"Yes, sir," the navigator yessed. "What's this Authority business anyway? Just a political organization which takes the taxpayer's money for something that isn't necessary at all. Sir, when you get back to Washington, you'll show 'em!"
"Good boy, Jimmie," the resplendently clad individualist said with a smile, patting the young fellow's shoulder with a diamond-studded paw.
Wherewith Dewitt Charleston peered through the forward port at the onrushing, cloud-veiled sphere which was Venus and grinned very happily. And then, from the corner of a flesh-surmounted eye he glimpsed the red flaring of rocket exhausts on the port side, and not more than ten miles away.
"Somebody crowding in on us," Charleston said. "Release the broadcast antenna while I get the transmitter going. Let's see, what's Patrol frequency? Sixty Megacycles."
Below the spaceyacht a long length of antenna dropped, trailing some ten feet below the length of the four hundred foot hull.
Jimmie nodded an okay to his employer.
The fat one absorbed the microphone in a fleshy hand.
"Calling unknown ship on port side. Sy 2700 calling."
There was no answer.
"Rats," said Dewitt Charleston. "What do they mean, coming in on our trajectory?"