He shook his head. "That's just it, Buster. We don't know."
"You," I told him, "are a big help. Pass the bottle. Do you happen to know your own name?"
"Yeah," he said. "Mud. It used to be Bert Donovan. I'm the radio operator aboard this ship."
"Ship?" He was beginning to talk sense now.
"Lugger, I should say. This is the Saturn, friend. IPS freight lugger, operating on the Earth-Mars shuttle. Or, anyhow, we used to. Till he got monkeying around with that new power drive of his—"
"IPS?" I strangled. "Earth-Mars? He?"
"Take it easy, friend. IPS—interplanetary space ship. Earth-Mars—round-trip route, originally. Navigator, Lancelot Biggs, the first mate.[3] Didn't you know—"
"Omigod!" I bleated. "Don't tell me, but I—we—all of us are in the future!"
Donovan caught me as I was about to collapse and clapped me heartily on the back. I think it did more harm than good, but at least it brought me out of the fog.
"Correct," he said unhappily. "We're off in the future—hmm—maybe two-three hundred years. Myself, I don't understand how the hell it happened, but—"