And Pluto, writhing in one tiny spot from terrific heat, began to cool everywhere else. Men looked at one another in fear as the cooling breezes began to sweep across the face of Pluto.
The production of uranium stopped, as did everything but the overworked communications system.
John McBride glared at the telephone. "They should know by now," he snapped, "that we can't take time to use the phone with all of this devilment going on."
Tommy handed him a spacegram. "Someone knows," he said cryptically.
McBride tore the 'gram open. "Oh, great ache! Tommy, pass the word on the lens network. Tell 'em to cut the electro-gravitic warp, too. The thing is focused right on the middle of Pluto and is cutting a six-hundred-foot swath across the face of Pluto like an oxy-atomic torch cuts butter."
"Can't we refocus it?" asked Tommy anxiously.
"Not without moving the stations. Or playing hob with the warp-generators. Either way would take a week to adjust. Tell Adkins to pull the big switch and hope for the best. Oh yes! Tell every mother's son not to tinker with the P-T network. When we get this mess cleaned up, we're going to need the placement again and there's little sense in letting the stations run free. Thank the Lord the warp will tend to align them again, once it goes on, or we'd have a six-month's space surveying job to do."
The lens-network phone rang, and McBride answered.
"John? This is Fuller on 9. We just found Carlson under the alphatron. He's knocked colder than last week's wash and he's got a bad alpha burn."