Three times they had to sweep from their course to renew their energy from straggling suns that seemed to be farther and farther apart. The first was a tiny blue sun that burned its way through the emptiness. The second was a huge nebula that pulsed and spouted flame and protean worlds into space—enveloped them again as it breathed, scared them, and cast them out once more. And Odin wondered if in such a furnace and such torment his own world had been born. He had now seen as much of space as any man, with the exception of Grim Hagen, and so far it had been a tumultuous creation that he had watched. Nothing was still. The forges of space were white-hot. As they sped toward this sun, they passed two planets, perilously close together, pelting each other with splashing gobs and spears of flame and slag. The third was a red sun with lonely burned-out planets circling wearily about it. As they skimmed above its surface Odin slid a dark plate over the screen and watched. Here were molten lakes of metal rimmed by red flames that looked like writhing trees. The surface was splitting and bubbling. A mountain of molten ooze swiftly grew to a height of thirty miles. Then it burst into red flame from its own weight and came toppling down.
As they hurled away from the red star, Ato turned to Odin and Gunnar and said: “I’m afraid that will be the last. Even the stars are behind us—”
The screens now showed nothing but the dust-cloud, with specks of light and coils of darkness threaded through it. It loomed larger and larger until it filled the screen.
“Ragnarok,” Gunnar growled in his throat. He adjusted the shoulder strap that harnessed his broadsword to his back and looked at Odin curiously.
“You should have rest, Nors-King. You look gaunt and tired—but stronger too. I wonder if I have changed as much as you since we started this trip. Eh, Nors-King,” he chuckled, “if you had but one eye, I would swear that you were old Odin himself, rushing out to the edge of space to start that last bonfire of suns.”
“Quiet,” Nea pleaded as she worked with the calculator. “So far this has defied computation. It’s unstable, Ato. Before I can identify it, a factor is added or taken away.”
“Grim Hagen went in there,” Ato replied as he studied his instruments. “If he can, we can.”
“Perhaps,” she answered. “But space out there is curdling in his wake.” She shivered. Nea’s shoulders were beautifully shaped, and Odin found himself thinking that they were made for a man’s arms instead of bending over calculators and machines.
“Oh, well!” he thought. “They are not for my arms, but why doesn’t Ato wake up and claim her? Then there wouldn’t be distractions like this—”