Kinsman's jaw dropped open and suddenly he was glaring at her. "How the hell should I know?" he shouted. "How high is up?"
"I don't know. Captain. You tell me."
He turned angrily away from her. There was perspiration beading his brow. Colonel Campbell noticed.
"That's enough for today, Captain. You may go." 125
She watched him stand up slowly, looking slightly puz- zled. He went to the door, hesitated, then opened it and left the office without looking back.
Colonel Campbell opened the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out the book-sized tape recorder. She turned it on and began speaking into the built-in microphone. After more than fifteen minutes she concluded:
"He's definitely looking for help. That's good. But we're nowhere near his problem yet. We've only scratched the surface. He's built a shell around himself and now not only can no one break through it to get to him, he can't crack it himself to get out. It could be something from his childhood; we'll have to check out the family."
She clicked the recorder's STOP button and turned to look out the window. The hot Texas sky was turning to molten copper as the sun went down. A helicopter droned overhead somewhere, like a lazy summertime dragonfly. The screech- ing whine of a jet fighter shrilled past.
She turned the tape recorder on again. "One thing is certain," she said. "Killing the cosmonaut was only the triggering trauma. There's more, buried underneath. If it's buried too far down, if we can't get to it quickly, he's finished as an Air Force officer. And as an astronaut."
The breeze whipping across the flight line did little to alleviate the heat. It felt like the breath from a hot oven- The sun beat down like a palpable force, broiling the life juices out of you.
Marian Campbell walked slowly around the plane, checking the control surfaces, the propeller, sweating in her zippered coveralls and waiting for Kinsman to show up. It was a single-engine plane with broad, stubby wings and a high bulbous canopy that made it look like a one-eyed insect. It was painted bright red and yellow except for the engine cowling, where permanent black streaks of oil stains marred the decor.
She saw a tall lithe figure approaching through the shimmering heat haze along the flight line. The sun baked the concrete ramp so that it felt like standing on a griddle. Come on, she groused to herself, before I melt into a puddle. Then 126 she grinned sheepishly. It would be a damned big puddle, she knew.
Kinsman was in civilian clothes, an open-necked short- sleeved shirt and light blue slacks. He looked wary as he came up to the plane.
"No need to salute," Marian called to him. "We're off duty, okay?"
He nodded and put out a hand to touch the plane's wing. The metal must have been scorchingly hot but Kinsman ran his fingers along it lightly and almost smiled.
"Piper Cherokee. She's an old bird, but she still looks good," he said.
"Are you talking about the plane or about me?" Marian asked.
He looked startled more than amused. "The plane, of course. Colonel."
"My name's Marian ... as in Robin Hood. And yes, I know the joke: 'Who's Maid Marian? Everybody!'"
Kinsman still did not smile.
