"He's pretty edgy," Kinsman said as he took the propel- lant supply hose and plugged it into the valve on Colt's MMU.

"Just putting us on, man."

"I don't know. He said this is the most difficult task of the whole mission."

"That's why they saved it for us, huh?"

"Maybe."

He could sense Colt shaking his head, frowning. "Don't take his bullshit seriously. They had other jobs—like inspect- ing that Russian satellite. That was a lot tougher than what we're gonna be doing."

"That was a one-man task," Kinsman said. "He didn't need a couple of rookies getting in his way. Besides, the Soviets probably have all sorts of alarm and detection systems on their birds."

"Yeah, maybe . . ."

"He's a strange little guy."

Colt said, "You'd think he would've made major by now."

"Or light colonel. He's as old as Murdock." 57

"Yeah, but he's got no wings. Flunked out of flight training when he was a kid."

"Really?"

"That's what Art told me. Howard's nothing more than a glorified Tech Specialist. No Academy, no wings. Lucky he got as far as captain."

"No wonder he looks pissed most of the time."

"Mas; of the time?"

Kinsman said, "I got the feeling he enjoyed watching the Earth just as much as we did."

"H'mp- Yeah. I forgot about that."

As Kinsman disconnected the hose from Colt's backpack he glanced out at the Earth again. "I wonder if you ever get accustomed to that."

"Sure is some sight," Colt agreed.

"Makes me want to just drift out of here and never come back," murmured Kinsman. "Just go on forever and ever."

"You'll need a damned big air tank."

"Not a bad way to die, if you've got to go. Drifting alone, silent, going to sleep among the stars . . ."

"That's okay for you, maybe. But I intend to be shot by a jealous husband when I'm ninety-nine years old," Colt said firmly. "That's how I wanna go: bareass and humpin'."

"White or black?"