"It's on our trajectory! Right before us now! We can see it—Look!"
And he threw back the shield, and my heart gave an awful lurch. For no longer was the scene before us one of changing, iridescent beauty—the entire pane was covered by a gigantic, menacing platter. A monstrous missile of death. The planet Jupiter—dead on our course!
Lancelot Biggs' face, which had been keen and alert a moment before, was suddenly a dull, blank mask of horror. Strangled words fought their way from his throat.
"I—I didn't realize! I forgot all about Jupiter when I plotted the return course! I—"
"Forgot!" roared the skipper. "Great comets—forgot!" Then his wrath died in anxiety. "Do something. Turn off that blasted unit of yours so we can loft over her—"
But Todd shook his head.
"That's no use, Skipper. I thought of that. We're too close. We're caught in her gravitational attraction anyway. Even if we were to turn off Biggs' device, there still wouldn't be time to get the rockets hot."
"Lanse—" began the skipper. Then, "Where did he go?"
Because Biggs had turned, suddenly, and raced from the room! Fled, still clutching the space-chart. Fled, and not a word of advice, regret or hope. And with him went our last dwindling hope of salvation.