"Two weeks, then you can announce the existence of the Jersey Colony to the world. With trumpets sounding and drums beating you can play the big political hero. Two weeks, and you can demonstrate proof of this century's greatest scientific achievement."

"After all this time, why then?"

"Because that's when we've scheduled the original crew to leave Jersey Colony and return to earth with the accumulation of two decades of space research-- reports on meteorological and lunar probes, the scientific results on thousands of biological, chemical, and atmospheric experiments, uncountable photographs and miles of video records of the first human establishment of a planetary civilization. The first phase of the project is completed. The dream of the `inner core' is finished. Jersey Colony now belongs to the American people."

The President toyed with his putter thoughtfully. Then he asked, "Who are you?"

"Look to your memory. We knew each other many years ago."

"How am I to contact you?"

"I'll arrange another meeting when I feel it's required." Joe lifted the clubs from the cart's rack and began walking along a narrow path toward the clubhouse. Then he stopped and came back.

"By the way, I lied. That's not a bomb, but a present from the `inner core'-- a new box of golf balls."

The President gazed at him in frustration. "Burn in hell, Joe."

"Oh, and one more thing. . . congratulations."

"Congratulations?"

Joe handed him the scorecard. "I kept track of your play. You hit a seventy-nine."

<<4>>

The sleek hull of the sailboard skimmed the choppy water with the graceful elegance of an arrow shot through mist. Its slick and delicately curved shape was as visually pleasing to the eye as it was efficient in achieving great speed over the waves. Perhaps the simplest of all sailing systems, the board was built with a polyethylene shell molded over an inner core of rigid plastic foam to give it lightness and flexibility. A small skeg or fin protruded from below the stern for lateral control, while a daggerboard hung down near the middle to prevent the board from being swept sideways by the wind.

A triangular sail, dyed purple with a broad turquoise stripe, clung to an aluminum mast that was mounted onto the board by a universal joint. An oval tubular wishbone or boom circled the mast and sail, and was tightly gripped by long, slender hands that were coarse skinned and callused.

Dirk Pitt was tired, more tired than his dulled mind could accept. The muscles of his arms and legs felt as though they were sheathed in lead and the ache in his back and shoulders grew more intense with each maneuver of the sailboard. For at least the third time in the last hour he fought off a growing urge to head for the nearest beach and stretch out in the sand.