And always he kept his eye on the Potato. Someday, he knew, he would go there, and not as an ISCCOM exchange Russian.

A nation could only stand so much.

Three - Christmas Eve 2004,

Santa Barbara, California

Patricia Luisa Vasquez opened the car door to release her seat harness. She was anxious to get into the house and start the festivities. The psychological testing at Vandenberg the past few days had been exhausting.

"Wait," Paul Lopez said. He put a hand on her arm, then stared at the dashboard. Vivaldi's Four Seasons played on the car stereo. "Your folks aren't going to want to know—"

"Don't worry about it," she said, pulling back a strand of very dark brown, almost black, hair. The lower half of her round face was illuminated by an orange streetlight, light olive skin pink in the sodium glow. She regarded Paul solicitously, tying her hair into two braids parted in the middle. Her square, intense eyes reminded him of a cat's gaze just before pouncing.

"They'll love it," she said, laying hand on his shoulder and stroking his cheek. "You're the first non-Anglo boyfriend I've ever introduced them to."

"I mean, about us rooming together."

"What they don't know won't hurt them."

"I feel a little awkward. You keep talking about your parents being old-fashioned."

"I just wanted you to meet them, and to show you my home."

"I want that, too."

"Listen, with the news I have tonight, nobody's going to worry about my maidenhood. If Mom asks how serious we are, I'll let you answer."

Paul grimaced. "Great."

Patricia pulled his hand toward her and made a rude sound against the palm with her lips, then opened the door.

"Wait."

"What now?"

"I'm not. . . I mean, you know that I love you."

"Paul. . .”

"It's just. . .”

"Come on inside and meet my family. You'll calm down. And don't worry."

They locked the car door and opened the trunk, pulling groceries out of the back. She huffed up the front walk with a box, her breath clouding in the cold night air. She wiped her feet on the front step mat, swung the screen door wide, caught it with her elbow and shouted, "Mama! It's me. And I brought Paul, too."

Rita Vasquez took the box from her daughter's arms and laid it down on the kitchen table. At forty-five, Rita was only slightly plump, but the clothes she wore invariably conflicted with even Patricia's rudimentary sense of fashion.

"What is this, a care package?" Rita asked. She held her arms out and folded Patricia in them.

"Mama, where did you get that polyester suit? I haven't seen one of those in years."

"I found it in the garage, packed away. Your father bought it for me before you were born. So where's Paul?"

"He's carrying in two more boxes." She removed her coat and savored the smells of tamales steaming in corn husks, baking ham and sweet potato pie. "Smells like home," she said, and Rita beamed.