* * * * *
The room rumbled with growls. They were not schoolboys, thrilled with
the adventure or given to demonstration, nor youths driven to the job
of combing the unknown for their commodore's lost love. But they felt
it inside and stifled it in low-voiced growls because they were not
much given to bragging, either.
And Ted Wilson knew that if the lost lifeship was to be found, his
command would find it.
Wilson's communications officer came in quietly. He caught his
commodore's eye and motioned Wilson aside.
"Commodore," he said, "something I'm not quite sure about."
"Yes?"
"The hourly infrawave distress call?"
"Yes, of course. It's time for it." Wilson looked at the man's face
and knew that something was wrong. "It came in, didn't it?" When the
communications officer didn't speak, Wilson cried hoarsely, "It came
in?"
The com-tech nodded slowly. "It started, but it was sputtering badly.
Then it conked out cold, Commodore. Nothing like I've ever heard
before."
"Like what?"
"Well, you know the code wheel runs in standard communications code,
giving the spacecraft license, the lifeship number, and the general
distress call, repeated over and over for three minutes. Well, sir, the
license identification came through all right, but after that the code
got awful garbled and spotty, and then the whole damned transmission
just crapped out, sir. After about a half-minute."
"Fade?" asked Wilson in a strained voice.
"Went out like a blown fuse. Big blast, then silence. Nothing."