That is, nothing _seemed_ to happen. The _Liberty's_ hypos were cut. There sounded through the ship not even that dim, familiar, whining undertone which was its usual accompaniment of generating speed. There was no sensation of flight, no hurtling shock of acceleration, no grip of suddenly intensified gravity. No intraspatial weightlessness. Nothing. For a moment the wayfarers stared at each other with speculative eyes. Could it be the Jovian invention was, after all, a failure. Did they still lie in their cradle on Pangré spaceport. As if to solve this question, Lark O'Day pressed the stud which opened the vision plate to the outer hull. And what appeared thereon finally dissolved all doubts. It was not _what_ they saw but what they did _not_ see which offered clinching evidence of the fourth dimensional drive's effectiveness. Because it was no spaceport over which they looked, nor jet space spangled with the colorful burning of a myriad stars. Instead, there reflected on the vision plate before them a blank, gray, writhing _nothingness_. Just that. The soul of an emptiness beyond space and time, beyond color and form and life. It was a vista terrible to look upon, awful to consider. Gary Lane drew a short uneven breath. "Well, take a good look, folks," he said. "There it is. The world between the worlds. The universe between the universes. The unfathomable fourth dimension." Then, amazingly, came a burst of giggling laughter from one of their party. From the mirth-contorted lips of their Eurasian scientist companion, Dr. Boris Anjers. "Yes," babbled Anjers triumphantly, "look long and well, little fools, while yet you may. For when that mist passes your puny efforts will end in flaming oblivion. That all too brief gray pall is--your shroud of death!" CHAPTER XIII The War Between the Worlds Gary Lane's immediate reaction to these incredible words was a swift and regretful commiseration. The little man plainly did not know what he was saying. The rigors of the long and arduous trip had undermined his nerve. Now this final, most perilous adventure had completely disrupted his morale. Lane said soothingly, "Easy, Doctor. It's not so bad as all that. It'll be all over in a few minutes. Here, sit down and rest--" And he moved a few paces toward the rotund little savant. But Anjers, moving even more swiftly, evaded him. He darted back, a hand dipping into one capacious pocket of his jacket, and when that hand emerged it gripped the hilt of an ugly Haemholtz ray pistol. With this Anjers covered his stunned companions. "Stand back, Lane! Another step and I'll--Aaah, that's better." There was no cherubic placidity on his features now. Nothing but pure, unadulterated malevolence. "No, my friends, I am not, as you think, unnerved or mad. I am in complete possession of my senses ... and have been all along. Too much so to permit that you outcasts of Gog shall ever achieve your purpose--"