“Doing nothing wouldn’t help. What did you want me for?”
“Do you know anything about communicators?”
“A little—what a nucleonics man has to know.”
“Good. They killed all our communications officers and blasted the panels, even in the lifeboats. You can’t do much with your left hand, of course, but you may be able to boss the job of rigging up a spare.”
“I can do more than you think—I’m left-handed. Give me a couple of technicians and I’ll see what we can do.”
They set to work, but before they could accomplish anything a cruiser drove up, flashing its identification as a warship of the Galactic Patrol.
“We picked up the partial call you got off,” its young commander said, briskly. “With that and the plotted center of interference we didn’t lose any time. Let’s make this snappy.” He was itching to be off after the marauder, but he could not leave until he had ascertained the facts and had been given clearance. “You aren’t hurt much—don’t need to call a tug, do you?”
“No,” replied the liner’s senior surviving officer.
“QX,” and a quick investigation followed.
“Anybody who ships stuff like that open mail ought to lose it, but it’s tough on innocent bystanders. Anything else I can do for you?”