He went to the control desk and busied himself with the tasks that the mission plan called for. Linda hovered beside him, within arm's reach. Kinsman chatted briefly with Kodiak station, on schedule, and made an entry in the log.

Three more ground stations and we're over the Indian Ocean, with world enough and time.

But he did not look up from the control panel. He tested each system aboard the station, fingers nicking over the keyboard pads, eyes focused on the screen readouts that told him exactly how each system was performing.

"Chet?"

"Yes?" Without looking up.

"Are you sore at me?"

Still not looking at her, "No. Why should I be sore at you?"

"Welt, maybe not angry, but . . ."

"Feeling put down?"

"Yes. Hurt. Something like that."

He punched in the final commands for the computer, then turned to face her. "Linda, I haven't had the time to figure out what I feel. You're a complicated woman, maybe too complicated for me. Life's got enough twists to it."

Her mouth drooped a little.

"On the other hand," he grinned, "we WASPs ought to stick together. Not many of us left."

That brought a faint smile. "But I'm not a WASP. My real name's Szymanski. I changed it when I started model- ing."

"Another complication."

She was about to reply when the radio speaker crackled, 97

"AF-9, this is Cheyenne. Cheyenne to AF-9."

Kinsman leaned over and thumbed the transmitter switch. "AF-9 to Cheyenne. You're coming through faint but clear."

"Roger Nine. We're receiving your telemetry. All sys- tems look good from here."

"On-board systems check also green/' Kinsman said. "Mission profile nominal. No excursions. Tasks about ninety- five percent complete."

"Roger. Vandenberg suggests you begin checking out your spacecraft on the next orbit. You are scheduled for re-entry in ten hours."

"Right. Will do."

"Okay, Chet. Everything looks cool from here. Any- thing else to report, ol' Founding Father?"

"Mind your own business." He snapped the transmitter off.

Linda was grinning at him.