The communicator-phone set up a clamor when the sky was just beginning to gray in what, on this as yet unnamed planet, they called the east because the local sun rose there. The call-wave had turned on the set. Bob Wentworth kicked off his blankets and stumbled from his bunk in the atmosphere-flier, and went sleepily forward to answer. He pushed the answer-stud.
“Hello, what’s the trouble?” he said wearily. “Talk louder, there’s some static. Oh—No, there’s no trouble. Why should there be? The devil I’m late reporting! Haynes and I obeyed orders and tried to find the end of a confounded skit-tree plantation. We chased our tails all day long, but we made so much westing that we gained a couple of hours light. So it isn’t sunrise yet, where we are.”
Wentworth yawned as he listened.
“Oh, we
