"Let's not kid ourselves. If they have a missile they can get up here,
it'll track you. Manned or unmanned, regardless of what your orbit is
or where you are."
"The theory is, Mel, that Ground Control Center will intercept."
"Walter!" Cramer's lip twisted sardonically. "I'm surprised! You didn't
fall for that mullarkey, did you? How are they going to intercept
anything with a head start?"
"Another part of the theory, Mel, is that you'll intercept if they
don't. Intercept it and destroy it...."
"Destroy it...." For a sickening moment Walter Stanton thought he read
fear in his friend's eye. Mel said quietly: "Destroy it and try to get
to Sandia...." He stood up. "And suppose they have _another_ missile?
Who destroys that?"
"Even a guided missile would cost almost as much as our original core.
Do you think they've built _one_, let alone two?"
"We'd sure find out in a hurry. We'd be their first target."
"And their second would probably be Sandia," Walt said thoughtfully.
"Don't say that!" Mel shouted. Walter looked at him in surprise.
"Don't. Don't say that," Mel said again, more softly. There was a long
silence. The ventilators whined. Mel passed his hand over his face.
"Those damned ventilators.... How about my taking _Mel's Mistress_ out
now? Just for a while?"
Walter Stanton glanced sympathetically at his friend. _He wants to get
away from the platform, even a few thousand yards. And I can't blame
him!_
"Sure, Mel. You've read the letter now, and you know how much fuel you
have, so it's up to you."
Mel Cramer grimaced. "Yeah, fuel. Well, I guess I'll skip it. I'm going
to hit the sack."
Walter Stanton stared after him thoughtfully....
* * * * *
At dinner the talk was all of war; Peters, the Australian fuelman
and part time cook, flicked a switch in the galley and flooded the
Platform's PA system with the 10:00 P.M. news from Dallas. Petrovski,
the Russians' originally unwelcome contribution to the project, but
undeniably one of the world's top meteorologists, was embarrassed,
and the rest of the Team tried to keep the talk on an objective,
international plane. But Walter Stanton felt the strain and as Project
Head tried to change the subject.
"Why we had to draft an Australian cook, with two Frenchmen on the
team," he said, toying with his custard. "I'll never know."
Peters' voice from the galley said: "It's because one of the bloody
Frenchmen think a cheese souffle is a new galaxy and the other thinks
it's English for a cosmic particle. Besides, I don't see anybody losing
weight."
"That's because--" began Walter Stanton, and then felt a tug at his
sleeve. It was Lang, the young radar plotter and radio operator.
"Lieutenant Goldstein just broke this, sir," he said, handing him a
dispatch. Something in his eyes chilled Walter Stanton. He read the
message and cold fear squeezed him. He looked up.
"Gentlemen," he said, raising his hand. "Can I have your attention?"
The talk died. Petrovski, apparently guessing the contents of the
dispatch, looked sick. Mel Cramer was staring at his glass.
"Gentlemen," Walter Stanton said quietly, "this is it. Mel, we were
wrong. We weren't the first target. Neither was Sandia. They just
bombed New York."
There was deathly silence for a long moment, while each man riffled
through his thoughts. "Christ!" somebody swore.
"I've been advised by Ground Control to stand by to evacuate. Cargo One
is refueling to take us off."
An angry babble broke out around the table. Velez, the tiny Brazilian
astronomer, jumped up angrily. "Evacuate? But the Platform! What
happens to it?"
Stanton shrugged. "Uncorrected perturbations build up, and eventually
it either skids off into space or falls into the atmosphere and burns.
Or maybe," he said bitterly, "we're supposed to jettison it ourselves.
Sink it in space before we leave, like a crew abandoning a submarine."
Velez went white. "But the effort in building this; the time of the
thousands of scientists and billions of dollars; what becomes of them?"
"They apparently consider the Platform a sitting duck, and are kind
enough to take a chance on evacuating us."
Howard, a grey, unemotional power plant expert, a grim man whom Walter
Stanton barely liked, sat back and folded his hands. He spoke with
dogged emphasis.
"This project has taken the best of science for the last four years.
It has held up research in other fields, and justifiably so. I do not
propose to let four years of mankind's progress go spinning off into
space alone, war or no war, Russians or no Russians. I shall not leave
it. I'm a civilian, and I refuse to go. Is that clear?"
Walter Stanton stifled a wild impulse to laugh at the thought of Howard
spinning alone and infinitely through space. Suddenly he liked the man.
"Any other comments?"