"What are you waiting for?" And Sophia sprang to her feet, heading for the vault.
"Hold it!" Temple snapped. "Don't go in there."
"Why not. I'll get the last ship and—"
"Don't go in there!" Temple tugged at her arm, pulled her away from the vault and its broken door which would not iris closed any more.
"What's the matter, Kit?"
"I—I want to finish the last one myself, that's all."
Sophia got herself loose, reached the circular doorway, peered inside. "Like Dante's Inferno," she said. "You told me nothing was the matter. Well, we can get through to the emplacement, Kit."
"No." And again he stopped her. At least he had lived in freedom all his life and although he was still young and did not want to die, Sophia had never known freedom until now and it wouldn't be right if she perished without savoring its fruits. He had a love, dust fifty centuries, he had his past and his memories. Sophia had only the future. Clearly, if someone had to yield life, Temple would do it.
"It's worse than it looks," he told her quietly, drawing her back from the door again. He explained what had happened, told her the radioactivity had not quite reached critical point—which was a lie. "So," he concluded, "we're wasting time. If I rush in there, fire, and rush right out everything will be fine."
"Then let me. I'm quicker than you."