“Martha Hansen.”

“Of course. I was expecting you. Won’t you sit here, please.”

“It was about my passport,” she said, sitting and opening her purse on her lap.

“If I could see it…”

She handed it over and watched while he turned the pages, frowning as he attempted to read some of the smudged visas and customs stamps. He made a few notes on a yellow legal pad.

“You sure seem to like traveling, Mrs; Hansen.”

“It’s my husband, he’s an airline pilot. The tickets are practically free so we do get around a lot.”

“You’re a lucky woman.” He closed the passport and looked at her, his eyebrows raised above the glasses’ frame. “Say, isn’t your husband Nils Hansen—the Danish pilot? The one we have been reading about.”

“Yes. Is there anything wrong with the passport?”

“No, not at all. You really are lucky married to a man like that. Say, is that pendant you’re wearing from the Moon? The one that was in all the papers?”

“Yes, would you like to see it?” She slipped the chain over her head and handed it to him. It was an ordinary bit of crystalline volcanic rock, chipped and untrimmed, that was held in a silver cage. A stone from another world.

“I heard that you had been offered five-figure sums for it. You had better take good care.” He handed it back. “I wanted your passport just to check. There has been some difficulty with another passport with almost the same number as yours. We have to be sure, you know. Hope you don’t mind?”

“No, of course not.”

“Sorry to bother you. But you know how it is. This kind of thing would never happen at home. But an American, living abroad, always a lot of paperwork.” He tapped the passport on his blotter but made no attempt to return it.

“My home is here,” she said, defensively.

“Of course. Figure of speech. After all, your husband is Danish. Even though you are still an American citizen.”

He smiled at her, then looked out of the window at the rain. She clasped her hands tightly on top of her purse and did not answer. He turned bafek, and she realized that the smile was empty, not sympathetic or friendly. Not anything. A prop just like the glasses that gave him that owlish intellectual look.

“You must be a loyal American citizen,” he said, “because you have never considered giving up your citizenship even though you are married—seven years, isn’t it?—to a citizen of a foreign country. That’s true, isn’t it?”

“I—I don’t think much about these things,” she said in a very small voice, wondering as she spoke. Why didn’t she tell him to mind his own business? Take her passport and get out of here? Perhaps because he spoke aloud what she had always known and never mentioned to anyone.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” The smile came on again. “Loyalty to one’s country may be old-fashioned, but there is still something fine about it. Don’t let anyone tell you different. There is nothing at all wrong in loving your husband, as I’m sure you do, and being married to him—yet still keeping your God-given American citizenship. It’s something they can’t take away from you, so don’t ever give it up.” He made his points sternly, tapping the passport on the desk as he did so.

She could think of nothing to answer, so remained silent. He nodded, as though her silence were some kind of consent.

“I see by the papers that your husband actually flew that Daleth-drive ship to the Moon. He must 1be a brave man.”

She had to at least nod agreement to that.

“The world is looking to Denmark now, foil leadership in the space race. It’s sort of funny that this little country should be ahead of the United States. After all the billions that we have spent and after all the brave men who have died. A lot of Americans don’t think that it’s fair. After all, it was America that freed this country from the Germans, and it’s American money and men and equipment that keeps NATO strong and defends this country against the Russians. Maybe they have a point. The space race is a big thing and little Denmark can’t go it alone, don’t you agree?”

“I don’t know, really. I suppose they can…”

“Can they?” The smile was gone. “The Daleth drive is more than a space drive. It is a power in the world. A power that Russia could reach out a few miles and grab, just like that. You wouldn’t like that to happen, would you?”

“Of course not.”

“Right. You’re an American, a good American. When America has the Daleth drive there will be peace in the world. Now I’ll tell you something, and it’s confidential so you shouldn’t go around mentioning it. The Danes don’t see it in the same way. Certain left-wing factions in the government here—after all they are socialists—are keeping the Daleth material from us. And we can imagine why, can’t we?”

“No,” she said defensively. “Denmark isn’t like that, the people in government. They have no particular love for the Russians. There is no need to worry.”

“You’re a little naive, like most people, when it comes to international Communism. They are in everywhere. They will get this Daleth drive away from the free world if we don’t get it first. You can help us, Martha.”

“I can talk to my husband,” she said quickly, a cold feeling of dread in her chest. “Not that it would do much good. He makes up his own mind. And I doubt if he can influence anyone…” She broke off as Baxter shook his head in a long, slow no.

“That is not what I mean. You know all of the people involved. You visit them socially. You have even visited the Atomic Institute—”

“How do you know that?”

“—so you know a good deal more about what is happening than anyone else not formally connected with the project. There are some things I would like to ask you—”

“No,” she said breathlessly, jumping to her feet. “I can’t do it—what you are asking. It’s not fair to ask me. Give me my passport, please, I must go now.”

Unsmiling, Baxter dropped the passport into a drawer and closed it. “I’ll have to hold this. Just a formality. Check the number against the records. Come back and see me next week. The receptionist will make an appointment.” He went to the door ahead of her and put his hand on the knob. “We’re in a war, Martha, all over the world. And all of us are front-line soldiers. Some are asked to do more than others, but that is the way wars are. You are an American, Martha—never forget that. You can’t ever forget your country or where your loyalties lie.”

There was something final about cleaning out his locker that depressed Nils. Number 121 in Kastrup airport, it had always been his, no one else’s. When they had enlarged this section and built the new lockers he, as Senior Danish Pilot, had of course had first pick. Now he was emptying it. No one had asked him to, but when he had stopped off to pick up the boiler suits he had stowed here, he had realized that he no longer had any right to the locker. In all fairness he should let someone else use it. As quickly as possible he stuffed all the accumulated odds and ends of the years into the flight bag and zipped it shut. The hell with it. He slammed the door shut and stamped out.

In the hallway he suddenly realized that someone was calling his name and he looked about.

“Inger!”

“None other, you big ape. You have been flying too much without me. Isn’t it time you hired a good hostess for your Moon trips?”

She strode toward him, long-legged, willowy. A good hostess indeed, a walking advertisement for SAS. Her skirt was short, her jacket round and tight-fitting, her little cap perched at a jaunty angle on her ash-blond hair. She was the tired traveler’s dream of a hostess, bigger than life size, almost as tall as Nils, a vision from a Swedish film. And almost incidentally, the best and-most experienced hostess the airline had. She took his hand in both of hers, standing very close.