McPartland felt the muscles bunch along his jaw, and drew anger from the memory of a long forgotten quarrel to force back a sick heaviness in his stomach. "Maybe I am all that, Almira—even atavistic, you said then. But I'm more than a specimen in a glass box."
He stopped suddenly. Almira's beautiful face had faded from the visa-phone screen. There had been no cut-off click from her instrument, but she was gone.
"Almira," Jon called sharply, "Almira." There was no answer. His screen remained grey and empty. The connection was broken.
McPartland's blue eyes narrowed, as he shot out a big hand to pick up the intra-ship phone. He jabbed the Radio Room button vigorously.
"Holdern speaking," came the Radio Officer's crisp, efficient voice.
"I was talking to Terra over visa-phone," snapped the Captain. "Did you cut me?"
"No, sir!" came the instant reply, with a shocked intake of breath. "The ether is yours, Captain," Holdern added, recovering his dramatic flair in the next second.
"Then why is my instrument dead?"
"My controls are in order, Sir," said the Radio Officer. "May I send a machinist's mate to look at the instrument?"
"Carry on, Mister," agreed McPartland, smiling suddenly. Best crew in the System, he told himself. His officers acted fast, without hesitation or alibi. "Report progress to the Control Room."