They dived for the quonset together. Vann, smaller and more agile than the deliberate Weyman, reached the Telethink first.
“Nothing but the regular standby carrier from Washington,” Vann said. “Ellis may have been directly under the thing when it struck. He was working toward Dutchman’s Key, hoping for a glimpse of the hermit.”
“Maybe he wasn’t wearing the Telethink when the blast came,” Weyman said. Then, with characteristic practicality: “Better image Washington about this while we’re waiting for Ellis to report in. Can’t use the net radio—we’d start a panic.”
Vann settled himself at the console.
“I’ll try. That is, if I can get across anything beyond the sort of subliminal rot we’ve been trading lately.”
He signaled for contact and felt the Washington operator’s answering surge of subconscious resentment at being disturbed. With the closing of the net the now-familiar giddiness of partial rapport came on him, together with the oppressive sense of bodily sharing.
There was a sudden trickle of saliva in his mouth and he resisted the desire to spit.
“Washington is having a midnight snack,” Vann said. “Rotted sardines and Limburger, I think.”
He made correction when the Washington operator radiated indignation. “Goose liver and dill pickles, then, but you wouldn’t guess it. Salt tastes like brass filings.”
Weyman said shortly, “Get on with it. You can clown later.”