He kissed Karim on both cheeks again and stepped back. "Go with God, little brother." He even smiled a little. "Go, now. They are calling your flight."

He watched as Karim dragged his feet down the jetway, and he waited while the airplane backed away from the concourse. He waited while it made its ponderous way down the taxiway, he waited until it turned onto the runway, and he waited until he saw it lift off, rising swiftly into the air.

He waited until it was out of sight before turning and walking past the gate that was boarding passengers for Paris in favor of another farther down the concourse, whose agent was just announcing preboarding for its flight to Barcelona.

In Barcelona he checked into a quiet hotel a block off Las Ramblas. The next day he spent wandering through the city, guidebook in hand, dutifully admiring buildings by Gaudi. He tried to take a photo of La Pedrera, only to discover that his battery had died. He clicked his tongue, received a sympathetic glance from an American man, and put the camera away with a sigh.

"There are lots of camera shops on Las Ramblas," the American said. Akil gave a rueful nod. "I should have checked it before I left home." The American drifted closer. "Where's home?" " India. Mumbai. And you? American?" The other man made a face. "Is it that obvious?" Akil laughed. "I'm afraid so. Are you here on business?" "I'm on leave. My ship is in Naples. I'd heard about the Maritime Museum. When I got my leave I flew over to have a look." "Navy?" "Coast Guard."

Akil's smile vanished. " U.S. Coast Guard?" "Yes, really," the other said, laughing a little. "Is that so awful?" "No, of course not," Akil said, forcing himself to relax, by an act of will putting the smile back on his face. He cast a covert look around. They were not being observed so far as he could tell, and he knew he had not been followed to Barcelona. He had not spoken of his next plans to anyone. He looked at the other man, tall, slender, with coloring much like his own. Here was an opportunity it would be foolish not to embrace. He decided to pretend to a little knowledge. "You rescue people at sea who are in trouble?"

"Among other things. You?"

"I write computer software," Akil said, with a dismissive shrug. "Not quite as exciting."

"Necessary, though," the other man said. "You should see our communications room on board ship. Looks like Mission Control at NASA during a shuttle launch."

Akil bowed his head, accepting the implied compliment gracefully.

"Adam Bayzani," the other man said.

"Arjan Singh," Akil said. They shook hands. "What's at the Maritime Museum that is so interesting that you'd spend your leave in Barcelona?"

"I don't know, haven't been there yet."

What was at the Maritime Museum, among many other things, was a full-size replica of a galleon that fought at the Battle of Lepanto, the last sea battle to employ galleons. Bayzani was good company, and if his covert sideways glances were a little languishing it was nothing Akil couldn't deal with. They dined together that evening at one of Barcelona 's many waterfront restaurants, during which Bayzani made a delicate but perfectly recognizable overture. Akil's rebuff was hesitant enough to leave room for Bayzani to hope. A prize was all the more valued if it was hard-won. They exchanged email addresses, shook hands, and parted.

The next morning, his carefully casual wanderings brought him to a shop specializing in electronics from cell phones to laptops, where he asked to see the proprietor. A short, squat man whose butt and thighs were so massive they waddled independently of the rest of him, he listened to Akil's needs with eyebrows like black caterpillars politely raised over a swarthy, sweating moon face. "Of course," he said. "The battery is of no moment. The other, a few hours, no more. Over here, if you please, senor." He took Akil's photo, and repeated, "A matter of a few hours only, senor. Be pleased to return this evening after seven." And that evening Akil returned to the shop to pick up his camera, along with a set of identification papers in the name of Dandin Gandhi.

He had already checked out of his hotel. He went directly to the station and boarded an overnight train for Bilbao, where he boarded a plane for Paris de Gaulle. In Paris he took the Metro to Gare du Nord and a train for Amsterdam. From Amsterdam, he took a train to Germany.

Nowhere was his identity questioned. Truth to tell, except when he boarded a plane, his papers were almost never checked. The European Union was very accommodating to travelers.

HOUSTON, NOVEMBER 2006

She'd been named to the astronaut program five years before. She'd lived, worked, hoped, prayed for the day when she would be named to a shuttle crew.

In another four years, the shuttle program would end. The space shuttle would be retired, and NASA would move on to the next new thing. The next new thing was sounding a lot like the old new thing that scientists had been advocating for years, the return of the big dumb rocket, reminiscent of the days of the Saturn V. Preferably a big dumb unmanned rocket.

Atlantis was already scheduled to be cannibalized for parts for Discovery and Endeavour. The astronaut corps could hear the clock ticking down on the time left. There was already covert talk of what they were going to do after.

After, Kenai might open a vein and climb into a nice warm tub.

Today, she'd been named to a shuttle crew.

It was, however, nothing like she had imagined it would be. She had imagined joy unconfined, trumpets sounding, bells pealing, the exploding of champagne corks. She had imagined calling her parents and hearing their pride, and their fear. She had imagined the envy of her peers in the astronaut corps.

She hadn't imagined the spare, dry voice of Joel Minster, director of flight operations, informing them that there would be a sixth member of their crew, not an astronaut. What, in their more charitable moments, the astronauts referred to as a part-timer. Joy unconfined was checked, to be replaced by a stunned silence when they found out who it was.

"Please tell me you're kidding, Joel," Kenai said at last, with as much control as she could muster up on the spot.

Joel, known to some as the Great Conciliator and to others as the Great Suck-up, spoke her thought out loud. "I don't know what you're complaining about, Kenai. You've got your first mission. Doesn't happen to everyone."

Won't happen to a lot of them, was the thought in everyone's mind. And picking public fights with the man who might one day be in charge of assigning her to a precious second wasn't the smartest thing she could do, so this time she bit her tongue and kept her mouth shut.

Joel tucked his clipboard beneath an arm, gave a general nod, and left.

The door had barely closed behind him when the trash talk ensued.

"I don't know about you but this is just what I want on orbit, some dipshit rich kid fucking around on board." Bill White, an ex-Navy test pilot flying his second mission as pilot, was furious.

"We're launching the replacement for the Hubble, we're launching a communications satellite and an orbital observatory, we're conducting- how many experiments is this mission up to now?-and on top of all that we've got to babysit some spoiled brat?" This not-quite-shouted comment from Mike Williams, a mission specialist with a postdoc in astronomy and astrophysics from the University of California who divided time into par-sees and as a result was usually the most patient and laid-back of astronauts. Today he waved long, lanky arms in emphasis, accidentally knocking the back of one hand against a table edge. He swore, which shocked them all into momentary silence, and sucked his bloody knuckles.