Moore's forehead was corrugated with concern. Without taking his eye from the scope he muttered softly, "Something funny going on, Bruce."
He moved back to let his chief step to the eye-piece. But before the flight-commander could take the seat a sliding door opened with a bang. The two turned, startled.
In the opening swayed a white-faced clerk. "Sir," he gasped, "there's trouble with communications!"
"Well?" snapped Ross.
The clerk brushed sweat off his brow. "The ray-type machine's gone dead, sir, and the ray-phone's crippled. We get only a weak muffled voice from the Council of Seven Headquarters!"
"How about the blinkers from the other ships?" snapped Ross.
"Blinkers are working, sir—" The clerk stopped short as Ross jumped to the rear of the control room.
"Jorgens!" snapped Ross. "Signal each ship, and ask if they've—they can get Seven Headquarters on the ray-type!"
"Aye, sir!" The signal chief hastened to the blinker buttons and began to rap out the message. He was half through it when a dull boom echoed like a sigh through the control room.