Next morning the door chimes pealed, and you went to the door and brought back the audiogram. It was addressed to me; I wondered who could be sending me a message.
I pressed the stud on the little gray cylinder, and a rasping, automatic voice droned: "Luna City, Luna, July 27, 1995. Regret to inform you of death of Charles Taggart, Chief Jetman...."
Then there was a Latin name which was more polite than the word "lung-rot" and the metallic phrase, "This message brought to you by courtesy of United Nations Earth-Luna Communication Corps."
I stood staring at the cylinder.
Charles Taggart was dead.
Charles Taggart was Charlie. Stardust Charlie.
My heart thudded crazily against my chest. It couldn't be! Not Charlie! The audiogram had lied!
I pressed the stud again. "... regret to inform you of death of Charles ..."
I hurled the cylinder at the wall. It thudded, fell, rolled. The broken voice droned on.