"Yeah, I'll bet," he said weakly.
She peered into the camera. "Are you all right?"
"I Just need a little rest."
"The worst is over now," Diane said. Then she added, "Isn't it?"
"Yes. The worst is over," he answered, wishing he could believe it was true.
As soon as Diane signed off Kinsman punched the code for the comm center and asked for the Officer of the Day.
"Why wasn't I informed about the Orca missiles?" he demanded.
The youngster wore a lieutenant's bars and a wispy light brown mustache. "Sir, you gave orders that you were not to be disturbed unless something critical happened. The subma- rine launched six missiles in salvo from the mid-Pacific. We assume it was an American sub, since the projected trajectory of the missiles was toward targets in Siberia. Our fire control crew aboard Gamma tracked the missiles while the ABM system engaged them in automatic mode and shot them all down within four minutes of launch. No sweat. Sir."
Kinsman sagged back on the bunk and grinned. "I see."
"We have videotapes, sir, if you wish to review the action." The Lieutenant was very sure of himself, as only a young officer can be when he has the rules working on his side and he knows it.
"No. I'll take a look at it later. Any messages from Washington?"
"Oh, yessir. A whole tankful of them!"
It was two hours later that Kinsman realized he was hungry. He went down to Level Four. where the mess hall 475 was. He got a tray of hot food from the galley and sat at a long table that was crowded with young officers and crewmen, and a few civilians. The more elaborate automated restaurant down on Level One had been shut down by its departing crew, so the remaining civilians were forced to eat up in officers' country.
Most of the civilians seemed relaxed enough, even friendly. But one pair—Americans, by their clothes and accent—got up from the table when Kinsman sat down and moved to a smaller table on the far side of the mess hall. A few of the Europeans seemed ill at ease, tense. The Orientals were polite and professionally inscrutable.
Nobody knows where this is going to end, Kinsman realized, watching them work at their food and their conver- sations. But they all want to avoid the pariah.
Ted Marrett walked in. Fatigue lines were etched around his eyes. He moved his big frame stiffly, as if he had been cramped in one position for much too long. Kinsman followed the broad-shouldered meteorologist with his eyes as Marrett punched out two cups of steaming black coffee from the dispenser in the galley and carried them wearily into the mess hall- One of the scientists at Kinsman's table, a slim, sharp- featured Moroccan, called to him. 'Ted, here. Come join us."
Marrett shuffled over to them and sat next to the
Moroccan, two seats down from Kinsman.
"How did the trial go?"
"Pretty good." Marrett took a huge gulp of scalding coffee, winced, then took another, "Missed two of the correlation factors we're looking for, but it looks like all the major factors checked out. We'll know more in a month, and still more when the winter season's over."
