But the sound of the geodynes came back, at first a harrowing growl.
“Sick, sick, sick!” sobbed Giles Habibula.
“Ah, a poor old soldier of the Legion, hunted out of the precious System on a lying charge of wicked treason, and dying like a dog in a mortal storm in space.
Sick and—ah, there!”
The geodynes, abruptly, were humming clear and sweet.
The Purple Dream was alive again.
John Star turned her out of that savage, sucking current.
She nosed through a river of hurtling stones, and drove through a cloud of greenish gas; and ahead was the rift again.
The black of space, and bright Antares.
They came out of the last thin streamer of the storm, into the clear dark of space.
Ahead were the cold diamond stars; and the greenish shadow of the nebula swiftly dwindled behind—in the vaster cosmic scale, it was just a speck of curious dust.
“Safe!” John Star exulted.
“Safe!” Jay Kalam repeated the word, and smiled a slow, ironic smile.
“And there ahead is Barnard’s Star.”
In the field of the tele-periscope, John Star found the Runaway Sun.
It was a red and solitary eye, watching their approach with a cold, steady stare of unblinking menace.
“Yes, we’re safe enough, for now,” Jay Kalam smiled, a dark taut smile.
“I think we’re rid of that spider-ship.
I think we can reach the planet, now—if we can pass the barrier the Medusae have set up to defend it.”
John Star merely looked at him, with a weary, dim dismay.
“There was something about that barrier belt in the secret reports that came to Aladoree on Mars,” Jay Kalam explained.
“Not much
—Commander Ulnar let her know just enough so she wouldn’t suspect his plot.
Perhaps he could tell us something more.
But I believe the Medusae have their planet very effectively defended.“
He smiled again, gravely.
“Anyhow, John, we’re safe enough for now.”
13 The Belt of Peril
They went to the cruiser’s brig.
“Welcome, John.” Adam Ulnar called that cheerful greeting to them, through the bars of the tiny cell.
Elder statesman of the Purple Hall, Commander of the Legion, and traitor against mankind, he sat on the edge of the narrow bunk, busy with his memoirs.
“Just a moment, John.”
Deliberately he finished the sentence he was writing, laid his pen and manuscript aside on the neatly folded blanket, and stood up to meet them.
A tall, distinguished statesman.
His wide shoulders were proudly erect; his fine head, with the long white hair well-combed and flowing, was bowed to no visible burden of guilt.
“A pleasure, gentlemen.” He smiled, and his fine blue eyes held a spark of ironic amusement.
“I’ve too few guests.
Come on in.
Rough weather we’ve been meeting, by the feel of the ship.”
“But we’ll find rougher weather ahead,” John Star told him.
“Or so I imagine—from all I hear of the Belt of Peril.”
That phrase had rather a remarkable effect on Adam Ulnar.
His face lost its smile of wary mockery, and froze to a rigid mask.
Behind the mask, John Star sensed something like consternation.
His hands clenched white on the bars of the cell.
He stared from one to the other of them; and seconds had passed before he could speak.
“The Belt———” he swallowed.
“You mean we’re bound for Barnard’s Star?”
“We’re going after Aladoree,” John Star said crisply.
“I understand that Eric’s expedition reported some kind of defensive barrier zone around the Medusae’s planet.