"In person," I told him, "and not a facsimile. How you getting along, pal?"
"Why, all right, I guess." He clucked, and I could envision the rueful shake of his head. "It was a frightful mess, Sparks. How you ever let it get in that condition—"
"I let it get in that condition," I told him, "like I got sick. By orders of Madman Cooper. That guy's a wingding with the mace, ain't he? Where'd you get the replacement parts?"
"Out of the supply locker, mostly. I had to rewind the L-49 armature, though. We had no spares."
"You'd better throw a shunt across the No. 4 rheo," I suggested. "You're heterodyning on vocal freke; otherwise you seem to have matters under control. Nice going, bud. I guess you know this is your final test?"
"I suspected it. Well, I'm going to test now. See if I can contact Lunar III. Stand by, Sparks. I'll cut you into the circuit so you can hear."
Current hummed and squealed; dots and dashes ripped the ether as Biggs pulsed a signal to Mother Earth's satellite. Slow seconds dragged. We are very close to Mars, and it takes a message almost two and a half minutes to make the hurdle from the green planet to the red one.
I waited tensely. And then, faint and far, but yet clear, came the reply.
"Answering IPS Saturn. Go ahead, Saturn." It was Joe Marlowe's hand on the bug. I could tell that. You know how it is; every operator has a transmitting style just as distinctive as handwriting. "Go ahead, Saturn." Then, "Are you sober, Donovan?"
I gritted my teeth. But Biggs put an end to Joe's smart stuff with his next transmission.