The last thing he remembered was a voice. It sounded like Bayne's. And it was shouting. "We're moving 'em! We're pulling away! We're...." And that was all.
The space-tug Scylla found them.
The three ships ... Atropos, Lachesis, and old Aphrodisiac ... lashed together and drifting in space. Every man and woman aboard out cold from the acceleration, and Aphrodite's tanks bone dry. But they were a safe 80,000,000 miles from Sol....
The orchestra was subdued, the officer's club softly lighted. Cob leaned his elbow on the bar and bent to inspect the blue ribbon of the Spatial Cross on Strike's chest. Then he inspected his own and nodded with tipsy satisfaction. He stared out at the Martian night beyond the broad windows and back again at Strike. His frown was puzzled.
"All right," said Strike, setting down his glass. "What's on your mind, Cob? Something's eating you."
Whitley nodded very slowly. He took a long pull at his highball. "I understand that you goofballed your chances of getting the Ganymede back when Gorman spoke his piece to you...."
"All I said to him...."
"I know. I know what you said ... and it won't bear repeating. But you're not fooling me. You've fallen for old Lover-Girl and you don't want to leave her. Ver-ry commendable. Loyal! Stout fellah! But what about Ivy?"
"Ivy?"