferry the humans in and out of the city. She was not disposed to stop to talk and, once the journey began, there was no opportunity to until they reached dry land.
"Look here, Oz," Tex started in, as soon as he had shaken off the water, "do you really think she's taking us to the Astarte?"
"Could be. Probably is."
"Do you think there is a chance that we will find the ship intact?" asked Matt.
"Not a chance. Not a chance in this world. On one point alone, she couldn't possibly have any fuel left in her tanks. You saw what happened to the jeep. What do you think a century has done to the Astarte?" He paused and looked thoughtful. "Anyhow, I'm not going to get my hopes up, not again. I couldn't stand it, three times. That's too many."
"I guess you're right," agreed Matt. "It won't do to get excited. She's probably a mound of rust under a covering of vines."