“Honey, I’m home.” Newton blew air out through his loose lips, partially closed, and giving a fair imitation. The head swung up, and it looked at him with dull wonder. Newton grinned in spite of himself, and then went to the stool and end-table where he had his few odd personal belongings, a comb, his toothbrush, and shaving gear. Pulling up a stool that might once have been used to milk cows, although he hadn’t seen more than two or three in the whole town, he opened up the tactical communicator. There was no acknowledgement of signal lock and his heart sank. It might be a malfunction with his unit, but he doubted it more and more with each passing day. “Ground party calling Hermes. Lieutenant Newton Shapiro of Her Majesty’s Ship Hermes reporting. Come in please.” His guts quivered, perhaps from lack of food, lack of sleep, or just plain good old worry. But there was no answer and no signal. The thoughts were not pleasant ones. They just weren’t up there. In which case, where did they go?
