"You saved my life."
"And you saved the priest's."
Kinsman stopped for a moment, remembering, "I did a lot of raving out there, didn't I?"
Bok wormed his shoulders uncomfortably. "Sort of. It's, uh . , . well, at least the Russians didn't pick up any of it."
"But Houston did."
"It was relayed automatically. Emergency procedure, You know . . . it's the rules."
That's it, Kinsman said to himself. Now they know.
"They, uh . . ." Bok looked away. "They're sending a relief crew to fly us back."
"They don't trust me to pilot the return rocket."
"After what you've been through?"
That's the end of it. NASA won't want any neurotic Air Force killers on their payroll. It would ruin their cooperative programs with the Russians.
"You haven't heard the best of it, though," Bok said, eager to change the subject. He went over to the shelf at the end of the priest's bunk and took a small plastic bottle. "Look at this."
Kinsman took the stoppered bottle in his hands. Inside it, a small sliver of ice floated on water.
"It was stuck in the cleats of his boots."
"Father Lemoyne's?"
"Right. It's really water! Tests out okay and I even snuck a taste of it. It's real water, all right."
"It must have been down in that fissure, after all," Kinsman said. "He found it without knowing it. He'll get into all the history books now." And he'll have to watch his pride even more.
Bok sat on the shelter's only chair. "Chet . . . about what you were saying out there . . ."
Kinsman expected tension, but instead he felt only numb. "I know. They heard it in Houston."
"I'm sure they'll try to keep it quiet."
