The big room, fifty feet square, was almost filled with machines; some
reached nearly to the ceiling, the same distance above. In fact, the
interior of the "cube," as that form of sky-car was known, had very
little waste space. The living quarters of the four men who occupied it
had to be fitted in wherever there happened to be room. The architect's
own berth was sandwiched in between two huge dynamos.

He was thinking hard. "I see now why you have such a lot of adjustments
for those tunnels," meaning the six square tubes which opened into the
ether through the six walls of the room. "You've got to point the juice
pretty accurately."

"I should say so." Smith led the way to a window, and the two shaded
their eyes from the lights within while they gazed at the ashy glow of
Mercury, toward which they were traveling. "I've got to adjust the
current so as to point exactly toward his northern half." Smith might
have added that a continual stream of repelling current was still
directed toward the earth, and another toward the sun, away over to
their right; both to prevent being drawn off their course.

"And how fast are we going?"

"Four or five times as fast as mother earth: between eighty and ninety
miles per second. It's easy to get up speed out here, of course, where
there's no air resistance."

Another voice broke in. The geologist had finished his potatoes, and a
savory smell was already issuing from the frying pan. Years spent in the
wilderness had made the geologist a good cook, and doubly welcome as a