“I’m supposed to be the doubter,” said Bucky.

“Nonsense,” she replied. “Scientists are taught to doubt everything.”

“Rubbish,” said Bucky. “They hang on to disproven and discarded theories like religious zealots.”

“Only some of them,” she said defensively.

“And only some religious people are zealots.” He turned to Gaines. “Are we in orbit yet?”

“About ninety seconds.”

“How long before we’re over Cassegrain?”

Gaines shrugged. “I’d guess an hour and a quarter, but the computer can tell you to the second, always assuming we don’t come face-to-face with too much space garbage.”

“Garbage?”

“Meteor swarms, things like that.”

“What about our garbage?” asked Bucky, remembering his half-eaten lunch.

“We hang on to it till we’re back on Earth,” replied Gaines. “If we jettisoned it, it would just take up orbit, around the Moon if we got rid of it here, around the Sun if we dumped it in transit, and as it picked up speed over the years, it could collide with some ship a century from now and wipe it out.” He checked his instruments. “We’re in orbit now.”

Seventy minutes later, Cassegrain Crater came into view.

“Doesn’t look all that special, does it?” said Bucky, somehow disappointed that he could not see something wrong, something askew, from that distance.

“We’ll know soon enough,” said Bassinger. “Got all the cameras working.”

“And then we send the stills and videos back to Flat Plains?” asked Bucky. Flat Plains was his operational headquarters.

“Yes. The government—hell, a lot of governments, and probably some advanced labs—will try to grab them, too, but we’ve got them pretty well coded. By the time anyone breaks the codes and actually sees the pictures, we should be safely back on Earth.”

“Yeah,” added Gaines. “If there’s really something down there, who knows? They don’t have to be as big as Tars Tarkas to cause a panic. Even little green men will do that.”

“Besides, the boss isn’t into sharing,” said Bassinger with a grin. “Until he makes his millions first.”

“If we find anything but rocks there,” promised Bucky, “you’re going to see just how into sharing your boss is.”

As they were speaking, pictures from the Cassegrain Crater were already showing up on the navigational screen. The regolith was flat and gray, featureless save for occasional smaller craters.

Then—

Bucky stared. “Son of a bitch!”

29

After the Watergate scandal, Eugenio Martinez had established a quiet career selling real estate and had eventually retired to a small town in southern Georgia. “It’s not something I’m especially proud of,” he told Weinstein, referring to his part in the burglary. “I don’t much like to talk about it, but I guess I’ve gotten used to it. What do you want to know that hasn’t already been reported in every newspaper in the country?”

He sounded annoyed. Weinstein sympathized. It would have been difficult to refuse to do something if the president of the United States asked for your help. “Mr. Martinez,” he said, “first let me assure you that whatever you have to say to me will be held in the strictest confidence.”

Martinez frowned. “They’re not opening this thing up again, are they?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. It’s just that we’ve heard a couple of rumors, and we’d like to get a handle on what really happened.”

“Oh.” He smiled. “I’m relieved to hear it. What are the rumors?”

They were sitting in Martinez’s living room, facing each other across a sleek, square cocktail table. The walls were paneled with mahogany, and curtained windows looked out over a lake. A light rain was falling. “Did you know Jack Cohen?”

“Cohen?” He frowned. “I don’t think so.”

“The name doesn’t ring a bell?”

“No.”

Weinstein produced a photo of Cohen, taken during his days at GWU. “You don’t recognize him?”

“Nope. Never saw him before.”

“Well, it’s been a long time.” He placed the photo on a coffee table where Martinez could see it. “Let’s try another question.”

“Go ahead, Mr. Weinstein.”

“Was there a sixth burglar?”

Martinez laughed. “A sixth burglar? Where on Earth did you hear that?”

“Was there?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Mr. Martinez, if you’re hiding anything, I can assure you there’s no need. I can get you a letter from the president himself releasing you from any responsibility for withholding classified information.”

“No need to bother. I’m not hiding anything. There was no sixth burglar.” He paused. Looked out as a bolt of lightning flickered against the window. “You wearing a wire?”

“No.”

“You mind if I have a look?”

“Go ahead.”

Weinstein stood while Martinez did an inspection. “Okay,” he said finally, “I guess you’re clear.”

“So what were you going to tell me that required a search?”

They both sat back down. Martinez studied him for several moments, making up his mind. Then: “Just for the record, I’ve never thought of myself as a burglar. We were the president’s operatives.”

“The fall guys,” Weinstein said.

“No. He took the fall. The big one.” He looked ready to call a halt.

“Was there anybody else at all involved with the break-in other than the people who came to public attention?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Look, Mr. Martinez, I’m not supposed to mention this, but it looks as if I have to: The president wants to know. Don’t ask me why. There’s reason to believe someone else was with you inside the Watergate.”

Martinez took a deep breath. Picked up the photo and switched on the lamp behind his chair. Held the picture so the light fell on it. “It could be him.”

“It could be who?”

“There’s no way I can be sure. It’s too many years ago, and I only saw him that one night.”

“When you did the break-in?”

“Yes.”

“So there was a sixth burglar. Is that what you’re saying?”

“No. That’s not exactly what happened. If this is the same guy”—he stared at the photo—“he’s the reason we were there in the first place.”

“Wait a minute, Mr. Martinez—”

“Call me Eugenio if you like.”

“Why were you at the Watergate? You were sent in to bug the place, weren’t you?”

Martinez took a deep breath. “Maybe I should get that release.”

“I can arrange it.”

He got up, walked over to the window, and stared out. The skies were gray. “I guess, after all these years, it won’t matter.”

“So what were you actually after at the Democratic National Headquarters?”

He was still holding the picture. “This guy’s briefcase.”

Weinstein stared at him. “Why?”

“There was a notebook in it. I don’t know what it was about. They never told us.”

“So how would you know it when you found it?”

“We had a description of the briefcase and the notebook. And the guy it belonged to was with us.”

“The sixth burglar.”

“Not really. We kept him outside. In the passageway.”

“Do you know how this notebook came to be at the Democratic National Headquarters?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“You say you had a description?”

“Yes. We knew what it looked like.”

“Did you know what was in the notebook?”

“They told us it had a couple of pages in a foreign language.”

“Which language?”

He shrugged. “I don’t remember. I really don’t. Sorry.” Thunder rumbled in the distance. “We need the rain,” Martinez said.

“Did you find the notebook?”

“No. The police got there too quickly.”

“Why didn’t they get the guy in the hall?”