It was not until evening that anyone remembered that a torpedo load of metal should have arrived that day. Don and Roger went out in the morning to the site of the transmitter, and found a torpedo, but its cargo door was closed and there was no answer to their shouts. This, of course, was the one Drai had sent down, and which he had completely forgotten in the rush of events. It had been operating on radio rather than achronic transmitter control, since the Karella had been so near at the time, and there was no way to switch it back from a distance even if the drug-runner’s memory should improve. Ken himself, with his “payment” safely on board the Karella, never thought of it; his attention had promptly switched to the obvious need for a survey of the Solar System before he left it. A full Earth day had been spent looking briefly over Sol’s frozen family, before he could be persuaded to start for home — Feth did not try very hard to persuade him, as a matter of fact, since he had his own share of scientific curiosity. At last, however, they plunge back to make the final call at Planet Three. The transmitter was just emerging into sunlight; this time even Lee appeared willing to home down on it. A mile above the peaks, Ken guided him on a long downward slant to a point above the Wing home.
The natives had seen them coming; all seven of them were standing outside, watching the descent with emotions that Ken could easily guess. He waved Lee into a position that brought the air lock directly over the clearing in front of the house, and the lowest part of the ship’s hull thirty feet above the treetops. Then he climbed into his armor, entered the air lock with his “payment,” and opened the outer door without bothering to pump back the air. For a moment he was enveloped in a sheet of blue fire, which burst from the port and caused the natives to exclaim in alarm. Fortunately the flame of burning sulfur licked upward, and was gone in a moment. Then Ken, waving the natives away from directly below, rolled his payment over the sill of the lock. It made quite a hole in the ground. A carefully made diagram, drawn on the fluo-silicone material the Sarrians used for paper, followed; and when the Wings looked up after crowding around this, the Karella was a dwindling dot in the sky, and Ken was already preparing a report for the planetary ecologists and medical researchers who would return with them. Perhaps a cure for the drug could be found, and even if it weren’t he was on good enough terms with the natives so that he needn’t worry too much. Not, of course, that that was his only interest in the weird beings; they seemed rather likable, in their own way—
He even remembered to write a brief report for Rade.
On the ground, no one spoke for some time.
“I can’t budge it, Dad,” were the first words finally uttered. They came from Roger, who had been vainly trying to move the grayish lump that had landed at their feet.
“It must weigh two hundred pounds or so,” supplemented Don. “If it’s all platinum—”
“Then we’ll have a fine time breaking it up into pieces small enough to avoid comment,” finished his father. “What interests me right now is this picture.” The others crowded around once more.
It was a tiny diagram of the Solar System, such as they had drawn before the fire two days ago. Beside it was the unmistakable picture of a space ship like the Karella— heading away from it. Then another diagram, apparently an enlarged view of the orbits of the inner planets, showed the arcs through which each would move in approximately a month; and finally a third picture reproduced the first— except that the space ship was pointing toward the system. The meaning was clear enough, and a smile broke out on Mr. Wing’s face as he interpreted it.
“I guess we continue to eat,” he remarked, “and I guess our friend wants to learn more English. He’ll be back, all right. I was afraid for a little while he’d take that carton of cigarettes in the wrong spirit. Well—” he turned to the family suddenly.
“Don — Roger — let’s go. If he’s going to be away a month, and that torpedo is still lying where you found it, we have a job of tinkering to do. Roger, by the time you’re Don’s age you may be able to pilot us on a return visit to your hot-blooded friend — we’re going to find out how that gadget works!”