"I guess you heard some of the talk about Bob Lydman," said the operator. "Well, some is imagination, but a lot of it's true. He spent a long time in a hellhole out among the stars; and if there's anything that might shove him off course, it's the idea that he can't get out. No matter where he is, he has to know he can leave when he feels like it!"
"But if he doesn't know about it?" asked Westervelt.
"How long can you keep it quiet? I bet you can see a blackout from the window. Watch the set—I'll take a look."
"Aw, now, wait a minute, Joe!"
Westervelt's consternation was diverted by the call that came through at that moment. A perspiring face with ruffled gray hair—which Westervelt could remember having seen occasionally about the lobby downstairs, looking extremely sleek and well-groomed—appeared on the phone screen.
"If you're above the seventy-fifth, walk down that far. If you're lower, walk down as far as you can," said the man hoarsely. "If you can stay put, that's the best thing."
"Tell me, what—?"
"Power failure, not responsibility of the building management," said the sweating gentleman. "Please co-operate!"
"But what—?"
"We're doing all we can and this phone is busy, young man! Will you please—"