"This is Captain Frank Colt," Kinsman said to Durban. "Top flier in the Vandenberg crew. I don't know how well he sings but he's a damned good man to work with in orbit."
"I've got a natural sense of rhythm," Colt said, straight- faced, testing Durban.
"I've heard about you," Durban said. "Aren't you the one who saved that cee-cubed satellite when its final stage misfired and it looked like the whole damned thing was going to splash in the Pacific?"
With a nod, "I got a replacement thruster mated to the bird, yeah."
"And damned near fried his ass off," Kinsman added.
"You should have asked us for assistance," Leonov said, grinning. "We would have been happy to help you save your command-and-control satellite."
"You sure would," Colt snapped. "You'd tote it back to Moscow with you."
Leonov shrugged elaborately, "Wouldn't you, with one of ours?"
A waitress appeared at their table: very young, miniskirt showing smooth strong thighs, low-cut blouse showing plenty of bosom, long blond hair, and a pretty face with placid cow eyes.
"Service is improving," said Durban.
"The ceremonies are breaking up," Colt told him. "This place'll be jammed in a few minutes."
The waitress took their order and flounced off to the bar.
"Nothing like that in Cosmograd, eh, Piotr?" Durban nudged the Russian.
"My dear Frederick," Leonov countered, an enigmatic smile on his bony face, "just because you did not see any of the beautiful women of our city does not mean that they do not exist. Being good Soviet women, naturally they hid themselves from the prying eyes of capitalist spies."
"Hid themselves? Or were hidden by others?"
Leonov shrugged. "What difference? The important fact is that I know where they are and you do not."
As the girl came back with their drinks, Colt asked Kinsman quietly, "How's it going?"
Kinsman jabbed his thumb toward the floor. "Lousy." 158
"I still wish you'd let me help. We can go over Murdock's head. The other astronauts will—"
"You don't want to get involved in this, Frank. It won't do you any good."
