Lancelot Biggs' √-1
Things moved so swiftly then that the series of surprises I received was practically one continuous blow. The walk through the Saturn was a revelation in itself. Like the cabin in which I had awakened, the ship was all metal, glass and plastic. And a funny metal at that. It was hard, but it looked soft, if you know what I mean. Which I'm sure I don't! The name of the metal, Donovan told me, was "permalloy." It was a special, non-conductive, something-or-other resistant alloy.
"—invented," said Sparks, "around the end of the twentieth century." And he looked at me curiously. "Oh. I forgot. You wouldn't know about that, would you?"
"Look," I said desperately. "Let me know when we get to the Psychopathic Ward, will you?"
But he didn't get it. We walked down one ramp and up another, through an observation room, climbed a ladder, and finally ended in the room the skipper had called the "control turret." And what a place that was!
It looked like an overgrown cyclotron with a purpose. Huge, banked panels with studs on them, cryptic plates, coiled thingamajigs, mechanical what nots and doolollies all over. More guys in sky-blue uniforms. Bells tingling, television screens popping on and off at intervals....
"Interestin'," said a voice at my elbow, "ain't it?"
And it was Hank, gulping and grinning and shaking my hand.
"Kinda worried about you, Jim. You shouldn't ought to have allowed yourself to be drawed into the power-field."
But seeing Hank had made me think of Helen; and now, looking for Helen, I found something that completed my mental collapse. Helen was standing shoulder to shoulder with—none other than her old man, himself, in person! And right behind H. Logan MacDowell stood the missing professors, Hallowell and Tomkins. And lurking behind them, looking more baffled—if possible—than myself, was an exceedingly disgruntled individual in a hard hat. The vanishing detective.