control around, breathing heavily and feeling more claustrophobic within the narrow space with every passing second. It’s like cyber jousting , he told himself. Just find the balance and trust yourself. Remembering the way that Emmie stayed on top of a ball with perfect poise, John turned the ship slightly, trying to ride the wind instead of battling against it.
It worked. The nebula-diver was still buffeted by streaming hot gases, but now it was travelling faster and staying on course.
“Flightsuit control systems degrading,” said the electronic voice in his ear. “Twenty minutes to failure.”
John glanced at the navigation screen. Twenty-three minutes before he had to get back. For the last three of those minutes, the flightsuit would offer no protection at all. Only the hull of the pod itself would protect him from the deadly heat and radiation. He twisted the throttle again, wringing every last ounce of speed from the little machine. Minutes passed. By now, the gas outside John’s viewing screen had become so dense that John could see nothing but a bright glare. The winds dropped, making flying easier. A read-out on the navigation display told him that the temperature outside was now over 5,000 degrees Celsius, as hot as the surface of the sun.
Seventeen minutes left.
Forehead lined in concentration, John sent the nebula-diver skimming onward. He could feel the heat building again, as the flightsuit’s systems began to collapse.
How will I know when to collect the microbes?
John gulped as the thought hit him. He glanced at the navigation panel. In less than two minutes he would have used up half of his time. If there was any chance of making it back to the Talios safely, he would have to start his return journey soon. He had to get the microbes and start heading back.
But if I’m not at the core, I’ll just be going back with canisters full of useless gas.
A memory stirred. John was sitting in front of a ThinScreen in Hyperspace High’s library with Emmie, revising Galactic Geography. Zepp had been speaking while they both scribbled notes. In his head, John could hear Zepp’s voice: “The core of a nebula is surrounded by turbulent gas but, within the core itself, there is a steady gravitational force.”
John eased off the throttle. The tiny pod continued to slip through the dense gas smoothly. The wind outside had dropped to nothing.
I’m already inside the core.
John quickly fired braking jets, bringing the pod to a stop. He reached for the lever that would fill the empty canisters with the core’s precious gas microbes. Gripping the lever, he pushed.
Nothing happened.
John’s hands scrabbled across the tiny control panel, flicking whatever switches they touched. Still nothing.
Grasping the suction lever again, he pulled it. This time, a steady whirring sound began behind him. John wriggled, trying to create enough room to see over his shoulder. The six clear canisters were filling up quickly. Within each was a pale blue mist, tiny microbes sparking like miniscule suns. The mist became more and more dense until a buzz sounded, and a green light switched to red on the panel in front of him.
Full. Get me out of here.
“Flightsuit failure in fourteen minutes.”
With a shock, John realized he was panting. The pod was like an oven, and his skin was slick with sweat. Pushing the lever back to its original position, he sealed the canisters. With a last glance over his shoulder at the twinkling tubes of gas, he muttered, “You’d better work,” and curled his fingers around the throttle. A second later, the nebula-diver swept round, and began heading back the way it had come.
As the tiny diver made its way away from the core, John could feel the temperature rising sharply.
“Flightsuit failure in eight minutes.”
“ Come on ! ” John gasped. Beads of sweat trickled into his eyes, but there was nothing he could do about them. Blinking, he silently urged the pod onward, keeping the
It worked. The nebula-diver was still buffeted by streaming hot gases, but now it was travelling faster and staying on course.
“Flightsuit control systems degrading,” said the electronic voice in his ear. “Twenty minutes to failure.”
John glanced at the navigation screen. Twenty-three minutes before he had to get back. For the last three of those minutes, the flightsuit would offer no protection at all. Only the hull of the pod itself would protect him from the deadly heat and radiation. He twisted the throttle again, wringing every last ounce of speed from the little machine. Minutes passed. By now, the gas outside John’s viewing screen had become so dense that John could see nothing but a bright glare. The winds dropped, making flying easier. A read-out on the navigation display told him that the temperature outside was now over 5,000 degrees Celsius, as hot as the surface of the sun.
Seventeen minutes left.
Forehead lined in concentration, John sent the nebula-diver skimming onward. He could feel the heat building again, as the flightsuit’s systems began to collapse.
How will I know when to collect the microbes?
John gulped as the thought hit him. He glanced at the navigation panel. In less than two minutes he would have used up half of his time. If there was any chance of making it back to the Talios safely, he would have to start his return journey soon. He had to get the microbes and start heading back.
But if I’m not at the core, I’ll just be going back with canisters full of useless gas.
A memory stirred. John was sitting in front of a ThinScreen in Hyperspace High’s library with Emmie, revising Galactic Geography. Zepp had been speaking while they both scribbled notes. In his head, John could hear Zepp’s voice: “The core of a nebula is surrounded by turbulent gas but, within the core itself, there is a steady gravitational force.”
John eased off the throttle. The tiny pod continued to slip through the dense gas smoothly. The wind outside had dropped to nothing.
I’m already inside the core.
John quickly fired braking jets, bringing the pod to a stop. He reached for the lever that would fill the empty canisters with the core’s precious gas microbes. Gripping the lever, he pushed.
Nothing happened.
John’s hands scrabbled across the tiny control panel, flicking whatever switches they touched. Still nothing.
Grasping the suction lever again, he pulled it. This time, a steady whirring sound began behind him. John wriggled, trying to create enough room to see over his shoulder. The six clear canisters were filling up quickly. Within each was a pale blue mist, tiny microbes sparking like miniscule suns. The mist became more and more dense until a buzz sounded, and a green light switched to red on the panel in front of him.
Full. Get me out of here.
“Flightsuit failure in fourteen minutes.”
With a shock, John realized he was panting. The pod was like an oven, and his skin was slick with sweat. Pushing the lever back to its original position, he sealed the canisters. With a last glance over his shoulder at the twinkling tubes of gas, he muttered, “You’d better work,” and curled his fingers around the throttle. A second later, the nebula-diver swept round, and began heading back the way it had come.
As the tiny diver made its way away from the core, John could feel the temperature rising sharply.
“Flightsuit failure in eight minutes.”
“ Come on ! ” John gasped. Beads of sweat trickled into his eyes, but there was nothing he could do about them. Blinking, he silently urged the pod onward, keeping the
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