There was a sharp explosion nearby as another article of cargo came
hurtling down from space.
"And it's almost noon!"
She nodded, still perplexed.
"Get into the spaceabout, Love--_quick_!"
She hesitated and he gave her a shove.
But he paused and faced the others. "You got just about fifteen minutes
to climb into your contraptions and clear out--all of you! Because by
then we'll be fresh out of gravity!"
And they'd be lucky if they had _that much_ time, he realized as he
followed Edna into the small craft. He had known he would have to face
the inevitable crisis on Wednesday. But all along he had been off one
day in his calculations, such that he had been sure today was only
Tuesday.
"What is it, Titus?" his wife asked as he strapped himself in beside
her.
"The supplementary gravity generator hasn't been refueled! It's
sputtering out!"
From space, he watched the end of McWorther's World.
The atmosphere went first, _swooshing_ outward as a result of abrupt
decompression and leaving a halo of frozen water crystals in its wake.
Then the cargo that was piled on the surface recoiled from its own
cumulative pressure and shot out into space. The topsoil followed suit,
dispersing like a dust storm, while the lakes boiled in one instant and
their vapor froze in the next.
Before any of the hurtling mess could reach his spaceabout, Titus
followed the Pullman crafts, the Rear-Sobucks delivery vehicle and the
Presidential and Imperial yachts into hyperspace.
* * * * *
Titus and Edna McWorther have given up rustic retirement. Instead they
are living out their declining years in a floating villa just off the
Jersey coast.
Life is still gratifying, with the exception of one detail.
But Titus is resolved that he and his wife will have to be content with
the shower-masseur for the rest of their lives.
At any rate, he'll be damned if he'll put in another order for an
automatic bather, with or without a back-scrubbing attachment.