And minute by minute our silent clock gives us a sixteen-second
mile.
"Some fine night," says Tim, "we'll be even with that clock's
Master."
"He's coming now," says George, over his shoulder. "I'm chasing
the night west."
The stars ahead dim no more than if a film of mist had been drawn
under unobserved, but the deep airboom on our skin changes to a
joyful shout.
"The dawn-gust," says Tim. "It'll go on to meet the Sun. Look!
Look! There's the dark being crammed back over our bows! Come to
the after-colloid. I'll show you something."
The engine-room is hot and stuffy; the clerks in the coach are
asleep, and the Slave of the Ray is ready to follow them. Tim
slides open the aft colloid and reveals the curve of the
world--the ocean's deepest purple--edged with fuming and
intolerable gold.
Then the Sun rises and through the colloid strikes out our lamps.
Tim scowls in his face.
"Squirrels in a cage," he mutters. "That's all we are. Squirrels
in a cage! He's going twice as fast as us.
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