“There’s a purring noise coming from the box,” I called down to Fatty. “Nothing inside it but silver wheels going round and round like the one in an electric meter. Only they’re not attached to anything. They’re floating at all kinds of angles to each other and spinning at different speeds.”
I heard Fatty curse uncertainly, and I punched up into the grayness. I hurt my fist. I pulled my arm back, massaged it, as my feet slipped and scrambled on the mast and sail, and stabbed up with a forefinger. I hurt my forefinger.
“Gray stuff hard?” Fatty asked.
Damn right, it was hard. I told him.
“Come on down and get the hatchet. You might be able to chop a hole.”
“I don’t think so. This fog is almost transparent, and I don’t think it’s made of any material we know. Fact is, I don’t think it’s
