CHAPTER II _Into Space_ A pulsing pain that stabbed through his head was Chet's first conscious impression. Then, as objects came slowly into focus before his eyes, he knew that above him a ray of light was striking slantingly through the thick glass of a control-room lookout. Other lookouts were black, the dead black of empty space. Through them, sparkling points of fire showed here and there--suns, sending their light across millions of years to strike at last on a speeding ship. But, from the one port that caught the brighter light, came that straight ray to illumine the room. "Space," thought Chet vaguely. "That is the sunlight of space!" He was trying to arrange his thoughts in some sensible sequence. His head!--what had happened to his head?... And then he remembered. Again he saw a clubbed weapon descending, while the face of Schwartzmann stared at him through bulbous eyes.... And this control-room where he lay--he knew in an instant where he was. It was his own ship that was roaring and trembling beneath him--his and Walt Harkness'--it was flying through space! And, with the sudden realization of what this meant, he struggled to arise. Only then did he see the figure at the controls. The man was leaning above an instrument board; he straightened to stare from a rear port while he spoke to someone Chet could not see. "There's more of 'em coming!" he said in a choked voice. "_Mein Gott!_ Neffer can we get away!" * * * * * He fumbled with shaking hands at instruments and controls; and now Chet saw his chalk-white face and read plainly the terror that was written there. But the cords that cut into his own wrists and ankles reminded him that he was bound; he settled back upon the floor. Why struggle? If this other pilot was having trouble let him get out of it by himself--let him kill his own snakes! That the man was having trouble there was no doubt. He looked once more behind him as if at something that pursued; then swung the ball-control to throw the ship off her course. The craft answered sluggishly, and Chet Bullard grinned where he lay helpless upon the floor; for he knew that his ship should have been thrown crashingly aside with such a motion as that. The answer was plain: the flask of super-detonite was exhausted; here was the last feeble explosion of the final atoms of the terrible explosive that was being admitted to the generator. And to cut in another flask meant the opening of a hidden valve. Chet forgot the pain of his swelling hands to shake with suppressed mirth. This was going to be good! He forgot it until, through a lookout, he saw a writhing, circling fire that wrapped itself about the ship and jarred them to a halt.