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They didn't talk; rather than being drawn closer by the news of the tragedy, it seemed that they had drawn farther apart, as though the one common link that had held them together had suddenly been broken. Finally Tom broke the silence. "At least there's one thing we can do," he said. "I'm going to call Johnny Coombs." He shortly found a phone booth and dialed a number.
One was to Records for the customary full information on the Cerberus and on the Procyron system. The other was to the flat where Timmy lived with him. It was going to be lonely when Timmy got married and had a home of his own. Sergeant Madden dialed for message-recording and gruffly left word for Timmy. He, Timmy's father, was going on ahead to make the report on the Cerberus.
He depressed the switch deliberately, like a man firing a weapon. Then, he dialed a number, and waited. The sphere lit, to show the face of Harold Bond. "Oh, Graham." Bond frowned a little. "It's late. Do you have something to report?" "Yes, sir." Graham's face was expressionless. "The mental communicator is finished. Do you wish to test it, sir?" Bond opened his eyes a little more and nodded.
He looked at his watch, saw that it was five forty-five, and inquired about a telephone. "Yes, of course; out here." Pierre took him back to the parlor, where he dialed the Inn and inquired if a Mr. Ritter, from New Belfast, were registered there yet. He was. A moment later he was speaking to Ritter. "Jeff, for Gawdsake, don't come here," Ritter advised.
Puzzled but unquestioning, the admiral went to the visiphone and dialed the zoo. "Admiral Hawarden, Curator. I believe the Prime Minister's toogan was just delivered to you. There was a mistake. Please send it back ... never mind, sir, what the 'why' is, just return it immediately." He flipped off the switch impatiently, and looked at the young Secret Serviceman with wondering eyes. A toogan?
Alan busied himself over the radio transmitter, getting landing clearance. He brought the ship down easily, checked out, and hurried to the nearest phone. He dialed Jesperson's number. The lawyer answered. "When did you get back?" "Just now," Alan said. "Just this minute." "Well? Did you " "Yes! I found it! I found it!" Oddly enough, he was in no hurry to leave Earth now.
Hours ticked by while he analyzed the wave action mathematically, then worked out a typical hookup for one of his jetmarines in a set of precise schematic drawings. Finally the young inventor dropped his pencil, picked up the telephone, and dialed Bud Barclay. "Hop over here, fly boy," Tom told his chum. "Something hot on the griddle!" Bud arrived in a few moments.
Tom gripped the Markheim tightly, and he dialed it down to a narrow beam. Nobody had ever been killed by a stunner ... but a direct hit with a narrow beam could paralyze a man for three days. There was movement at the far end of the airlock corridor. A helmeted head peered around the turn in the corridor; then two men in pressure suits moved into view, walking cautiously, weapons in hand.
He turned, went downstairs, and took the receiver off the phone on the wall by the front door. The shapeless landlady came out again. She scowled at Taber. "What are you doing here?" He regarded her with a kind of affectionate weariness. "Have you got a dime, lady?" Gaping, she pawed into her apron pocket and handed him a coin. "Thanks much." He dialed. "Is Captain Abrams there?"
But Crane was no longer talking to Halliday. He had hung up. Crane dialed another number. A pleasant female voice said, "Matthew Porter's office." "This is Senator Crane. Put Porter on." "Just a moment." Crane waited. He waited for what seemed like ages, but a glance at his watch told him it had been less than five minutes. He disconnected and dialed again. "This is Crane. We got cut off.
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