He sat very still, staring at the energy dials building their reserves back up. The banks had used much extra power.
He sat very still, waiting for them to bring him the plates. He didn't want to see them. He was a full Captain in the Merchant Arm of the Commercial Navy, and he found the tough outer shell of himself that had formed during thirty years in that service suddenly disintegrating. He was afraid of what those plates would say.
The tube glowed behind him and Teller—slightly overweight, slightly florid, slightly balding and a brilliant Psych Officer—stepped off the plate, into the control room.
Teller slumped onto the copilot's couch, extended the sheaf of plate readings. Luther Shreve tipped his cap back on his head with a practiced thumb and shuffled the plates in silence.
From time to time his pink tongue washed across his lips. Finally he sighed and rubbed weary fingers across the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes and slowly sank back against the cushions.
With eyes still closed, he voiced the final possibility. "Any room for error?"
He had tried to keep the tenseness from his voice, but it somehow doubled in the faintly resonating confines of the control room.
Teller shook his head. "They tell me no, Luther. I ran the plates up for them, mainly because they were all afraid to be here when you saw the sad news. You terrorize those poor backroom boys, Luther."
Teller looked across, saw the odd set to Shreve's face, and realized his jibes were annoying the other. He swung his short legs over the side of the couch with a thump, clasped his hands in his lap as though about to recite.
"They have somewhere less than five months. Then the Big Push comes. The eruptions will wipe out nine-tenths of the centers of community." He leaned across and pulled one sheet from the stack Shreve held. "Here is the position map." He indicated with quick, short jabs of his finger where the first earthquakes would hit, and followed blue lines to their terminuses.