He was trembling. "Your career. I can't let you...."
She made as if to spit, then grinned. "My career! It's time I went home to the fiord, anyway. Now you wait here!"
The vliegvlotter was about 50 feet long, an ellipsoid of revolution. Maitland and Ingrid ran hand in hand across the lawn and she pushed him up through the door, then slammed it shut and screwed the pressure locks tight.
They were strapping themselves into the seats, bathed in sunlight that flooded down through the thick plastic canopy, when she stopped, pale with consternation.
"What's the matter?" he demanded.
"Oh, Bob, I forgot! We can't do this!"
"We're going to," he said grimly.
"Bob, sometime this morning you're going to snap back to 1950. If that happens while we're up there...."
His jaw went slack as the implication soaked in. Then he reached over and finished fastening the buckle on her wide seat belt.