Frantically Kinsman began clawing along the long umbil- ical line hand over hand. All he could see, all he could think of, was that flashing torch eating into his lifeline.

Desperately he grabbed the line in both hands and snapped it hard. Again he tumbled wildly, but he saw the wave created by his snap race down the line. The piece of the 117 cord that the cosmonaut held suddenly bucked out of his hand. The torch spun away and winked off.

Both of them moved at once.

The cosmonaut jetted away from the Manta, going after the torch. Kinsman hurled himself directly toward the hatch. He grasped its rim with both hands, chest heaving, visor fogging slightly from the heat of his exertion and fear.

Duck inside, slam shut, and get the hell out of here.

But he did not move. Instead he watched the cosmonaut, a strange, sun-etched figure now, drifting some twenty meters away, quietly sizing up the situation.

That sonofabitch tried to kill me.

Kinsman coiled catlike on the edge of the hatch and sprang at his enemy. The cosmonaut reached for the jet controls at his belt but Kinsman slammed into him and they both went hurtling through space, tumbling and clawing at each other. It was an unearthly struggle, human fury in the infinite calm of star-studded blackness. No sound except your own harsh breath and the bone-conducted shock of colliding bodies.

They wheeled out of the spacecraft's shadow and into the painful glare of the sun. The glorious beauty of Earth spread out below them. In a cold rage. Kinsman grabbed the airhose that connected the cosmonaut's oxygen tank with his helmet. He hesitated a moment and glanced into the bulbous plastic helmet. All he could see was the back of the cosmonaut's head, covered with a dark skintight flying hood. With a vicious yank Kinsman snapped the airhose out of its mount- ing. A white spray of gas burst from the backpack. The cosmonaut jerked twice, spasmodically, then went inert.

With a conscious effort Kinsman unclenched his teeth. His jaw ached. He was trembling and soaked in a cold sweat.

He saw his father's face. They'll make a killer out of you! The military exists to kill.

He released his death grip on his enemy. The two human forms drifted slightly apart. The dead cosmonaut turned gentiy as Kinsman floated alongside. The sun glinted brightly on the white space suit and shone full into the enemy's lifeless, terror-stricken face.

Kinsman looked into that face for an eternally long 118 moment and felt the life drain out of him. He dragged himself back to the Manta, sealed the hatch, and cracked open the air tanks with automatic, unthinking motions. He flicked on the radio and ignored the flood of interrogating voices that streamed up from the ground.

"Bring me in. Program the AGS to bring me in, full automatic. Just bring me in."

It was six weeks before Kinsman saw Colonel Murdock again. He sat tensely before the wide mahogany desk while Murdock beamed at him, almost as brightly as the sunshine outside the Colonel's office.

"You look thinner in ciwies," the Colonel said.

"I've lost weight."

Murdock made a meaningless gesture. "I'm sorry I haven't had a chance to see you sooner. What with the intelligence and State Department people crawling around here the past few weeks, and all the paperwork on your citation and your medical disability leave ... I haven't had a chance to, eh, congratulate you on your mission. It was a fine piece of work."

Kinsman said nothing.

"General Hatch was very pleased. He recommended you for the Silver Star himself."

"I know."

"You're a hero. Kinsman." There was wonder in the Colonel's girlish voice. "A real honest-to-God hero."

Again Kinsman remained silent.

Murdock suppressed a frown. "The Russians won't make a squawk about it, from what the State Department boys tell me. They're keeping the whole thing hushed up. We made a deal with them. We don't complain about them testing a beam weapon in orbit and they don't complain about losing a cosmonaut."

"We both lose," Kinsman said.