"Well," said Goldstein, "that does it. We've got ... let's see ... 176 seconds, if anyone cares to know."
Mel Cramer's voice came into the room as if from the grave. "It.... It was jamming ... I was right on!"
"Excuses, Colonel," muttered Lang. "Always excuses...."
Goldstein talked into the mike. "Colonel, I suggest you commence your braking ellipse immediately. I don't know what effect the explosion will have in this orbit, but I think you'd better leave it."
Walter Stanton turned desperately to Goldstein. "Goldie, is it certain? We've got to save the platform! Suppose I use full reactors, shorten our orbit even faster?"
"It won't matter, sir." He jammed his thumb at the PPI scope. "That thing's tailing us like a flying cadet after a WAF. It'd follow us all the way back to Sandia if we could get there."
Walter Stanton felt the Platform, his dream, pulsing around him. For a moment he felt an affection even for the maddening wail of the ventilators. Behind him, he knew, were some of the best brains in science; men whose concepts cut across the lines of nationalism; who by their presence on the Platform showed that they disregarded the very instinct of self-preservation in the search for Truth. And he felt the presence too of the thousands below who had helped make the Platform a reality. He took a deep breath. Then he picked up the microphone and spoke to his friend.
"Mel, this is Walt. I've just received a dispatch. Do not—repeat—do not land at Sandia. Suggest you try to use White Sands."
Mel's startled voice came back. "Why?"
Walter Stanton felt his hands grow clammy.