In the midst of picking up his glass and proposing a toast, "Here's to my new—" Bill stopped. The ultrafax had popped out a sheet. Carefully putting the glass down, he said, "That's a special bulletin."
Picking it up he read aloud, "Staker Rocket in serious trouble. Home field reports damage by small meteor. Crew on emergency air bottles. Mysterious emanations blind radar scope and disrupt communication with Earth."
Tom—and the others, out there fighting for their lives against suffocation and intense cold. Their quarrel seemed like the antics of teenagers now. He had to get out to the field, see if he could help.
"What are you going to do?" Margo was watching him intently, the knuckles of her small hands white.
"I'm going to the field."
"But—but what about that toast you were making to your new—job, that's what you were going to say, wasn't it?" Her eyes were intense spots of jet.
"I guess that'll have to wait, Margo," he told her. "I can't stand by when Tom needs help."
Margo clutched his hands convulsively. "Bill, don't take a rocket up or you'll die in the same trap he's dying in!" The words rushed out as if through a trapdoor she could not control.
Bill glanced at her with sharp, new interest. "How do you know it's a trap, and how do you know he's going to die?"
Tears began to well up in her large eyes. "All I can tell you is don't go out there, Bill. I don't want to lose you—now."