PART FOUR

_June 28--August 4, 1977_

_Rockland--Tuesday, June 28_

For four days, she’d been waiting for Johnny to leave the house: leave it long enough so she’d _know_ she had ten minutes’ time all alone.

It was hard to believe it could have gone that far; but when she thought back, it must have been going on quite a while now. Unless they went somewhere together, days--or weeks?--might go by till Johnny found any reason to go even down the road.

They had built the house in the exact center of their own thirty-five acres: no near neighbors to plague them--or to gossip with or play bridge, or borrow lawn-mowers, or any one of the things that might take a man ten minutes’ walk to the next house.

The place was provisioned and stocked for every possible need. They marketed once a month--together.

On rare occasions, if the heli needed work Johnny did not want to do, he’d fly down to Nyack; usually, she went along, anyhow, and they’d have dinner out, take in a show, spend an evening pub-crawling, something like that.

But the house had everything that he wanted; most of all, it had _her_. Up till now, that knowledge by itself had been enough to allow her to overlook, not-notice, or never-mind all the rest.

But now, for four days, she had wanted to make one single phone call without him around: and there had never been a time she could be _sure_ he wouldn’t wake up, or pick up an extension from some other room, or--or _some_thing.

The whole thing was ridiculous. Most of all, her own feeling about it was all out of proportion. She kept telling herself that.

_Just pick up the damn phone and call!_ He was in the shower; how was he going to hear her from there?

But, again, she jittered around until, just as she reached for the switch, he came out.

_Damn!_

“Hi, babe.” He came over and kissed her. And at the touch, the easy relaxation with which he had entered the room vanished. “What’s the matter, babe?” He sat down and put his arms around her; tilted her face up with one hand under her chin.

“Nothing,” she said unconvincingly, and tried to smile a response to him. That was not very convincing either. She saw the small muscles in his jaw tighten up, and start knotting. _Oh, God damn!_ “Probably just--time of month, I guess,” she said.

He bought it. He grinned and patted her on the head sympathetically; his face relaxed; he stood up with the confident nonchalance of masculinity, not prey to nervous cyclic emotions, and went into the kitchen. A moment later, he called back: “I’m going out and see what I can do about that door handle.” The door slammed.

She saw him cross the back lawn toward the hangar. She watched till he went inside. With her eyes still on the window, she switched on the phone.

“May I speak to the doctor?” she asked the pert nurse who answered.

Dr. Aaronson looked harassed as usual, but his smile was beatific: “Everything’s fine,” he said. “All down the line. Don’t give it a thought. You ought to come in, say, oh, two-three weeks?”

She tried to look as she thought she ought to feel. “That’s wonderful,” she said. “Look, I’ve got a problem.”

“Hmmm?” His eyes were watching something else off the screen. His manner said clearly: _I already told you, you don’t have a problem._

“It’s just--well, is there any reason--” It sounded so _silly_, when you came to ask it. “--reason I shouldn’t take a trip to the Moon?”

“How far--” he’d started to ask before she finished. His eyes swivelled back sharply. “Well!” It was the first time she’d ever heard him laugh out loud. “Well!” he said again, satisfied, “I thought I knew _all_ the questions by now! Offhand, let’s see--I can’t see any reason not to, in the shape you’re in. When did you plan to go?”

“I’m not sure--two or three weeks? A month, maybe?”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I’ll check up, but I don’t see why not. Stop in for a checkup before you go.”

“Thanks. I will. I’m sorry if I interrupted you--”

“Nonsense. It was a pleasure, believe me. I think that’s the first _new_ question anyone’s asked me in fifteen years.”

She switched off and sat there a minute, her eyes at last off the window, her whole self composed for the first time in days.

He found her half-asleep in the sun at the edge of the pool, her orange swimsuit with the tigerish black stripes a splash of color on pale green tiles. She lifted her head and squinted at him from some faraway place inside herself.

“Hi, handsome,” she said.

“Hello, babe.” He dropped into a chair, looking down at her. She was okay now. She started lifting herself up from the tiles, backbone first, as if someone had tied a rope around her torso, and was pulling her up. He watched, fascinated; incredible, what she could do with herself!

“How’s the water?” he asked lazily.

“Good.” It looked good too. He went inside for his trunks, and she called after him to switch the player on.

“There’s a tape on already,” she said. “That new one you got.”

The soft beat of African drums was beginning when he came back out. Lisa sprawled in the grass past the pool, and with each beat, she raised herself higher, till as the tempo grew furious and swelled into crashing crescendos she was moving swiftly in a whirling ecstasy of liquid orange flame and streaked black shadow.

It was a long time since she had danced for him this way, he realized abruptly. She danced by herself, or unselfconsciously in front of him, all the time; but this was a performance--planned, staged, presented for his pleasure. He sat back and let the poetry of her pervade all his senses.

When the dance was done, she fell in a huddled heap at his feet, the fingers of one hand outstretched to almost-grasp his toes. She lay so still that he hardly dared breathe, while the memory of sound died.

Then she opened one eye, half-raised her head, grinned, and winked at him.

“Swim?” she said.

“You’re on.”

As they climbed out of the pool, she asked, casually, as if were something they’d just stopped talking about, “Still want to go to the Moon?”

“Sure,” he said quickly. “Why don’t we make it a honeymoon trip?”

He saw the tautness begin in her face, and he had to do _some_thing: “Christ!” he said, “What a tin-pan-alley bonanza. Song called ‘Do You Want a Moon Honeymoon, Honey?’ We’ll make a million, babe!”

“Get a good old-fashioned Turkey In The Straw type tune for it,” she came back, “and the callers can say, ‘Everybody rise an’ shine, for _Moon Honeymoon, Honey_--’” But the troubled tension was still there. And he could feel it stretching the skin on his own face now. “--On the other hand,” she said, too lightly, “I always did want to live in sin with a Man in the Moon.”

_Okay, let it go, the kid’s trying_.... “You mean you’d rather have the wedding _after_ the honeymoon?” he persisted compulsively. “It’s kind of--unconventional, Lee--” _Stop! For krissake, stop!_

“I never commit myself to more than one drastic action before four P.M.,” she said primly.

_Commit yourself?_ Well, that was that. _Neatly done, babe_, he thought. And then remembered that _he_ was the one who had started the Moon bit.

Okay. Okay, they’d go. What the hell? The Moon was just part of the Earth’s backyard, that’s all. Right across the street, nothing else.

Okay, they’d go.

“Okay, babe,” he said, stepping toward her. “But if you won’t have me, I don’t know what I can do about it, except for _me_ to have you....”

Rockland, N.Y. July 25, 1977

Dear Chris--

You guessed it, I suppose, as soon as you saw the envelope. (I suppose this is what they really mean by a ‘dilatory correspondence?’ I’ve gotten to feel as if I’ve known you for years, just through exchanging delaying letters--)

Turns out now we can’t do it on the 31st. Johnny got some sort of (hush-hush) job onto the drawing board today, and they’ve got to have it Aug. 3, he says. Has to take his first plans in Saturday, and then he could leave, if they like what he’s done, but he won’t go until he sees the final blueprints, so--

Frankly, as you realized (from what you said in your note last week), I can’t really say I’m sorry to see him so wrapped up in new work. But must confess I am getting kind of wistful about the trip up too--

Anyhow, I rearranged my own schedule as soon as he told me about this last night, and have now got things set so the recording series will be finished by Aug. 5--working all next week like mad--so that _I_ won’t have any dates I can’t break, and I’ll be free to pick up and go any week after this coming one, any time Johnny can tear himself away from the drawing board.

Did Phil finally make it? I know he’s been champing at the bit the past week or so, since he made up his mind to the trip.

(Just phoned his office, found out he took off yesterday.)

Tell him hello from us, and I hope the whole thing works out. He never said whether it would mean his staying up there or not, but I gather this trip is just a visit anyhow? Maybe we’ll make it up before he leaves--?

_Do_ give him regards, anyhow.

Very best, and from J., Lisa

P.S. Will assume any date after the 31st is okay, unless you let us know otherwise....

L

_Mexcity--July 27, 1977_

“I guess they’re not going to pick up on it,” the General admitted.

“You can’t win _every_ time,” Prentiss said.

“I know. But how many battles lose a war? Any bright thoughts?”

“Only complicated ones.”

“Okay. Even not-so-bright. Something is better than nothing.”

“Well, it’s not _that_ complicated, I guess. Just tricky. Pick up on it ourselves.”

“You mean plant it?” Harbridge was thoughtful. “No,” he said. “Too risky. If we got caught out on the first plant, so we’re devious bastards with something up our sleeves. If we didn’t do the first one, and got caught on this, we’re not so devious, and it’s obvious we’re out to get Christensen. If we got caught on both, it would smell real funny--and too many people have good noses in this town--hey!”

“Something?”

“I think so. This thing is a windfall to anyone who’s after Chris’ hide. Or it ought to look that way, if they were just looking. I think you did too good a job, Al. They just didn’t realize there was anything there _shouldn’t_ have been in that article.” Which shows just how much _any_one is worried about what goes on up there, he thought. Chris used to keep an eye on his public relations, but he’s been out of touch too much. Well, let’s give a push--“I think--let’s see, that Dartmouth boy we got shoved at us, what’s his name?, Jennings? Yuh. He’s Andy Jennings’ son?” Prentiss nodded. “Okay. That’s it. I _think_ this kid is just dumb enough so if you clucked at him about the kind of leaks that let important stuff like that get out, he’d be very likely to go home and tell his pop. And in view of the fact that Andy Jennings just bought himself a small interest worth a half million dollars in Undersea, I think we might just get our work done for us.”

“You think Jennings can remember a whole sentence that long? I mean, get home and tell it straight?”

“Well you better make it _very_ clear.” The General laughed.

Prentiss went out to find young Jennings, and Jed sat down to write to Chris.

_Dollars Dome--July 28, 1977_

NESNETSIRHC .RD said the lettering on the translucent plastic door and then, underneath it, ROTCERID HCRAESER. Nature’s own idiot, spelled backwards, the Director thought. Peter Andrew Christensen, Big Brain. If you’re so smart, why aren’t you a University President? Or Research Director for General Atomics? Or a respectable dues-paid master plumber, maybe?

Irritably, he flipped the reader switch and swung his chair ninety degrees to the glowing screen beside his desk, where Lisa Trovi’s ragged typing explained, as adequately as possible, why the visit had to be postponed _again_. He flipped the frame, and got Jed Harbridge’s carefully composed message on the screen. Might as well start writing answers--get them on the shuttle back. He sat, thought about what to tell Jed, and flipped back to Lisa’s note. Switched on the dictaphone, and thought some more.

Knock on the door. “Come in!” The shadow behind the panel moved, and the door opened. “Oh, Phil.” _Good._ He turned off both machines.

“Busy? I can come back....”

“You couldn’t have picked a better time. I’ve just been sitting here stewing in my own juices--such as are left. Sit down. What’s on your mind?”

“Questions, mostly.”

“Like...?”

“Like, to start with, what’s in _your_ mind?”

Chris grinned briefly. “You decided I’m a case too?”

“Sure. What of? If it’s all the same with you, I haven’t had an agoraphobiac in a long time....”

“You know, I might’ve been better off that way.” He laughed. “What can I do for you outside of that? I don’t suppose you’ve had time enough yet to have any idea....”

“Pretty damn good idea,” Phil broke in cheerfully. “I’ll do you up a proper report when I get back down, but I can tell you offhand now that I think any kind of half-decent psych staff up here could solve most of the problem, without half trying. In fact, the most interesting damn thing about it isn’t the diseases, but the patients. They _don’t want_ to be sick. I’ve never seen a more co-operative group in my life. It’s a headshrinker’s heaven, man!”

“That right?” Chris thought it over. “Well. Of course, I guess it helps to start out with a high IQ level and--” He broke off at the doctor’s amused headshake.

“Chris, if you asked me before I came up here I’d have said you _couldn’t_ take a batch of human beings, selected for ability rather than stability, and shut ’em up in an enclosed system where the environment violates every bit of early conditioning, and expect any thing but Trouble, with a capital T. You did it. Which proves only that my preconceptions are as useless as yours or anybody else’s.”

“You think we’re in pretty good shape, then?”

“No. _Astonishingly_ good shape. I have never seen a group of human beings working with such a high integration of aims and abilities; or expressing their own emotions so satisfactorily, with so little apparent hostility--or in such good physical shape, for the most part, considering the unfamiliar conditions.”

“Well, of course, those rest-leaves have a lot to do with it,” Chris conceded.

“I’ll bet. If it wasn’t for that, I couldn’t honestly even consider taking the job. I’ve been counting noses, and I figure there are enough of ’em ready to try giving up their leaves so I can count on a few cases, anyhow....”

It finally penetrated. “Say! Do you mean you’ve decided?”

“I haven’t decided anything. I just want to know: where and how do I apply for employment around here? And _which_ is more to the point?”

“You mean it?” The depression that had weighed on him for the past week, and had hung so thickly in the air all morning that it immobilized him, began to lift. “Damn it, that’s great! Never mind the employment office, you’re hired! How much do you want and--?”

“Who-a-oa.... Like I said, first I want to know what I’m hired _for_.”

“How do you mean?” Chris asked slowly. “We went all through that to start with...?”

“That was the official request. Now suppose we lay it on the line for each other. I don’t think you’d sacrifice any work-time up here just to solve the pro-tem personnel problem. And I frankly would not be interested in giving up a fairly well-established and moderately lucrative Earthside practice, just to solve your hiring problems. You’ve got your own reasons, and I’ve got mine, but I think what we’re both interested in is finding out how to make human beings tolerate life off of Earth--here, or on Mars, or in a starship or any other place. Do I read you right, friend?”

“Well--I’ll--be--damned!” He looked across the desk at the young doctor with a new respect. “Am I all _that_ transparent?”

Phil smiled. “Let’s just say I’m a trained observer.”

“No, I mean it,” Chris said earnestly. “Does it all show right out there on my face? I mean, I can see where you’d know what was going on--but I’d hate to think of some of these Decagon jerks or the buggers down in Accounting knowing everything I thought about--”

“Relax, man! No, it doesn’t show that much, Chris. Like I said, I’m a trained observer, and--” He broke into laughter. “Don’t worry, Chris. Unless you go around feeding the Decagon boys the same stories you gave me, I doubt they’d be fretting about your intentions. You gave it away when you dragged Johnny into it. Or rather, you got me hooked that way, so it wasn’t too hard to figure maybe you _meant_ what you said. I don’t know if I’d have read it the same way at all, if I didn’t have this jazzy old Johnny-monkey on _my_ back--so to speak.”

Well, what in hell did you say to something like that? “Oh! By the way--I have another note from Lisa today. Begins to look like they won’t make it at all, the rate he’s stalling.” He had a sudden worried thought. “I hope that wasn’t what you were counting on--?”

“Noooooo. Tell you the truth, I never figured that was better than an outside chance. Last I heard, he still was flipping his lid if anyone even _talked_ about space. I don’t know how he’d face up to the trip out here.”

“Yeah, I know.” He was thinking of Lisa’s frantic efforts to control the conversation that one night at their home--to keep away from _any_thing that bothered John. He scowled. “As a matter of fact you could’ve knocked me over with any handy feather when I got that first letter from him, but I guess--dammit!” He cut himself off, and switched on the reader speaker briefly.

“Note: If John Wendt comes up, he is to have sedation for full trip. Copies to all Earth launch sites. Request special handling. Full sedation, delivered as much as possible according to pre-Messenger routine, without comment, as if still normal procedure. That’s all.

“Excuse me,” he said to the doctor. “I’ve been meaning to get that notice out ever since he said he was coming. Didn’t want to forget it again. I just don’t want to take any chances.”

“Good idea,” Phil nodded, then, explosively: “Damn it to hell anyhow!”

“That boy really is under your skin, hey?” He watched the doctor’s face with interest; it was the first time he had seen the professional mask completely gone.

“Well, hell, we were old buddies, and--That’s not it, though, really. I used to be fond of Johnny, but I don’t think that’s even specially true any more. It’s just--well, put it this way:

“Suppose a patient comes in and tells me he keeps imagining that he’s chained to the floor of a dungeon and that a gorgeous babe comes in every evening to give him a good time? Chances are, I’ll nod my head like a wise old doctor and start explaining about erotic fantasies, masochism, and all that. _But_--

“Supposing, for instance, this guy really _is_ getting chained up every night, and this gorgeous doll really _is_ raping him each time? It’s so damn unlikely, the guy might even think he was dreaming if it _did_ happen. Right?

“_Or_--supposing this fellow was sure enough imagining things, only he wasn’t having erotic or masochistic fantasies at all? Like, let’s say he works in a bicycle chain factory, and hates his job, and maybe there’s a supervisor who’s a beautiful dish, and she’s always giving him a hard time. So maybe his fantasies are fear and revenge instead?

“Okay, so this I’d find out a lot easier than I would anything about the guy who’s really getting tied up. But that’s because everybody talks about their jobs and bosses, on the couch or off it. So you take Johnny Wendt, and Doug Laughlin for that matter, too. Here are two guys who got psych-tested inside out and upside down before they left. They also got all kinds of training and preparation for the things they might encounter, and I’ve taken the trouble to find out--you probably already know--that homosexuality was an eventuality the training program prepared them to cope with. Plus, neither one of them showed any appreciable tendency to panic over anything like that, if it _did_ happen.”

“Okay. I know all that,” Chris said. “It still happens to be what _did_ happen. So, like with the guy who really gets the chains and the babe, maybe there was something in the psychological--I don’t know--atmosphere?--that we couldn’t prepare for and don’t know about, and--Hell, whatever the reason was, at least you found out _what_ happened. _Why_ is something else.”

“Sure as hell is,” Kutler said wryly. “And maybe you’re right that what Johnny--or rather, Johnny’s unconscious--thinks happened _did_ happen. Only I don’t think so. I find it easier to think there was something in the _physical_ environment which was just so completely different and new and unprepared for that maybe neither one of them could even perceive it fully; and to the half-assed extent that they were aware of it at all, they interpreted it by association of some kind and--I just wish to hell Laughlin hadn’t torn those pages out! If we knew what _he_ thought was the matter, it might--Well, hell, forget it. I just thought you might like to know what’s pushin’ _me_.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” There ought to be something better to say, he thought. “Tell you what: _you_ get the money for the next trip, and I’ll see to it you get to go in person.”

Kutler shrugged and smiled. “It’s a deal. Meanwhile, suppose I start on my elementary-school work up here? Your people have problems people on Earth don’t have. Maybe they have nothing to do with Johnny’s troubles. Or maybe they do. But the principle is the same. When you already know five languages, the next three are easier to learn. If I find out what one-sixth gravity and Dome atmosphere do to people, maybe I’m that much closer to what one-third and a Mars atmosphere can do?”

“I take it,” Chris said slowly, “that what you mean is you want the job, and you’ll do what you’re hired for, but with the understanding that you expect to be free to do more than that, too?”

“Man, you dig me the most!”

“Okay. Let me lay it on the line now, and make sure we _both_ know what goes on. When I first thought of you for the job, it was mainly because I knew you were bugged about Johnny. Well so am I. But a different way. Frankly, if we never find out what happened to Doug or to Johnny, it don’t make no never mind for me--just _so_ we can get the next guys back alive--and get ’em _there_, to start with.”

He stood up and walked around the desk; turned and went back and stood at his own seat looking at the doctor across the desk top. “Listen, Phil, you talk about me being ‘a case.’ Well, I am one, all right, and I guess you know it as well as I do. Johnny was my friend. So was Doug. But I’d send ’em again, even if I knew it would happen the same way again--unless I knew some _better_ men to send. And I figure I owe Johnny a whole lot now--but that comes second with me. If it came first, I’d leave him alone, I guess.”

“I think you might do a lot more for Johnny by _not_ leaving him alone,” Kutler broke in.

“Good. Only it’s still secondary. I’ve been busting a gut to get him back on the job with us, but you know as well as I do _why_ I want him. It all comes down to Congress, the Care and Feeding Of.”

“I know,” the doctor said slowly, “Okay, so while we’re showing our cards, let me add this: that’s one of the reasons I want this job. _Another_ one of the reasons. I know what you’re trying to do--but I don’t want to see Johnny fouled up any more either.”

“Okay, so stick around and keep an eye on me. That’s all right too. The way it is right now, Kutler, I can see a good chance of every damn thing we’ve done so far going right swoosh down the drain for God only knows how long--another ten, twenty, thirty years, maybe. Unless the Reds make it, that is--”

“Yeah, that’s something else. What’s _with_ them over there? You’ve had these bugs Johnny brought back and the other stuff to work on--I take it the bugs get the most attention now?” Chris nodded. “So what are they doing there? They run shuttles up and down, and from what I saw coming up, and the scuttlebutt hither and yon, there’s enough espionage going on to support a half dozen space programs. So what are they _doing_?”

“I wish to hell I knew! About the only thing I’m pretty sure of is, they haven’t got anything big going out soon. If they _did_--well, frankly, I’d be the last to know. But the Decagon boys would know all about it before the New Kremlin did, I’ll guarantee. Then maybe we’d see some changes here too. _Maybe, hell!_ That’s the _only_ thing that would get us off the ground again, the way it is now.”

“_A la_ Sputnik?”

Chris nodded. “_And_ Muttnik, _and_ Lunik, _and_ Mechta--and the _Lenin_, for that matter. Frankly, Phil--” He hesitated. It was tempting to talk to this man; it would be a damn big help to have _someone_ to talk to. But--“I wonder if some of the big-scare reaction to the whole _Lenin-Colombo_ bust wasn’t--encouraged a little? After all, Johnny _did_ bring the ship back. It _went_ to Mars. It came _back_. He’s alive, in one piece, sane--as much as anyone, I guess?”

Phil nodded, smiling.

“So why the big scare? The way it adds to me--bearing in mind that I’m a wild-eyed scientist, see? Not a politico--” He grinned. “I keep thinking, the _Colombo_ puts us one-up. As long as they don’t make another move, we stay one-up. As far as the politicians go, that means the Space Program has done its bit for God and country--for now, anyhow. And meantime, for this new Undersea Corporation.... And the Arctic Circle crowd has some big money behind it too. So why throw away the taxpayers’ hard-earned loot on spaceships? No profits, no porkbarrel, not even any damn propaganda value. See?”

“That figures,” Kutler said thoughtfully. “So?”

“So I don’t know. I’m just trying everything I have. Or can get. Including--” He hovered on the brink of filling in the rest of the picture, and decided against it. Not till he knew Phil Kutler a little more. And not till Harbridge was fully committed. “Including you, and Wendt, and the psych program and the bug research, and anything else I can dream up that might either be some _real_ help, or might work to push Congress the right way, or both.”

“But right now if you have to make a choice, what counts is the propaganda end of it?”

“Frankly--yes.”

“Okay.” The doctor stood up. “I just like to know what I’m doing when I do it. Where do I sign up?”

Chris stood too and held out his hand. “You just did. I’ll get the contracts and stuff taken care of. When do you think you can start?”

“Hard to say for sure. As soon as possible--could be two weeks, could be six. I can’t make the move till I get my patients settled with other men. Call it three-four weeks, with moderate luck.”

“From when you go down?” Chris frowned. Add a week and a half, and it was going to run right into September anyhow.

Kutler nodded. “Is it too late to catch the Messenger back this trip?”

He hadn’t thought of that. “No. The passenger shuttles don’t leave till evening anyhow. But don’t you need more time--?”

“What for? I had my case histories before I came up, and I’d already seen twenty-five per cent of your people. I’ve seen enough up here now to know there’s a job to do, and I want to do it. The rest can wait.”

Chris nodded. _Damn it, I like this guy!_ He thought. Then he remembered. He switched on the deskreader and flicked back to Lisa’s letter. “Say, I almost forgot, Lee sent you all kinds of regards.”

* * * * *

He was ridiculously conscious of Chris’ eyes on his face as he read, and of his own determinedly neutral expression.

The note was typically Lisa: the wording, punctuation, even the typing, held that quality of--what?--mock-effrontery?--that had drawn him so strongly that day in front of the restaurant.

Then he got to the bottom, and smiled. Great little intriguer _she’d_ make--like real subtle messages, hey?

“I take it she thinks I should haul out of here before Buster gets on board,” he murmured.

“Well, you thought so too, didn’t you?”

He nodded and glanced at the other man’s face. _Just what is it that girl’s got?_ he wondered again. _And what difference does it make? Never mind her ... what about him?_

“Looks like _some_thing’s going on with our boy, anyhow,” he said carefully. “Maybe my hunch wasn’t all the way off after all. I’m glad you got up there, Chris. Maybe you scared him back to work at least.” _Unless she meant “sideboard” where she wrote “drawing board.”_

Chris switched off the screen. “That’s quite a gal,” he said--a shade too casually.

“First time you met her?” Phil asked.

“Yup.” _Very_ casual now. “What’s with those two, Phil? I mean--” He let it trail off.

Phil shrugged and refrained from smiling. “I guess the girl knows what she wants,” he said noncommitally.

“I mean--well, hell, what’s the deal? How come he doesn’t break down and propose?”

This time he let himself smile. “He does. Every day and twice on Tuesdays, the way I hear it. _She’s_ the one who won’t play.”

Chris looked up sharply. “What the hell--?”

“Look, I’m not telling any stories out of school; I would have thought you’d know that much anyhow. Don’t your people keep any tabs on Wendt at all?”

“Not _my_ people,” the other man said bitterly. “Just Security. And what they don’t tell _me_ would--would probably launch a thousand spaceships, come right down to it. Hell, I wouldn’t even know as much as I’ve told you if I didn’t take that trip Earthside last month.”

“Oh?” _Well, you’ve got some connection, then._... He caught himself up, astonished at his own hostility. _Well, something new has been added!_ Only it wasn’t new at all. The only thing was that Chris had joined the club. Phil Kutler grinned inside himself, not pleasantly. _Strange bedfellows_, he thought--_goddam strange!_

_Mexcity--Thursday, August 4_

The General dictated the last letter of the morning, dismissed his secretary with a tired pleasantry, and buzzed Al Prentiss.

“You seen the papers yet?”

Prentiss was in a good mood--and a good thing, Harbridge thought. He himself was beginning to think again wistfully about the pleasures of retirement.

“Only the _Times_,” he said warily. He hoped Al’s good humor was not the fine edge of battle. This would be a good day not to get clobbered by anything.

“I’ll be right in.” _Click._ That’s the trouble with civilians, Harbridge thought. No damn manners. Al came bursting in, three folded newspapers under his arm, all early afternoon editions.

“Like a charm,” he said, spreading them to the marked articles.

MOON DOME ADMINISTRATION SCOURGED BY CONGRESSMAN

_McLafferty Will Investigate Dome Security Practices_

Iquique, Aug. 4: Representative Ramon E. McLafferty (I., E. Ch.) announced today that he was in receipt of ‘evidence of incredible sloppiness’ in the handling of what ought to be Top-Secret space research projects at Moon Dome.

The Congressman, who is newly appointed Chairman of the Security Subcommittee of the Joint Space Affairs Committee, declined to reveal his sources, but promised an ‘immediate and vigorous investigation.’ Asked if his statement was connected in any way with his interview earlier today with Andrew Jennings, a close neighbor and friend of Rep. McLafferty in the northern mountains, the Industrialist Congressman refused to comment....

That was the gist of them all, except for one columnist’s item: “Ray McLafferty will gain a lot of momentum for the Senatorial elections this fall, if the Moon Dome hearings turn out half as popular as you’d think. Not to mention a well-known neighbor of Ray’s who has what you might call a small interest in persuading Congress that some of the Space Research funds could be better applied under water....”

Harbridge chuckled. The day was not going to be so bad after all. “I hope it doesn’t get _too_ rough,” he said.

“It’s what the man ordered,” Prentiss reminded him.

“I know. I just hope it doesn’t get too rough. I forgot about McLafferty.”