The sight of Ward's room caused a grin to light up momentarily the fat, tired face on the receiving grid.
"What's up, Silvy? Getting acclimated to our lovely Venus?"
"What's on your mind, Wagner?" Ward snapped back, in no mood for joking even if the buzzing of the televisorphone had probably saved him from an oxy-hangover or, perhaps, even drowning in the early morning tidal mists.
"Plenty. Get out here soon's you can. One of the trajectory beams is out and there are a couple of earth cruisers nearing perihelion from Mars. If they don't get a signal at zero-one-three-zero they're liable to coast on into Sol. Surface weather here's damned near zero-zero, too. I need you badly."
"Where in the name of the twenty-seven local fish-gods is Portiz? He's emergency man, isn't he?"
Wagner's moonface dropped down six lines on the 441 line kinescope grid.
"Portiz," he explained lamely, "is incapacitated."
"You mean drunk!" Ward retorted sharply. "Isn't he on constant call just like the rest of us? Just because he's a cousin of somebody back in Washington is no sign that he can establish a semi-permanent site in Gasuki's Grill. And just because he's your immediate superior is no sign you have to whitewash his doings. I've seniority here. What I say matters! Give him the emergency call. We'll sober the lug up if we have to dunk him in the Draka Malarga. If a couple of those plesiosaurs got on his tail he'd swear off for good. If he doesn't show up, I'll report it to H. Q. and—"
"Okay, Silvy, okay," Wagner said tiredly. "Now get out here, please, sir. Oops! There goes the patrol signal!"
"Leave the circuit on!" Silvy Ward snapped and stood watching the video grid as Wagner jacked up the power in the distant radio receiver.