listened to the President, who was then extolling their merits
as though--well, as though they were some sort of laboratory specimens.
"... acute hearing, 20/10 vision ... perfect health ... highest
combination of intelligence and fast physical reactions ... exceptional
bravery and loyalty." Cheers. "... intensive training ... youngest to
receive their military ranks ... expert pilots ... _fittest humans for
this attempt_."

Stubbornly, Ken continued to hold her waist. He watched the sun sneak
around one stubby wing of the _Latecomer_. He'd need those glinting
wings to land. Land? What were the actual odds against circling the moon
and landing again on earth? That phase--and a lot of others--had never
been discussed. The speeches were over and he put the thought from his
mind. They were extending the mike to him, waiting for his farewell--or
his last words?

Abruptly, ignoring the mike, he swung Carol up the ramp and crawled in
through the port behind her.

* * * * *

In the narrow confines she slipped out of her uniform. She glanced at
him once, quickly, then cast down her eyes. "You don't have to look, you
know."

There was a hurt in his throat. "I want to look, Carol. I don't ever
want to stop looking at you. I--" He choked off, tore his eyes from her
and hurriedly began to get out of his uniform.

Hidden from the spectators outside, they divested themselves of all but
filmy, clinging, chemically inert garb. Carol's body was sheathed in a
kind of sarong. Ken wore a short, kilt-like affair. They pulled on soft,
tough-soled sandals. The medics had insisted on this specific attire,
but the psychologists had planned it that way. Their discarded clothing
was dropped into a basket. Ken shoved it out the port, down the ramp,
slammed and bolted the hatch. Then he stared at it. Clamped to the inner
side were two knives: one was about the length of a bayonet, shaped like
a saber; the other was half that length, and straight. Both were
sheathed, with belts wrapped around checkered handles.

All his official instructions flashed through his head in an instant.
All the technical data, instrument operation, procedures, emergency
measures. There had never been mention of knives. Except--of course.
Survival training. If he were unable to bring the ship to its proper
destination, was forced down in uninhabited territory, a knife would be
essential equipment. But so would a gun, fishing tackle,