“Thank you.” The ring tone alone had almost given him a heart attack. Taj had had no word from his son since their conversation about Sanjay a day and a half earlier. He had remained at the Yelahanka Air Base hospital long enough to oversee the transfer of Sanjay’s body to Hebbai Electric Crematorium, which had been located by Melani Remilla—it happened to be the closest civilian facility.

Upon leaving Yelahanka, he was subject to a strange set of emotions—an odd and unearned nostalgia combined with a firm desire to never trod its grounds again.

Sanjay and the crematorium were the subjects of Remilla’s call, which continued: “He is about to be taken out of our hands,” she said.

“I didn’t realize that ISRO managed dead bodies from outer space.”

“The military has taken over.”

“I’m military and no one has told me.”

“That’s my job. The army wants this whole matter resolved. With the crew out of the country, Bhat’s remains are the only . . .”

“Loose end?” Of course. “What are they planning?”

“I think they plan to take the body.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Word is that someone, somewhere, wants it.”

“The family is having a cremation later this morning.”

“Even that isn’t three days!”

Taj was not as religious as many of his colleagues—even though the events of twenty years ago had opened his eyes to the unknown mysteries of human existence—and certainly not devout Hindu.

But he knew the rites, and it was too soon for a cremation! “Why are you telling me?” he said. “Do you expect me to stop it?”

“I have no power,” Remilla said. “I only discovered it by accident and thought you ought to know.”

He thanked her, then painfully rolled out of bed and splashed some water on his face. He was famished, so he made a quick breakfast as he considered his options.

Attending to lifestyle matters in these strained circumstances reminded him of a typical morning aboard the International Space Station, where daily rituals were so important to an astronaut’s mental as well as physical health. Today it gave him a moment to plan, even though, compared to a day in space, he was forced to improvise.

He and Tea had been renting an apartment not far from ISRO headquarters for the past six months, and had never truly moved in. Neither of them was a cook, either, so there was little food on hand. Taj would have preferred some idli cake, for example, or tea. Failing that, eggs and beans for an English breakfast.

What he found was coffee and some kind of granola cereal—Tea’s usual fare. Given the circumstances, this would suffice.

His operational choices were equally limited. He had no military command, not even any subordinates. No power or might.

He had few allies. So much of his recent life had centered around Tea that he had neglected his contacts in the defense ministry . . . not that he had any role to play in their covert and often overt war against the Aggregates. He considered telephoning Kaushal but rejected that: The Yelahanka commander was either working for the plotters—or likely to be ineffectual anywhere outside the base.

And even if he had possessed a team that could be called upon, what was the takeaway, to use a phrase from his time with NASA? In success, did he end up with Sanjay’s body in a hearse . . . with himself behind the wheel?

What he wanted, he concluded, was respect, for Sanjay Bhat, for the Adventure crew and his son and daughter-in-law and granddaughter.

He did have one weapon, however: his phone. Melani Remilla did have some information he did not. He glanced at the clock—5:20.

Taj reached the two-story Hebbai Electric Crematorium at 6:40, parking on a street a block behind the facility. He felt a bit foolish slinking past the loading dock at the rear of the building (with its curious smell of smoke and what he could only think of as cooked meat) while wearing his full dress uniform. But the need for precautions overrode his sense of dignity.

He had fallen asleep in his uniform, so his clothing had required a change, too. And there was nothing like a general’s rank and medals to encourage cooperation with certain individuals.

He had unpacked his service pistol and was wearing it, though he did not expect to use it. (He hadn’t fired it in years.)

The doors were still locked. The parking lot was empty.

He took up a position near the entrance where he could see without being automatically seen.

He had strategies for waiting. Breathing exercises. Review steps taken, to be taken. Check equipment again.

It reminded him of guard duty as a cadet, and the bonus this morning was the sight of a crescent Keanu low in the southern sky. The Moon was close to new this time of month and was no competition at the moment. Keanu’s orbit was more inclined, and the NEO was not only farther away from Earth than the Moon, it trailed it by a hundred thousand kilometers, a figure that would change, of course, with every passing day. All of this caused Taj to wonder just how long Keanu would remain in orbit? Another week? A year? A century? He wished he had asked his son.

The door of the crematorium opened.

It was a young Hindu man—twenty at most—in T-shirt and jeans, clothing that was far too casual for a memorial worker. “I’m Ishat,” he said, and offered little more. It was obvious he was unhappy about being roused out of bed.

“Call me General Radhakrishnan,” Taj said, sweeping past him. “Are you prepared to conduct a cremation?”

“But we aren’t open yet!” Ishat said.

“This is an emergency. It’s why I telephoned the owner.”

“He only told me to meet you, not to—”

Taj held up his hand, silencing Ishat. “I’m telling you what needs to be done, and you’re going to do exactly as I say: Prepare the body of Sanjay Bhat for immediate cremation.”

Ishat frowned but seemed willing to do as told. “It will take a few minutes.”

“Don’t start until I tell you,” Taj said. “We’re waiting for someone.”

He returned to the front door, checking his watch. Almost seven. The army and its associates would be arriving within the hour—

A car appeared at the driveway entrance, moving slowly. Taj reflexively placed his hand on his holstered pistol as he watched the vehicle, an ancient electric Sierra, roll closer, then stop.

Kalyan Bhat emerged, looking both sad and bewildered. He was in his thirties, medium build, balding, dressed in a gray suit and tie, both donned in a hurry, to judge from the missed button and indifferent knot. “You would be General Radhakrishnan,” he said.

“Mr. Bhat. I’m sorry that we have to meet under these circumstances.”

“I remember your flights, sir. India’s first astronaut. They made us feel proud.”

Taj had heard this a number of times in his life and almost always corrected it: While he was the first citizen of India to command an indigenous spacecraft, the Brahma, and had made one earlier flight as well, an Indian astronaut had gone into space back in the 1980s with the Soviets.

Mr. Bhat was too young to remember that, of course. Taj merely nodded his thanks and guided the man into the facility, taking care to watch for additional vehicles. “Thank you for agreeing to come this morning on such short notice.”

“This is a very strange situation.”

“I understand.”

“I was already in the city, hoping to see my brother . . . alive,” he finished. “It was so hard to lose him like that.” Then Kalyan shook his head, as if appalled at his own rudeness. “I’m sorry, you suffered the same way.”

And I am in almost the same situation, he thought. “We can only endure,” he said. Then he called. “Mr. Ishat? Would you lock this door for us, please?”