Donovan paused, and then very slowly nodded his head, “Did you?”

“Yes. Did you hear about coffins… and females singing… and the lines forming to get into Hell? Did you?”

Donovan shook his head, “Just one voice.”

“Loud?”

“No. Soft, but rough like a file over the fingertips. It was a sermon, you know. About hell-fire. He described the tortures of… well, you know. I once heard a sermon like that—almost.”

He was perspiring.

They were conscious of sunlight through the port. It was weak, but it was blue-white—and the gleaming pea that was the distant source of light was not Old Sol.

And Powell pointed a trembling finger at the single gauge. The needle stood stiff and proud at the hairline whose figure read 300,000 parsecs.

Powell said, “Mike, if it’s true, we must be out of the Galaxy altogether.”

Donovan said, “Blazes! Greg! We’d be the first men out of the Solar System.”

“Yes! That’s just it. We’ve escaped the sun. We’ve escaped the Galaxy. Mike, this ship is the answer. It means freedom for all humanity—freedom to spread through to every star that exists—millions and billions and trillions of them.”

And then he came down with a hard thud, “But how do we get back, Mike?”

Donovan smiled shakily, “Oh, that’s all right. The ship brought us here. The ship will take us back. Me for more beans.”

“But Mike… hold on, Mike. If it takes us back the way it brought us here—”

Donovan stopped halfway up and sat back heavily into the chair.

Powell went on, “We’ll have to… die again, Mike.”

“Well,” sighed Donovan, “if we have to, we have to. At least it isn’t permanent, not very permanent.”

Susan Calvin was speaking slowly now. For six hours she had been slowly prodding The Brain—for six fruitless hours. She was weary of repetitions, weary of circumlocutions, weary of everything.

“Now, Brain, there’s just one more thing. You must make a special effort to answer simply. Have you been entirely clear about the interstellar jump? I mean does it take them very far?”

“As far as they want to go, Miss Susan. Golly, it isn’t any trick through the warp.”

“And on the other side, what will they see?”

“Stars and stuff. What do you suppose?”

The next question slipped out, “They’ll be alive, then?”

“Sure!”

“And the interstellar jump won’t hurt them?”

She froze as The Brain maintained silence. That was it! She had touched the sore spot.

“Brain,” she supplicated faintly, “Brain, do you hear me?”

The answer was weak, quivering. The Brain said, “Do I have to answer? About the jump, I mean?”

“Not if you don’t want to. But it would be interesting—I mean if you wanted to.” Susan Calvin tried to be bright about it.

“Aw-w-w. You spoil everything.”

And the psychologist jumped up suddenly, with a look of flaming insight on her face.

“Oh, my,” she gasped. “Oh, my.”

And she felt the tension of hours and days released in a burst. It was later that she told Lanning, “I tell you it’s all right. No, you must leave me alone, now. The ship will be back safely, with the men, and I want to rest. I will rest. Now go away.”