Ray sighed and gave up. Martians had replaced Scotchmen in the lexicon of thrift, but Urushkidan set some kind of new record.
He sat down in the pilot chair and started the atomic generator on high level conversion. "I hope it works," he muttered nervously. His fingers moved over the improvised control panel for the star drive. "Hang on, folks, here goes nothing."
"Nothin," said Dyann after a long silence, "is correct."
"Oh, lord! What's the matter now?" Ray went back to the new engine. Its circuits were alive, tubes glowed and indicators blinked, but the boat sat stolidly where it was.
"I told you not to use tose approximations," said Urushkidan.
Ray fiddled with the main-drive settings. "It's like any other gadget," he complained. "You sweat yourself dry designing it from theory, and then you have to tinker till it works."
He began changing the positions of resistors and condensers, cutting sections out of the circuit to work on them. Urushkidan shredded a piece of paper, wetted it, and tried to smoke it.
"Ray!" Dyann's voice came sharp and urgent from the forward cabin. "I saw a rocket flare."
"Oh, no!" He sprang back to her and peered into the night sky. A long trail of flame arced across it. And another, and another—
"The Jovians," he groaned. "They've found us."