"Nothing special. That's all fine and dandy for escorting bug-hunters around Mars, but this is a combat mission. First one in a hundred years. Not a man in the Service has ever been on a combat mission. I'd give plenty to hear what's on the tape this time." "What makes you think there is a tape?" Manson pushed the red button on the chair and let it slide out from under him, deflating itself with a swoosh. "There's always a tape. This one should be a lulu. I won't be surprised to see you storm out of here in about nine hours with blood in your eye and X pistols hanging on both hips." "And I won't be surprised to see you flying out of here head first in about two seconds," Grimes shouted. "I'll accept your maximum estimate of ten and a half hours. That'll be soon enough to establish contact. Now get out." Manson paused in the doorway. "It's just one forty and three," he said. "Shall I write in the journal that the engineer was commended for the fast trip?" "We aren't in yet. All I said was get out." The engineer scurried through the door, leaving behind a more pleased commander than he had been given reason to suspect. One hundred and forty days to Primus! The boy had a right to gloat, Grimes thought. If it wasn't a top secret mission the trip would go into the record book. He slid his desk into its wall socket and opened a camouflaged compartment alongside it by playing a complex tattoo with his fingers on the unmarked surface. He drew out a reel of plastic tape and a sealed envelope, then pushed the door gently, listening for the faint sound of the tumblers falling into place, locking it. He switched off the main light, leaving only a pale blue ceiling glow, and retired to his sleeping quarters. No hurry on the tape--he was glad of that. Shouldn't take more than ten minutes. Plenty of time for a shower and a movie. Then the service could have his subconscious. At least they spared him those long-winded tapes he had heard about. A restless man sometimes had to take a sleeping pill to give the tape time to play itself out. Grimes had been around too long to let it bother him that much, but he always felt a certain resentment when they handed him one of their psychological gimmicks. What the devil could be on this one? The orders were the clearest he had ever received. Drastic, all right, but no room for misinterpretation. Here he was Number Three Commander in the service, and they didn't trust him to come in out of the rain. Maybe Manson was trying to drop a hint. Didn't think he was capable of leading a combat mission. Maybe the whole crew was uneasy. A hard smile forced itself across his face. They'd know in the next fifteen or twenty hours who their leader was. It was just one-forty and six when Grimes switched off his microfilm projector and returned the movie canister to his library.