Douglas' voice broke in again.
"Hey, Pop. Pop, you still there?"
A little silence. Nibley felt blood pulsing down inside his suit. "Yep," he said.
"We just gave Bruno your little note to read. Whatever it was, when he finished reading it, he went insane."
Nibley said, quiet-like. "Burn that there paper. Don't let anybody else read it."
A pause. "It's burnt. What was it?"
"Don't be inquisitive," snapped the old man. "Maybe I proved to Bruno that he didn't really exist. To hell with it!"
The rocket reached its constant speed. Douglas radioed back: "All's well. Sweet calculating, Pop. I'll tell the Rocket Officials back at Marsport. They'll be glad to know about you. Sweet, sweet calculating. Thanks. How goes it? I said—how goes it? Hey, Pop! Pop?"
Nibley raised a trembling hand and waved it at nothing. The ship was gone. He couldn't even see the jet-wash now, he could only feel that hard metal movement out there among the stars, going on and on through a course he had set for it. He couldn't speak. There was just emotion in him. He had finally, by God, heard a compliment from a mechanic of radar-computators!