"Don't be so sure."

But he fell asleep as soon as he sank into the soft warmth of the bed. His last thought was an inward chuckle that he did not have to spend the night under the same roof as his father.

It was during the misty, dreaming light of earliest dawn that he half awoke and felt her body cupped against his. Still half asleep, they moved together, slowly, gently, unhurried in the pearl-gray fog, touching without the necessity to think, murmuring without the need for words, caressing, making love.

Kinsman lay on his back, smiling peacefully at the cracked ceiling. Diane stroked the flat of his abdomen, saying drowsily, "Go back to sleep. Get some rest and then we can do it again."

It was hours later by the time Kinsman had showered in the cracked tub and climbed back into his wrinkled, sweaty uniform. He was peering into the still-steamed bathroom mirror, wondering what to do about his stubbly chin, when Diane called through the half-open door.

"Tea or coffee?"

"Coffee."

Kinsman came out of the tiny bathroom and saw that Diane had wrapped herself in a thin bathrobe. She had set up toast and a jar of Smuckers grape jelly on the table by the window. The teakettle was on the two-burner stove and a pair of chipped mugs and a jar of instant coffee stood alongside.

They sat facing each other, washing down the crunchy toast with the hot, bitter coffee. Diane watched the people moving along the street below them. Kinsman stared at the bright clean sky.

"How long can you stay?" she asked.

"I've got a funeral to attend ... in about an hour. Then I leave tonight."

"Oh."

"Got to report back to the Academy tomorrow morn- ing."

"You have to?"

He nodded.

"But you'll be free this afternoon?"

"After the burial. Yes."

"Come down to the campus with me," Diane said, brightening. "I'm going to try your idea . . . get them to stand just like the Quakers. You can help us."

"Me?"

"Sure! It was your idea, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, but . . ."

She reached across the table and took his free hand in both of hers. "Chet . . . please. Not for me. Do it for yourself. I don't want to think of you being sent out to Central America or someplace like that to fight and kill people. Or to be killed yourself. Don't let them turn you into a killer."

"But I'm going into astronaut training."

"You don't think they'll really give you what you want, do you? They'll use you where they want you—Lebanon or Nicaragua or who knows where? They'll put you in a plane and tell you to bomb some helpless village."

He shook his head. "You don't understand . . ."