Of course I do. "Do you think M'Clare was going to risk one of us on that job? The volunteering was a fake. He went himself." B whispers, "You're just guessing." "Maybe," says Mr. Yardo, "but I happened to see through that face plate of his. It was the professor all right." He has his hand on the controls when my brain starts working again. I utter a strangled noise and dive for the hatch into the cargo hold. B tries to grab me but I get it open and switch on the light. Fifty-fifty chance--I've lost. _No_, this is the one we came in and the people who put in the new cargo did not clear out my fish-boat, they just clamped it neatly to the wall. I dive in and start to pass up the package. B shakes her head. "No, Lizzie. We can't. Don't you remember? If we got caught, it would give everything away. Besides ... there isn't any chance--" "Take a look at the screen," I tell her. Sharp exclamation from Mr. Yardo. B turns to look, then takes the package and helps me back. * * * * * Mr. Yardo maneuvers out over the sea till the thing is in the middle of the screen; then drops to a hundred feet. It is sticking out of the water at a fantastic angle and the waves are hardly moving it. The nose of a ship. "The antigrav," whispers B. "The Andite hasn't blown yet." "Ten minutes," says Mr. Yardo thoughtfully. He turns to me with sudden briskness. "What's that, Lizzie girl? A fish-boat? Good. We may need it. Let's have a look." "It's mine," I tell him. "Now look--" "Tailor made," I say. "You might get into it, though I doubt it. You couldn't work the controls." It takes him fifteen seconds to realize there is no way round it; he is six foot three and I am five foot one. Even B would find it hard. His face goes grayish and he stares at me helplessly. Finally he nods. "All right, Lizzie. I guess we have to try it. Things certainly can't be much worse than they are. We'll go over to the beach there." On the beach there is wind and spray and breakers but nothing unmanageable; the cliffs on either side keep off the worst of the force. It is queer to feel moving air after eighteen days in a ship. It takes six minutes to unpack and expand the boat and by that time it is ten minutes since the missile hit and the Andite has not blown. I crawl into the boat. In my protective clothing it is a fairly tight fit. We agree that I will return to this same point and they will start looking for me in fifty minutes' time and will give up if I have not returned in two hours. I take two Andite cartridges to deal with all eventualities and snap the nose of the boat into place. At first I am very conscious of the two little white cigars in the pouch of my suit, but presently I have other things to think about.