He failed to finish the sentence. To his reaching vision there were, perhaps, more potentialities than he could compass in words. And Chet Bullard, fingering the triple star on his blouse--the insignia that had gone with him through all his hopes and despairs--looked out into space and smiled. Behind him a brilliant world went slowly dark; it became, after long watching, a violet ring--then that was gone; the Dark Moon was lost in the folds of enshrouding night. Ahead was an infinity of black space where only the distant stars struck sparks of fire in the dark. And still he smiled, as if, looking into the unplumbed depths, he, too, made plans. But he moved the little ball within his hand and swung the bow sights to bear upon a glorious globe--a brilliant, welcome beacon. "Home it is!" he stated. "We're on our way!" But there was needed the rising roar from astern that his words might have meaning; it thundered sonorously its resounding hum in a crescendo of power that brooked no denial, that threw them out and onward through the velvet dark. The End. End of Project Gutenberg's Brood of the Dark Moon, by Charles Willard Diffin