"My mate's all right. It's my engineer. He's gone crazy."
"Shunt the lift out of him with a spanner. Hurry!"
"But I can make St. John's if you'll stand by."
"You'll make the deep, wet Atlantic in twenty minutes. You're
less than fifty-eight hundred now. Get your papers."
A Planet liner, east bound, heaves up in a superb spiral and
takes the air of us humming. Her underbody colloid is open land
her transporter-slings hang down like tentacles. We shut off our
beam as she adjusts herself--steering to a hair--over the tramp's
conning-tower. The mate comes up, his arm strapped to his side,
and stumbles into the cradle. A man with a ghastly scarlet head
follows, shouting that he must go back and build up his Ray. The
mate assures him that he will find a nice new Ray all ready in
the liner's engine-room. The bandaged head goes up wagging
excitedly. A youth and a woman follow. The liner cheers hollowly
above us, and we see the passengers' faces at the saloon colloid.
"That's a pretty girl.
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