He was still sitting in his overstuffed leather chair when he woke up at five in the morning. The channel—clearly devoted to reruns that could be purchased for pennies, or at most dimes—was now showing Seattle Slew beating Affirmed in the only battle of Triple Crown winners, and Ruffian breaking down, and Man o’ War running past all known reference points. He reached for the remote, turned it off, staggered over to the king-size bed, and collapsed on it, fully clothed.

He woke up at eight, showered, shaved, put on a pair of slacks and a polo shirt—when you own the company, anything you want to wear becomes the day’s dress code—and considered going down to the building’s cafeteria. Then he decided that if the press had managed to get inside, they’d be looking for him there since there was no way they could get up to the top floor—the elevators required personal codes for the top three floors. He checked the refrigerator to see what he had in the suite, and found some not-yet-stale donuts. He pulled them out, made some coffee, and sat down to eat, drink, and catch up on the morning’s news.

Jerry Culpepper wasn’t fielding questions that day, and Bucky wondered if they were hiding him, disciplining him, or if they’d let him go. He contacted Gloria, who had just arrived, and asked her to check on Jerry’s status in case he was available. She got back to him five minutes later: No, he was still employed by NASA.

Too damned bad, thought Bucky. I could really use that young man. He’s got a rep, and he’s Ed Camden without the paranoia and rough edges.

He spent a few more minutes nursing a second cup of coffee, then got to his feet, walked down the corridor to his office, and entered it.

“Good morning, Bucky,” said Gloria. “You look like hell.”

“That’s what I like: respect from an employee.”

She smiled. “Would you rather I lie to you?”

“Much.”

“Good morning, Bucky. You look better than I’ve ever seen you.”

“God, it sounds worse,” he muttered. “Go back to telling the truth.”

Gloria laughed aloud. “You’re a night person. You can’t help it. But since you are, and you own the company, why do you feel you have to drag yourself into the office every morning by nine?”

He stared at her for a long moment. “I hate it when you ask questions like that.”

“You want some coffee?”

“No, I’ll float away. I assume Jerry Culpepper hasn’t been fired since last we spoke?”

“No.”

“Pity.” He paused. “We’re not at war with anyone?”

“No.”

“No earthquakes, tornadoes, or hurricanes on the horizon?”

“No.”

“Maybe I will go back to sleep.” He was about to walk back out the door when her computer came to life.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“Oh?”

“Sabina Marinova just entered the building. She wants an immediate meeting with you.”

“Send her up,” he said. Suddenly he frowned. “How the hell did she get back so fast?”

“She commandeered one of your private jets and pilots.”

“How about that?” said Bucky. “She’s already showing more initiative than Camden. I knew I liked that girl.”

“I’d be careful about calling her a girl,” said Gloria. “She’s as tall as you are and probably twice as fit.”

“I thought all women like being called girls.”

“About as much as you like being called a boy by a member of my sex.”

“I don’t mind it.”

“You don’t mind that two hundred million Americans think you’re as crazy as a loon,” she shot back.

“Two hundred fifty million,” he responded with a smile. “Unless Fox and CNN are both lying.”

“Doesn’t it bother you, Bucky?” she asked seriously.

“I’d rather they agreed with me,” he said. “If I’m right, eventually they will, and if I’m wrong, then they should think I’m crazy.”

She stared at him. “I suppose that’s the kind of self-confidence it takes to make all those billions. Personally, it’d drive me as crazy as they thought I was.”

He smiled. “I’ve been wrong before. I’ll be wrong again.” Suddenly the smile vanished. “But not this time.”

There was a knock at the door. Gloria opened it and Sabina entered the office.

“Well?” said Bucky. “Did you see him?”

Sabina nodded. “I saw him.”

“Is he still there?”

“He’s probably safer there than anywhere else.”

Bucky frowned. “Are there people out after him?”

“I meant from the press.”

“Did he have anything interesting to say?”

“That’ll be up to you to decide, sir . . . I mean, Bucky,” said Sabina. “I have a video of our conversation. He doesn’t know I took it.”

“Clearly, you didn’t hold up a camera or a cell phone,” said Bucky. “What did you use?”

“Mr. Brent showed me how to outfit myself,” she said with a smile, pointing to a button on the vest of her pantsuit.

“I’m surprised Mr. Brent knew,” said Bucky. “Usually, he just beats information out of people.”

“Really?”

“Not since he began working here—but I like to think he had a romantic past.” There was a brief pause. “Can you show me the video now?”

“I can feed it through your computer or just project it against a wall,” said Sabina.

“Start with the wall. Gloria might as well watch it, too, since I’m not competent to process it.” She stared at him curiously. “Private joke. Let’s see it, please.”

She manipulated the button, a tiny window opened in it, and an instant later the image of a very old, very wrinkled man in a hospital gown appeared on the wall.

“I’m very glad you agreed to see me, Mr. Bartlett,” said Sabina’s voice.

“Why not?” he said. “You’re not press, and you’re not federal.”

“I take it the past few days have been difficult for you?”

“For me and those in charge of me,” he agreed, “no thanks to your boss.”

“You mean Mr. Blackstone?”

He nodded his balding head. “Bucky Blackstone, right.” Suddenly he smiled. “That was some speech he made the other night!”

“You heard it?”

“Of course I did. Everyone knew he was going to say something explosive about NASA. I wanted to see what it was.”

“And now that you’ve heard it, what is your opinion of it?” asked Sabina.

“That he’s asking for trouble.”

“You mean by saying irrational things?”

Amos Bartlett stared at her. “If you say so,” he replied at last.

“You’re the only living member of the two flights that preceded Apollo XI.”

“Clean living does it every time,” said Bartlett with a smile that was interrupted by a coughing fit.

“Are you all right, Mr. Bartlett?”

“I’m fine,” he replied. “Just had one too many cigarettes after dinner. Do you smoke?”

“No.”

“Smart lady. I wish I could break the damned habit. Maybe I can in this place. They didn’t look happy when I lit up.”

“We’re getting off the subject, sir,” said Sabina. “What did you think of Mr. Blackstone’s speech?”

“I think he’s buying a mess of trouble.”

“In what way?”

“You accuse the government of lying, you’re asking for trouble.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Sabina.

“Of course, my bet is even the Congress doesn’t know about this. Probably just the president, and maybe two or three others, tops.”

“Say that again?” demanded Sabina, a sudden tension in her voice.

“Sure,” replied Bartlett. “Your boss is buying a mess of trouble.”

“I mean, what does the president know that even Congress doesn’t know?”

Suddenly Bartlett got a haunted look around his eyes, which began darting back and forth. “Presidents know lots of things senators and representatives don’t know,” he replied noncommittally. “That’s why they’re presidents.”

“What does this particular president know about Sidney Myshko’s flight?”

The haunted look became more pronounced. “Who said anything about Myshko’s flight?”

“Morgan Blackstone did,” answered Sabina. “That’s what we were talking about.”