“We go back a long way, JK. All the way back to the old B-70.”

“Christ, it’s not as if I’m going to Mars myself. I’ll even be on-site here, most days.” It was true; Cane had offered him a staff job, a way to keep his rank of vice president. “Anytime you need me, you know you’ve only got to pick up the phone.”

At that, Rowen’s face did crumple. “I know, JK. Oh, Jesus.”

Lee felt as if he might fold up, too. Destructive testing, again.

He stepped back and clapped his hands. The sound was loud, startling, and they all looked at him.

“Come on, guys. You’ve all got work to do. Let’s get on with it.”

His people made attempts at good-byes, at more eulogies.

He chased them out of his office.

When they’d gone he stood there for a while, looking at his big metal desk. It looked like a piece of a wrecked battleship, stranded in the middle of a sea of blue-gray corporate-colors carpet.

Suddenly he couldn’t stand it anymore.

He went out, closing the door behind him. He asked Bella, who was sobbing openly, to pack up his effects and send them on.

Outside, Jack Morgan was waiting. “Come on,” Morgan said. “I could use a day off. Let’s get down to the Balboa Bay and drown in Lemon Hart.”

It sounded like a hell of a good idea to Lee. But, there in the middle of the parking lot, something slowed him, snagging at him like a trapped thread.

“No,” he said. “Thanks, Jack, but no.”

“Huh?” There was the concern of a doctor mixed in with Morgan’s surprise.

Lee grinned. “I’m fine. It’s just that—”

Morgan clapped his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Next time, huh.”

“Sure.”

Lee walked to his T-bird. He guessed Morgan understood.

It’s just that today, I think I should go on home to Jennine.

Monday, August 13, 1984

LYNDON B. JOHNSON SPACE CENTER, HOUSTON

Bleeker, in blue coveralls, sat in a small padded chair, opposite Muldoon’s desk. Bleeker’s eyes were large and pale, and had always seemed somehow calm to Muldoon. Like windows to a church. But then little creases bunched up around those eyes, and the color drained out of Bleeker’s face.

When Bleeker spoke his voice had tightened up, but it was under control. “So tell me, Joe. I did something wrong?”

“No. No, of course not. You know that.” Muldoon tapped the fat brown card folder on his desk. “It’s just surgeon shit… Listen. You want a drink?” He opened the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet. “I have a bottle of sour mash down here, and—”

“No, thanks, Joe. Just tell me, will you?”