She tore a page out of a notebook and printed something on it. She held it up to a porthole.
The meteor bounded closer, so that it was almost touching their ship. Now they could see tiny mounds on its surface, about the size of walnuts.
"Good grief!" said Steve. "It's got eyes. Like...."
"Like a potato," finished Myra.
The meteor bounced off again and stood stationary for a moment.
"What'd you say?" Steve asked.
"I said, 'I'm a married woman. But stick around.'"
"Fine," said Steve. "Nothing like a little comedy to buck one up in moments fraught with suspense. What's it doing now?"
The meteor was whirling again in a state of industrious agitation. Suddenly it stopped. A white, sticky substance began to pour out of it. As it grew it congealed into something resembling frosted glass, which formed a gigantic bubble, big enough to enclose several ships the size of the Horns.
There was a large opening at one point. The transparent bubble drifted toward them. Before they could move they had entered it through the opening. The meteor-ship followed them, then spurted some more of the gelatine substance, sealing the opening.