He called Moore. "All the cameras set?"
"All set," grunted Moore, squinting through a glass. "Going to skirt the cavern?"
Ross nodded. "No use tipping Horta off at the outset. We may get a good look without his knowing we're here."
As the last word left his lips a cry from the port lookout froze the three in their places. They turned, fearfully. The lookout's face was working. As they watched, tears began to stream down his face. He tried to speak, but he could only point.
Ross sprang to the window. The sky was clear, save for the following ships. Number Two, and Four, and Five. Six? Where was Six? And Seven? He whirled on the lookout.
The man gulped, drew a deep breath, and said huskily, "There was a flash, sir, and—and then—nothing! Nothing, where Number Seven was flying! And then Number Six—went the same way!"
Ross and Moore stared frantically at one another. Then Ross sprang to the signal post. "Jorgens! Where's Jorgens?"
A white-faced signalman spoke up. "He's back at Peak Four, sir."
"Oh, yes." Ross in his agitation had forgotten. "Well, signal Ships Two, Three, Four and Five to sheer off the Cavern and return to Peak Four!"
The man sprang to obey. Ross turned to order the course changed. But the crashing din that followed silenced him. His body hurtled against the stanchion, and suddenly he found his arms about the Princess Illeria.