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Coretta hit the right tone. Somehow they had each summed up their work for the others, once they started they had to go on. But she had topped the conversation and made them laugh. Patrick sensed this as the correct moment to stop the business and get social. They had to learn to live together before they could work together.

“The drinking light is lit,” he said. “I know there are no teetotalers among the Americans, or among the piloting staff. How about you, Colonel?”

“I drink only vodka, brandy, beer, kvass and wine, though during the war I learned to like German schnapps and Scotch whiskey.”

“You won't be hard to please. That leaves you, Gregor.”

The blond engineer looked around. “Please, I am no problem, a small glass of wine perhaps. Though I am willing to try anything.”

“Boozers all,” Patrick said. “As CO of this outfit it is my pleasure to throw out the first bottle. It's going to be a native product of ours, a sour mash bourbon, and you'll like it. If you don't like it we'll try something else.”

Patrick poured the drinks and passed them out. Nadya nodded thanks, without looking up, already deep in conversation with Gregor. Perhaps she found him attractive; maybe he was in a depressing Russian way. A sad-looking engineer, a widower of only two months, must bring out the maternal instincts in any girl. Perhaps even more than that. She might be holding his hand next to cheer him up. Or more. Well fine, it would make for a happy ship, wouldn't it? It didn't matter to him. She was pilot and he was commander and that was all there was to it. Yet as he reached for the bottle to pour more drinks he saw her image clearly before him, as she had been that once, nude and smooth as silk beneath his fingers, her lips still wet where they had pressed against his. This memory was so strong that he had to pause for a second and resist the impulse to blink or shake his head. With a steady hand he poured a drink. That was all in the past, a moment out of time, something unimportant. It had looked good for a bit, then something had gone wrong. He had no idea what it was nor did he care to find out. There were other women in the world, right on this flight in fact. Femlib with a vengeance. And he could understand Coretta a lot better than he could Nadya. Maybe there was something after all to the east is east, west is west bit. It was technology and a common need that had lifted the Prometheus Project off the ground, not the crying need for each country to vote in the other's elections. Ely and the Colonel had the right idea; keep it technical and there were no problems. Patrick brought them their glasses.

“Listen, Patrick,” Ely said. “Did you know that our friend the Colonel here was the man who developed, with Patsayev, the superconductor cable that we're laying now in Alaska?”

“I didn't know it but I would believe it. Probably because I know very little about superconductors.”

“The greatest thing in physics since the discovery of the monopole. Shows how stupid the CIA boys can be. A fifteen-page report on the Colonel, all about what year he joined the Communist party and the name of his dog, but nothing about his real work. Don't stand there looking like a shocked virgin, Patrick. Do you think the Colonel doesn't know that we've had inch-thick security reports about everybody on the crew?”

“Or is there doubt on your part that we have had the same about you?” the Colonel said. Taking a long swig from his glass he nodded approvingly. “Not vodka; but a certain charm of its own.”

“Yes, it has,” Patrick said, then relaxed and smiled at himself. “I'm sure the security people are earning their money on both sides of the fence. And I guess it doesn't really matter a damn. Prometheus is a joint project that both countries have been booted into because we both need new energy sources now the old ones are running out. In the US we've had our big blackouts in Seattle and Frisco, then the fires. You've had those crop failures and the famine in Siberia, or maybe that didn't hit the papers here?”

“Our press is reluctant to spread bad news,” the Colonel said dryly. “But the enthusiastic broadcasts of the Voice of America and the BBC keep us informed of all disasters.”

Coretta sat alone, looking into her drink, and Patrick thought it would be a good time to repair some fences. “About our first meeting,” he said.

“What about it?” She did not intend to make it easy.

“I think you misunderstood — “

“I don't think I did, Major Winter.”

“It's going to be a long flight. My name is Patrick.”

“If I call you that you'll be calling me Coretta, and I'm not quite ready for that yet.”