Often Bill scanned the spinning scarlet globe through a telescope. He could see the white polar caps, the dark equatorial regions, the black lines of the canals. And after many days, he could see the little blue circle that had been visible in the giant telescope on Trainor's Tower.
"It must be something enormous, to stand out so plainly," he said when he showed it to Captain Brand.
"I suppose so. Even now, we could see nothing with a diameter of less than a mile or so."
"If it's a ship, it must be darned big—big enough for the whole race of 'em to get aboard."
Bill was standing, a few hours later, gazing out through the vitrolite panels at the red-winged splendor of the sun, when suddenly he heard a series of terrific crashes. The ship rocked and trembled beneath him; he heard the reverberation of hammered metal, and the hiss of escaping air.
"Meteorite!" screamed Brand.
Wildly, he pointed to the vitrolite dome above. In three places the heavy crystal was shattered, a little hole drilled through it, surrounded with radiating cracks. In two other sections the heavy metal wall was dented. Through the holes, the air was hissing out. It formed a white cloud outside, and glistening frost gathered quickly on the crystal panels.
Bill felt the air suddenly drawn from his lungs. He gasped for breath. The bridge was abruptly cold. Little particles of snow danced across it.
"The air is going!" Brand gasped. "We'll suffocate!"
He touched a lever and a heavy cover fell across the ladder shaft, locked itself, making the floor an airtight bulkhead.