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"Did you get a letter, too, Frank?" Ramos asked. For close communication, the old helmet-phones still worked okay. "I did," Nelsen breathed. "Why didn't they just knock us off? Alive, we might tell on them." "Not slow and funny enough, maybe," Ramos answered dolefully. "In these broken-down outfits, we might not live to tell.
Then the walls drew back, straining against their netting, and Joe waited for the door to open to empty space. Instead, there came a sharp voice in his helmet-phones. It was Brown. "Radar says there's a rocket on the way up! It's over at what is the edge of the world from here. Three gravities only. Better not go out!" Joe hesitated. Brown still issued no order.
"So long, all you dumb slobs!" his voice hissed in their helmet-phones. "Now I get really lost! If you ever cross my path again, watch your heads..." Art Kuzak's flare of anger died. "Good riddance," he breathed. "How long will he last, alone? Without a space-fitness card, the poor idiot probably imagines himself a big, dangerous renegade, already."
"The stuff is crawling up my legs," Nelsen growled. They knew that the Kuzaks, maybe Two-and-Two, Reynolds, Gimp, Storey, must be trying to call them. They kept listening in their helmet-phones. But this time Frank Nelsen knew that he'd gotten himself a real haystack of enormity in which to double for a lost needle.
They were so far from each other that the signal-rocket was a complete failure as a device making a streak of light that should be visible. The muffled voice in the helmet-phones said blankly: "Hey! What'd you do to that rocket?" The others did not move. They seemed stunned. The vanishing of the rocket was no way for a rocket to act.
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