"Proceed at once in search of this uncharted swarm. Approximate position when encountered by the Callisto, exact center of the belt, two hours behind the Lanisar group, orbital plane about twenty degrees from regular passenger route. Mass in question cannot be mistaken, largest of the group, about twenty miles diameter. Proceed at once, M3! End of message."
Garth knew it was not the end of the message. That Martian sender always reserved some little sardonic touch to send to Garth. Garth's jaw tightened, he waited about five seconds, and then, raspingly, it came:
"Oh, just a moment, M3—Garth listening I hope—here's a tip for you. As you probably know, J. P. Chiswell is among those still missing in that life-boat. If you two can locate that party, who knows—it may mean unconditional pardon for both of you! End of message."
There came the hint of an amused chuckle before the tube went dead. Garth's face was grim. J. P. Chiswell, President of EMV Lines! Unconditional pardon. Yes, for Prokle, perhaps, if they were lucky, but never for him, and that rat of a Martian sender knew it. Garth, in the early days, had been a source of considerable annoyance in the spaceways, and he was now serving forty years. The longest sentence in the entire history of the Salvage Stations.
Garth arose and clicked on the light in the little cubicle. He crossed over and shook Prokle, grinning in anticipation of the grumbling protest he knew his partner would make.
"Message just came through," Garth said. "Sounds urgent."
"Go to sleep you damn idiot, and let me," Prokle mumbled. "I was just dreaming I was back in Chicago."
Prokle only lived for the time when he'd get back to Chicago, and Garth knew he never would. So did Prokle.
Garth grinned broader and shook his partner harder. "Come on, snap out of it. This is important, I tell you."