"Yes. And he said—" Biggs' larynx performed some incredible involutions—"he said he knew perfectly well what he was doing."
"And so do I!" I howled. "He's plowing us smack-dab into Sol's gravitational clutch! Well, I don't want some! I have no ambition to become part of a sunspot!"
"No-o-o," said Biggs thoughtfully, "that's one thing we don't have to fear. Gilchrist's mathematics are O.Q. Our velocity will be great enough to overcome Sol's gravitation."
"But what are we going to do," I stormed, "about the heat? 6000° Centigrade ain't exactly what I consider a cool, refreshing climate!"
"That's the trouble. I told him we'd be boiled like beans in a pot if we passed that near Sol, but he pooh-poohed my warning. Said our refrigerating system would keep us cool and comfortable." Biggs shook his head helplessly. "I don't know what to do, Sparks. After all, his word is law."
I moaned. "And how long," I asked, "before we begin to french-fry in our own carcasses?"
"About five days, Sparks. Five or six days from the current—" He stopped suddenly. His pale eyes glowed. His larynx began leaping up and down like a Mexican jumping bean. "Current!" he repeated. "But of course! That's it!"
"'Scuse, please?" I demanded, puzzled.
But Biggs shook me off with an evasion.
"Not now, Sparks I can't tell you now. There's no sense in both of us getting in trouble. But I think I know a way to convince Major Gilchrist we must change our course."