MacIlheny frowned. If the remote controls wouldn't work, then it wouldn't be possible to realign the orbit of the satellite. "Keep trying," he said. Then he turned from the control board, went to the phone, and punched the number of the Orbits Division. "Orbits Division, Masterson here," said a gruff voice from the other end. "This is MacIlheny. How does that orbit on Number Four look now?" "We've got it, Mac. I'll send the corrective thrust data to the brain as soon as--" "Never mind the corrective thrust," MacIlheny interrupted impatiently. "We can't use it yet. We don't have any positive contact with her; she's dead--no response to the radio controls." "You mean you can't get her out of that orbit?" Masterson's voice was harsh. "That's exactly what I mean. She's stuck in her new orbit until we find some other way to change it. It can't be done from here." There was a pause at the other end, then Masterson said: "Mac, I hate to say this, but you've got a hot potato on your hands. That thing's in a cometary orbit!" "_Cometary?_" "That's right. Instead of a normal, near-circular path, she's going in an elongated ellipse. At perigee, she'll be less than a hundred and fifty miles above the surface." "_Uh!_" MacIlheny felt as though someone had slugged him. If the satellite went that low, the air resistance would slow her even more before she broke free again. Each successive passage through the atmosphere would slow her more and more until she finally fell to Earth. If she fell into the ocean, that would be bad enough; but if she hit a populated area.... * * * * * Fortunately, by that time her velocity would be considerably cut down; if she were to hit the atmosphere with her present velocity, the shock wave alone would be disastrous. "Okay," said MacIlheny at last. "Notify every observatory within sight range of her orbit! Keep a check on her every foot of the way! We'll have to send up a drone." "Right!" There was a subdued click as Masterson hung up. MacIlheny turned. Blake was standing beside him. "I've got White Sands on the line, Mac." MacIlheny flashed an appreciative grin. "Thanks, Blake." He went to Blake's office and closed the door. In the screen of the visiphone, he saw the face of Paul Loch, of Commercial Rockets, Inc., White Sands. "How's it going, Mac?" Loch asked. "I understand you're having trouble with Number Four." "It's worse than just trouble, Paul," MacIlheny told him. He carefully explained what had happened. Loch nodded. "Looks rough. What do you figure on doing?" "How much will it cost me to rent one of your RJ-37 jobs with a drone robot in it?" "Fully fueled?" Loch thought a moment, then named a figure. "That's pretty steep," MacIlheny objected. Loch spread his hands. "Actually, it's just a guess; but I'm pretty sure we won't be able to get insurance on her for something like this. What do you plan to do?"