For fifteen minutes Jon put the hulking ball through its paces, and then as suddenly as it had appeared, the rapport was lost. The sphere trundled off across the plain, oblivious to Jon's commands, and finally settled to a hemisphere in the distance. Jon opened his trans.
"Yah," came Doc's disgusted voice. "He never jumped through no hoop."
"Drop it," retorted Jon curtly. "He got tired of it. Did you get it all down?"
"Every bit of it. Better come on in now, and we'll look it over."
Jon was suddenly tired, and he thought of the soft chairs in the Flight Room. But there would be that damned Geiger clicking, and the accumulator needle working into the red.
Jon knew suddenly that he was not going back to the ship. What's the percentage in waiting for it, he thought, when I might as well be taking a look-see over the hill? Oh, come now Jon-me-lad, what hill?
Into the trans he said, "Put a lamp in the window, Mother Dear. I'm going to look the sitchy-ation over. I'll hold on the line of the ship to the horizon, then bear right on the circle till I get back. Have supper ready—and please, no horse-radish in the broccoli."
Doc's voice came through with a trace of worry in it. "We shouldn't separate until we know more about this."
"To quote an outstanding authority," said Jon, "one Randall E. 'Doc' Martin, 'what's the difference? Fast or slow—take your choice'. End of quote."
"All right," agreed Doc tiredly. "But Jon, don't do, uh, anything rash."