"Nope," answered Walt without a qualm. "Not a chance. I can hit it about ten seconds plus or minus, though."
"Make it plus nothing, minus twenty," said Don. "I was playing by ear, this time on account of my slipstick is busted."
"Such a lot of chatter," returned Walt, "don't mean a thing. While you've been gabbing about your prowess with a busted slide rule I've been setting my glass. You can cook with glass now."
"Brother," groaned Channing, "if I had one of those death rays that the boys were crowing about back in the days before space hopping became anything but a bit of fiction, I'd scorch your ears—or burn 'em off—or blow holes in you—or disintegrate you—depending on what stories you read. I haven't heard such a lousy pun in seventeen years—Hey, Freddy, you're a little close. Run out a couple of miles, huh?—and, Walt, I've heard some doozies."
There was a click in the phones and a cheerful voice chimed in with: "Good morning, fellows? What's with the Great Quest?"
Channing answered, "Hi, Babe. Been snoozing?"
"Sure, as any sensible person would. Have you been up all the time?"
"Yeah. We're still up against the main trouble with telephones—the big trouble, same as back in 1877—our friends have no telephone! You'd be surprised how elusive a spaceship can be in the deep. Sort of a nonexistent, microscopic speck, floating in absolutely nothing. We have a good idea of where they should be, and possibly why and what—but we're really playing with blindfolds, handcuffs, car plugs, mufflers, nose clamps, and tongue-ties. I am reminded—Hey, Freddie, lift her north about three hundred yards—of the two blind men."
"Never mind the blind men," came back the pilot. "How'm I doing?"
"Fine. Slide out another hundred yards and hold her there."