The trip out to the Station was a monotonous series of uneventful hours, proceeding along one after the other. They dozed and slept most of the time, eating sparingly and doing nothing that was not absolutely necessary.
Turnabout was accomplished and then the deceleration began, equally long and equally monotonous. It was equally inactive. Channing tried to plan, but it failed because he could not plan without talking and discussing the affair with his men; too much depended upon their co-operation. He fell into a morose, futile feeling that made itself evident in grousing; Arden tried to jolly him, but Don's usually bubbling spirit was doused too deep. Also, Arden herself was none too happy, and she failed to convince herself, which is necessary before one can convince anyone else of anything.
Then they sighted the Station, and Channing's ill spirit left. A man of action, what he hated most was the no-action business of just sitting in a little capsule of steel waiting for the Relay Station to come up out of the sky below. Once it was sighted, Channing could foresee action, and his grousing stopped.
They zipped past the Station at a distance of ten miles, and Channing opened the radio.
"Walt Franks! Wake up, you slumberhead."
The answer came inside of a half minute. "Hello, Don. Who's asleep?"
"Where are you? In Joe's?"
"Joe has declared a drought for the duration," said Franks with a laugh. "He thinks we can't think on Scotch."
"We can't. Have you seen the boys?"
"Murdoch's crew? Sure, they're circling at about five miles, running around in the plane of the ecliptic. Keep running on the colure and the chances are that you won't even see 'em. But, Don, they can hear us!"