"There's the West Coast." Kevin pointed. "In a few minutes I can get White Sands, I hope."
Jones had taken over the radar plot. At last his pencil reached a peak and the curve started down. The station had reached the limit of its wild plunge into space.
"Good," Kevin muttered. "See if you can extrapolate that curve and get us an approximation where we'll cut in over the other side." The astronomer figured rapidly and abstractedly.
"May I remind you young man," McKelvie's voice boomed, "you have a United States senator aboard. If anything happens—"
"If anything happens, it happens to all of us," Kevin answered coldly. "When you're ready to tell me what did happen, I'm ready to listen."
Silence.
"White Sands, this is Station I. Come in please."
Kevin tried to keep his voice calm, but the lives of 90 men rode on it, on his ability to project his words through the crazy hash of static lacing this part of space from the multitude of radio stars. A power rocket with extra fuel was the only instrument that could return the space station to its normal orbit.
That rocket must come from White Sands.
White Sands did not answer.