Before Cap Hanson had stopped gasping--I decided afterward it was a gasp, though at first I thought it was a symptom of apoplexy--Biggs stepped to the ship's intercommunicating system and buzzed the bridge. To Todd he snapped, "Mr. Todd, plot new co-ordinates to intersect with the vacuole as soon as possible!" Then Todd gasped and I gasped and Diane gasped and the Skipper was still gasping, and Lancelot Biggs turned to face us, faintly pale, breathing a little hard, but with a look of curious determination on his face. "I know," he said, "you all think I'm crazy. Well, maybe I am. But I'm _not_ going to surrender my command, and I'm going to see this race through in the way that seems most fitting to me--" Then he gulped, turned, and gangled from the room. Diane started crying softly. I said, "Now, now!" wondering if the words sounded as silly to her as they did to me. And Hanson came out of his stupor with a blast that lifted the roof an inch and a half. "What the blue space does he think he's going to do? 'Intersect the vacuole'! The crazy idiot! Does he mean to throw away all the advantage we've gained?" "Don't ask me," I said dourly. "I'm not an esper."[2] My instrument was clacking again; it was the operator of the _Slipstream_ calling. [Footnote 2: Esper--a fortune teller who makes his living by foretelling the future through his use of "extra-sensory perception".--Ed.] "We're clear, _Saturn_," he wired. "Thanks for getting off course. You're too far off, though. Better watch out. You're headed smack into the vacuole." I wired back, "We like it that way," and refused to pay any attention to his continued queries. A dismal silence had fallen over my turret. The hypatomics had picked up now; I could tell by the vibration that we were on our way, full steam ahead, toward--what? I found out. Not then, and not for several hours, but at dinnertime. I had just taken my seat at the table and Slops was just leaning over my shoulder, ladling soup into my bowl, when there came a high, shrieking whine from the engine room, the lights flickered, something went boomety-clang--and the bottom fell out of the universe! My stomach gave a sickening lurch, so did the mess hall, so did Slops, and so did the soup. About four of us went into an involuntary huddle on the floor; when I came up again I had purée of vegetables, luke-warm, all over me, and my hair had so many alphabet noodles in it you could have rented me out at a public library. [Illustration: There was a sudden lurch and we all floated toward the center of the cabin.] The din was terrific, but it all meant one thing; a question admirably summed up by the badly frightened Slops as he screamed, "Wotinell's the matter!" I said wearily, "Sue me if I'm wrong, friends. But I believe our screwball navigator, Mr. Biggs, has finally piloted us into the vacuole...." * * * * *