"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.