Myra looked at Steve a trifle uncertainly.
"Resistance would have been futile, I suppose?"
Steve tried to make himself comfortable on a tiny seat of the cabin.
"I think so, considering that our only hope of ever getting back to our own System lies in playing ball with these fuzzy Fascists. There may not be much chance of our succeeding in this screwball expedition, but the important thing is that there is some. Putting up a fight might have been gratifying to the ego, but I doubt that it would have convinced these gangsters that they ought to send us back home."
"I suppose you're right, Steve. But just what exactly do you think our chances are, this way?"
"Looking at it from the scientific angle, we're pretty well off. Here we are scootling along at Lord knows what speed, in what may well be the most up to date ship in the universe, with nothing to do but push Button X when we get to Point Q on—what the hell'd I do with that chart?"
"It's all right," said Myra. "I've got it."
"—And we land without fuss or bother. Providing...." A worried look crept into Steve's face.
"Providing we don't go nuts," supplemented Myra.
"We do have to put an awful lot of faith in Peachy's theory that we're subnormal enough, mentally, to escape the spider-people's batty beam. Then all they ask is that we put the beam out of business, or show them how they can."