Academician V. I. Mogilev was livid with rage. He flailed his arms angrily in the tight confines of the space station's compartment as he bellowed into the face of the station's commander.

"But this is insanity! It's preposterous! Bureaucratic interference with scientific research that has won the highest approval from the Supreme Soviet ..."

The station commander listened with Oriental patience. The son of an Uzbek herdsman does not rise to the rank of captain in the Soviet Strategic Rocket Corps without learning patience. He had been screamed at by true experts; this little professor was a rank amateur.

After some time the academician wound down. "You can understand what idiocy this is, can't you?" His voice was almost pleading now. "We are in the middle of such delicate studies. All the instruments are at last aligned and working well. The quasar's peak of radiation intensity will be reached in another fourteen hours, if Chalinik's calculations are correct, and . . . and . . ."

"My dear professor," the Captain said as politely as he could, but still coldly enough to leave no doubt as to who was in command, "I appreciate the extreme importance of your work. But you must realize that orders from the Kremlin leave no room for argument. I cannot refuse to obey my orders. Do you want to have me shot?"

"No, no, of course not." There seemed to be some little doubt in the academician's tone, despite his words.

The Captain shrugged elaborately. "Then what can I do? I have my orders. You and your assistants must be prepared to leave within another . . ."—he glanced at his wristwatch—". . . another three hours."

"But our work . . . the instruments ..."

"We will take care of the instruments," the Captain said. "No one will disturb them, I assure you."

The astrophysicist continued muttering as the Captain rose and squeezed out from behind his little desk and 394 escorted the older man to the airtight hatch that opened onto the space station's main corridor.

"You will allow the instruments to keep recording the quasar's activities?"

"Of course. Certainly."

The scientist went slowly down the corridor, shaking his head and mumbling to himself. No sooner had the Captain seated himself at his desk again than a younger officer stepped through the open hatchway. He was stocky and blond, a true Russian.

He'll advance faster than I will, thought the Captain as he glowered at the younger man.

"Sir," the young officer said.

"Sit down. Lieutenant. Your craft is ready to take the scientists home?"

"Yessir, although they seem quite unhappy about it."

The Captain allowed a small smile to creep across his face. "They are civilians. You can't expect them to under- stand military matters."

The Lieutenant nodded.

"Of course, you understand such matters, don't you?" The Captain turned in his chair and reached for the small thermos resting on the shelf behind his desk.

"I believe I understand military matters, yes," the Lieu- tenant said to his back, then added, "sir."

"H'mm . . ." Taking two glasses from a desk drawer, the Captain asked, "Drink?"

"No, thank you, sir. I will be piloting the shuttle rocket."

"So? Tea upsets you?"

"Oh!" The Lieutenant was taken aback, a sight that pleased the Captain. "Well, yes, in that case. Thank you."