"It won't be long now!" Steve said in his low, deep, quiet voice.
"Aye, not long!" boomed a deep voice behind them, "but I'm thinking it will be a long day before we return to this braw planet of ours!"
Angus McTavish, chief engineer of the Viking, was a giant of a man with a voice that could be heard above the roar of rocket motors when he chose to raise it. He had a pair of very bright blue eyes—and a luxuriant red beard. There were probably no more than a dozen full sets of whiskers worn in the earth in this day and age, and McTavish laid claim to the most imposing.
"Fuel all aboard, Chief," he said, "The tender's cast off and we're ready to ride whenever you give the word."
"Just as soon as these people come aboard."
"Tell me, Mac," Steve Brent interposed, "Now that we're all about to jump off into the unknown—just why do you sport that crop of whiskers?"
"So I won't have to button my collar, ye feckless loon!" the big engineer replied instantly.
"The Scots are a queer race."
"Aye, lad—the salt o' the earth. We remain constant in a changing world. All the rest of you have forgotten race and breed and tradition, till ye've become as alike as peas in the same pod all over the Earth. We of Scotland take pride in being the exception."
"And in talking like some wild and kilted highlander of the twentieth century! You're out of date, Angus!"