There was a sentry at the front of the building, another at the rear. Silent alert men who never spoke to Crag--seldom acknowledged his movements to and from the building--yet never let a stranger approach the weathered dorm without sharp challenge. Night and day they were there. From his window he could see the distant launch site and, by night, the batteries of floodlights illumining the metal monster on the pad. But now he wasn't thinking of the rocket. He was fretting; fuming because of a call from Colonel Michael Gotch. "Don't stir from the room," Gotch had crisply ordered on the phone. He had hung up without explanation. That had been two hours before. Crag had finished dressing--he had a date--idly wondering what was in the Colonel's mind. The fretting had only set in when, after more than an hour, Gotch had failed to show. Greg's liberty had been restricted to one night a month. One measly night, he thought. Now he was wasting it, tossing away the precious hours. Waiting. Waiting for what? "I'm a slave," he told himself viciously; "slave to a damned bird colonel." His date wouldn't wait--wasn't the waiting kind. But he couldn't leave. He stopped pacing long enough to look at himself in the cracked mirror above his desk. The face that stared back was lean, hard, unlined--skin that told of wind and sun, not brown nor bronze but more of a mahogany red. Just now the face was frowning. The eyes were wide-spaced, hazel, the nose arrogant and hawkish. A thin white scar ran over one cheek ending. His mind registered movement behind him. He swiveled around, flexing his body, balanced on his toes, then relaxed, slightly mortified. Gotch--Colonel Michael Gotch--stood just inside the door eyeing him tolerantly. A flush crept over Crag's face. Damn Gotch and his velvet feet, he thought. But he kept the thought concealed. The expression on Gotch's face was replaced by a wooden mask. He studied the lean man by the mirror for a moment, then flipped his cap on the bed and sat down without switching his eyes. He said succinctly. "You're it." "I've got it?" Crag gave an audible sigh of relief. Gotch nodded without speaking. "What about Temple?" "Killed last night--flattened by a truck that came over the center-line. On an almost deserted highway just outside the base," Gotch added. He spoke casually but his eyes were not casual. They were unfathomable black pools. Opaque and hard. Crag wrinkled his brow inquiringly. "Accident?" "You know better than that. The truck was hot, a semi with bum plates, and no driver when the cops got there." His voice turned harsh. "No ... it was no accident."