"In fact," Tenny added, with a malicious grin, "she is the senior captain among you rocket jocks. So show some re- spect."
Kinsman had only one comment. "Shit." * * * 73
The key to the Air Force astronaut's role in space was summed up in two words: quick reaction. The massive space shuttle that NASA had developed was fine for missions that could be planned months in advance, but the Air Force needed a spacecraft that could be sent off on a mission without such preparation. The smaller, delta-shaped Mania was the answer. Launched by throwaway solid rocket boost- ers, carrying no more than three astronauts, the Manta could put Air Force personnel into orbit within a few hours of the decision to go.
The bone-rattling roar and vibration of lift-off suddenly died away. Strapped into the contour seat, scanning the banks of controls and instruments a few centimeters before his eyes, Kinsman could feel the pressure and tension slacken to zero. He was no longer flattened against his seat, but touching it only lightly, almost floating, restrained only by his safety harness.
He had stopped counting how many times he had felt weightlessness after his tenth orbital mission. Yet he still smiled inside his helmet.
Without thinking about it he touched a control stud in his seat's armrest. A maneuvering thruster fired briefly and the ponderous, dazzling bulk of Earth slid into view through the narrow windshield before him. It curved huge and awesome, brilliantly blue, streaked with white clouds, beautiful, serene, shining.
Kinsman could have watched it forever, but he heard the sounds of motion through his helmet earphones. The two women were stirring behind him. The Manta's cabin made the shuttle orbiter seem like a spacious hotel: their three seats were shoehorned in among racks of instruments and equip- ment. And they rode into orbit wearing full space suits and helmets, thanks to some Air Force functionary who wrote the requirement into the flight regulations.
Jill was officially second pilot and biomedical officer for this mission. The photographer. Linda Symmes, was simply a passenger, a public relations project, occupying the third seat, beside Jill.
Kinsman's earphones crackled with a disembodied link from Earth. "AF-9, you are confirmed in orbit. Trajectory nominal. All systems green."
"Roger, ground," Kinsman said into his helmet mike.
The voice, already starting to fade, switched to ordinary conversational speech. "Looks like you're right on the money, Chet. We'll get the rendezvous parameters and feed 'em to you when you pass over Woomera. Rendezvous is set for your second orbit."
"Roger, big V. Everything here on the board is in the green."
"Rog. Vandenberg out." Faintly. "And hey . . . good luck, Founding Father."
Kinsman grinned at that. He slid his visor up, loosened his harness, and turned in his seat. "Okay, ladies, we're safely in orbit."
Jill snapped her visor open.
"Need any help?" Kinsman asked Linda Symmes.
"I'll take care of her," Jill said firmly. "You handle the controls."
So that's how it's going to be, Kinsman thought.
Jill's face was round and plain and bright as a new penny. Snub nose sprinkled with freckles, wide mouth, short hair of undistinguished brown. Kinsman knew that under her pres- sure suit was a figure that could most charitably be described as ordinary.
Linda Symmes was another matter entirely. She had lifted her visor and was staring out at him with wide blue eyes that combined feminine curiosity with a hint of helplessness. She was tall, nearly Kinsman's own five-eleven height, with thick honey-colored hair and a body that he had already memorized down to the last curve.
