just stood there, his lips ashen, his eyes bleak and haunted. He whispered mournfully, "Yes . . . I know. I know . . .”

Well. I went to the radio room and warmed up the tubes. Then, confidently, because a quick examination indicated everything to be shipshape, I twisted the verniers to see who was saying what on which cycles.

Nothing happened.

I got my tools and went trouble-shooting, I found one loose connection and a condenser that didn't test right. I fixed these, and tried again.

Nothing happened.

I tried the transmitter. It seemed to work. I rigged up a playback and cross-checked. Nothing wrong there. So I got out my blueprints and went over the whole set from aerial to ground, making any minor adjustments that seemed necessary. Then I tried once more.

And drew a blank.

I went to the skipper. I said, “I don't understand it, sir. If I were getting nothing at all, it would prove there's something wrong with the set. But I am picking up static, so the receiver's operating. But I can't pick up any broadcasts, long- or short-wave.”

The Old Man was mighty nice about it. “Don't worry about it, Sparks," he said. "It's probably something rather unusual, connected with our crash dive. Just keep working on it.”

“But I can't raise Larnaca, sir.”

“No matter. We'll be there in the morning. We'll make inquiries when we get there. By the way, you'll mess with me tonight.”

I gulped, “Me, sir?”

The Old Man smiled. “Yes. I'm having Johnny as my guest, and I want you to act as interpreter. Will you?”

“Yes, sir!” I said.

“Johnny's on his way here now. I asked the second to go and fetch him. We'll—Good Lord, what's that?”

“That” was a series of thudding bumps just outside, followed by a sharp, agonized cry, then moans. We were out the door in a flash. The second lay groaning at the bottom of the companionway, his left leg doubled queerly under him. Johnny, standing over him, was wringing his hands and wailing frantic self-recriminations.

“It was my fault. I did it. I did it.”

“Langdon!” cried the Old Man. “What happened?”

From between teeth clenched with pain came answer. “I don't—know, sir. I must have slipped on the last step. It's my—leg, sir.”

“Did that man shove you?” I cried angrily.

“No. Of course not. It was just an accident.”

But Johnny's stricken moaning did not cease. “It was my fault," he cried over and over. "I did it. I . . .”

From now on, I can't explain the rest of my story. All I can do is tell it, and let you write your own ticket. It's strange. It's mad. It's impossible. But . . .