"Where the woodbine twineth," said Ross.
Moore's breath came faster. "Wiped out?" He whipped off his spectacles and polished them absently, his jaw working on his half-forgotten chew of tobacco. "Gone," he muttered dazedly.
A sudden thought struck Ross. He gripped his navigator's shoulder. "The stars! You said there was something funny going on!"
Moore's eyes flashed. "Yes!" He slapped his glasses on. "Come on! Let me show you!" He led the way to the star-scope.
Ross, following, stopped as a signalman approached with a typed message—the answer to the blinker call that Jorgens had started. The first sentence was short and blunt. "Number Two reports ray-type dead, ray-phone weak." Messages from the other five ships were identical except in the case of Number Seven. An added sentence from the last ship of the line stood out on the page and Ross felt sick inside as he read it. "Number Seven also reports explosion on right quarter where Number Eight was flying. No sign of Number Eight."
At the star-scope Moore hovered as Ross applied his eye to the powerful lens. "That's Denabola you're on." The navigator's jaw worked, his eyes glittering.
"Dim," muttered Ross. "Clouds?"
"No!" exploded Moore. "Denabola was bright as ever, then suddenly went dim!"
Ross sat up quickly, a question in his staring eyes.