"A ship," said Martin. "A spaceship. Never been tried, or fully tested, but it's about the only real chance anyone has. I'm going, so's Dorothea, and three of my crewmen. The others are swiping jets to fly to their homes. They want to be with their families when hell breaks loose." "But where's it flying to? Where can you go?" "Moonbase," said Martin. "There's plenty of room, all the synthetic foods a person needs, oxygen-generators, water-recapturing systems. It's the nearest safe spot, as of that blowup at the UN today." * * * * * Beth turned a hopeful gaze to Pete. "_Should_ we, darling? It's not like a shelter, like you were worried about. We don't have to come out and look for food in the rubble. We can live indefinitely on Moonbase. Please, darling! Please?" "I've got to think," said Pete, blinking. "It never occurred to me I'd have a third choice. I was resigned to sitting and waiting for the blast. Now--I'm all mixed up." "It's _life_ Martin's offering us!" pleaded Beth. "You can't turn down an offer of life, real survival!" "But--But _is_ it?!" asked Pete, uncertainly. "We can't leave Moonbase any more than we could leave Corey's shelter. What difference if we're buried alive to avoid radiation or freezing vacuum?" "Pete, _please_!" said Beth, almost screaming. "Damn it, Pete, make up your mind!" snapped Martin. "I can't wait another minute. My wife's out in the car; she's trusting me to take her to safety!" "I--I won't go! Maybe I'm wrong, but I just don't want to leave. If I had time to think--" "All _right_!" said Martin, starting for the door, angrily. "Try to do a favor, risk your own life, and--" Then he relented and rushed back to his neighbor. "Good luck, Pete," he said, gripping the older man's hand tightly. "Goodbye, Beth." "No! No, wait!" said Beth Crolin, not daring to look at her husband's face as she rushed after the young man. "_I'll_ come with you!" Pete just stood like carven stone, watching, as Beth hurried down the front path into the night toward the waiting car. Martin, sick with embarrassment, turned a wryly apologetic grin Pete's way before following after her. When the sound of the engine faded in the distance, Pete finally managed to move, and closed the door on the cold night outside. He went to the kitchen, stared hard at the bottle of wine in its corner of the pantry shelf, then yanked it down and smashed it to glittering bits in the sink. * * * * * "Corey," complained Lucille, "you _know_ you're not going to read _Vanity Fair_ or _Coningsby_. You've started them a hundred times, and always lost interest. We could use the space for a hundred better things."