"Procyon One to Control Six," Deston said again. His voice was not quite steady this time; both girls were crying openly and joyfully. "How do you read me, Frenchy old horse?"
"It is Procyon One—the Runt himself—Hi, Babe!" the new voice roared, then quieted to normal volume. "I read you eight and one. Survivors?"
"Five. Second Officer Jones, our wives, and Dr. Andrew Adams, a Fellow of the College of Advanced Study. He's solely responsible for our being here, so——"
"Skip that for now. In a lifecraft? No, after this long, it must be the ship. Not navigable, of course?"
"Not in subspace, and only so-so in normal. The Chaytors are O. K., but the whole Top is spun out and the rest of her won't hold air—air, hell! She won't hold shipping crates! All the Wesleys are shot, and all the Q-converters. Half the Grahams are leaking like sieves, and——"
"Skip that, too. Just a sec—I'll cut in the downstairs recorder. Now start in at your last check and tell us what's happened since."
"It's a long story."
"Unwind it, Runt, I don't give a damn how long it is. Not a full-detailed report, just hit the high spots—but don't leave out anything really important."
"Wow!" Jones remarked, audibly. "Wottaman Frenchy! Like the ex-urbanite said to the gardener: 'I don't want you to work hard—just take big shovelfulls and lots of 'em per minute'."
"That's enough out of you, Herc my boy. You'll be next. Go ahead, Babe."