Joe nodded. He turned to Brent, the crew member who'd been unloading. He knew him too, from their two-way video conversations.
"Sanford does act oddly," he said uncomfortably. "When he met me in the lock he said our coming was useless. He talked about the futility of everything while I reported. He sounds like he sneers at every possible action as useless."
"Most likely it is," Brent said mildly. "Here, anyhow. It does look as if we're going to be knocked off. But Sanford's taking it badly. The rest of us have let him act as he pleased because it didn't seem to matter. It probably doesn't, except that he's annoying."
Mike said truculently, "We won't be knocked off! We've got rockets of our own up here now! We can fight back if there's another attack!"
Brent shrugged. His face was young enough, but deeply lined. He said as mildly as before: "Your landing rockets set off four bombs on the way from Earth. You brought us six more rocket missiles. How many bombs can we knock down with them?"
Joe blinked. It was a shock to realize the facts of life in an artificial satellite. If it could be reached by bombs from Earth, the bombs could be reached by guided missiles from the satellite. But it would take one guided missile to knock down one bomb—with luck.
"I see," said Joe slowly. "We can handle just six more bombs from Earth."
"Six in the next month," agreed Brent wrily. "It'll be that long before we get more. Somebody sent up four bombs today. Suppose they send eight next time? Or simply one a day for a week?"
Mike made an angry noise. "The seventh bomb shot at us knocks us out! We're sitting ducks here too!"
Brent nodded. He said mildly: