“No, sir, we won’t,” endorsed Burman. He did not add “any more,” but his face shouted aloud, “You got me into this. You get me out of it.” He waited a time while McNaught did some intense thinking, then prompted, “What do you suggest, sir?”
Slowly the satisfied smile returned to McNaught’s features as he answered, “Break up the contraption and feed it into the disintegrator.”
“That doesn’t solve the problem,” said Burman. “We’ll still be short an offog.”
“No, we won’t. Because I’m going to signal its loss owing to the hazards of space-service.” He closed one eye in an emphatic wink. “We’re in free flight right now.” He reached for a message-pad and scribbled on it while Burman stood by vastly relieved.
Bustler to Terran Headquarters. Item V1098, Offog, one, came apart under gravitational stress while passing through twin-sun field Hector Major-Minor. Material used as fuel. McNaught, Commander. Bustler.
Burman took it to the radio room and beamed it Earthward. All was peace and progress for another two days. The next time he went to the captain’s cabin he went running and worried.
“General call, sir,” he announced breathlessly and thrust the message into the other’s hands.
Terran Headquarters for relay all sectors. Urgent and Important. All ships grounded forthwith. Vessels in flight under official orders will make for nearest spaceport pending further instructions. Welling. Alarm and Rescue Command. Terra.
“Something’s gone bust,” commented McNaught, undisturbed. He traipsed to the chart room, Burman following. Consulting the charts, he dialed the intercom phone, got Pike in the bow and ordered, “There’s a panic. All ships grounded. We’ve got to make for Zaxtedport, about three days’ run away. Change course at once. Starboard seventeen degrees, declination ten.” Then he cut off, griped, “Bang goes that sweet month on Terra. I never did like Zaxted, either. It stinks. The crew will feel murderous about this, and I don’t blame them.”