Chris. It's Ben here . . . Ben Jaguers."
At his back, the Ace Commander stammered: "This is madness. Chris Sommers is dead . . ."
"Chris! Chris!" Jaguers called, in a kind of frenzy.
"Easy," Professor Graut croaked. He touched Ace Peters with his tenuous fingers. "Easy, Ace. If this thing is true . . . Let Jaguers handle things. Those two were bosom friends. They're in tune . . . don't you see?"
"Chris! It's Ben here . . . Ah!"
"Ben?"
"Yes, yes. We can hear you Chris. Where are you?"
"I . . . don't know. Ben, for God's sake . . ."
"Some place, Chris. You must be some place."
"Good old Ben . . . Not . . . any place . . . we knew. A sphere, they call it. The Second Sphere . . ."
"Planet?"
"I don't think so, no. Ben, can you hear me?"
"Yes. Go on. Only tell us where, Chris. We'll have you out of it. Tell us where? WHERE?"
"I can't." Sommers' voice faded out. It came back on a desperate note. "Are you there, Ben?"
"Yes. Never mind what happened to you. Where ARE you?"
"Some . . . of laboratory . . . I got away from them . . . Look, I'm using one of their . . . No, it's no good . . . Can't get enough power . . . my voice."
"Chris! Keep going, old boy."
Suddenly, a white-lipped Dr. Walstab was at Jaguers' side. They saw now that he had unwound the filaments from his Ideagraphometer, holding them bunched dn his hand. He motioned them to take their seats at the granite desk.
He said, "Quickly. See these red suckers at the ends? Clamp them on the medulla oblongata . . . base of the skull. Here, let me show you, Ace. That's right . . . Jaguers, tell him . . . tell Chris, to quit trying to make himself heard. Tell him to relax and just think. Tell him to let his mind go back and to concentrate on a mental picture of what happened. Tell him we'll be following that picture in qur own minds. Got it?"
He turned shining eyes on Professor Graut.
"The acid test, Graut. God grant it works . . . Keep your minds blank. Don't think. It will be Sommers' mind, not yours . . ."
They heard Jaguers final words, ere he joined them.
"All right, Chris . . . Do just that. I'll call you again . . . wherever you are, whatever it is, we'll get you out. See? Hang to that . . ."
He was in the Space Lock of the Vibrant. A part of the gear above seemed to have jammed, and the chief, Ace Torquil, who never took any risk, had sent him down to track the fault. In that tightly boxed compartment, purposely without its own lighting—since any real light intensity tended to injure
