"They are supposed to be, but they aren't huge and a little misalignment can do a lot of light-stopping. Can we juggle mirrors now?"
"Sure as shooting. Freddie in the flitter?"
"Yup. He thinks he's at the right distance now. But he's got a light outfit, and this radar can be calibrated to the foot. Is the mirror-dingbat running?"
"We're cooking with glass right 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, Freddie, 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 1887—our friends have no telephone! You'd be surprised how elusive a spaceship can be in the deep. Sort of a non-existent, 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, ear plugs, mufflers, nose clamps, and tongue-ties. I am reminded—Hey, Freddie, about three more hundred yards—of the two blind men."
"Never mind the blind men," came back the pilot. "How'm I doing?"