Ed Kerry looked up over the set in the radiotype room at the city editor. He wet his lips carefully and said, "He's only got one day now. They've got to pick him up in hours or he's sunk."
Jake said, "I never did understand how that works. Why can't he land himself? I know he can't, but why?"
The reporter shrugged. "I don't quite get it either, but evidently the whole operation is pretty delicate stuff. They bring him down with radar, somehow or other. It's not like landing an airplane. Landing a spacecraft is done from the ground up—not from the spacecraft down. The pilot has comparatively little to do about it. At least, that's the way it is with nine ships out of ten."
The set began to blare again, and they both listened tensely. It was Phil Mooney.
"Listen, you guys down there. If you're sitting around playing craps or something, I'm going to have a few necks to break when I get down."
The two newspapermen stared at each other over the set. Ed Kerry ran his tongue over his lips again.
The strained tone had gone from the voice of the spacepilot now and had been replaced by one of hopelessness. He said, "I don't know who I think I'm kidding. I know darn well that something's wrong with my receiver and I can't find out what it is. Maybe my sender is off too, for all I know. All I can pick up is some girl singing something about white roses. White roses, yet! I want landing instructions and I get white roses."
Ed Kerry jerked his head up and snapped, "Holy jumping hell, he's able to pick some commercial station!"
Jake came to his feet, stuck his neck out of the door and yelled at the top of his voice, "Phil Mooney is receiving some commercial station! Some dame singing something about white roses! Check every station in the city! Find out if any of them are broadcasting some dame singing about white roses."