[CHAPTER VII]
It was two hours later, and Foster and I stood silent before a ten-foot screen that had glowed into life when I touched a silver button beside it. It showed us a vast emptiness of bottomless black, set thick with corruscating points of polychrome brilliance that hurt to look at. And against that backdrop: a ship, vast beyond imagining, blotting out half the titanic vista with its bulk——
But dead.
Even from the distance of miles, I could sense it. The great black torpedo shape, dull moonlight glinting along the unbelievable length of its sleek flank, drifted: a derelict. I wondered for how many centuries it had waited here—and for what?
"I feel," said Foster, "somehow—I'm coming home." I tried to say something, croaked, cleared my throat.
"If this is your jitney," I said, "I hope they didn't leave the meter ticking on you. We're broke."
"We're closing rapidly," said Foster. "Another ten minutes, I'd guess...."
"How do we go about heaving to, alongside? You didn't come across a book of instructions, did you?"
"I think I can predict that the approach will be automatic."
"This is your big moment, isn't it?" I said. "I've got to hand it to you, pal; you've won out by pluck, just like the Rover Boys."