"Krylov."
"Goodbye."
"Krylov," Diavilev said quietly, "listen, my army friend. You gave me a problem. The problem had two parts. Two parts, army man. And if the first part is wrong the other does not matter."
At the other end of the radio, borne through space and the rushing emptiness, Diavilev sensed the beginning of fear. He was able to smile.
"What?..." came faintly.
"When you checked the trajectory, did you also bring some German up to compute the size of the moonlet all over again?"
Nothing. Diavilev chuckled.
"You didn't, did you, Krylov?"
There was nothing on the radio but an aching, brittle static.
"You used the speed I gave you; you used the mass I gave you. The moon will not fall on America, Krylov."