I knew how hard that was for an operator to say. This young fellow had had six years of intensive training, and not a day of it has passed without a warning against any unnecessary control changes in the Blight.
The sound of the generators changed, the pitch of the whine descending into the audible range, dropping lower.
"He's still with us, Colonel," the operator said.
The pitch fell lower. I didn't know what the critical point would be reached when we would lose our artificial orientation and rotate into normal entropy. We sat rigid, waiting. The sound dropped down, almost baritone now. The operator tapped again and again at a key, glancing at a dial.
The drive hum was a harsh droning now; we couldn't expect to go much further without disaster. But then neither could the enemy.
"He's right with us, Colonel, only—" Suddenly the operator shouted.
"We lost him, Colonel! His controls aren't as good as ours in that line, anyway; he dropped into identity."
I sank back, as the whine of our MC generator built up again. My palms were wet. I wondered into which of the hells of the Blight they had gone. But I had another problem to face in a few minutes. This was not the time for shaken nerves.
"Good work, operator," I said at last. "How much longer?"
"About—good God—ten minutes, sir," he answered. "That little business took longer than I thought."