"I wouldn't say that, kid," said Loring grimly. "I wouldn't say that at all."
"What do you mean?" demanded Roger.
"A shame"—Loring shook his head—"young fella like you winding up on the prison asteroid."
"Prison asteroid?" asked Roger stupidly.
"Yeah," grunted Loring. "Have you ever seen one of them joints, Manning? They work from noon to midnight. Then they give you synthetic food to eat, because it costs too much to haul up solid grub. Once you've been on the prison rock, you can't ever blast off again. You're washed up as a spaceman. Think you'll like that?"
"Why—why—what's that got to do with me?" asked Roger.
"Just this, kid. After the investigation they'll find out your radarscope wasn't working right. Then they'll come to me and ask me what happened aboard the Annie Jones."
"Well," demanded Roger, "what did happen?"
Loring glanced at Mason. "Just this, kid. Jardine and Bangs were on the teleceiver and the radar for fifteen minutes trying to pick up your beam. But there wasn't any, because you had it fouled up!"
Roger sat down on the side of the bunk and stared at the two men. If what they said was true, Roger knew there could only be one outcome to the investigation.