“This is not a fight that anyone can win, Dr. Samuel. All we can do is all lose. If we should keep fighting, the flight will be in jeopardy and one of us will have to be replaced. What would that accomplish? Can't we just start even — like we'd never met before, as if I'd just come in the door? Then I could sidle up and say that you remind me of a girl I used to date in high school, almost my first date as I remember. Don't narrow your eyes like that, I mean it. I know I'm the right color and everything else to be a racial bigot, but appearances can be fooling. I remember her name was Jane and she was a Negro, that was before the word black came along, and I thought she had a real great build and I asked her to the drive-in, me borrowing my father's car. I thought it worked real peachy-dandy, particularly the wrassling in the back seat, but when I took her home she said she didn't think she would be seeing me again. Now this was a blow to the old male ego and I asked her why, didn't she like me? I remember she gave me this nice pat on the cheek and said sure she liked me, I was a real good necker and she liked that. But the conversation was just too boring. I remember she went on in school and had her degrees years before anyone else, and now she's teaching sociology at Columbia. Of course I didn't feel too humiliated because at that time smooching was more important than books, but I have never forgotten it.”

“Patrick Winter! Is that story true?”

“So help me. And I'll show you her picture in my high school year book with a big red lipstick kiss right over her signature.”

“And she was a black girl?”

“Well — not exactly. I changed that part to capture your attention. She was really a chicana, Mexican-American. All her family were migrant workers. But I thought a minority is a minority to make the point. Fins?”

She was tense for a moment longer, then relaxed and smiled. “You know, you're not so bad for an ofay.”

“You're not so bad yourself for a femlibber who has spent her life keeping the male fascist pigs at bay. Drink to peace — and the success of Prometheus.”

“Why not.” She clicked her glass against his and they drank. “But why not success? Is there any doubt of it?”

“There is always doubt about any flight. The more things that are involved, the more that can go wrong. On the first Apollo to the Moon the LM touched down with two and a half percent fuel left. The Soviets, us, we've both had our problems with the space program. Now we have six of the largest boosters ever made strapped together in one lump. They have to take off together and put Prometheus into low orbit, this payload also happening to be the largest one ever as well. Then when we are in this low orbit, which is what is called a decaying orbit meaning we will drop back to Earth pretty soon if we don't get out of it, we have to fire up Ely's fission engine to take us out to our final orbit. Now this engine, while the theory and smaller models have been ground tested — “

“Let me guess. This engine has never been flown in space before?”

“Bang on. And you ask me if there is any doubt about this flight. But, before I depress you too much, let me say that a lot of people have been working a number of years to bring the doubt factor as close to zero as possible. By the odds you are a lot safer in Prometheus than trying to change a tire on a California freeway. Your life expectancy there is twenty-five seconds if you try to change it on the inside, next to the lane.”

“You've cheered me up. As long as I stay away from California I am safe.”

A tall man in a chef's hat appeared at the open door. “Dinner is served,” he said in thickly accented English.

“What are we having?” Ely called out, but the cook's linguistic knowledge was exhausted and he fled.

“A specially selected menu,” Nadya said. “I talked to the cook and he is very proud of it. Borscht, then herring, followed by beef Stroganoff and noodles. Caviar and vodka too, of course.”

“Russian soul food,” Coretta said. “If I get the chance I am going to show your chef some real American cooking like collard greens and ribs. Let's go, I'm starving.”

8

COTTENHAM NEW TOWN

For Sir Richard Lonsdale breakfast was always the best part of the day, and breakfast on a morning like this perfection itself. The table had been set by the open french windows; a robin was hopping about the rose stems and blackbirds were busy on the lawn beyond. The air scarcely moved. His Times was by his plate, the two boiled eggs in their cups, the toast still warm on the rack. He poured himself a cup of coffee. He was alone. He loathed speaking to anyone at this time of day. Emily would appear just before he was ready to leave, no earlier. Before opening the paper he sipped more coffee, keeping the moment of peace extended before letting the world interpose again.