Nona stood close to Grant. "What are they doing with the queer affair?" She indicated the nozzle.
"I'm afraid we'll find out only too soon," he answered grimly. "Look—" he broke off.
Far overhead, through the great round orifice, darted a tremendous shape, pointed, glittering.
"Why, that's the Althea," Nona exclaimed.
"Yes. Now watch. Damn—all we can do is watch," Grant gritted between his teeth.
Down sped the gleaming liner, pride of the fleet. The men at the mirror were swerving it on gimbals until a ray from it flashed on the burnished nose. As though it were a physical impact, the vessel slackened its tremendous speed and hung suspended midway between the cloud concavity and the island.
The men with the nozzle spurred into activity. A thin stream of fluid shot out of the orifice straight up for the captive liner. The tip of the expanding spray impinged on the hull—and Nona gasped her astonishment. For the liquid passed clean through the hull as though it were a porous network instead of four-inch thick beryllium-steel.
"Just as I thought," Grant groaned. "Lethal gas that penetrates everything. Those poor people on board—for their own sakes I hope none remained alive to hit this."
"Can't we do anything?" Nona asked desperately.