“Why, you amorphous protoplasm!” screamed Doctor Sims. “You congenital moronic microbe! You—you unspeakable NUT!”
It was too much. As Wally slumped, Dulcie hid her face in Doctor Trigg’s coat. In the din, a wild burst of laughter became nothing but a series of open mouths and contorted faces. But the tension of terror had snapped.
They had run the gamut of emotions, from the first cold prick of fear to the abandon of terror, and then to the ridiculous explosion.
It was then that David saw a black spot which might be a “hole.” Cautiously he turned the trembling ship, and managed to approach it. He found that it was the haven which might save them, and carefully maneuvered her down into the whirling pit. The storm-tossed craft steadied, and with a great sigh of relief David lowered the Moonbeam down and down, into an area of miraculous calm.
Below, the sea had been beaten into a flat surface by the driving rain. Above, the terrible floor of storm-tossed clouds had become a roof, from which hung wisps and threads of mist. A cold, clean, steady wind drove them toward the east. Once more David could hear the beloved, everyday noises of the ship.
They were safe.
Doctor Trigg patted Dulcie, and looked at his watch. “Only four o’clock,” he said cheerily.
“Four days!” groaned a reporter.
“That indicates the inadequacy of time as we divide it,” said Doctor Trigg, “Eh, Sims?”
“Get up!” growled Doctor Sims, glaring at Wally. “And go to your room!”