Mac was already at the intercommunicating system, rasping queries to the far chambers of the ship. "Everybody O.Q.? No casualties?"
The responses were encouraging if somewhat blasphemous. Typical was the reply from Slops, the ship's chef. He snarled irately, "I'm all right, Lootenant, but did you say we was to have soup for dinner?"
"Eh? Why, yes. But—"
"'Cause if you did, everybody better come on up to the galley right now with spoons. Dinner's slip-sloppin' all over the floor."
There came the sound of footsteps on the ramp. The door burst open, admitting that quartet which Lark O'Day had humorously dubbed "the brains of this here outfit." All were excited. Gary Lane demanded intently, "Hugh.... Lark.... What is it? Where are we? We're not on Mars?"
Warren shook his head. "No. We are about twelve thousand miles short of our goal. This is what you might call 'time out by command performance.' We're grav-locked. Have you tried to make her respond, Lark?"
O'Day had again been jiggling the activating studs. Now he said, "Yeah, but it's no go. Just our luck. We've blundered into one of Deimos' unpredictable magnetic periods. We're frozen tighter than a pollywog in a Plutonian puddle."
"How long," demanded Muldoon, "does this here magnetic grab operate?"
Dr. Bryant answered for the navigators.
"That, Muldoon, is as unpredictable as the phenomenon itself. Sometimes these periods last but a few hours; at other times they are sustained for months. I'm afraid we must just resign ourselves to remaining here as long as need be."