It runs--from the
contact to the cannon--the bottom of the cannon, Mona!
"When Powart's shot was fired, the recoil--the kick--broke the
contact! Understand? Do you see it?"
Mona stared in dull wonder. When she found voice it was strangely
flat and commonplace.
"Yes, but--I don't see how the recoil could separate two worlds as
large as Hafen and Holl!"
Fort chuckled breathlessly. "Your forget something. You're thinking
only of the gravitation; you're forgetting the centrifugal force."
Hafen and Holl, by their daily rotation--around the contact as a
center--were always tending to separate. That recoil was just enough
to turn the balance; they'll never touch again.
"And what's more," he rushed on, "Powart's shot is sure to miss! The
recoil threw the cannon out of line. Hafen had already mooved before
the projectile left the gun. Powart--has failed!"
Suddenly the surgeon wheeled upon the athlete. "Boy, we're headed in
the wrong way! We'll land in Holl, not in Hafen!"
"Who wants to live in Hafen now?" he shouted, clinging desperately
to his controls.
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