"Please, call me Samantha," she said. For now, "Sammi" or "Sunshine" were out. "No, I haven't decided yet. I'll admit I'm intrigued. Excited even. But I'm still likely to say no. However, I have decided to let you have a little more time trying to convince me."

"Very well Ms., er, Samantha. Did you make it through the whole file?"

"Actually, no. I got pretty deeply into the technical parts, and I was going to read the synopsis of how you got your hands on the alien, but the report disintegrated before I could do that."

"Sorry about that, Samantha. But most people read the synopsis first-"

"I'm not most people," she said bluntly, interrupting.

"No, that you're not. How much of the story would you like?"

"Just the highlights. I don't want to have too much to forget if I decide not to work for you," she said.

"Okay. About four years ago, the USSSG, that's United Solar System Study Group, sent a probe out deep into the cometary halo . . ." Moore told her the story of Richard Michaels' encounter with the aliens with practiced efficiency.

Samantha was wondering whether or not Michaels had believed in BEMs before his encounter when Moore got to the part where the alien was killed. "He killed it just like that! He didn't try to communicate with it?" She was disgusted.

"The aliens had opened fire on his ship, Samantha. Without warning. Mr. Michaels was afraid for his life. Furthermore, when the aliens boarded, they didn't ask permission-they just blasted their way in, and they didn't give a damn whether or not they killed anyone when they did that! Yes, he killed one of them. He tried to kill the other one, too, but it got away!" The coolness of the major's manner had disappeared in the heat of his answer. "I think it would be a good idea if you met him and heard his story firsthand."

"I didn't mean to upset you, Major. I'm sorry. I wasn't there, so I shouldn't question what he did," Samantha said. And that's as humble as I'm going to get, so you'd better take it, she thought.

"Right." Down a couple of degrees, but far from cool. "To continue, after that Michaels managed to send a message back to Earth. The USSSG contacted Intelligence right away-" she knew that was a half truth "-and we hushed up the story immediately. Mr. Michaels thought he'd have to wait a few years at least for any possible rescue, but, well, the military has ships that could get him and the alien body back a good deal sooner than that."

Clearly finished, Moore waited for Samantha to comment, or ask another question. She wasn't sure what to say. The story fascinated her. She feared that if she listened to Moore much longer, she really would throw caution, as well as her principles, to the wind and join up. Finally, she said, "Major Moore, I know at least a hundred other biologists who are more competent than I am to work on this . . . what do you call this project anyway?"

"We call it the Phinon Project."

"Odd name."

"Odd project," Moore said.

She figured out that he wasn't going to explain the origin of the name any more than that, so she went on. "What sort of work do you think I might be able to do for Project Phonon that these others can't?"

"That's the Phinon Project," Major Moore corrected, irritated.

"Sorry."

"To answer your question, I don't know what sort of work or what sort of results I expect to get from you. That's not the point. You just happen to be one of the brightest and most talented individuals in the field of genano engineering, and you may be the person we're looking for."

"Looking for for what purpose, Major?"

"To kill the aliens in the event it becomes necessary," he answered bluntly.

"That's what I thought. It isn't enough that we slaughter each other-you want us to take our freak show on the road and slaughter everything else in the Universe, too." She said it as frostily as possible, and expected Moore to recoil.

He went on the offensive instead. "Spare me the melodramatic pacifist nonsense, Ms. MacTavish. The aliens attacked a human ship first, that's a fact. They pose a threat, the full nature of which is not yet certain. But dammit, if we have to fight them we'd better be ready! You're just one of a hundred I've contacted, one of a hundred hypertalented people who might, just might, provide the key to defeating these aliens if they become our enemies. I don't want to go to war with the aliens, Ms. MacTavish. But if we have to, I'd rather we had a chance to win. And if they were to attack tomorrow, we wouldn't!"

Pushed a button there, Samantha thought. "That's a bit melodramatic too, isn't it, Major?" she said."Anything having to do with war always is, Samantha." He was actually smiling again."Okay, Major Moore," Samantha said, making up her mind. "You haven't gotten me into your little project yet, but I'm willing to admit I see the logic of it. But I still don't know if I want to work for you.

Do you have any more things you want to do to try to convince me to join? I'm open to attempts." Moore paused. He frowned and seemed to be considering what options he had left. And whether or not I'm worth it, Samantha thought. "To be honest, Samantha, I'd hoped this call would be enough. If you were anyone other than yourself I'd give up at this point. But someone who has studied your work-he is working for us already-told me to go all out to get you."

Forced you, I bet, she thought. "I thought you said you knew about me through my husband?""I did. But that isn't what got your name brought up for this project."Curious, Samantha asked, "Who was it?""Dykstra.""I don't know any Dykstras," Samantha said."Dr. James Christian Dykstra, the hypergenius responsible for artificial gravity, defense shields . . . the Dykstra that Dykstra field theory is named after."Oh-that Dykstra."Heard of him?""Duh.""I'd like you to meet him, Samantha. He's on the Moon these days."She was flabbergasted. Moore wanted her to meet the foremost genius of the 21st century, the man

who'd replaced Einstein as the archetypal genius. And he knew about her work. All she could think of to say was, "I thought he was dead."

"He's one hundred twenty-six years old, Samantha. But he hasn't lost anything."

"When?"

"I take that to mean you want to meet him?" Moore confirmed.

"Absolutely. Who wouldn't?"

"Very well. I'll have you brought to our headquarters tomorrow. Can you be ready to go at 1000 hours?"

"Yes."

"I'll have Lieutenant Nachtegall pick you up. I'd also like you to meet with Richard Michaels."

"Okay."

"Have a nice evening, Ms. MacTavish." He signed off.

She knew this would be another night of tossing and turning. But she was also afraid that, after

tomorrow, there would be no turning back. * * * Since the confirmation of the aliens' FTL capability, Dykstra had thrown himself at the problem of understanding how it must work. The past week and a half had found him sequestered in his apartment, chained to his workstation, reverting to his old form of working alone.

He tried to keep Hague apprised. Now and then he'd call the lab where Hague was continuing the work,

with great success, on the mass converter, and discuss various theoretical approaches.

"Ah, yes, yes, Dr. Dykstra, yes, I'll think about that, yes, oh yes," was the typical reply. Once Hague

returned a call and reeled off a long string of mathematical expressions. Dykstra was almost certain Hague had made a mistake.

Almost.

He'd torn apart his own preconceptions, restructured his gravity theory all over again, tracked down

ingenious, esoteric, and sometimes even goofy ideas in the literature, and tried to synthesize the

possibilities into one rigorous whole.

He was still trying when someone showed up at his door. A glance at the clock showed it to be 1930 hours. "Come in," Dykstra said, arising stiffly from his chair. He twisted his neck to work out a kink.

Major Moore entered, uttered preliminary niceties, and got down to business. "This Samantha MacTavish you wanted me to recruit, Doctor-"

"The genano engineer. Have you talked to her?"

"Yes. You're right-she's something special. She's also a tough nut to crack. She doesn't like the military one damn bit."

"A pacifist?"

"It has more to do with her husband being drafted shortly after their marriage."

"I see."

"And I was indirectly responsible for her husband's draft notice. He's an astrophysicist. He was also the

best suicide orbiteer on Luna."

"Ah, yes," Dykstra said. "Those fellows who plot close approach trajectories to the surface and then

follow them in space suits. A wild hobby." Something occurred to Dykstra. "Close approach orbits, hmm? Did he wind up at Slingshot?"

"That's where we put him. Samantha thinks he's on a battleship," Moore said. "And she'd better not find

out different from you."

"How's that, Major?"

Moore frowned. "Let me lay it on the line, Dr. Dykstra. I've been bending over backwards trying to land

this woman for us. If it were up to me, I would have given up long ago. But my superiors, because you requested her, want me to play the persistent suitor. To do that, I've had to let her in on the existence of the aliens, but she is not cleared for anything else, and that includes where we put her husband-"

"How is he, by the way?" Dykstra interrupted. Moore was getting wound up, and Dykstra didn't like it.

"What? Oh yeah, the base. He's probably fine. We don't have a casualty list yet, but I'd guess most of the

fatalities came among the regulars. Ensign MacTavish would have been buttoned up deep inside during the raid, or else zipped away in a lifeboat. Why?"

"Just curious," Dykstra said innocently, but he'd derailed the Major's train of thought.

"Right. Well . . . Ms. MacTavish is going to visit you tomorrow, and you're supposed to convince her of

the merits of joining us in our work. She's visiting Richard Michaels in the morning, and she'll be over

here after lunch."

"But I wasn't informed-" Dykstra began to protest.

"I'm informing you now," Moore said, regaining the initiative. "You wanted her, you can help us get her. I'd suggest you look at her file before tomorrow. Good evening, Doctor." He turned abruptly and strode out.

"Okay," Dykstra said to his back.

After the encounter with Moore's obvious hostility, Dykstra found it impossible to return to work. He got dinner; he'd forgotten to eat earlier. Lieutenant Nachtegall came by at 2100 and woke Dykstra up as he dozed listening to music.

Over coffee, Dykstra asked the lieutenant what the major's problem was.

"Major Moore would slice me open from throat to groin and pour in hot coals if he knew I'd told you this. The major didn't want you here. He fought bringing you in right up until he was formally ordered to try."

"But why? Doesn't he think I'm capable? I think I've proved myself," Dykstra said.

"You have. Beyond anyone's wildest dreams. But that only makes it worse. You see, the major is responsible for the scientific personnel here, a whole bunch of guys who are a hell of a lot brighter than he is. Moore is no dummy, even though he was just a peacetime bureaucrat officer, but he knows he doesn't have the brains to go toe to toe with any of the people under him. But he does have authority over them, and he can push them around, and he can always get rid of someone because there're more young geniuses out there to pick from.

"But you're James Christian Dykstra. You're the best. Who can he replace you with? He wanted you to fall flat on your face when you came here. You didn't. He knows there isn't a damn thing he can do about you if you decide to have things your own way, and he doesn't like it."

"Like with Samantha?"

"Yeah. She's a babe-and-a-half, by the way. I met her when I dropped off the data on the alien at her apartment. Anyway, he's sick of trying to lure her in to work for Intelligence, but there you are, you wanted her, and what the Genius wants, the Genius gets."

"But I haven't been unreasonable, have I?"

"No. But you could be if you wanted to. Major Moore is a military man. He looks at capabilities, not intentions."