He knew. He knew he could leave the tail intact. "It wasn't enough for him to just save his friends. He had to give us a shot at having their faster-than-light drive, too." Whispers.

He gave up his life for that. And his widow doesn't even know.

But I do. He thought of Sammi, the smile, the twinkle in her eyes. He thought of the shattered woman at the funeral. He thought of the alien drive, and Hague horrified. Opening it was his last chance to understand it.

The options were clear.

"Keep quiet, and stay. Tell her, and be sent away."

When I was young it wouldn't have even been a choice.

Lieutenant Nachtegall was worried about his friend. As he walked to the briefing in the tracking room, he thought about what Chris had been through, what had turned him old.

He'd noticed the change after he'd returned with Hague, though it had started before, with the destruction of Dykstra's home. Then Hague had become the new wunderkind, Dykstra's project had slipped away from him, and even the Hague Limit had turned out to exist. Following that, weeks of failure at trying to build a theory of FTL drives.

And sandwiched among them, a meeting with a delightful Samantha followed by a funeral for her husband.

Nachtegall had read Dykstra's biography-he knew what sort of memories that must have brought back to the old man.

And last night, a new concern had been assaulting his friend, though he wouldn't tell Nachtegall what it was.

The lieutenant turned a corner, took a dropshaft down two floors, entered another long corridor. Almost there.

After leaving Dykstra last night, Bob had ferried some of the technogeeks out to Luna City, and joined them at a popular club.

At one point the conversation had turned to Dykstra. The others had also noticed his rough mood. One young scientist remarked that anybody would be depressed at not getting anywhere on a problem for a month. Dr. Manlinkov snorted. "Ah, that's the problem with being such a mind as he is. All his life it has been easy for him. Now he fails to overturn the foundations of physics in only one month, and this troubles him. Hmph! I should have such troubles."

Then the conversation had turned to Moore. The scientists didn't like him at all. "He feels threatened by Dykstra," one said. "We're all threatened by Dykstra," another laughed. "It's not fair, though. Dykstra earned all of his respect. He shouldn't have to take guff from a pinhead like Moore," the first retorted.

Nachtegall stood before the door to the tracking room. He'd tell Chris about last night, that the others liked and respected him. Maybe it would help. Sometime after the briefing, though. He entered. All the Phinon Project scientists were there. Chris Dykstra stood leaning on his cane, eyes tired, looking like he felt every one of his years. Major Moore was smugly directing the man at the viewer controls to call up the Slingshot material; their first look at the alien spacecraft activating its drive as it fled the base. There was Rick Vander Kam, standing next to Dr. Hague, fidgety and agitated, staring only at the floor.

Dykstra tried to speak to Moore. "Major, you wouldn't see me earlier, but before I view this-"

"Wait until after the briefing, Doctor," Moore said, irritated.

"You may not want me present at this briefing."

"Lieutenant Jones, continue with your work," Moore said to the man at the console. He faced Dykstra.

"This briefing will continue on schedule."

Dykstra persisted. "Very well, Major." He took a resigned breath. "I'm going to tell Samantha MacTavish how her husband died. As soon as this briefing is over."Moore was livid. "That's insubordination, Doctor! And this is wartime-""Lighten up, Major," a voice called from among the scientists.Nachtegall stepped in. "Hang on, Chris. Sir."On the big screen, the stars burst into view, then swung sideways until the camera locked onto the alien ship, a vessel of odd twists and turns.

"What seems to be the problem?" Nachtegall asked.

"The major won't tell Samantha that her husband died at Slingshot. That he is the one responsible for

both saving the base and getting us the alien drive unit," Dykstra said.

"She has no need to know," Moore said. "Now sit down." He looked at the screen and addressed the gathering. "Here is the remaining alien ship. Notice carefully . . ."

"Is that true?" Nachtegall whispered.

"Yes."

". . . patterned in a twisted torus," Moore continued.

"That's wrong, Major!" Nachtegall interrupted. "Samantha has a right to know. She's no security risk!

Hell, she already knows more about the aliens than-"

"That is enough, Lieutenant! You are dismissed. Confine yourself to quarters. And you, Dr. Dykstra-"

he began, but Dykstra wasn't listening.

Dykstra stood transfixed by the screen, his eyes focused on infinity, his mind a million light-years away.

On the viewscreen, the alien ship turned rapidly. The tail section began to waver, then the ship was

gone, just a streak into the deep heavens. The data readout in the upper right corner of the screen

indicated an acceleration of two hundred million gravities.

A scream came from the back. "No! No! It's not right! A wrong thing!" Hague was crying, shuddering, trying to hide inside himself. "No, no, no, no-no-no-no-no-no." He slid to the floor. Vander Kam stooped to help him.

* * * Dykstra couldn't take his eyes off the screen. There was the ship, the tail wavering, like he was viewing it from a hundred meters away over hot pavement. Then, zoom, gone, at an acceleration of two hundred million gravities. No, it had to be an apparent acceleration. Yes, and that would mean . . . * * * Nachtegall was watching Dykstra. "Staring off into infinity, seeing things no others can see, nor even imagine." That's how the biography had put it. Bob was seeing it now. * * *

It was there, all of it, laying itself out. Faster than he could consciously think, his wonderful, peerless mind assembled the answers before him.

Of course the causality paradoxes would go away if . . .

Yes, the transition to hypervelocities had to take place at minimum . . .

Trying to cross the Hague Limit in FTL drive would . . .

It was coming to him, unfolding, like the hand of God unrolling a scroll before him.

You are James Christian Dykstra, and through you, God will give Man the stars.

"Look at him, Major!" Vander Kam was pointing at Hague. "Look what you've done to him!"

"He'll be okay-"

"He will not!" Vander Kam shouted. "He's not your little tin soldier to push around and command. He

can't handle this! He's not emotionally equipped for it, you idiot!"THWAK. Dykstra slammed his cane on the table. "Enough!" he said, and everyone listened."He's back," Nachtegall said, awed. "He knows.""Rick, take Dr. Hague home, please," Dykstra said."Now wait one damn minute, Doctor!" Moore spat."Silence!" the old man said, eyes ablaze, again slamming his cane on the table. No one moved. The scientists bearing witness hushed. Moore, always more paper pusher than soldier, shut up.Dykstra continued. "I now know how the FTL drive works, Major. Do you understand what that means?

For the war effort, for the human race, for the future, Major? Do you understand what it means for me, Major? Do you understand what it means for you?"Nachtegall saw the passion, the sparkle, the fire in Dykstra's eyes. This was the man he'd read about, the foremost genius of the age, as he must have been in his prime.

As he was now.

Major Moore backed down. "Dr. Dykstra, I'm sure we can work something out. Let's not remain angry."

Dykstra laughed. "Your reasonable attitude delights me. Major, I will continue to work for the Phinon

Project. And I will give us a faster-than-light drive."

Dykstra started for the door. "But before I actually write anything down, I have another chore to attend to. Lieutenant Nachtegall, will you give me a lift to Luna City? There's a certain young widow I must visit tonight."

Samantha had returned to work a week after the funeral, but her sense of purpose had vanished. Friends told her it would take time, but she wondered if there was any truth to what they said. In the evenings, Samantha returned to an empty apartment, to see Steve's things, to have every room remind her of times when they laughed together, ate together, or loved together. And there was nothing for her to do except to helplessly tolerate it.

Samantha was staring at the walls, not crying, not laughing, not feeling anything but a numb hollowness inside, when Dykstra came to visit.

She answered the door and found the old man standing outside with his cane. "Hello, Sammi," he said. "Let an old man with a walking stick in?"

"Of course, Dr. Dykstra." She motioned him in. "Pardon the mess. I haven't been much into cleaning lately."

"I am as sorry as I can be, Sammi. At my age, I've lost a lot of people who were dear to me. They still are. Practice makes it no easier."

"Thank you. And thanks for coming to the funeral-it meant a lot to me." She looked at Dykstra, standing there with his walking stick, and even though he was in the hated military, she could hold no blame against him. "Take a seat, please," she said. "Would you like me to turn down the gravity?"

"I would be more comfortable. Thank you." She did, and in a moment was sitting across from him.

"So, Doctor, were you just out visiting widows tonight, or did you have some other reason for coming?" She hadn't wanted to sound bitter, or suspicious, but she couldn't help it.

"No, Sammi. I know you're wondering if I'm here at the request of Major Moore. I'm not. I came for personal reasons. The major has given up on you."

"Thankfully, I'll bet. That's fine. I won't work for the goddamn military-bunch of little boys slaughtering each other, and for what?" She had an answer, but she stopped herself, not wanting to get worked up.

"Samantha, please. I only want to tell you how Steve died, what really happened."

"I thought his ship was destroyed. They didn't have a body to return to me."

"Sammi, Steve didn't die in the war-the aliens killed him."

"What?!"

Dykstra laid his cane across his legs and continued. "I'm not supposed to tell you what I'm about to tell you. But one of the advantages of being me is that I'm going to be able to get away with it. People with Steve's talents aren't put on battleships, Sammi. He was working on something called Slingshot; another secret project based on a sliver of rock sixty astronomical units out."

"That's beyond the Hague Limit, right?"

Dykstra's eyes lit up and he smiled. "You see it already. As I was saying, Slingshot involved sending kinetic kill projectiles on ultra-close-approach orbits past airless bodies: Steve's unique field of

expertise. Massive, fast-moving bodies are still the best way to crack through a Dykstra shield. It was hoped this method could be used to attack the Belt.

"But that work is moot, now." Dykstra paused and just shook his head.

"Was Steve good?"

"His work was brilliant, Sammi." Dykstra's eyes glistened, holding back tears.

He continued. "The Slingshot base was attacked by two alien ships, apparently identical to the one that

hit OEV 1. Slingshot isn't heavily armed. When general quarters sounded, Steve was ordered to leave in a lifeboat. He was able to watch the attack as he fled. Slingshot was getting hammered. Steve . . ." Dykstra stopped, choked up. Samantha came and sat next to him.

"What, Chris? What did he do?" She knew, but she had to hear it.

"He was clear, Sammi. He could have escaped. But he turned around. He knew . . . he knew he could . . .

he could take out one of them. . . ." He was too overcome to go on for a moment.

"He rammed their ship, didn't he?"

"Yes. Their shields are almost identical to ours. He knew what to do. He rammed their ship. That's why