"Well, we did it, John—we did, didn't we?" Dr. Livingston said. "Now—do you want some rest? Go on down if you like." He was seated in his shirtsleeves by his little instrument table, with its humming bank of dials and levels. He mopped his dripping forehead with his handkerchief. It was hot as the shades of hell now in the Planeteer's interior—the friction of our rapid rise through the atmosphere, with which our temperature-controls were unable to cope. But we knew it would cool off quick enough presently.
"I'll stay here with you a while," I said. "I can't get used to it yet—wonderful, sort of frightening, isn't it?"
"And beautiful, John. Profitable, too—with the Xalite we'll bring back—turn it over to the authorities. And then, with our money, build another ship. A larger one. I'm going to devote my life to the development of space-travel. Why, John, can't you envisage—a big vessel, with passengers, bringing people from Mars maybe, if it's inhabited—"
Poor Dr. Livingston. His life was destined to be cut so short! How wise of the Creator that he so seldom gives us any hint of what is to come, so that at least we may dream....
We had said nothing to Duroh and Carruthers about the Xalite, fearing that they might be tempted to tell others, family and friends, and before our departure the secret would be out. When we reached Zura, it was our plan to tell them, of course. And from the beginning Dr. Livingston had always insisted that he would see they shared equally with him and me.
My mind went back now to that night when he had first told me our plans; that weird face at our window, and someone who simultaneously had seemed to be eavesdropping upon us from the corridor. We had been apprehensive—if our secret was known—that something might occur to stop our departure, that some other expedition might hurriedly be made ready to try and get to Zura. But so far as we could know, nothing of the kind had happened.
"You see, John, with what we know now of space-flying," Dr. Livingston was saying, "the whole realm of the Solar System will be open to us in another twenty or thirty years. Why, with real money at our command, you and I—"
A shout from the living compartments under us checked him. Then there was the sound of a scuffle, and big Peter Duroh's roar:
"Why, damn you, come out of there! Grab him, Jim!"
And Carruthers' grim, quiet voice: "I've got him—"