The blue-white, frozen moon hung beneath him. Preston snapped on the radio.
"Ganymede Colony? Come in, please. This is your Postal Ship." The words tasted sour in his mouth.
There was silence for a second. "Come in, Ganymede," Preston repeated impatiently—and then the sound of a distress signal cut across his audio pickup.
It was coming on wide beam from the satellite below—and they had cut out all receiving facilities in an attempt to step up their transmitter. Preston reached for the wide-beam stud, pressed it.
"Okay, I pick up your signal, Ganymede. Come in, now!"
"This is Ganymede," a tense voice said. "We've got trouble down here. Who are you?"
"Mail ship," Preston said. "From Earth. What's going on?"
There was the sound of voices whispering somewhere near the microphone. Finally: "Hello, Mail Ship?"
"Yeah?"