Snap, with his habitual red celluloid eyeshade shoved high on his forehead, worked over our instruments.
"Gregg!"
The receiving shield was glowing a trifle. Rays were bombarding it! It glowed, gleamed phosphorescent, and the audible recorder began sounding its tiny tinkling murmurs.
Gamma rays! Snap sprang to the dials. The direction and strength were soon obvious. A richly radioactive ore body was concentrated upon this hemisphere of the Moon! It was unmistakable.
"He's got it, Gregg! He's—"
The tiny grids began quivering. Snap exclaimed triumphantly, "Here he comes! By God, the message at last!"
Snap decoded it.
Success! Stop for ore on your return voyage. Will give you our location later. Success beyond wildest hopes.
Snap murmured, "That's all. He's got the ore!"
We were sitting in darkness, and abruptly I became aware that across our open window, where the insulation barrage was flung, the air was faintly hissing. An interference there! I saw a tiny swirl of purple sparks. Someone—some hostile ray from the deck beneath us, or from the spider bridge that led to our little room—someone out there was trying to pry in!