"Easy enough for you," Colt growled. "Mr. Internation- al Astronautical Federation. You can go around the world being friendly and setting up programs where we gotta cooperate with the Reds. But we"—Colt's gesture included Kinsman—"we gotta figure out how to cooperate with 'em without letting 'em steal the whole fucking store! We gotta defend the nation against 'em and cooperate with 'em at the same time. How d'you do that?" 159

"By giving up all weapons in space," Leonov answered. "Put an end to this Star Wars program of yours and dismantle your antisatellite weapons and we will do the same."

"Uh-huh. And you'll let me come over and inspect your boosters and satellites to make sure you're not cheating?"

"Allow you to spy on our space bases? Never!"

Kinsman leaned back in the booth, utterly sober, staring at his emptied glass and wishing he could disappear from the face of the Earth. Colt's superpatriotism always surprised and embarrassed him. Childhood prejudice, he knew. Blacks were anti-Establishment when you were a kid and you expected them all to be anti-Establishment forever.

But America was truly multiracial now. There were black generals, Hispanic bank presidents, Oriental board chairmen. The talk was that there would be a black President before much longer.

What will they call the White House then? Kinsman wondered. Will they repaint it? More likely they'll repaint the new President.

Leonov was chuckling. "Frank, my hotheaded friend, I refuse to get angry with you. We are both alike! You want to fly in space; so do I. Your government has ordered you to be an intelligence-gatherer for the duration of this international conference and ferret out as many of our secrets as you can. My government has ordered me to be an intelligence officer for the duration of this meeting and ferret out as many of your secrets as I can. How do you think I can roam around this underground rabbits' nest without a KGB 'guide' at my elbow?"

Intelligence officer? Kinsman snapped his attention to Leonov's eyes. The Russian met his gaze, smiling pleasantly, a bit drunkenly. There was no hatred there, not even suspi- cion. He doesn't know about me. Still, Kinsman's knees felt suddenly weak.

"You already know all our goddamned secrets," Colt groused.

"Just as you know ours," countered Leonov.

"Then let's get off the subject," Durban suggested, his voice a bit edgy, "and talk about something more congenial."

"Such as what?"

Durban sucked on his pipe for a moment. It was out 160 again. He took it from his mouth and jabbed the stem in Kinsman's direction.

"Chet here is looking for a job. What can we do for him?"

Jesus Christ, he's going to spill it all over the place! Kinsman heard himself stammering, "No, really . . . there's no need ... I'd rather ..."

"Defect!" Leonov suggested jovially. "We will treat you handsomely in the Soviet Union."

Colt glowered. "Yeah. In the basement of some psychiat- ric prison."

The Russian pretended not to hear.

"I'm serious," Durban insisted. "There are too few experienced astronauts—and cosmonauts—to let one walk away from the game."

For God's sake leave me alone! Kinsman screamed silently. But he could say nothing to them. He was frozen there, pinned into the booth. Trapped.

"They don't want experience anymore," Colt said. "They want youth. Murdock's even got me slated to train the little bastards instead of doing the flying myself."

"The private corporations ..." Durban began.

"Are all talk and not much else," Colt said. "Chet and I are executive timber, as far as they're concerned. But they're not hiring fliers. They'd rather let Uncle Sam take the risks while they sit back and wait till everything's set up for them at the taxpayers' expense. Then they'll move in and make their profits."

"In all honesty," Durban said, "the military space pro- gram has gotten so big that it's swamping the civilian pro- gram. The corporations can make assured profits working for the Air Force. That makes it damned hard for them to justify the risks of private operations in orbit."