Jill shook her head. "When you got back here your EKG looked like a Richter point-eight seismograph reading. Do you have any idea of how much your heart function had deteriorated from Earth normal? And your entire body's muscle tone? You wouldn't be able to stand up under normal Earth gravity for more than a few minutes' You'd—"

"Shut up!" Kinsman snapped.

Jill looked shocked. But she fell silent.

"Now listen to me," he said more softly. "We live in an age of medical miracles and high technology. There's no reason why I can't wear a powered suit down there. The exoskeleton will hold me up and the servomotors will help my flabby muscles move my arms and legs."

"But your heart—"

"Do something about it! You've got pressure cuffs and booster pumps and God knows what the hell else. Pump me full of adrenalin or whatever it takes."

Harriman shook his head furiously. "No drugs, dammit! We can't have you high or dopey during these meetings, for Chrissakes."

Already Kinsman was feeling weary. He ran a hand across his eyes. "Yeah, you're right." Turning back to Jill, "Okay, you're going to have to prop me up with whatever mechanical aids you can produce. I guess I'll need a doctor with me, then."

"But I can't go back," Jill said, almost apologetically.

And that's why you're resisting the idea of me going back, Kinsman realized. He looked at Jill with new under- standing, and the residue of angry frustration inside him melted away. Reaching out to touch her arm, he said, "I know that, Jill. I don't expect you to . . ." To risk your life, he thought, the way I'm risking mine. But aloud, he finished, ". . . to go back with me. Nobody expects that of you."

"Alex will go with you," Jill said. "There's no medical reason for his being confined here."

"But he's driving one of the buggies in the race," said Kinsman.

"Then call him back."

"But . . ."

Leonov raised a solemn hand. "She is right. The race is not as important as your medical safety."

"It would be good politics to have a Russian in our little delegation," Harriman pointed out.

"All right," Kinsman said. "Then it'll be Alex, you" —nodding to Harriman—"and me. A Russian, an Irish- Brazilian Jew, and an American. We'll outnumber 'em."

Kinsman and Diane walked back toward the living quarters together, silent as they paced down the long, rough, curving corridor. It was late afternoon; nearly the whole day had been spent planning the Earthside trip.

"Would you like to have dinner at my place?" he asked.

She would not look at him. "I don't think so, Chet."

A family walked by them, parents and two children, one barely big enough to toddle by herself. After they passed, Kinsman asked, "What's wrong, Diane?"

She stopped and turned toward him. "You know what's wrong. You're going to keep going at this thing until it kills you."

"Oh . . ." He hunched his shoulders. "I've got to. There's no way around it."

"I know," she said. "That's the trouble. I know that what you're doing is right, and good, and there's no one else in the human race who can do it."

"I'll be okay."