"Good enough," said Connel. "Keep it that way." He watched the monitor
screen as the liner _San Francisco_ settled into landing-port eleven.
When she was cradled and secure, he grunted his satisfaction and turned
to leave. At the door he suddenly paused. "By the way, isn't Manning on
radar watch?"
"Yes, sir," replied Tom.
"Well, it's one forty-eight. How about his standard check-in with
traffic control?"
Tom stammered, "He--uh--he may be plotting some space junk, sir."
"He _still_ must report, regardless of what he's doing!"
"I--uh--ah--yes, sir!" gulped Tom. Blast Roger anyway, he thought,
forgetting the all-important quarter-hour check-in.
"I'd better go up and find out if anything's wrong," said Connel.
"Gosh, sir," suggested Tom, desperately seeking an excuse for his
shipmate. "I'm sure Roger would have notified us if anything had
happened."
"Knowing Manning as I do, I'm not so sure!" And the irascible officer
thundered through the door like a jet-propelled tank!
"Come on, Mason. Hurry and put on that space suit," barked Loring.
"Take it easy," grumbled Mason. "I'm working as fast as I can!"
"Of all the rotten luck," growled Loring.
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