Brad swung his legs out of the bunk and stood swaying, rubbing a hand over his chafed, bearded face.
The elongated blip was back on the radar screen—clear, close.
"Answer, Conally," the receiver barked.
Brad strode to the panel and looked out the direct-view port He had slept longer than he had at first suspected. The stellar trellis had shortened considerably. They were back in the neighborhood of fifteen degrees.
"Distress Regulation Four-Oh-Eight-Two," the speaker droned, "says that if a disabled ship don't answer by radio or visually within fifteen minutes after being called steadily, standby craft is to board it and may take immediate possession."
"What do you want, Altman?" Brad said resignedly into the mike.
Altman hissed irritably. "Conally, there's no sense in playing hide-'n-seek with the little power you've got left. Get off that damned piece of junk and come aboard."
"Go to hell."
"Listen! I'm tired of wasting time! If you don't...."
"I'll sign a release and shoot it over to you. That's all you need to clear you of rescue and standby responsibility. I'll keep my distress signal off until you get out of range."