The Pursuit was in orbit when the accident happened.
Earth's gravity gripped it like a giant hand and brought it plummeting down into a granite quarry in Wisconsin. It was a Sunday, and the explosion of the ship's reactors didn't kill anyone but the two pilots. There was a routine investigation, but the evidence, as usual, was spread across too many states to make it productive.
But when the Marjorie, a space freighter, got herself in trouble, the pilot managed to reach the Earth Communication Center before he disappeared forever into the Mediterranean. The voice cried out something like "Ox on the bum!"
Then the Pinafore registered an S.O.S. This time an accident was avoided. A tug was dispatched to the site in a hurry, and the pilots were transferred. The captain of the tug submitted his log to the Space Commerce board, and the most pertinent page read:
"Pinafore's oxygen tanks (mfr. Oxco, Serial #2853) were defective, and were seriously endangering life aboard."
Diana Huber tilted the decanter and held it over the glass a little too long for her husband's liking.
"Easy, easy," he cried from his chair. "How much of that stuff do you think I can take?"
"This one's mine," she said, starting to pour another.
Huber shifted in his seat. "Aren't you overdoing it, honey?" he asked uneasily. "I mean, do you really think you should drink so much?"