The men seemed standing on the very pinion-feathers of some fabled roc, sweeping through space.  Above, below, complete and overwhelming vacancy clutched for them.  The human is not yet born who can stand thus upon the tip of such a plane, and feel himself wholly at ease.

As darkness faded, however, and as approaching dawn began to burn its slow way up the stupendous vaults of space above the eastern cloud-battlements—­battlements flicked with dull crimson, blood-tinged blotches, golden streaks and a whole phantasmagoria of shifting hues—­something of the oppression of night fell from the two men.

“Well, we’re still carrying on.  Things are still going pretty much O.K., sir,” proffered the major, squinting into the East—­the cold, red East, infinitely vast, empty, ripe with possibilities.  “A good start!  Close to a thousand miles we’ve made; engines running to a hair; men all fitting into the jobs like clockwork.  Everything all right to a dot, eh?”

The Master nodded silently, keeping dark eyes fixed on the horizon of cloud-rack.  Above, the last faint prickings of stars were fading.  The moon had paled to a ghostly circle.  Shuddering, Nissr fled, with vapory horizons seemingly on her own level so that she appeared at the bottom of an infinite bowl.  Bohannan, feeling need of speech, tried to be casual as he added: 

“I don’t feel sleepy.  Do you?  Seems like I’d never want to sleep again.  Faith, this is living!  You’ve got us all enthused.  And your idea of putting every man-jack in uniform was bully!  Nothing like uniforms—­even a jumble of different kinds, like ours—­to cement men together and give them the esprit de corps. If we go through as we’ve begun—­”

The Master interrupted him with a cold glance of annoyance.  The Celt’s exuberance jarred on his soul.  Since the affair with “Captain Alden,” the Master’s nerves had gone a little raw.

Bohannan rallied bravely.

“Of course,” he went on, “it was unfortunate about that New Zealand chap going West.  He looked like a right good fellow.  But, well—­c’est la guerre! And I know he wouldn’t have chosen a finer grave than the bottom of the Atlantic, where he’s sleeping now.

“By the way, how did Alden come out?  Much hurt, was he?  I know, of course, he didn’t go back to the sick-bay.  So he couldn’t have been badly wounded, or he would be—­”

“The Arabs have a saying, my dear fellow,” dryly answered the Master, “that one ear is worth ten thousand tongues.  Ponder it well!”

The major’s look of astonishment annoyed the Master, even while it hurt him.  He took scant pleasure in rebuffing this old friend; but certainly “Captain Alden” would not bear discussing.  Feeling himself in a kind of impasse regarding Alden, and fearing some telltale expression in his eyes, the Master swung up his binoculars and once more swept the cloud-horizons from northeast to southeast.