"Yes, sir," said Lancelot Biggs.
I stared at Donovan.
I said, "What makes with the brain trust? Double talk?"
He said, "Don't ask me, Buster. I just work here. Or used to. It's even money whether I continue working or learn to play a harp. What with that screwy command your friend Hank gave—"
Then he, and I and everyone in the room stopped speaking. For again there had come, remotely, a different tone-value from the engine room. Hank's orders were being obeyed! And all eyes centered painfully on the visiplate in which, almost blotting the entire frame now, was mirrored the on-rushing planet....
Can I explain my feelings to you? I doubt it. All I can think of is to say that I felt like a very tiny fly on a wall, watching helplessly, wingless, unable to escape, as a gigantic flyswatter smashed down at frightful speed upon me. The Saturn was a huge craft, yes, but it was a speck of dry dust compared to the colossal sphere toward which it plunged.
At this velocity there could be but one result to a collision. Death, swift, crushing, horrible, for all of us. A moment, I thought, of incredible pain. A torrent of madness beating at the eardrums, the fires of hell flaming before the eyes—then oblivion.
Nearer came the planet. I could see now that it was as mad and wild as the unspawned negative universe in which it floated. No life. No thin film of atmosphere to blue the sharp definition of its raw terrain. A weird, dead world in a universe that could not be.
I was aware of Donovan at my side, breathing hard. I glanced across the room at Lancelot Biggs. His eyes were strained, the muscles of his jaw white. His lips were half parted. Perhaps it was imagination, but I thought I caught the whisper of a name.