"Start with that one." Howard pointed a gloved hand toward the largest antenna, in the center of the drumhead. "Unlatch the safety retainer first."
Hanging head down over the satellite. Kinsman read the instruction printed on its surface by the light of his helmet lamp, then unlatched and unfolded the antenna arm. His fingers felt clumsy inside the heavy gloves, but the task was simple enough. He remembered von Clausewitz's dictum from his Academy classes:
"Everything is very simple in war, but even the simplest thing is difficult."
That was as good a description of working in zero gravity as any, Kinsman thought as he slowly, deliberately unfolded the antenna arm and carefully opened its fragile, parasollike parabolic dish. No sound, except his own labored breathing and the faint, high-pitched whir of his suit's tiny air- 52 circulating fan. This is hard work, he realized. They had told him it would be, back in the classrooms, but he had not truly believed it until now.
The first man to walk in space, Alexsei Leonov, told his fellow cosmonauts, "Think ten times before moving a finger, and twenty times before moving a hand."
We can do better than that. Kinsman told himself. Still, everything takes longer in zero gee than you'd expect.
"Now the waveguide." Howard's laconic voice startled Kinsman. He had floated slightly away from the satellite. The tether clipped to his waist was almost taut.
He returned to his work, voicing his curiosity into his helmet microphone. "No camera windows or sensor ports on this bird. At least, none that I can see."
"Keep your mind on your work," Howard said.
"But what's it for?" Kinsman blurted.
With an exasperated sigh that sounded like a windstorm in Kinsman's earphones, Howard answered, "Space Com- mand didn't take the time to tell me, kid. So I don't know. Except that it's Top Secret and none of our damned busi- ness."
"Ohh ... a ferret."
"What?"
"A ferret," said Kinsman. "We learned about them back at the Academy. Gathers electronic intelligence from Soviet satellites. This bird's going into a high-inclination orbit, right?"
He could sense Howard nodding sourly inside his helmet.
"She'll hang up there over the Soviet Union," Kinsman went on, "and tune in on a wide band of frequencies that the Russians use. Maybe some Chinese and European bands, too. Then when she passes over a command station in the States they send up the right signal and she spits out every- thing she's recorded on the previous orbit. All data- compressed so they can get the whole wad of poop in a couple of seconds."
"Really." Howard's voice was as flat and as cold as an ice floe.
"Yessir. The Russians have knocked a few of ours out, they told us at the Academy. With their ASAT—their antisatellite weapon."
Howard's response was unintelligible.
"Sir?" Kinsman asked.
