"That's all right," Walton assured him. "I'm the director, remember? I know all about Lang."
"Of course, sir."
"Here's a reply, sir," another of the nameless, faceless technicians said. Walton scanned it.
It read, Hello Walton. Request further identification before we report. McL.
A little shudder of satisfaction shook Walton at the sight of the initialed McL. at the end of the message. That could mean only McLeod—and that could mean only one thing: the experimental starship had returned!
Walton realized depressedly that this probably implied that they hadn't found any Earth-type worlds among the stars. McLeod's note to FitzMaugham had said they would search for a year, and would return home at the end of that time if they had no success. And just about a year had elapsed.
He said, "Send this return message: McLeod, Nairobi, X-72. Congratulations! Walton."
The technician vanished again, leaving Walton alone. He gazed moodily at the complex maze of equipment all around him, listened to the steady tick-tick of the communication devices, strained his ears to pick up fragments of conversation from the men.
After what seemed like an hour, the technician returned. "There's a message coming through now, sir. We're decoding it as fast as we can."
"Make it snappy," Walton said. His watch read 1429. Only twenty minutes had passed since he had gone down there.