"But, lad—!" protested the Martian. Star swiftly shrugged off his dreamful mood of recollection of those desperate days and nights when he had labored to repair his wrecked rocket engines in time to break free of the whirlpool of gravity.
"It’s midway between the two giant planets, Jupiter and Saturn, Doc," he said swiftly. "Gravity plays strange tricks out there, where two massive gravity-fields interlock and battle in a ceaseless tug of war, complicated by the ever-changing gravity flux of the many moons of the two huge worlds. A sort of vortex of gravitation that traps unwary ships and pulls them in to the center, where they can never break free. I saw ships in there near the center that belonged to museums—stuff I’d only seen in the history books—but we’ve got to get finished with repairing the control circuits, without delay. You keep watch over the meters and give me the readings every quarter hour, so I'll know how fast we’re drifting into the Vortex. I'll keep working out here as long as I can still stand up and stay awake—"
And the tall redhead bent to his work again, striving to drive every thought from his mind except that of the task before him.
"Holy space-devils, chief, the Sargasso of Space!" whispered Phath, his sibilant tones touched with awe. "I thought it was just another old space-legend myself ... and now we're caught up in it and every minute, every hour, being drawn deeper and deeper into the graveyard of lost ships ..."
"Less talk and more work," grated Star Pirate harshly.
Phath nodded, and the two of them bent to their toil under the cold and mocking gaze of the uncaring stars.
Like a chip of wood caught in a whirlpool, the Jolly Roger was drawn by the inexorable gravity tides deeper and deeper in the Vortex—into that weird region of space known as 'the Sargasso of Space.'
Around and around the outer perimeter of the Vortex drifted the trim little speedster, helpless to break the tangible but unseen bonds of force that drew her ever nearer to the center of the mysterious Sargasso, where old, antiquated ships clung together, inhabited only by their ancient dead.
It was an eerie scene, and aroused uncanny emotions in the breast of Dr. Zoar as he stood by the controls of the little scout craft, monitoring her driftage deeper and deeper into the toils of the deadly Vortex. As the 'scope centered upon the tangle of broken, lost rocket ships at the core of the whirlpool of invisible force, a grim shudder ran over the diminutive frame of the old Martian savant, and a grim, bleak light shone in his cold black eyes.
For one question lacerated his heart and haunted his unresting brain—could the little scout, even augmented enormously in power by the addition of the super-drive, break free of the insidious grip of the Vortex?
It was a question to which even Dr. Zoar did not possess an answer ...
Suddenly, the etherphone crackled with an incoming message from outside the hull. It was Star Pirate’s voice—raw with strain, hoarse with fatigue, but ringing with jubilance.
"Got 'er patched up at last, Doc! Hold the fort—Phath and I are coming inside for a bit of a rest. Got any hot soup, some biscuits and cheese? I haven't eaten for so long, my belly thinks my mouth's sewn up—"
Zoar uttered his rasping chuckle, and scurried into the cramped little galley of the Jolly Roger. It hadn't been very much of a jest, heaven knew, but it did the little scientist good to learn that the tall redheaded adventurer could still make a joke, bone-weary as he must be.
Moments later the airlock door wheezed open and magnetic spaceboots clanked on the metal flooring. Their faces puffy and pale, eyes red-rimmed and bleary, Star Pirate and his Venusian sidekick unscrewed their space helmets and clambered out of the suits. The two did not need any invitation to dive into the hot, tasty little meal which Dr. Zoar had set out on the table which folded out from the wall. While they gobbled hungrily, the Martian set out a fat bottle of good strong wine and two goblets.
Pushing back his plate at last, Star Pirate heaved a sigh of repletion. "Gods of space, Doc, but that tasted good! What about it, Phath?" The Venusian burped, and patted his lips with his fingertips by way of apology.
"Any time you want to throw over this science game and become the Jolly Roger's short order cook, well, you've got me backin' your space-ticket," said Phath. Zoar stared at him, blinking with surprise. It was the closest thing to a compliment—or even a friendly remark—which the Venusian had ever made concerning Zoar, or, at least, within his hearing. The Martian felt mildly astonished—but then he wrote it off to the action of fatigue-poisons upon the mind.
"Before you two decide on dessert and coffee," said the Martian sharply, "hadn't we better test the drive, to see if the circuits are repaired and workable after all?"
"Guess so," grunted Phath. Star Pirate looked grim, then gave a reluctant nod. They trooped into the control room and took their stations, while Phath assumed the controls.
At the first touch, the superdrive rocket-tubes coughed—then burst with a roar into blazing life!
Star Pirate yelled; Zoar broke into a grotesque, capering dance of joy; the Venusian laughed, cursed by his Swampland gods, and almost burst into tears.
Gradually, moment by moment, minute by minute, the trim little speedster began to fight her way out of the whirlpool of gravitational forces, bucking the current doggedly, battling the drag of electromagnetic attraction for the limitless freedom of open space.
Her powerful new drive-tubes proved—but by only a narrow margin! —stronger than the swirling tide of forces which had till then held her entrapped.
Within less than an hour the Jolly Roger was free of the Vortex and back on her original flight-plan, bound for the edge of the solar system, and whatever marvels and mysteries might lie beyond.
And the uncanny Sargasso of Space dwindled behind her as the little scout-craft hurtled for the edge of the unknown. But only Dr. Zoar was aware of this—both Star Pirate and his Venusian comrade were stretched out in their bunks, blissfully enjoying the first decent sleep either of them had known for days.
7. The Rim of the Unknown
Day after day went by; hurtling at a velocity heretofore never achieved by a manned spacecraft, the trim little speedster edged past the orbit of giant Saturn, and past Uranus, and beyond Neptune. Ahead floated the ghostly pale globe of Pluto, for centuries thought to be the outermost planet of all the System.
Beyond lay the Unknown, into which the three men aboard the Jolly Roger would be the first to penetrate. It was a sobering thought.
Phath, however, seemed unmoved by it. By now well rested, and well fed, the Venusian lolled back in the capacious embrace of the pilot's chair, against the pneumatic cushions, and plucked with lazy fingers the twangling wires of his Venusian guitar.
Before long, he burst into not-particularly-melodious song. While Phath was a good man to have at your side in a back-alley brawl, or to man the guns in a space-battle, or to juggle the pots and pans in the galley, it must be admitted that singing was not among the several endeavors in which he excelled. In fact, quite the contrary.
Hearing his albino partner raise his voice in song, Star Pirate winced a little and headed aft to the engine room for a little peace and quiet among the drumming cyclotrons. Oblivious, Phath sang on—continuing the same space-chanty he had been carelessly yodelling only moments before they had been caught in the unexpected space-storm, and were hulled by the micro-meteorite.