 The yellow-gray mist indicates which of the following?
SILENCE IS—DEADLY By Bertrand L. Shurtleff Radio is an absolute necessity in modern organization—and particularly in modern naval organization. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science-Fiction April 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] That would be Nelson, his navigating officer. Androka had arrived on board the Comerford the day before she sailed from Norfolk. With him came a boatload of scientific apparatus and equipment, including a number of things that looked like oxygen tanks, which were now stored in the forward hold. Androka had watched over his treasures with the jealous care of a mother hen, and spent hours daily in the room in the superstructure that had been assigned as his laboratory. Overhead, the sky was a storm-racked mass of clouds, broken in one spot by a tiny patch of starlit blue. It was Nelson, his shaggy blond brows drawn scowlingly down over his pale eyes; his thin face a mass of tense lines; his big hands fumbling at the neck of his slicker. Rain was coursing down his white cheeks, streaking them with glistening furrows. He was overfriendly with a black-browed bos'n's mate named Joe Bradford—the worst trouble maker on board. Nevertheless, his taut face, restless, searching eyes, and eternally nervous manner got Curtis' goat. Nelson shouldered his way inside, and stood there in his dripping oilskins, blinking his eyes against the yellow light. Nelson had no answering smile, although there had been a great deal of good-natured joking aboard the Comerford ever since the navy department had sent the scientist on board the cruiser to carry on his experiments. "I'm not sure about my dead reckoning. This storm—" Curtis threw his arm around Nelson's dripping shoulders. "But this storm, sir!" Nelson avoided Curtis' friendly eyes and slipped out from under his arm. There's a chop to the sea—as if from unestimated currents among the islets. "As if by providence, sir, there's a clear patch. Curtis donned his slicker and went outside, sextant in hand. In a few minutes he returned and handed Nelson a sheet of paper with figures underlined heavily. "Here's what I make it," the commander told his navigating officer. Figure-'em Nelson's estimate, I'm checking back," he declared, frowning at the two papers and hastily rechecking his own figures.
 Nazis are on The Comerford.
 A direct result of the zone of silence  Curtis will be killed.  The Holland blitzkrieg was a travesty  Nazis are on The Comerford.