"It's over the horizon, I'll try South Africa." Anderson worked with the voice radio but static obliterated reception. "Here comes a Morse transmission," he said at last. Morrow read slowly as tape fed out of the translator:
"Radar shows moon rocket in proper trajectory. Where are you?"
The first impulse was to dash to the viewport and peer out. But that would be no help in determining position.
"Radar, Bert," he whispered. Anderson verniered in the scope, measuring true distance to Earth's surface. He read the figure, swore violently, and readjusted the instrument.
"It can't be," he muttered at last. "This says we're 865 miles out."
"365 miles outside our orbit?" Morrow said calmly. "I was afraid of that. That tug from the Moonbeam not only cart-wheeled us, it yanked us out." He snatched a sheet of graph paper out of a desk drawer and penciled a point.
"Give me a reading every 10 seconds."
Points began to connect in a curve.
And the curve was something new.
"Get Jones from astronomy," Kevin said at last. "He can help us plot and maybe predict."