Don nodded. Hardesty glowered at him.

“Let’s just see the tapes and find out what you really said,” von Kluge went on. “I’ll bet you don’t remember yourself, do you, Don?”

“No. . .”

Shrugging, von Kluge said, “It’s probably no big deal. We’ll just play it cool until it all blows over.”

His office door opened slightly and Ms. Tucker, a black secretary of such sweetness and lithe form that she could make bigots vote pro-bussing, said softly:

“Phone for you, Dr. von Kluge.”

“I can’t be disturbed now, Alma.”

“It’s Senator Buford,” she said, in an awed whisper.

Von Kluge’s eyes widened. “Excuse me,” he said to Don and Hardesty as he picked up the phone.

He smiled broadly and said, “Senator Buford, sir! Good morning! How are you—”

And that was all he said for the next twenty-two minutes. Von Kluge nodded, grunted, closed his eyes, gazed at the ceiling, stared at Don. As he listened.

Finally he put the phone down, slowly, wearily, like a very tired man at last letting go of an enormous weight. His ear was red.

Looking sadly at Don, von Kluge said, “Well, son, the Senator wants you to appear at his Appropriations Committee hearing. Tomorrow morning.”

Don had expected the hearing chamber to be packed with newsmen, cameras, lights, crowds, people grabbing at him for interviews or comments.

Instead, the ornate old chamber was practically empty, except for the few senators who had shown up for their committee’s session and their unctuous aides. Even the senators themselves seemed bored and fidgety as a series of experts from various parts of NASA and the Office of Management and Budget gave conflicting testimony on how much money should be appropriated for the space program.

But flinty old Senator Buford, the committee’s chairman, sat unflinchingly through it all. His crafty gray eyes drilled holes through every witness; even when he said nothing, he made the witnesses squirm in their seats.

Don was the last scheduled witness before the lunch break, and he kept hoping that they would run out of time before they called on him. Hardesty and von Kluge had drilled him all night in every aspect of the space agency’s programs and budget requests. Don’s head hadn’t felt so burstingly full of facts since his senior year in college, when he had crammed for three days to get past a Shakespeare final exam.

By the time Don sat himself cautiously in the witness chair, only four senators were left at the long baize-covered table facing him. It was a few minutes past noon, but Senator Buford showed no inclination to recess the hearing.

“Mistah Arnold,” Buford drawled, “have you prepared a statement for this committee?”

“Yes, sir, I have.” Don leaned forward to speak into the microphone on the table before him, even though there was no need to amplify his voice in the nearly-empty, quiet room.

“In view of the hour”—Buford turned hour into a two-syllable word—“we will dispense with your reading your statement and have it inserted into th’ record as ‘tis. With youh permission, of course.”

Don felt sweat beading on his forehead and upper lip. “Certainly, sir.” His statement was merely the regular public relations pamphlet the agency put out, extolling its current operations and promising wonders for the future.

Senator Buford smiled coldly. Don thought of a rattlesnake coiled to strike.

“Now what’s this I heah,” the Senator said, ” ‘bout livin’ in space prolongin’ youh life?”

Don coughed. “Well, sir, if you’re referring to. . . ah, to the remarks I made on television. . .”

“I am, sun.”

“Yes, well, you see. . . I had to oversimplify some very complex matters, because. . . you realize. . . the TV audience isn’t prepared. . . I mean, there aren’t very many scientists watching daytime television talk shows. . .”

Buford’s eyes bored into Don. “Ah’m not a scientist either, Mr. Arnold. I’m jest a simple ol’ country lawyer tryin’ to understand what in the world you’re talkin’ about.”

And in a flash of revelation, Don saw that Senator Buford was well into his seventies. His skin was creased and dry and dead-gray. The little hair left on his head was wispy and white. Liver spots covered his frail, trembling hands. Only his eyes and his voice had any spark or strength to them.

A phrase from the old Army Air Corps song of Don’s childhood skipped through his memory: We live in fame or go down inflames.

Taking a deep breath and sitting up straighter in the witness chair, Don said, “Well, sir: there are two ways to look at any piece of information—optimistically or pessimistically. What I’m about to tell you is the optimistic view. I want you to understand that clearly, sir. I will be interpreting the information we have on hand in its most optimistic light.”

“You go right ahead and do that,” said Senator Buford.

They lunched in the Senate dining room: dry sherry, mock turtle soup, softshell crabs. Just the two of them at a small table, Don and Senator Buford.

“I finally got me a NASA scientist who can talk sense!” Buford was saying as he cut through one of the little crabs.

Don’s head was still reeling. “You know, Senator, that there will be lots of experts inside NASA and outside who’ll make some pretty strong arguments against me.”

Buford fixed him with a baleful eye. “Mebbe so. But they won’t get away with any arguments ‘gainst me, boy.”

“I can’t guarantee anything, you realize,” Don hedged. “I could be completely wrong.”

“Ah know. But like you said, if we don’t try, we’ll never know for sure.”

This has got to be a dream, Don told himself. I’m home in bed and I’ll have to get up soon and go testify before Buford’s committee.

“Now lessee what we got heah,” Buford said as the liveried black waiter cleared their dishes from the table. “You need the permanent space station—with a major medical facility in it.”

“Yessir. And the all-reusable shuttle.”

Buford looked at Don sharply. “What’s wrong with th’ space shuttle we got? Cost enough, didn’t it?”

“Yessir, it did. But it takes off like a rocket. Passengers pull three or four gees at launch. Too much for. . . er, for. . .”

“For old geezers like me!” Buford laughed, a sound halfway between a wheeze and a cackle.

Don made his lips smile, then said, “An advanced shuttle would take off like an airplane, nice and smooth. Anybody could ride in it.”

“Uh-huh. How long’ll it take to get it flyin’?”

Don thought a moment, considered the state of his soul, and decided, What the hell, go for broke.

“Money buys time, Senator,” he said craftily. “Money buys time.”