“I’d say,” he remarked humorously, in that astonishingly deep-toned voice of his, “sand got in our hair. And our colony. And the landing grid. There’s a lot of sand on Xosa. Wouldn’t you say that was the trouble?”
The Indian said with elaborate gravity:
“Of course wind had something to do with it.”
Bordman fumed.
“I think you know,” he said fretfully, “that as a senior Colonial Survey officer, I have authority to give any orders needed for my work. I give one now. I want to see the landing grid—if it is still standing. I take it that it didn’t fall down?”
Redfeather flushed beneath the bronze pigment of his skin. It would be hard to offend a steelman more than to suggest that his work did not stand up.
“I assure you,” he said politely, “that it did not fall down.”
“Your estimate of its degree of completion?”
“Eighty per cent,” said Redfeather formally.
“You’ve stopped work on it?”