"But why did he do it?" The research observer lounged against the aft bulkhead, he had been watching a chess game between the Russian and the Finn. The _Prospero_ was in orbit, there was little to do now but wait for the ferry ship to lift off from Christmas Island and make rendezvous. After the pilot had ejected the nuclear fuel, the ship had of course simply coasted into orbit. With no power left for course correction, it was not a good orbit, but it was close enough for the ferry to reach. There was nothing to do now but wait, and play chess. The research observer shook his head. "It was stupid, there was no reason. Why did he go out the hatch like that?" The pilot was tired. He rubbed his face with both hands. He did not want to have to think about it. He looked at the other American's face. "Nerves. He lost his nerve, that's all." The research observer watched the Finn capture one of the Russian's rooks with a knight. "He jumped out of the ship." It was as if he were trying to convince himself that it had really happened. "Why did he do it? I can't figure it out." The pilot covered his eyes. "Call it cowardice if you like. Or panic. The kid chickened out." * * * * * Then they were in the ferry ship, waiting for the engineers to finish inspecting the _Prospero_ before casting off and going into a re-entry spiral, towards the Pacific landing area. Meanwhile, the medic had finished his preliminary physical of each of the crew. Most of the men rested quietly, reading newspapers and waiting. The American pilot had strapped himself to one of the crash couches and taken a short nap. Then he got up to look through a periscope at the three engineers working near the _Prospero's_ power tank. The ferry ship's radioman, a young Englishman, tapped him on the shoulder. The pilot turned away from the eyepiece, and his face was drawn and white. "They've picked up his track," the radioman said. "What?" The radioman handed the pilot a piece of paper. "Just got the news. His suit transmitter, the beacon's working. The station at Leningrad picked up the signal, they're going to compute his orbit." It was a few seconds before the American understood what he was talking about. "Duport, you mean? They're tracking him?" He hesitated. "But why? Why are they computing his orbit?" The Englishman grinned. "They're going to try to pick him up. Rescue him, you know." The American stared. "Be a few hours before they have an exact plot," the radioman went on. "The rough estimate is that they'll be ready to launch within forty-six hours. They're going to send up the _Wabash Cannonball_. If his beacon keeps operating, there's a fifty-fifty chance they'll catch him. Just thought you'd want to know, sir. You may not have lost a Corpsman after all." The Englishman turned to go back to his post, and the American stared at his back as he moved away.