"Fine! Fine!" Andrews rattled on automatically before the words
registered. Then he started, his face turning red. "Eh? What's that?
Don't know! What do you mean, you don't know? I pay you to--"
"There's no transmission, sir," said Greg quietly.
"No trans--nonsense! Of course there's transmission! I put a million
credits into this ship. Finest space-yacht ever built. Latest equipment
throughout. Sparks is drunk, that's what you mean! Well, you hop right
up there and--"
* * * * *
Maud Andrews put down her fork with a clatter. "Oh, for goodness sakes,
Jonathan, shut up and give the boy time to explain! He's standing
there with his mouth gaping like a rain-spout, trying to get a word in
edgewise! What's the trouble, Gregory?" She turned to Greg, as Jonathan
Foster Andrews wheezed into startled silence. "_That?_"
She glanced at the quartzite dome, beyond which the veil of iridescence
wove and cross-wove and shimmered like a pallid aurora.