"Yes, yes.... Still, the missile would hit Mars, wouldn't it? I mean, it would destroy all this—the igloos, my diggings ..."
The tall man gave a laugh.
"Don't worry so much, Pop. We'd have plenty of time to get in the ship and clear out. We might even take you with us."
"Still ..." But the old man lapsed again into thought.
An hour later, the short-range radio gave a shrill beep. The tall man went over and flipped the talk switch.
"Yeah?"
"Hello. Listen, I did something stupid."
Martin Devere looked up at the sound of the bald man's voice. Devere's hands still held the piece of ceramic. He had polished it until a complex geometric design was visible, etched in reds and blues. It might have been equally a decoration or some mechanical diagram.
"Did you get the message sent?" the tall man asked.