"We can't get anything to her, Mac. She's dead. Either that meteor hit her power supply or else it did more damage than we thought."
"No control, then?"
Blake shook his head. "No control."
MacIlheny frowned. If the remote controls wouldn't work, then it wouldn't be possible to realign the orbit of the satellite. "Keep trying," he said. Then he turned from the control board, went to the phone, and punched the number of the Orbits Division.
"Orbits Division, Masterson here," said a gruff voice from the other end.
"This is MacIlheny. How does that orbit on Number Four look now?"
"We've got it, Mac. I'll send the corrective thrust data to the brain as soon as—"
"Never mind the corrective thrust," MacIlheny interrupted impatiently. "We can't use it yet. We don't have any positive contact with her; she's dead—no response to the radio controls."
"You mean you can't get her out of that orbit?" Masterson's voice was harsh.
"That's exactly what I mean. She's stuck in her new orbit until we find some other way to change it. It can't be done from here."