"No funny stuff when you're out there. No sightseeing. You won't have time for stargazing."
"Right," replied Colt.
"Now fill your propellant tanks and oxygen supply."
"Yessir."
Howard busied himself with talking to the flight deck as Kinsman and Colt jetted themselves to the supply tanks down by the tail.
"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."
