"Why?" I asked.
"Never mind why!" snapped the A.C. "Put him on!"
I said grimly, "Okay, Buster! I'll play toddle-top with you. I'll put him on now and take you on the next time I see you. Skipper—" And I handed him the phone.
Whatever the A.C. told the Old Man, it threw a jolt into him. I saw Hanson stiffen like a rheumatic neck, and he roared, "Wha-a-at! Impossible! Why, you damned young jackanapes, don't you know the staff and crew of the Saturn are in mourning? We won't—"
Then there was clacking from the ear-piece, metallic and ominous, and the Old Man's face turned from crimson to an outraged mauve. But anxious lines corrugated his brow and he forced a modulated acquiescence to his voice.
"I see," he said thoughtfully. "So that's the way it is, eh? Well—" Grudgingly "—all right, then. But I don't like it, sir. And you may tell your superiors—"
The A.C. must have hung up on him. He turned to us slowly. "Sparks—" he said.
Diane Hanson stared at her father. "Daddy, what is it? Is it—some news about Lancelot?"
"No, honey," said the Old Man gravely. "Don't keep that hope burning, dear. You'll only torture yourself. This is something entirely different. Something—" His stifled anger burst out afresh "—something dastardly! They should be boiled in oil, the whole rotten kit and kiboodle of them! But I'm helpless. Orders are orders. Sparks, get in contact with the staff and crew immediately. Tell them to pack their duffle and be aboard the Saturn by midnight."