He caught a lift tube and arrived on the twenty-third floor moments later. No sooner had the tube door opened than he sprang out, dodging around a pair of startled technicians, and sprinted down the corridor toward communications. Here throbbed the network that held the branches of Popeek together. From here the screens were powered, the annunciators were linked, the phones connected. Walton pushed open a door marked _Communications Central_ and confronted four busy engineers who were crowded around a complex receiving mechanism. "Where's that space message?" he demanded of the sallow young engineer who approached him. "Still coming in, sir. They're repeating it over and over. We're triangulating their position now. Somewhere near the orbit of Pluto, Mr. Walton." "Devil with that. Where's the message?" Someone handed him a slip of paper. It said, _Calling Earth. Urgent call, top urgency, crash urgency. Will communicate only with D. F. FitzMaugham._ "This all it is?" Walton asked. "No signature, no ship name?" "That's right, Mr. Walton." "Okay. Find them in a hurry and send them a return message. Tell them FitzMaugham's dead and I'm his successor. Mention me by name." "Yes, sir." He stamped impatiently around the lab while they set to work beaming the message into the void. Space communication was a field that dazzled and bewildered Walton, and he watched in awe as they swung into operation. Time passed. "You know of any ships supposed to be in that sector?" he asked someone. "No, sir. We weren't expecting any calls except from Lang on Venus--" The technician gasped, realizing he had made a slip, and turned pale. "That's all right," Walton assured him. "I'm the director, remember? I know all about Lang." "Of course, sir." "Here's a reply, sir," another of the nameless, faceless technicians said. Walton scanned it. It read, _Hello Walton. Request further identification before we report. McL._ A little shudder of satisfaction shook Walton at the sight of the initialed _McL._ at the end of the message. That could mean only McLeod--and _that_ could mean only one thing: the experimental starship had returned! Walton realized depressedly that this probably implied that they hadn't found any Earth-type worlds among the stars. McLeod's note to FitzMaugham had said they would search for a year, and would return home at the end of that time if they had no success. And just about a year had elapsed. He said, "Send this return message: McLeod, Nairobi, X-72. Congratulations! Walton." The technician vanished again, leaving Walton alone. He gazed moodily at the complex maze of equipment all around him, listened to the steady _tick-tick_ of the communication devices, strained his ears to pick up fragments of conversation from the men. After what seemed like an hour, the technician returned. "There's a message coming through now, sir. We're decoding it as fast as we can."