This news was indeed serious, and Alan walked thoughtfully to his chart. Yes, he ought to have known. It registered five hundred and fifty-five days. Over eighteen earth months they had been flying through the heavens. Their food had lasted magnificently. “Water?” he queried. “We finished the tank water long ago. I’m pretty well through with the cubes.” “Let me come and see the food supply.” Carefully he went over every item. Even yet, there seemed to be enough to feed an army, but he knew how little there was in reality. “I think if we have one good meal a day, we ought to make it last longer,” said he. “After all, one good meal is better than three small ones, and incidentally, we save over the one transaction. We must sleep longer, that’s all. We will get up at noon, and have a cup of tea and a biscuit. At four we will have dinner, and if we retire at eight, a cup of cocoa then should suffice us. The longer we remain in bed the less food we shall require. Come, let us tell the others.” Sir John took the news very quietly. Not a muscle of his face twitched—he might have been receiving a most ordinary announcement. Masters shrugged his shoulders indifferently, and Murdoch went on with his work as if he had not heard. Desmond took the news badly, however. His face grew ashen. “Why should this have come upon us?” he cried. “We had been through so much. Happiness came my way at last, and now—” He drew Mavis fiercely to him. “I won’t lose you. There must be some way out.” “There is none, my boy,” said Sir John, “so you had better make up your mind to that at once. Here we are and here we must remain, till by some merciful intervention, we die, or are given release.” “Where shall we ever find release?” from Desmond. “In some new world, perhaps.” “How big Jupiter is,” said Alan, looking out into the vastness. “He is certainly a wonderful planet,” said Mavis. “Is it my fancy or are we slowing down?” asked Sir John. “I’ve wondered the same thing myself,” said Masters. “For the last few days I have noticed an appreciable difference in our speed.” But although the difference was so slight as to be almost undiscernible, the new topic of conversation gave the prisoners new life. The days passed—the quantity of the food they consumed grew daily less and less, and they were growing weaker and weaker every day. At length they gave up their cup of tea in the mornings—their tea had gone. Then they halved their dinner portions making one day’s share of food last two! But all the same the dreaded day came only too soon, and five hundred and ninety-five days after Alan had put up his calendar, they found they had only a few tins of concentrated food left. They were all hungry. Little John Alan grew fretful, his mother feverish. There was silence in the little front cabin, the silence of the grave. The little party were all half asleep, when suddenly Alan rose. “What’s the matter?” he asked quickly. “What is it?” asked his uncle.