When they transferred to another console, they found the same problem.

"Cameras are down," another scientist remarked tensely.

"All of them?" Beemer asked.

"They're controlled by Virgil," Graham said. "If he's gone down, he takes the remotes down with him."

"What is it?" Clark Beemer asked. "What's happening?"

"Get out of the way," Graham growled. He pushed Beemer away as he jumped to his feet.

Graham hurried from console to console in the cramped trailer. At each one the verdict was the same. For some reason unknown, their connection to the boiling belly of Popocatepetl had been severed.

Sitting in their chairs, the men had grown mute. Their faces conveyed silent shock. In the background the portable air conditioner continued to chug away.

The gray static of the final monitor shushed the room as Pete Graham straightened. His stunned face was covered with sweat. Wide eyes stared blankly into space.

Years of research, design, programming. All gone in an instant. It was almost too much for his tired brain to register.

Graham slowly shook his head. "Virgil's dead," the scientist whispered.

And his disbelieving voice was small.

THAT NIGHT the mood at the camp was funereal. They were stranded there until they could arrange for daylight transportation. Popocatepetl rumbled a few times after midnight. When the morning sun broke across the snow-encrusted volcanic cone of the mountain, its warming rays found Pete Graham still awake. He hadn't slept all night.

After a long evening of vainly trying to contact Virgil, he had finally briefed NASA. The higher-ups were not pleased with this disaster.

Graham's work there was supposed to be measured in days. They had finished in just over one hour. All Graham wanted now was to get the hell out of there and pick up the pieces of his career. Assuming he still had one.