Others could be heard, in the
penetralia of the vast structure, coming, going, busily at work.
The entrance door slid shut. A bolt shot home. All the Legion was now
aboard, and communication with the ground had been broken.
The four men found themselves in a brightly lighted corridor that led
directly across the fuselage to a similar door on the other side. This
corridor was of some metal, painted a glossy white. Doors opened out
of it, on either hand. Its length was just a few inches over
forty-two feet. Half-way along it, a wider corridor crossed it at right
angles--the main passage of the ship.
The Master led the way toward this median corridor. His tall,
big-shouldered figure swung along, triumphant, impressive in the long
coat, dominant and free. Followed by the other three, he turned to the
left, forward of the ship.
The main corridor, like the other, was flanked by doors. Two or three
stood open, giving glimpses of comfortable staterooms. The men's
footfalls sounded with softened tread on a strip of thick, brown
carpet that made pleasant contrast with the gleaming white walls.
Light from frosted glass circles, flush with walls and ceiling, made
the corridor bright as day.
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