Colt glared over his shoulder at the loudspeaker, set into 317 the nearby bulkhead. Then he turned back to the technician. "I'll be right back, Sergeant. Neither one of us sleeps until that thruster works as designed."

After Colt pushed away and went gliding toward the nearest hatch the technician muttered, "Black sonofabitch." But he began the laborious task of removing the thruster assembly.

Officers' quarters aboard Alpha were styled after the compartments of submarines. Compact. Functional. Barked shins and numbed elbows until you learned how to live gracefully inside a furnished telephone booth.

Colt plopped down on his bunk, automatically ducking to avoid the cabinets set above it. He touched the ON stud of the intercom panel on the bulkhead next to his pillow. The display screen glowed to life.

The screen showed one of the communications techs, a cute young blonde that Colt had occasionally dated when they had both been stationed at Vandenberg. It frosted enough people that Colt made a point of dating her. Now she maintained a conspicuous formality as she said, "We have a message for you, sir, from General Murdock. Personal and scrambled."

Colt scratched at his chin. "Okay, pipe it through. . . . And you can at least smile for me, sugar."

She smiled.

"That's better."

The screen went into a crazy nutter of colors as Colt leaned across the arm's-Iength span of his compartment and took his hand-sized decrypting computer from the writing desk. "Goddamn crap," he muttered as he plugged the unit into the intercom receptacle.

The picture stayed scrambled, but he heard a man's voice say, "Please identify yourself for voiceprint verification."

Scrambled Earthside, too? Colt was impressed. Even for Murdock this was elaborate. "Franklin D. R. Colt, 051779, Lieutenant Colonel, USAF."

There was the slightest instant's delay, then: "Thank you. Colonel Colt- Go ahead, please."

The picture cleared up and showed General Murdock sitting at his desk.

"There you are," the General said. 318

"Yessir."

Murdock was round, bald, and nervous. Colt had never seen the man look happy or pleased. The General had a new little gray mustache, still tentative, hyperthyroid eyes, and an apparently endless supply of the jitters. His hands were never still. "I'm having you reassigned to Moonbase, Colt, The paperwork is already on its way to Alpha. I want you to leave on the next available shuttle."

Colt immediately thought of the technician he had left working on the spaceplane's thruster. "May I ask why, sir?"

"It's . . ." Murdock seemed to glance around furtively, even though he was alone in his very secure office. "It's part of a new buildup we're putting into effect, to protect our network and prevent the Soviets from completing theirs."

"Then why'm I being sent to Moonbase? I oughtta be out flying double shifts, knocking off as many of their satellites as I can. You'll need every qualified astronaut to—"

"We've got a batch of replacements coming up. Leaves are being canceled, new people sent up ahead of schedule. There'll be plenty of manpower for the orbital missions."

With a shake of his head, Colt objected, "But, look, sir, it sounds blowhard to say it, but, hell, I've got the highest score of any of the rocket jocks here. If you want—"

"I don't want any arguments, dammit!" The General's normal tenor voice rose higher, and his face started to show splotches of purple. "You fly-boys turn every order into a debate. I want you on Moonbase."

"But I don't understand why, sir."

"You know why. I don't have to draw you any maps."

Colt rolled his eyes heavenward. "Sir, this may surprise you, but I can't read your mind."