"Beta Station acknowledges."

"Sled power on."

"All track relays green."

"Fifteen seconds . . ."

Across the sweep of the control panels tiny lights were changing from amber to green, like a Christmas display. At the extreme right end of the curving row of consoles the ARM and FIRE lights of the launch controller still glared red. The controller herself sat with her back to Kelly, her eyes riveted to the panel lights.

"Internal power on."

"Terminal guidance and control green."

"Thrusters green."

"Ten seconds ..."

The launch controller manually lifted the two switch covers with her right hand, and the two red lights went amber.

"Automatic sequencer on."

"Energize full track,"

"Beta acknowledges time and recovery angle."

"All systems green."

"Three . . . two . . . one . . . launch!"

The squat cylinder became a blur and disappeared in less than an eyeblink. The entire crew glanced up at the now- empty track.

"Radar?" the launch controller asked, cool and profes- sional.

From across the row of consoles came another woman's voice, "Through the keyhole."

The launch controller yanked the earpin out and stood up. "Okay, well done. But nobody moves until Beta Station picks her up and acknowledges the trajectory."

They leaned back in their chairs. A few pulled out cigarettes and lit up.

The spell broken, Kelly walked grimly toward Colt. "Frank, can I talk to . . ."

Colt spun around at the sound of his name. He looked surprised, then puzzled, then surprised again as Kelly came close enough to be recognized in the dim lighting. "Pat? What're you doing up here?"

"Looking for you."

"Yeah?" Colt's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "What for?"

Kelly felt the glacial chill of Colt's distrust. He wanted to turn and run, but knew that he could not. "I've got to talk to you. Someplace where it's quiet."