No time to ponder on what his counterparts on other continents might be doing, he told himself. Doubtless some of them were likewise wondering what the Americans were up to.

Sometime during the early morning, his room had been entered while he slept, and a beige-colored jumpsuit had been laid out for him. It was accompanied by black half-boots that were soft on the inside, tough on the outside, and exactly his size. A patch with his name on it had been sewn onto the top of the jumpsuit just above the left breast pocket. Another representing NASA adorned the right shoulder. All shirt, pants, and shoe attachments were Velcro; there were no buttons, zippers, or laces anywhere. The pockets were empty.

Not long after he had concluded his morning ablutions, a soft chime came from the vicinity of his room’s door. Probably been watching us ever since we arrived, he told himself. While we were asleep. While we were in the bathroom. He shrugged it off. Given the critical nature of the task immediately ahead, personal privacy was likely something that the members of the contact team had already forfeited.

The man waiting for him out in the hall offered a polite greeting, asked how he had slept, and made inoffensive but unenlightening small talk as he led Dev down the corridor. In the small dining area that was an adjunct to the nearby subterranean cafeteria he rejoined Pavesi and Reed. The Zimmers arrived a few minutes later. Dev’s escort was replaced by someone new. The new man frowned at the couple as they filled their plates.

“You’re late.”

“We’re old.” Jakob Zimmer pulled out a molded plastic chair and took a seat.

Their new attendant was not so easily put off. “You’re fifty-four. Your wife is fifty-two. That’s not old.”

“We have aspirations.” Chiasa Katou-Zimmer began buttering an onion bagel.

Emerging from the compact cafeteria food preparation area, the chef doffed his toque, entered into dual duty mode, and informed them all politely but firmly, “You have twenty minutes. I’d advise less talking and more eating.”

Pavesi pulled a face at Dev, who smiled slightly in return. This far south he didn’t have to ask for hot sauce for his scrambled eggs. Following the chef-guard’s advice he ate as quickly as he dared. The breakfast was perfectly adequate. But given the option, he would have chosen something else for a possible last meal. He missed his mother’s pakoras. Hell, at that moment, he missed the mass-produced ones that could be found in the frozen ethnic foods section of his local DC market.