Young Barnes finished his computations. He looked satisfied. He glanced at the now-gigantic planet below. He deftly adjusted the course of the tiny boat. Then he jerked his head around.
"Excuse me, sir. Did you say we mightn't be able to lift off again?"
"I could almost predict that we won't," said Hardwick.
"Would you ... could you say why, sir?"
"They don't want landings. The trouble is here. If they don't want landings, they won't want launchings. Werner and I were sent for, so presumably we're needed. But apparently there's uneasiness about even our landing. Surely they won't send us off again. I suspect—"
The loud-speaker said tinnily:
"Calling boat from landing-grid! Calling boat from landing-grid!"
"Come in," said Barnes. But he looked uneasily at Hardwick.
"Correct your course!" commanded the voice sharply. "You are not to land on rockets under any circumstances! This is an order from the Sector Chief himself! Stand off! We will be ready to lock on and land you gently in about fifteen minutes. But meanwhile stand off!"
"Yes, sir," said young Barnes.