Cargyle at first watched curiously, then with a growing intentness. When the spaceworm vanished he sat staring. Slowly his eyes swung around to the timer, mumbling feebly as Parker moved its control. It spat its brisk, blue sparks. And suddenly Cargyle got it! The timer ... Parker working on it hour after hour ... and no spaceworms in the control cabin--no spaceworms in the cabin till Parker slept, and the timer was still! "Barfield!" he yelled, in a voice that brought the men to their feet. "Send our position! We've won! We're going in!" Lord, was there time? He grabbed up a space-helmet, switched on its tiny set, and shouted into the speaker: "Come back, Markoe! I've found it--the wave-length! Come back!" * * * * * It was simple, the way Markoe explained it later. The lucky accident, the chance in a million, had happened. The field which the broken timer built up when operated neutralized whatever force held the flame-things together. The spaceworms could only retreat before that field; if they were caught in it their cohesion vanished, and their energy fled--they "died." It was only necessary, Markoe said, to analyze and then amplify that field; send it pulsing out into space. Most of the spaceworms would be caught in it instantly, gathered, as they were, upon the _Denebola_. If any were further out in space they would be driven back before the field, or overtaken and destroyed. The heavy hopelessness that had filled the control cabin vanished. Lights went on. Barfield snapped on his set. "The _Denebola_ ... calling Tracolatown. Calling 3TRA45 ... this is the _Denebola_...." Strongly, urgently, the call went out. "Can we last?" Cargyle asked. "If we contact them quickly," replied Wallace. "At the worst, we can hold out a while in space-suits. But we've got to pick up the Tracolatown station soon." Markoe and Parker set to work on the timer; Captain Wallace and Cargyle checked and rechecked their position; everyone seemed to find something to do. But all activity stopped, men stood motionless to listen, as they heard it--faint at first, but swiftly stronger, clearer, even to the tinge of anxiety in the voice. "... where are you, _Denebola_? Report your position at once. We have been calling you. What is your position, _Denebola_? Patrol rocket ready to take off. Tracolatown calling the _Denebola_...." The musty air seemed fresher as that voice echoed in the small control room. End of Project Gutenberg's The Space Flame, by Alexander M. Phillips