"Did you know," Kinsman was asking him, "that ol' Frank and I were born and raised within a few miles of each other? Right in Philadelphia. Both of us." 35

"Only my neighborhood wasn't as classy as his," Colt said. "Not as many Quakers where I grew up. Kinsman's a Quaker, y'know . . ."

"Used to be. When I was a child. Not anymore. Now I'm an officer and a gentleman. No more Quaker. No more family ties."

Tenny let them ramble for a while, but he finally said, "Frank—you're gonna get your ass kicked outta here if you can't get along with the others."

"If / can't . . ."

"Murdock was puking into a wastebasket when he heard what happened at the pool tonight. He's got a very weak stomach and his first instinct was to transfer you to Green- land. Maybe farther."

"Sonofabitch."

Turning to Kinsman, Major Tenny asked, "You really want to be his partner?"

Kinsman nodded. Gently. His head was already hurting,

"Okay," said Tenny. "Frank, you've got a buddy. You're not alone. And you've got me. I think you're the best damned flier I've ever laid eyes on. Now keep your temper under control and your mouth zipped and you'll be okay. Got it?"

"Sure," Colt said, suddenly dead sober. "The Jackie Robinson bit. Anything else you want me to do, boss? Walk on water? Shine shoes?"

Tenny grabbed him by the shirt. "You stupid bastard! You wanna be an astronaut or not?"

"I want to."

Then don't fuck yourself over. There's only one man can ruin things for you and that's you. Learn some self- control."

Colt said nothing as long as Tenny held his shirt. They merely glared at each other. But when the Major slowly released him, Colt said quietly, "I'll try."

"And stop going around with that goddamned chip on your shoulder."

"I'll try," Colt repeated.

Tenny turned to Kinsman. "And you . . . you help him all you can. He's too good a man to lose." * * * 36

"How come you got the window seat?" Colt muttered.

He was lying beside Kinsman in the metal womb of the space shuttle's mid-deck compartment. Zipped into sky-blue coveralls, Kinsman lay on his back in the foam-padded contour seat next to the compartment's side hatch—and its only window.

"Lucky, I guess," he croaked back to Colt. His voice nearly cracked. His throat was dry and scratchy, his palms slippery with nervous perspiration.

Six astronaut-trainees were jammed into the mid-deck area, waiting in tense silence as the shuttle went through the final few minutes of countdown. They had no radio earphones and could hear only muffled, garbled voices from the flight crew on the deck above them.

Kinsman mentally counted the rungs on the ladder that disappeared through the open hatch to the flight deck. By the time I've counted the rungs ten times we'll lift off, he told himself. He counted slowly.

Up on the flight deck, at the other end of the ladder, the shuttle's four-man crew was going through the final stages of the countdown, Kinsman knew. They were watching instru- ments on their control panel springing into life, listening to the commands flickering across the electronics communica- tions net that spread across the entire globe of the Earth. They could see the automatic sequencer's numbers clicking down toward zero.

Down in the mid-deck compartment, strapped into their seats, the trainees could only wait and sweat.