Breadon said, "All right, Tommy, dump them here. I have a few words to
say." He glanced about him pompously. "Now, folks, naturally we want
to get away from here as soon as possible. Therefore I delegate you,
Sparks, to immediately get a message off. An SOS to the nearest space
cruiser."
Hannigan grinned. It was not a pleasant grin. He took his time
answering. He spat thoughtfully on the ground before him, lifted his
head. He said, "A message, huh?"
"That's what I said."
"And what'll I send it with?" drawled Sparks. "Tom-toms?"
Breadon flushed darkly.
"I believe the life-skiff was equipped with a radio? And theoretically
you are a radio operator?"
"Finest radio money can buy!" interpolated J. Foster Andrews proudly.
"Put a million credits into the _Carefree_. Best equipment throughout."
Sparks looked from one to another of them, grinned insolently. "You're
both right. I _am_ a radio operator, and there _was_ a radio. But we
crashed, remember? On account of some dope's sleeve got caught in the
master switch--"
"That will do!" snapped Breadon angrily. He stared at the bandy-legged
little redhead. "You mean the radio was broken?"
"It wasn't helped none. The tubes was made out of glass, and glass
don't bounce so good."