Still grumbling, Ward turned to the television transceiver, clicking on the audios and videos. "Engineer Ward, Astronautics Authority, speaking." The sight of Ward's room caused a grin to light up momentarily the fat, tired face on the receiving grid. "What's up, Silvy? Getting acclimated to our lovely Venus?" "What's on your mind, Wagner?" Ward snapped back, in no mood for joking even if the buzzing of the televisorphone had probably saved him from an oxy-hangover or, perhaps, even drowning in the early morning tidal mists. "Plenty. Get out here soon's you can. One of the trajectory beams is out and there are a couple of earth cruisers nearing perihelion from Mars. If they don't get a signal at zero-one-three-zero they're liable to coast on into Sol. Surface weather here's damned near zero-zero, too. I need you badly." "Where in the name of the twenty-seven local fish-gods is Portiz? He's emergency man, isn't he?" Wagner's moonface dropped down six lines on the 441 line kinescope grid. "Portiz," he explained lamely, "is incapacitated." "You mean drunk!" Ward retorted sharply. "Isn't he on constant call just like the rest of us? Just because he's a cousin of somebody back in Washington is no sign that he can establish a semi-permanent site in Gasuki's Grill. And just because he's your immediate superior is no sign you have to whitewash his doings. I've seniority here. What _I_ say matters! Give him the emergency call. We'll sober the lug up if we have to dunk him in the Draka Malarga. If a couple of those plesiosaurs got on his tail he'd swear off for good. If he doesn't show up, I'll report it to H. Q. and--" "Okay, Silvy, okay," Wagner said tiredly. "Now get out here, please, sir. Oops! There goes the patrol signal!" "Leave the circuit on!" Silvy Ward snapped and stood watching the video grid as Wagner jacked up the power in the distant radio receiver. "... are two ships trajecting in which are not listed on the incoming flights. One on an A-orbit coming in at terrific velocity from base-direction Mars; one on a C-orbit out of Earth. Approximate distances, six and five thousand miles respectively. Should hit atmosphere simultaneously, thus endangering themselves and other incoming ships. Advise." More trouble. Ward began to grumble again as he snapped off the televisor and began dressing. Always somebody who says to hell with the Authority and plots his own Hohman orbit. Unusually an eccentric millionaire with a luxurious spaceyacht filled with a swan-necked crew of "Oh, r'ally? You don't say?" debutantes and matrons, boyfriends, gigolos, etc. If they arrive in one piece without benefit of the AA's trajectory beams, range and landing beams, okay; if they get into trouble and the Authority doesn't get them to surface in one place, well then the Authority takes it in the neck and the paperwork is terrific over in General Inspection.