"Nonsense, sir! The Sun—"
"Is getting closer," I finished, "every minute. You have undoubtedly looked at the ship's hull to make sure there are no wires or coils on it?"
Some of Major Gilchrist's cockiness had oozed out of him. He said uncertainly, "Y-yes, I did. The entire hull is thickly coated with some glutinous substance—"
Oh, golly! That was one thing which hadn't occurred to me. I had just sort of taken it for granted that the fuel I had dumped would have whipped away into space. Silly logic on my part, for I've run the spaceways long enough to realize that nothing ever floats away in the void; anything you chuck from a spacevessel shares your velocity and hangs right along by your side. But I made the finest dramatic act of my life; gasped, and clutched at my forehead wildly.
"The oil! Migod, the oil-tanks have burst! Captain Hanson, we're doomed!"
And the skipper, too, came through nobly. He moaned and raced to the wall thermo, whirled from it frantically.
"A hundred an' two!" he bleated, "an' gettin' hotter every minute! We'll be stewed like peas in a pot!"
Gilchrist's lips turned a sickly bistre. He ran his tongue over them and faltered, "But my computations—"
"Were wrong!" I told him. "Dead wrong! Take a look at these other figures. Lancelot Biggs' figures!"