Each time Kinsman waxed the tail of a Russian and lined up the vainly maneuvering MiG in his gunsights he heard his father's stern voice: "Once you put on their uniform, you will do as they order you to do. If they say kill, you will kill."

No, Kinsman said to himself. There are limits. I can hold out against them.

They had not ordered him to kill. The squadron's orders were to defend themselves if attacked, and even then, only after receiving a confirming go-ahead order from ground command. Kinsman had never pressed the firing button on his controls, no matter how many times he centered a MiG in his gunsights.

He was overjoyed when his application for astronaut 49 training was finally approved. It was as if he had been holding his breath for four years.

Even grimy old Philadelphia looked good to him, after the months in Cyprus. He had dinner with Neal McGrath and his wife, Mary-Ellen, in an Indian restaurant on Chestnut Street, within sight of Independence Hall and the cracked old Liberty Bell. Neal, a Congressman now, informed him that Diane Lawrence had her first million-selling record to her credit and was fast becoming one of the nation's favorite folk-rock singers.

And Kinsman's father—sick, old, his home on the Main Line turned into a private hospital-cum-office—refused to see him as long as he wore an Air Force uniform.

When he finally peeled out of the nylon mesh sleeping bag he felt too keyed up to be tired, despite his wakeful night. Colt seemed also tensed as a coiled spring as they pulled on their space suits.

"So the Golddust Twins finally get their chance to go for a walk around the block," Smitty kidded them as he helped Kinsman with the zippers and seals of his suit.

"I thought they were gonna keep us after school," Colt said, "for being naughty yesterday,"

"Pierce'll find a way to take you guys down a notch," Jill said. "He's got that kind of mind."

"Democracy in action," said Kinsman, "Reduce every- body to the same low level."

"Hey!" Art Douglas snapped from across the compart- ment where he was helping Colt into his suit. "Your scores weren't that much higher than ours, you know."

"Tell you what," Colt said. "A couple of you guys black your faces and see how you get treated."

They laughed, but there was a nervous undercurrent to it.

Kinsman raised the helmet over his head and slid it down into place. "Still fits okay," he said through the open visor. "Guess my head hasn't swollen too much."

Captain Howard glided down the ladder already suited up, but with his helmet visor open. The pouches under his eyes looked darker than usual; his face was a gray prison pallor. With six trainees aboard, the officers slept in their 50 seats up on the flight deck, a factor that did not increase officers' love of trainees.

"You both checked out?" Howard asked in a flat, drained voice.

Mr. Personality, thought Kinsman.

Howard was not satisfied with the trainees' check of their suits. He went over them himself. Finally, with a sour nod, he waved Colt to the airlock and went in with him. The lock cycled.

Kinsman slid his visor down and sealed it, turned to wave a halfhearted "so long" to the others, then floated to the airlock and pushed himself through the hatch. The heavy door swung shut and he could hear, faintly through his helmet padding, the clatter of the pump sucking the air out of the phone booth-sized chamber. The red light went on, signaling vacuum. He opened the outer hatch and stepped out into the payload bay.

The orbiter was turned away from the Earth, so that all Kinsman saw as he left the airlock was the endless blackness of space. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and saw tiny points of light staring at him: hard, unwinking stars, not like jewels set in black velvet, as he had expected, not like anything he had ever seen before in his life.

"Glory to God in the highest . . ." Kinsman heard himself whisper the words as he rose, work forgotten, drifting up toward the infinitely beautiful stars.

When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained . . .

Howard's grip on his shoulder suddenly brought him back to the here-and-now. The Captain clicked a tether to the clip on Kinsman's waist, then pointed to his own wrist. Kinsman looked down at the keyboard on the wrist of his suit and turned the radio on.

Howard's voice immediately came through his ear- phones, a much higher fidelity sound quality than Kinsman had expected: