Peters' voice from the galley said: "It's because one of the bloody Frenchmen think a cheese souffle is a new galaxy and the other thinks it's English for a cosmic particle. Besides, I don't see anybody losing weight."
"That's because—" began Walter Stanton, and then felt a tug at his sleeve. It was Lang, the young radar plotter and radio operator.
"Lieutenant Goldstein just broke this, sir," he said, handing him a dispatch. Something in his eyes chilled Walter Stanton. He read the message and cold fear squeezed him. He looked up.
"Gentlemen," he said, raising his hand. "Can I have your attention?"
The talk died. Petrovski, apparently guessing the contents of the dispatch, looked sick. Mel Cramer was staring at his glass.
"Gentlemen," Walter Stanton said quietly, "this is it. Mel, we were wrong. We weren't the first target. Neither was Sandia. They just bombed New York."
There was deathly silence for a long moment, while each man riffled through his thoughts. "Christ!" somebody swore.
"I've been advised by Ground Control to stand by to evacuate. Cargo One is refueling to take us off."
An angry babble broke out around the table. Velez, the tiny Brazilian astronomer, jumped up angrily. "Evacuate? But the Platform! What happens to it?"
Stanton shrugged. "Uncorrected perturbations build up, and eventually it either skids off into space or falls into the atmosphere and burns. Or maybe," he said bitterly, "we're supposed to jettison it ourselves. Sink it in space before we leave, like a crew abandoning a submarine."