CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN  Eagle, Hangar Deck

' Lucy has a point," Joslyn said. "A ship needs a name."

Mac grunted and stared up at the thing. The covert lander was an ungainly arrowhead, a dingy gray aerodynamic lump. It looked like a blob of clay some giant had half formed into an airplane shape before he got bored and went away. She had been pulled in from her usual outside-of-hull docking to be checked out. Mac slapped his hand on the hull and it felt like crumbly concrete mixed with Styrofoam. "How about the Sick Moose?"

"A real romantic, that's you, Mac," Lucy said. "A true sense of history. How's Sick Moose going in the books side by side with your name to the unborn generations?"

Joslyn laughed and twined her arm through her husband's. "I was on your side until you said that, Luce. Think of all the school kids that are going to have to write dull reports about the First Contact for history class. Let's make it Sick Moose and give them some comic relief."

Lucy shrugged, grinned, and kicked the lander's hull. "Sick Moose it is, then. I must say that I expected a little more sense of awe and wonder and fewer dumb jokes from you two on the subject of meeting aliens."

"I don't think either of us really quite believes it all yet," Mac said softly. "You've had a long, long time to get used to it. We found out an hour ago, when Pete said he had volunteered us to pilot this thing down to Outpost. I want to laugh and cry at the same time and then hurry there to meet C'astille. I'm scared to death—not just for me personally, but with the idea that I'll be the one to make the dreadful mistake that wrecks our relations with them for all time. And dumb jokes are the best cover we have for all that. But let's change the subject before we bog down for hours discussing the Wonder of It All. George, you're the only real engineer here. Is this thing really going to work? Can we get through without being spotted?'

George Prigot shrugged. "I'm not going along, so I don't have the same stake in the answer you do. But it should. Their radar isn't going to be geared to watch for an all-ceramic ship, and even if it was, it'd be hard to get a decent echo off it."

Joslyn snorted. "They won't be looking for it because no one has ever been enough of a damn fool to make a glass ship before."

"It's not glass," George objected. "It's more like a clay pot, though it should be a lot tougher."

" 'Should be' are the very words I'm worried about," Joslyn said. "And I say she's a glass ship because radar will see right through—and she'll shatter if you drop her hard. I'd love to know more about the propulsion system, though. Supposed to be some sort of cross between magneto-hydrodynamics and a linear accelerator. Extremely secret. She uses straight liquid oxygen for boost-mass. Not as efficient as fusion, but just try spotting the thrust plume."

George walked to the stern of the Moose and looked up into the engine bells. "Neat. It must jet the oxy at only a couple hundred degrees. Very hard to detect if you're watching for fusion plasmas."

"Neat it is. But I'd trade it for a hull you couldn't smash with a hammer."

Pete came through a hatch into the hangar bay and wandered into earshot as Joslyn was speaking. "Say, you're just the sort of pilot that inspires confidence in a passenger."

"Hello, Peter," Joslyn said with a smile. "What's the situation?"

"Well, this is a top secret operation, so I only had to clear it with ten departments instead of twenty. They dug up a biologist, a South African kid by the name of Charles Sisulu. Civilian kid who knows a lot about bio-engineering. They brought him along to work on the bioweapons, so he might as well go straight to the source. So with Mac, Joz, Lucy, this Sisulu character and me, we have five and this crate can carry six. Any suggestions for the empty slot?"

"I've got one," Joslyn said. "Madeline Madsen. She's a Royal Britannic Navy second lieutenant, a pilot. I know she's checked out on the covert lander, and she's a big outdoorswoman."

Lucy sounded unconvinced. "She have any ground-combat training?"

"Standard RBN basic training, I guess. Why do we need combat for this trip?"

"Because Outpost is a very nasty place. Any animal that sees us is likely to try eating us. And Mr. Gesseti, with all due respect, we're going to be in armored pressure suits for that same reason, for long hours at a stretch. Are you up to that?"

"I dunno, but I'm sure as hell in better shape than the other diplomatic types along for the ride. I'm fifteen years younger than any of 'em. One reason I volunteered.'

Lucy grunted. It was a motley crew, a hurry-up job, but maybe that was the best she dare hope for. "All right, Mr. Gesseti. That'll have to do. Any word about when we launch?"

"As soon as possible, they said, so I guess it's in your hands. Mac, how soon can we be ready?'

Mac hesitated for a moment, figuring loading and checkouts and a little extra for glitches. "We'll go in eighteen hours."

*       *       *

Lucy was ready long before that. Aside from getting fitted for a pressure suit, there really wasn't much for her to do.

The Eagle's purser put her up in a VIP cabin for her one night aboard. It was a kindly gesture, a welcome-back to the ex-prisoner who had to depart at once for a harsh and dangerous field assignment. A huge bed, plush carpeting on the deck, books she'd have no time to read, recorded music and films she'd have no chance to run—but still, it was good to at least be near such things again.

Lucy thought of C'astille and decided that she had to bring a gift back for her friend. Even as she had the idea of bringing a present, her eyes fell upon the perfect thing. A book, a great big, old-fashioned picture book lying on the coffee table of her stateroom. It was called Works of Our Hands: Humans Shape the Solar System. It was full of pictures of grand buildings and structures, old and new, and each was set against a glorious background. C'astille would love it.

Lucy felt only mildly guilty as she tucked it into her carrysack.