“I think we’d better stick to the old routine,” he said finally. “We have no assurance that the traders and scientists are in with each other, and it would be a pity to disappoint our customers. Perhaps, when we go to keep this date tomorrow, you’d better go on to the transmitter and give the signal. You’d better carry a pack of cigarettes with you; normally, of course, they’re two or three days answering, but if they should be in with the science crowd they may be a lot closer at the moment. You’d better be prepared, in case they answer at once.”
“You mean I’d better stay by the transmitter all day, if necessary?”
“Well — no, not that. Hang around for a while, and then come back to where we’ll be. We can keep an eye in the right direction in case another torpedo comes down — it can’t be more than a couple of miles in a straight line, so we stand a fair chance of seeing it.”
“All right. I signal, and everybody talks, with emphasis on suggesting that another communicator be brought down — always supposing either party learns enough of the other’s language to get any such idea across.” Don shifted the subject suddenly. “Say, Dad, I just had an idea. You say it doesn’t always take the same length of time between the signal and the arrival of the torpedo?”
“That’s right. Never less than two days, never much more than three.”
“Could you give me any specific signalling dates, with the time of arrival? The more the better. I think I can do something with them.” Mr. Wing thought for a moment.
“Some, anyway. I can remember those of the last couple of years pretty well, and probably some odd ones from earlier years if I try. What’s your idea?”
“I’d rather not tell until I’m a little more certain of it. Let’s have what you can recall.”
With the aid of the family, who were able to supply clues on his dates of absence — a diary kept by Edie was very helpful — about two dozen of the dates were fixed with sufficient accuracy to satisfy Don. He immediately went up to his room, carrying the notes he had taken.
From that point the conversation drifted by imperceptible degrees into pure fantasy, and by bed-time a number of wonderful pictures had been drawn about the home life of the fiery visitors. Little Margie’s was the most interesting, if the least accurate.