Kinsman leaned back in his seat, to the accompaniment of a miniature chorus of electric hums. He closed his eyes. He knew perfectly well what was happening in the cockpit now—or, at least, what used to happen when he flew such craft, decades ago. Now they were controlled from the ground; everything was automatic, the airport computer giving commands to the ship's computer. The flight crew was there only in case of emergency.

But in his mind he felt the bucking control column in his hands as the ship buffeted through maximum aerodynamic drag. He saw the firetrail of re-entry as the ship blazed through the atmosphere like a falling meteor, torturing the air around it into incandescence. He remembered one flight he and Frank Colt had . . .

"Touchdown in three minutes," announced the little speaker grille. Even the voice sounded mechanical, automat- ic. No emotion at all.

Despite himself, Kinsman grinned. Only an old fart reminisces about the good old days.

There were no windows on the rocketplane, but the tiny display screen set into the chairback in front of him showed a pilot's-eye view of the craft's approach to JFK Aerospace- port. Sunlight glittered off steel-gray water, uncountable structures took form on the screen: rows of houses, factories, warehouses, parking garages, towers, churches, shopping malls, bridges, roads, streets—all out in the open, under the strangely pale and diluted sun.

Peering intently at the little screen, Kinsman still could not see any people, or even any individual autos on the streets. Just an occasional gray bus or olive-colored truck that looked more like an Army vehicle than a civilian. The long dark corridor of the runway rushed up at them. A jarring bounce, then another, and then the muffled roar of braking jets told Kinsman they were down. He smiled to himself. We could land 'em a lot smoother than that, he thought. The 520 computer doesn't take any pride in its touchdowns.

And then he realized they were on the ground. On Earth. He did not move until the craft rolled to a stop at the terminal building. One of the stewardesses helped him undo the buckles of his safety harness. Then she stood back, an odd expression on her face, as he tried to stand up.

Must look pretty weird. Kinsman thought as the suit unfolded itself—unfolded him—and he got to his feet.

Landau moved behind him and started up the heart pump. Kinsman had expected to feel it throbbing in his chest, but he felt only a slightly warm sensation that quickly passed. For several minutes the Russian tinkered with the equipment on Kinsman's backpack as Harriman watched in moody silence.

"How does it feel?" he asked at last, his voice deep and grave and somehow irritating.

"Fine," Kinsman snapped. "Same as it did on Level One at Alpha when we tested it. I'll challenge you to a basketball game before we go home."

Harriman snorted, "Bragging already! Come on. If you're so good, move your ass off this tin can and let the people admire us."

But there were no people.

At least, no crowds. Kinsman and his two followers walked from the ship into an access tunnel that led into the terminal building. A small knot of officials and medical people were there, including a representative from the Amer- ican State Department and several UN functionaries. One of them, Kinsman noted immediately, was a tall, striking blonde. Swedish, I'll bet.

No news reporters. No television cameras. No curious onlookers. All the other gates in this wing of the terminal building had been shut tight. The entire area had been cleared of people. As far down the corridor as Kinsman could see there was no one except a row of uniformed security guards spaced every twenty meters or so, wearing hard hats, with gas masks on their belts next to their riot guns and grenade pouches. Even the newsstands and gift shops were closed.

Then the tall, cigar-chewing figure of Ted Marrett pushed through the little knot of officials. "Welcome to Fun City!" he boomed, and all the others seemed to pale and melt back. 521

Kinsman extended a metal-braced arm and Marrett grasped his hand warmly. "I'm here as the unofficial greeter and personal representative of the Secretary General. We've got a squad of cars waiting outside to take you to UN headquarters. The three of you will be guests of the Secretary General."

But it was not that easy. The officials immediately formed themselves into a reception line and the three lunar visitors had to be introduced to each one of them. Kinsman wondered idly how they had arranged their pecking order, since they seemed to come from a dozen different nations and two dozen different types of government agencies, ranging from the United States' National Institutes of Health to the Ministry for Development of Natural Resources of Tanzania. A trio of photographers cruised around at a distance, dis- creetly snapping away without flashbulbs. Kinsman noticed tiny apertures in the walls and ceilings where other cameras might be recording their arrival, as well.

Kinsman shook hands with each of the officials, including the blonde, who turned out to be from Kansas City, repre- senting the American Urban Council. A good front for an intelligence agent, Kinsman guessed. Glancing at her clinging sweater, he decided she had a good front for anything.

Finally they were ready to head down the corridor toward the main terminal building. One of the American medics offered, "We can get a wheelchair for you, Mr. Kinsman."

"No thanks. I can walk."

Landau came up beside him. 'Tt would be better to conserve your strength."

"I feel fine."

"You are high on your natural adrenalin at the moment," Landau advised. "A wheelchair is advisable."

So they wheeled Kinsman, fuming inwardly, through the emptied terminal building. Security's tighter than a Mafia summit conference, Kinsman realized as he saw that the entire terminal of one of the world's busiest aerospaceports had been completely shut down. All the ticket counters were empty. All the TV monitors showing arriving and departing flights were dark. The fast-food counters and restaurants and bars were shuttered. Grim-faced, heavily-armed security 522 guards were posted everywhere. The only sign of life outside of the funeral cortege flowing through the deserted building was the trio of photographers skipping back and forth with the agility of Oz's scarecrow, clicking away with their tiny cameras.