Runaround

           ItwasoneofGregoryPowell’Sfavoriteplatitudesthatnothingwastobegainedfromexcitement,sowhenMikeDonovancameleapingdownthestairstowardhim,redhairmattedwithperspiration,Powellfrowned.

           "What’swrong?"hesaid."Breakafingernail?"

           "Yaaaah,"snarledDonovan,feverishly."Whathaveyoubeendoinginthesublevelsallday?"Hetookadeepbreathandblurtedout,"Speedyneverreturned."

           Powell’seyeswidenedmomentarilyandhestoppedonthestairs;thenherecoveredandresumedhisupwardsteps.Hedidn’tspeakuntilhereachedtheheadoftheflight,andthen:

           "Yousenthimaftertheselenium?"

           "Yes."

           "Andhowlonghashebeenout?"

           "Fivehoursnow."

           Silence!Thiswasadevilofasituation.Heretheywere,onMercuryexactlytwelvehours-andalreadyuptotheeyebrowsintheworstsortoftrouble.MercuryhadlongbeenthejinxworldoftheSystem,butthiswasdrawingitratherstrong–evenforajinx.

           Powellsaid,"Startatthebeginning,andlet’sgetthisstraight."

           Theywereintheradioroomnow–withitsalreadysubtlyantiquatedequipment,untouchedforthetenyearsprevioustotheirarrival.