They were her training group, her extended family.

Her responsibility.

She would always remember how Jim paused before entering the vehicle, his eyes scanning the crowd, seeking out her face amid the many others turned in his direction. The mission commander, and a fellow graduate of the astronaut class of '94, Jim was a strapping, vigorous man who seemed to pulsate with confidence and enthusiasm ... and, at that particular moment, an impatience that only another astronaut who'd seen the Earth from 250 miles up could fully understand.

"Turnips, first and always," he said, knowing she'd be unable to hear him in the commotion, moving his lips slowly so she could read them without trouble. Grinning at her, then, he cocked a thumb at one of the breast patches on his carrot-orange launch/reentry suit.

Annie chuckled. Her mind flashed back to Houston, and the old training school motto they'd cooked up together, and the missions on which they'd flown as teammates. Ah, mercy, she thought. Once you'd been in space, it never stopped calling to you. Never.

"Terra nos respuet, " she mouthed in Latin.

The earth spits us up and out.

Jim's grin widened, his eyes showing wry good humor. Then he tipped her a rakish little salute, turned, and entered the transport, the rest of the crew following him aboard in orderly procession.

Soon afterward, her functions as window dressing concluded, Annie broke free of the gathered reporters, ate a light breakfast in the commissary, and then headed for the mission's designated firing room, one of four expansive areas in the Center capable of directing a shuttle flight from prelaunch testing to takeoff, at which point operations would be shifted over to Mission Control in the Johnson Space Center, Houston. Filled with aisles of semicircular computer consoles, its enormous windows looking out toward the pad, the room was an impressive sight even while unoccupied. On launch days, when it bustled with ground controllers, technicians, assorted NASA bigwigs, and a smattering of guest VIPs from outside the program, it was something else again. For Annie, the atmosphere never ceased to be electrifying.

As she took her place in the Operations Management Room section of the firing room--which situated both the invitees and high-ranking personnel whose roles were nonessential to the countdown--Annie noticed the man seated to her right flick her an interested glance, instantly categorized it as the sort of I've-seen-your-picture-on-a-cereal-box look to which fame had made her accustomed, and then just as suddenly realized she was studying him in an almost identical manner. Not many businessmen were also household names, but only somebody who'd been sleepwalking for the past decade could have failed to recognize the founder and CEO of UpLink International, one of the world's leading tech firms and, most notably insofar as Annie was concerned, prime contractor of the ISS.

He extended his hand. "Sorry for staring, but it's a great thrill to meet you, Ms. Caulfield," he said. "I'm--"

"Roger Gordian." She smiled. "Our program's foremost civilian standard bearer. And just 'Annie' would be fine."