Eventually she composed herself enough to call Martha, who came over and stayed with her the rest of the long, hopeless night.

The next days were a blur of undifferentiated activities, undifferentiated in that they were all just things that happened in that long, sickening period "after Steve died." Friends visited. Along with Martha and her husband came Mike and Terry, longtime friends of Steve and fellow suicide orbiteers. Her mother came up from Earth to be with her, aunts sent sympathy cards, and her in-laws also came. There was a good deal of crying, and a sharing of stories about Steve, and surprisingly, there was some laughter, too. Major Moore sent his condolences, and at the memorial service, she saw Chris Dykstra sitting discreetly in the back. When the ceremony neared its end, the black veil was dropped over the cross of black lunar glass that would stand out in the military cemetery at the edge of the Sea of Tranquility.

There was no body to bury.

Sunday morning Dykstra went to chapel. The sermon was old hat. His mind wandered. While Chaplain Townsend preached about the calling of Abram, Dykstra wondered about the place of the Phinons-the project name was now a synonym for the aliens-in the cosmological order, particularly if they were intelligent yet lacked souls.

He got nowhere, but at least the sermon ended before his snores became audible.

Feeling renewed both from the morning service and yesterday's visit by Samantha, he sat at his workstation filled with exceptional vigor, eager to again dive into his theoretical work on the Phinon FTL drive. It proved frustrating. Almost he was there. But some pieces were missing.

They were still missing on Monday.

Tuesday he went to the lab. "Yes, yes, Dr. Dykstra, welcome, yes, yes. You must see the mass converter now, yes, oh yes. It works so much better now, yes."

"Dr. Hague isn't kidding," Vander Kam said. "We just measured our conversion efficiency at over ninety-five percent."

"That's incredible! The Phinon's own device was only at ninety-two percent," Dykstra exclaimed. "How did you do it?"

"It was all Dr. Hague. I hate to admit it, but he pretty much just told me what to do. The result is over there." He gestured toward the machine where Hague was lovingly going over the instruments. "We think this model is the one we'll scale up to half size. Of course, we'll have to relocate to Farside Station."

"Oh? When?" Dykstra asked, surprised. His project was slipping-no, had slipped-away from him.

"I've talked to Major Moore. We'll probably be leaving within the month. The facilities in Paracelsus crater should serve. That's where the antimatter power plants are tested. But when we leave depends on when that alien drive unit gets here. Moore wants Hague to see it."

Since the Phinon attack on Slingshot, information about the raid had come out slowly, but regularly. The wrecked alien vessel had been done in when a lifeboat rammed it. Dykstra found that appropriate since Slingshot had existed to find novel ways to use kinetic kill methods against Dykstra shields. The lifeboat had rammed in just the right way to cause the shield to collapse catastrophically over the front section of the alien ship. Dykstra wondered if the pilot had planned it that way. The drive section, and the FTL engine, were left intact, and these were now on their way to Luna.

"What did he think about the other alien artifacts?"

"He hasn't seen any yet," Vander Kam replied. "You solved the intractable technological problems, and I think all those items are with the anthropo and socio and psycho types. Probably the artists, too."

"Tell me, Rick-what's it like to work with Hague day after day?"

"He's not much for conversation. He drives me nuts with his speech mannerisms. And heaven forbid the routine gets changed-"

"The autistic typically require the routine and familiar," Dykstra said.

"But what can I say? He looks at something, says it isn't right, we make some changes, and they're always an improvement. It's amazing."

"He's better at this sort of thing than I am," Dykstra sighed, watching the diminutive scientist scurrying about.

"I don't know about that."

"Oh, bosh! You just told me he does things that I know I can't do," Dykstra retorted.

"You invented modern physics, Chris."

"That was a long time ago. When I was young."

"Oh, c'mon, Chris," Vander Kam said. "You duplicated the aliens' mass conversion method. No one else was able to do that. Only you could do it."

"I'm not so sure," he shrugged. "I've been working with Dykstra fields for over a century. So along comes an alien device that does a new trick. I didn't think up how to do the trick. I only figured it out once I knew it could be done and had an example in front of me." He raised his cane and pointed it in the direction of Hague, who turned and smiled, said "Yes, yes," and went back to work. "And it took another man to make the device practical."

"You're not being fair to yourself, Chris. You've been working on FTL drive studies. You could have improved it yourself if you'd been here."

"Not to ninety-five percent, Rick. Not in two weeks. Not at my age."

Wednesday morning Dykstra took the fast elevator up to the small observation bubble on the top of the High Command mountain. To the north he could see the crags and rugged undulations of the highland topography. To the south, the bare plain of Mare Crisium, broken by a myriad of small craters, spreading away to the horizon.

Sharp shadows carved the landscape.

Dykstra looked up at the stars, bright, keen, sparkling beacons outlining the road to destiny.

He'd decided this morning that he'd gotten as far as he was going to with the FTL theory until he could look inside that engine. It's cheating, he thought. But I'm an old man.

He relived the hour with Samantha MacTavish-Sunshine. She was so quick, so bright, so young. So like Jennifer. The future belonged to such as she. It would be the Sunshines of the world who would travel the road to the stars.

Dykstra descended. Emerging from the elevator, Major Moore plowed into him.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Dykstra. Excuse me. I wasn't watching where I was going." Helping Dykstra back to his feet, Moore seemed jovial.

"Quite all right, Major. Say, has Ms. MacTavish agreed to join us yet?"

Dykstra thought Moore's smile broadened a hint.

"No, Doctor. It turns out that her husband did die in the alien attack. She didn't take the news too well. She went ballistic; threw the notifying officer right out of her apartment. She was down on the military before-you can imagine how she feels now."

Dykstra felt a dull burning inside, wrapped around hollowness. He'd lost many himself-he knew what she was going through. "When did you find out?"

"Yesterday."

"And you didn't tell me?"

Moore's expression hardened. "Obviously not, Doctor. You have no official interest in this matter."

The major was right, but Dykstra hated the petty delight Moore was taking in spelling that out to him now.

Moore lightened up. "Lieutenant Nachtegall did inform me that you and Ms. MacTavish 'hit it off' as he put it. I suppose you'll want to go to the funeral. It's tomorrow morning."

"Thanks for telling me."

"Not at all. But Samantha still doesn't know how or where her husband died. Perhaps after the war we can tell her. Right now we can't risk letting the Belt know about either the aliens or Slingshot. You mustn't discuss those subjects."

Dykstra didn't like it. "Major, I must protest. She already knows about the aliens, and Slingshot is moot now. She has a right to know how her husband died. She has a right to know how his last minutes were lived."

"Bullshit, Doctor. Bullshit! Even if I grant the existence of such a sentimental right, I'm damn sure that it is neither your duty nor your right to tell her. Do I make myself clear?"

"Clearer than you know, Major," Dykstra sighed.

"I'm sorry for leaning on you, Doctor. But security is important to me. Go ahead, take tomorrow off, go to the funeral if you wish, or just enjoy what Luna City has to offer." Moore chuckled lightly and patted him on the back.

The insincerity was galling. Dykstra said nothing, and set out slowly down the hall. He hated needing

the cane.

He went to the funeral. Nachtegall flew him into Luna City and led him to the church, but the lieutenant

had other official business and so regretfully had to leave Dykstra there by himself.

From the back, he could see Samantha, in black, shuddering, crying. The minister went on at length about Steve, most of it generic kind words, of giving up his life for some greater, though unspecified, good.

His eyes were drawn to the cross of black lunar glass, Spartan, but dignified in its simplicity. It would

stand with thousands of others out in the Sea of Tranquility.

Samantha slipped out quickly after the ceremony. He had no chance to speak to her, even to let her know he was there, though he thought she might have seen him once.

Friday afternoon Moore called.

"I was wondering how your work is going, Dr. Dykstra. I noticed you haven't filed any progress reports in-boy, it looks like over two weeks now."

"I haven't had much to report, Major. I'm temporarily stalled."

"I see. Do you suppose-"

Dykstra didn't let him finish. "I do not understand how their drive works. Everything I try leads to

contradictions or singularities or discontinuities. And sometimes just plain stupid results."

"You're quitting, Dr. Dykstra? Is that what you mean?" He sounded hopeful.

"No, Major. I'm waiting until the drive unit comes in. I'm hoping it will provide the missing puzzle

pieces. In the meantime, I'll see what other project I can help out on."

"Hmmm," Moore said. "It's not as simple as that, Doctor. The other work is all going quite well, much of it because of your success with the alien weapon. But . . . well, to be blunt, the other scientists would not

welcome having you on their teams. You know, professional jealousy. And fear that you'll outshine them."

"So I'm just supposed to twiddle my old thumbs until the drive unit arrives?"

"Actually, Dr. Hague will do the studies on the drive. He's quite remarkable with technology, isn't he,

Doctor?"

You're not shutting me out, Major! "In that case, I'll continue my theoretical studies. I thought it would be best to set them aside for a while and do something else, but it looks like that won't be practical." Moore pasted on an empty smile and said, "Okay, Dr. Dykstra. But don't get discouraged. I'm sure you'll come up with something."

"Thank you, Major."

"But I need to see progress reports."

For each of the next eight days Moore received an impenetrably math-laden report he could never hope

to understand. Finally, he rebelled.