Hartnett nodded. “That’s just about what happened. Three men were on the job of sealing off. That was the sure death assignment, because they would have to be practically entombed inside. Five others were on the padding job; they had a chance of not being smashed to pieces by the concussion if the blow held off long enough. “But it didn’t—not quite long enough. They managed to get their work almost finished. It was just the sheerest luck that the thing didn’t fill the entire ship, or go off before some of us were out of the way. That was when we didn’t all wait to put on full suits—and it seemed all right outside. Well, the radiation got the ones who survived the blast.” He buried his face in his hands. “It seems as if it happened ten years ago at times, then I feel, sometimes, as if it had happened yesterday.” * * * * * Dorothy slipped her arm around him. “It wasn’t your fault. Come, tell us more—about the things you found out about this planetoid.” He raised his head, brow wrinkled in concentration. “There’s an odd effect at the horizon—maybe you haven’t noticed it yet, eh? The equator of the world seems to be moving, flowing along the ground.” “Yow!” exclaimed Edgar. “Lorentz-Fitzgerald stuff!” “Huh?” “Simple,” he went on. “The speed of rotation of this planetoid at the equator approaches the speed of light, believe it or not. So the equator contracts. Its diameter remains the same, mind you, since it isn’t moving along the line of the diameter, but the circumference grows smaller. And that my friends,” he concluded, “makes the mathematical ‘pi’ a variable so far as Hastur is concerned. Geometry on this planet must be hot stuff—a veritable purgatory for mathematicians.” “How the devil did you figure all that out?” exclaimed Hartnett, a note of awed admiration in his voice. Edgar grinned. “I’m not staking my life on it,” he said, “but it’s the only explanation I can think of for the phenomenon you described.” “Well, you may be right, and then again.... The important thing, now, is to get off Hastur. These radiations are what got most of us—doesn’t make too much difference with me, because I’m old. But I’m assuming,” he looked at Dorothy and Nick, “that you two will be wanting to pair off pretty soon. And I don’t think Dorothy would care to start knitting little sweaters with holes for three heads in them after she’d had x-rays taken.” “We’ll get off,” declared Nick. “Our rockets are powerful enough, I think. We’ll take what we can from the Orion—and I suspect that you and your book, Steve, will be all—then scram away from here fast.” He clasped Dorothy’s hand. “I only want a hole for one head in that little sweater.” * * * * * Joe Timbie turned to Hartnett and Nick with a despairing gesture. “See? All we do is slide along the ground. I’ve given her the best blasts we have and there’s the result.”