Dave gaped at him. Later, Jerry realized he wasn’t in the habit of barking at people who had a lot more seniority than he did—and not only barking, but barking with authority that declared he was entitled to answers. After Dave pulled his face straight, he gave him one: “We have orders to see if we can get samples of Humpty Dumpty’s outer skin so we can find out what it’s made of and whether we can duplicate it.”

“Orders from who?” Most of the time, Jerry tried to talk grammatically. He was too rattled now to care.

“From the highest authority,” Dave said.

“Oh, bullshit. Gerald Ford doesn’t give a rat’s ass what Humpty Dumpty’s made of. Could be snips and snails and puppy dogs’ tails for all he cares.”

“What it is wouldn’t matter. Knowing what it is and knowing whether it’s anything we can match—that matters.”

“Does making the ship notice us and maybe blow us away matter?”

“For God’s sake, Jerry, be reasonable. You’ve gone inside it, remember.”

“I had permission. It opened up for me. What if screwing with the hull weakens it so it can’t fly or something? You think it won’t know? You think it can’t protect itself? Ask the Russians!”

“Dale thought the risk was small enough to be justifiable,” Dave said.

“Fuck Dale, too.”

Jerry would have gone on, but somebody—presumably the men who’d been messing with Humpty Dumpty’s hide—rapped on the steel door. Dave let them in. “Any luck?” he asked, as he closed the door again and secured it.

“Not a goddamn bit,” answered the guy with the hammer and chisel. He added, “Hey, Jerry.”

“Hi, Woodie,” Jerry said. The technician was—what else?—only following orders.

“What do you mean, not a bit?” Dave said.

“Chisel wouldn’t bite.” Woodie held it up. “It just slid, like. And Bert’s torch didn’t heat the shell even a little. We both struck out.”

“Shit,” Dave said, most sincerely. Jerry found himself relieved and happy at the same time. Ever since he first tried knocking on the airlock door, he’d wondered whether Humpty Dumpty was fully in contact with the world he lived in. You could lift it. You could touch it. But could you truly get a grip on it? Maybe not.

X

At breakfast the next morning, Dale bussed his tray and plate and silverware, then came over to the table where Jerry was eating. Nodding, he said, “Stop by my cabin when you get done, will you?”

“Uh, sure,” Jerry said, but he was talking to Dale’s back. The bite of sausage he was chewing seemed to lose flavor in his mouth. A friendly, casual order was still an order. He’d waited nervously for the other shoe to drop. Here it was.