The crew gawked, and somebody snickered.
"You think it's silly, do you?" Moya snapped.
"Better flush your side as soon as I get clear," I advised.
Moya nodded, lowered and secured the helmet, checked lines, and rapped
O.K.
An hour later, I still didn't feel silly. I had the helmet open now. I
sat in front of the communications console.
Moya responded as if he had been waiting with his finger on the stud. I
didn't have to specify taping; all star ship radio traffic is
automatically recorded.
"Level O.K.?" I asked.
"Yes, man; what's the story?"
"Inner lock and all compartments: air pressure, density, temperature,
and purity optimum; all intrinsic gear optimum; three shuttler berths
vacant; hold shows standard environmental equipment for one team gone;
messenger racks full, no programming apparent; absolutely no sign of
crew; repeat--"
"I got it; have you checked the log?"
"Who's doing this, you or me?"