Wilson's communications officer came in quietly. He caught his commodore's eye and motioned Wilson aside.
"Commodore," he said, "something I'm not quite sure about."
"Yes?"
"The hourly infrawave distress call?"
"Yes, of course. It's time for it." Wilson looked at the man's face and knew that something was wrong. "It came in, didn't it?" When the communications officer didn't speak, Wilson cried hoarsely, "It came in?"
The com-tech nodded slowly. "It started, but it was sputtering badly. Then it conked out cold, Commodore. Nothing like I've ever heard before."
"Like what?"
"Well, you know the code wheel runs in standard communications code, giving the spacecraft license, the lifeship number, and the general distress call, repeated over and over for three minutes. Well, sir, the license identification came through all right, but after that the code got awful garbled and spotty, and then the whole damned transmission just crapped out, sir. After about a half-minute."
"Fade?" asked Wilson in a strained voice.
"Went out like a blown fuse. Big blast, then silence. Nothing."