The commander labored into the room, each step costing him obvious physical exertion, and plopped down into a chair. Someone handed him a mike on a cable. In his other hand was the last crumpled radiogram received from the Albatross. The skipper spread it out before him and studied it for a good long while.

“Titan Aresterra to Albatross-4,” he said at last. “We’ll be there in fifty minutes. Approaching on course eighty-four-point-fifteen stop eighty-one-point-two stop abandon ship. Abandon ship. We’ll find you. Hang in there. Out.”

The man sitting in for the younger operator, his tunic now unbuttoned, suddenly sprang to his feet and shot an urgent glance at the commander, who came over on the double. The operator yanked off his earphones, handed them to the skipper, who slipped them on over his head and listened while the other man adjusted the crackling loudspeaker. A split second later, everyone froze.

In that room were veterans of many years’ flight experience, but what they heard now was unprecedented. A voice—barely audible, accompanied by a protracted roar, as if trapped behind a wall of flame—was shouting:

“Albatross… every man… coolant in cockpit… temperature unbearable… crew standing by to the end… so long… all lines… out…”

The voice faded, being gradually overwhelmed by the roar in the background.

Then—only loudspeaker static. It took no small effort to keep on one’s feet—yet all remained standing, hunched over and braced against the metal bulkheads.

“Ballistic-8 to Luna Base,” a voice suddenly piped up, loud and clear. “Am proceeding to Albatross-4. Request clearance through sector sixty-seven. Proceeding at full thrust—will be impossible to carry out any passing maneuvers. Over.”

There was a pause lasting several seconds.

“Luna Base to all ships in sectors sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, ninety-six.