"Of course, you space-brained idiot, and make it fast!" exploded Connel. "What do you want to do? Get us blasted out of space?"
"Yes, sir!" replied Roger. "Right away, sir!"
Tom kept his eyes on the teleceiver screen above his head. The image of the space station loomed large and clear.
"Approaching a little too fast, I think, sir," volunteered Tom. "Shall I make the adjustment?"
"What's the range?" asked Connel.
Tom named a figure.
"Ummmmh," mused Connel. He glanced quickly over the dials and then nodded in assent. Tom turned once more to the intercom. "Control deck to power deck," he called. "Stand by for maneuvering, Astro, and reduce your main drive thrust to minimum space speed."
"Space station traffic control to rocket cruiser Polaris. Come in, Polaris. This is traffic control on space station to Polaris," the audio teleceiver crackled.
"Rocket cruiser Polaris to space station and traffic control. Request touchdown permission and landing-port number," replied Tom.
"Permission to touch down granted, Polaris. You are to line up on approach to landing-port seven—repeat—seven. Am now sending out guiding radar beam. Can you read beam?"