night of space it shot, away from Mars, away from the sun, and away from our planet.
8. Ten Million Miles an Hour!
"Well, that's settled," observed Burgoyne philosophically as he locked the wheel. "We are out in space, sure enough, but where bound for I haven't the slightest notion. Still, anything is better than that devilish world we have left behind us."
"At present we are receding from Mars at more than fifty thousand miles an hour, and gaining pace every moment," said the Austrian, consulting the registers. "The cold of space is acting as a tonic to the Neutralia. Where we are heading for I cannot say. Some of these instruments, not to mention astronomical navigation, require an expert's handling. We can only hope that Mr. Carscadden will soon recover and be able to take charge again," he added fervently.
Since the awful fate of his companion, the Austrian had seemed a changed man. Possibly he realized that he had taken his life in his hands in the pursuit of his evil and vindictive purposes, and that now he stood alone, one man among three who had every reason to regard him with aversion and distrust. He realized, too, probably far more deeply than Burgoyne and Flint, the hopeless nature of their plight if their captain's stupor did not shortly leave him. The fate of all depended absolutely on the brain of the man who alone of all mankind had made the probing of space possible.
Each of the three men, Kobloth as earnestly solicitous as the others, did his best for the unconscious man, but it seemed as though all their efforts would be unavailing; his whole system must have been saturated with the poisonous draft he had quaffed. Hours passed, and still he remained unconscious; living, breathing, but otherwise inert as a log. Meanwhile the Neutralia sped silently on through trackless space, speeding out of the profound abyss where the greater planets swing in their vast and solitary orbits. Already the pointers recording in tens of thousands on the speed registers seemed but faint blurs of shadow on their dials. Already the globe was clear of the long, conical shadow cast by Mars, and the sun was but a small and fiery disk that shone steadily to the eastward in a jet-black sky; while the earth was now a mere speck of dim light hardly discernible.
Forty-eight hours went by in this manner; watching the changeless sky, the humming registers, and attending to the unconscious man. Forty-eight hours of the most intense anxiety; little wonder they slept but in short snatches, and their bloodshot sunken eyes betrayed that the strain was becoming unendurable. Then it happened, the sick man's eyes abruptly opened, and he was staring at his companions quite sanely and naturally.
"What's the matter, Hugh?" he muttered weakly. "I suppose that infernal fog stuff knocked me out. Have you shut the door? What are the Martians doing?" he queried more strongly, his eagerness of spirit fast overcoming his sickness.
"The Martians!" laughed Burgoyne as he bent affectionately and joyfully over his friend. "Don't worry about them. They must be a good many million miles astern by this time. But how do you feel—thirsty? hungry?" he queried anxiously.
"What, you have started?" cried Carscadden, sitting bolt-upright in his surprize. "Why, how long have I been insensible?"
"Just forty-eight hours, though it seems like years," replied his friend with
