Anderson, anatomist, big and rough, was lighting up his pipe, and for the moment that seemed, to him, the most important thing in all the world.
Blackburn, the psychologist, frowned at the glowing tip of his cigarette, and Shulcross, the language expert, sprawled sloppily in his chair like an empty sack.
They found something, Adams told himself. They found plenty and some of it has them tangled up.
"Clark," said Adams, "suppose you start us out."
"We looked the ship over," Clark told him, "and we found it couldn't fly."
"But it did," said Adams. "Sutton brought it home."
Clark shrugged. "He might as well have used a log. Or a hunk of rock. Either one would have served the purpose. Either one would fly just as well as, or better than, that heap of junk."
"Junk?"
"The engines were washed out," said Clark. "The safety automatics were the only things that kept them from atomizing. The ports were cracked, some of them were broken. One of the tubes was busted off and lost. The whole ship was twisted out of line."
"You mean it was warped?"