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If the Helldiver was the only ship we could contact by radio, the odds were that if they couldn't see the rocket from Feinberg's ship, nobody else could. The same idea must have occurred to Abe Clifford. "You say you're all along the coast. Are the other ships west or east of you?" "West, as far as I know." "Then we must be way east of you. Where are you now?"
"Somebody pick up our Mayday while we were cruising submerged?" Abe Clifford was swearing into the radio. "No, of course not. We don't know where in Nifflheim we are. All the instruments in the boat were smashed." "Well, can't you shoot the stars, Abe?" The voice I thought it was Feinberg's was almost as inaudible as a cat's sneeze. "Sure we can.
I have, I believe, indicated here and there that Joe isn't one of our mightier intellects. There are a lot of better heads, but Joe can be relied upon to keep his, no matter what is happening or how bad it gets. He was sitting on an empty box, his arm in a now-filthy sling, and one of Mohandas Feinberg's crooked black cigars in his mouth.
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