Part 2

Rawson regarded the young man with wonder. "Sit down, Mr. Seymour." Rawson explained about the borax and his escape. "But what about you and Durk?"

The boy made circles in the sand with his foot. His eyes avoided the captain's. "I couldn't stand it, sir. My conscience. It wasn't right. You're the captain, no matter what Durk says."

"Thanks. Okay, let's get going."

Purposely they strode across the sand toward the space ship. But as they neared the top of the hill beyond which lay the space ship, they heard a series of loud explosions. Rawson recognized those sounds.

With a rush he was on top of the hill and staring at the space ship.

The explosions came from there. The ports were closed and there was no one on the bridge.

The ship was taking off!

Rawson's skeleton-like body shuddered in dismay. He yelled but he knew it was futile. No one could hear him above the roar of the rockets.

And if they did? Durk might find it convenient to report that the captain had been lost on the expedition.

For once in his life, Rawson admitted fear to himself--to be deserted on this waste planet!

The space ship quivered under the impact of the rockets. And Rawson noticed a queer thing about that vibration--it was normal in itself, but it was never intended to occur on a glassy cliff that sloped into a quicksand.

The vibration loosed the pull of gravity of the ship--its steadiness on the ridge--it slipped sideways.

It slipped sideways into the quicksand.

The space ship moved sideways over the edge of the cliff and started to sink beneath the lake of quicksand.

As the bottom half of the hull disappeared below the surface of the ooze, the top ports opened and the crew began leaping from the hull onto the cliff.

Rawson counted them. They were all there. All sixty--there should be sixty-one. But one had been lost in the quicksand at the first landing.

The crew stood huddled in a bunch and watched the top of the hull disappear below the quicksand.

Rawson's crane-like legs carried him toward the crew. Their faces showed repentance.

It was a miserable bunch of men that faced him, and the most miserable of all was Underofficer Durk.

Rawson for a moment said nothing. He watched the last air bubbles that seeped up from the space ship at the bottom of the quicksand. The bubbles broke one by one. The sand smoothed out again, leaving a slimy smoothness that revealed nothing--that failed to betray the loss of all hope.

Rawson's voice whipped like a lash. "Well, Mr. Durk! Have you thought of a solution of the predicament of the crew and yourself?"

Durk's eyes did not meet Rawson's. Durk's voice mumbled. "Yore the captain, sir."

Rawson shuddered within himself. He was the captain--captain of a space ship that no longer existed. They were stranded on a desolate planet with no food and no weapons.

Weapons? He still had his heat ray gun, but it was burned out--no good.

Wearily Rawson turned to young Seymour. "Bring me my space suit."

It took but a few minutes for the boy to run back to the cave and fetch back the space suit. Slowly Rawson climbed into it.

He turned to Durk. "I'm going into the quicksand. Perhaps I'll be able to find something--something--" He sighed. "If I don't return, well, it's up to you."

He leaped far forward, felt his feet sink into the clutching quicksand.

The muck enfolded him like cold, slimy snake coils twisting around and crushing him.

As he sank below the surface, he heard the bursting air bubbles above him like sibilant whispers of death. The dread, crushing quicksand drew around like crushing giant hands.

This time Rawson had no heat ray gun to help him escape!

His lips twisted helplessly under the pressure of the sand and the water. It was like being buried alive in cement that had not yet hardened.

His feet struck something solid. The hull. Using his feet as leverage he forced himself forward against the grasping ooze, until he came to one of the ports. It was open and the quicksand had oozed in.

* * * * *

Rawson managed to grasp the railing by sheer muscle and forced himself inside. The shifting, liquefied sand covered the entire top deck.

But the door to the lower hatches and the control decks had sealed automatically. He turned the lever and pushed the door of the hatch inwards.

The pressure of the sand hurled him inside like water shot from a nozzle.

He raced for the farther door--raced to beat the moving quicksand that oozed forward like some giant amoeba.

Rawson won by a second. He opened the door and dived inward. Quickly he closed the door and sealed it as he felt the pressure of the muck against it. The metal locks would hold.

He stripped off the space suit and hurried to the rocket deck. Everything was in order. A member of the crew had automatically cut off the disintegrator motors at the call "Abandon Ship!"

Rawson set the speed at idle. He turned the rocket levers. For a moment the ship trembled as the exhaust gases fought against the pressure of the quicksand in the tubes.

The rockets thundered in full power. Rawson waited. The heat of those exhaust gases was tremendous--made ten times so by their compression in the ooze.

Heat! That was it!

But would the rockets be powerful enough to change the composition of the quicksand?

He felt the heat of the compressed gases through the floor of the hull, and their motion through the muck was accompanied by a loud glub--glub--glub--Sounds like the choking of a primeval monster.

This sound gradually died out, and the heat became intense. Rawson removed his shirt and wiped the perspiration from his eyes. The sweat dripped down his arms and made little wet spots on the floor. He began shifting from foot to foot as the heat became uncomfortable on the soles of his feet.

There was no way to see what was going on outside the space ship. All the ports were blocked by the muck.

Presently he touched the dials. The indicator moved from "idle" to "take-off." He gunned the rockets.

The ship lurched forward, groaned, and wallowed deeper into the ooze. It was no go.

Rawson returned the power to idle and waited patiently. Perhaps it could still be done.

Perhaps--but more likely not!

Rawson was not ready to despair. He waited with the courage of his conviction that a way could be found through science.

He waited for three hours, and then he touched the controls again. He set the dials to depress the nose, pulled the lever for the reverse. Then he punched the needle for full power. He geared in the traction.

The space ship leaped backward with a jerk, found firm footing, and crawled with accelerated power. It surged swifter and swifter like an unleashed Neptune cyclone.

And as he felt the motion of the vessel beneath his feet, Rawson looked up and saw the light stream through the muck that covered the port windows.

He had broken free!

By instinct he guided the vessel all alone to a new landing. He had to be navigator, engineer, pilot, and do the many tedious things that require many hands and brains to control a ship.

* * * * *

Several days later they were near Saturn and Rawson had just received congratulations on bringing in the serum in time to save thousands of lives. He sat at his desk, his skeleton frame hunched like an ostrich, when a young cyclone burst into his cabin.

"Captain, sir," young Seymour cried, bounding forward. "I overheard--"

Rawson snapped to his feet. "Mr. Seymour, Attention! Please leave and enter like a gentleman."

Meekly the cabin boy walked out, closed the door. A rap sounded.

"Come in." And as the lad entered Rawson said with a smile, "That's better."

"Yes, sir. I came to report I overheard the crew talking."

"Durk?"

"Yes, sir. Underofficer Durk says you're voted the best darn space commander that ever flew the stars. And that he'll lick the denims off anybody that says different."