"Ship space-borne at six hundred fifty-three, sir."
"Very well, Corbett," replied Strong. "Check in with the Arcturus, Capella and the Centauri, form up on one another and assume a course that will bring you back over Academy spaceport at eight hundred hours, when we will open orders."
"Yes, sir," said Tom, turning back eagerly to the control board.
For nearly two hours the four rocket ships of Squadron A moved through space in a perfect arc, shaping up for the 0800 deadline. Strong made use of the time to check a new astrogation prism perfected by Dr. Dale for use at hyperspace speeds. Tom rechecked his instruments, then prepared hot tea and sandwiches in the galley for his shipmates.
"This is what I call service," said Astro. He stood stripped to the waist, a wide leather belt studded with assorted wrenches of various shapes and sizes strapped around his hips. In one hand he carried a wad of waste cotton with which he continually polished the surfaces of the atomic motors, while his eyes constantly searched the many gauges in front of him for the slightest sign of engine failure.
"Never mind bringing anything up to Manning. I'll eat his share."
Astro had deliberately turned the intercom on so Roger on the radar deck might hear. The response from that corner was immediate and emphatic.
"Listen, you rocket-headed grease monkey," yelled Roger. "If you so much as smell that grub, I'll come down and feed you into the reactant chamber!"
Tom smiled at Astro and turned to the ladder leading up from the power deck. Passing through the control deck on the way to the radar bridge, he glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes to eight.
"Only one thing I'm worried about, Corbett," said Roger through a mouthful of sandwich.