Stories do not end unhappily—that thought kept cluttering his brain—a muddy optimism blanking out vital things that might be done.
"What's the altitude Jones?"
"520 now. Leveling a bit."
"Enough?" It was a stupid question and Kevin knew it. Jones shook his head.
"We might be lucky," he said. "We'll hit it about 97 miles up. The top isn't a smooth surface, it billows and dips. But," he added, almost a whisper, "we'll penetrate to about 80 miles before...."
"How much time?" Kevin asked sharply. A tiny chain of hope linked feebly.
"About 22 minutes."
"Bert, order all hands into space suits—emergency!"
While the order was being carried out, Kevin summoned the tugmen.
"How many loaded pistols do we have?"