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. .
    SATURN
PLUS 477.9  •  PLUS 25/33  •  PLUS 99:08
    Lowell swallowed, staring at the screen. He turned and watched a clock spinning off half-seconds and approaching a reading of 00:000.
    Lowell clicked off, then struggled down to the auxiliary control on the cargo deck.
    He hit a switch and the lights dimmed. He punched a button and a low buzzer sounded. A thin, high-pitched beep began. Lowell drew his breath, hit a switch, then a button, and heard a series of loud explosive cracks, like arcing circuit breakers.
    Darkness was falling and Saturn was an ominous orange color. Valley Forge’s exterior running lights dimmed and faded as the ship passed into Saturn’s shadow. Off in the distance, the sun was being eclipsed by Saturn. Neal’s voice came over the radio:
    “ ‘VALLEY FORGE’ . . . ‘VALLEY FORGE’ . . . WHAT’S WRONG? YOUR LIGHTS ARE GOING?”
    Through it all, the drones had reached the cargo area and were beginning to push huge, used, empty cargo modules toward a ramp and out . . .
    Suddenly there was an incredible roaring and whooshing of air as the cargo deck equalized with the vacuum of space.
    Lowell fought his way back to Main Control. Automatic switches began to slam shut, rapid-fire, their indicator lights shutting off or changing colors. A low hum began, increasing to a shrill whine. A railing began to shudder, then shake violently.
    Sweat ran in rivulets down Lowell’s strained face. The sound of synthesizers grew louder, shriller, and then static exploded from the radio . . .
    Neal’s voice came urgently:
    “ ‘VALLEY FORGE’ . . . ! ‘BERKSHIRE’ TO ‘VALLEY FORGE.’ ”
    Then Sequoia No.2 cut in:
    “I HAVE AN EMERGENCY IGNITION ON ‘VALLEY FORGE,’ READING . . . RED, NINE, NINE 0! I GET A TWO FOUR ON ‘VALLEY FORGE,’ READING RED . . .”
    Lowell gathered himself for a moment, then clicked open the line and spoke into the microphone. He faked a panic, calling stridently: “Valley Forge to Berkshire, I’ve got an emergency. Neal, do you read me, Neal? I’ve got a main buss blowout on three, eight and ten panels . . . I got a premature detonation on Dome Number Two and I’ve got an explosion on the main cargo deck. Please advise me immediately . . .”
    “I READ YOU!”
    Neal’s voice was panicky.
    “PUT ON WOLF, LOWELL. NO, CHANGE THAT, GIMME BARKER.”
    “I can’t find Barker. I can’t find Wolf or Keenan either. I’m afraid to death they might have been in Dome Number Two.
    “GOD . . . NUMBER TWO BLEW UP! STAND BY!”
    Lowell cut off, whispering, “I will.”

 FIVE 
    F or a moment he stood quietly by the dead radio, then made his way to the vestibule of his room. Like someone not quite rational or who has had a bad dream, Lowell stood motionless in front of his mirror, staring into sunken, haunted eyes.
    He drew in his breath, trembling, then opened the tap on his sink and began to wash his face.
    Finishing and looking for a towel, he saw a black bag on the adjoining sink. It contained his surgical instruments.
    Lowell glanced down at them, then at his leg. Carefully, he loosened the tourniquet. Blood gushed out, pouring down his leg and spreading in a glistening pool around his foot.
    Lowell hurriedly closed the tourniquet, then staggered as a wave of nausea swept over him. He reached for the towel rack, but his legs gave out and he fell.
    How long he lay there, he never knew. From his position on the floor, he finally opened his eyes. A drone bent over him. Lowell grabbed the little robot’s manipulator arm and pulled himself up. Two more drones entered the room. Lowell turned and limped out. The drones idled their mechanisms for a moment, then followed.
    Passing Main Control, Lowell paused, then on impulse, walked through the door to sit at the panel. He clicked on the radio, then forcing anger into his voice called out: “Valley Forge to Berkshire. Valley Forge to Berkshire. Come in, Neal . . .
    Neal’s voice came over:
    “ ‘BERKSHIRE’ TO