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ship could dock with any other ship without the complications of various adaptors.
    Colonel Tom Nelson was standing at the portal waiting to greet the first cosmonaut through. The other astronauts were floating behind him, peering over his shoulder. The large smile of Colonel Dmitri Fyodorovich Komarov and his extended hand appeared at the portal.
    “Good to see you again, my friends,” Komarov said, grinning, as he pulled his large frame through the adaptor.
    “Greetings, Colonel Komarov,” Nelson said. “I believe you have met everyone, except perhaps Jack Robbins here.”
    “It is good to meet you in person,” Komarov said, and then took Jack’s hand and shook it heartily.
    “Indeed an honor,” Jack replied.
    Komarov released the hand, then walked past Robbins and wrapped his arms around Carter in a large bear hug.
    “How’s my old comrade doing?” Komarov asked in a loud and booming voice.
    “It’s been a while, Dmitri.”
    “We must talk later,” Komarov said, holding Carter at arm’s length. “I am much interested in hearing of the X-51.”
    “It would be my pleasure,” Carter responded, masking his uneasiness at being approached so suddenly and so forwardly on such a sensitive matter. Much of the information he could relate regarding the plane was still classified. But this was Komarov, his Russian counterpart, one of the few men Carter truly admired. He would talk with him, but he would be cautious. “We have much to talk about.”
    Major Vladimir Mikelovich Pavlov was the next to emerge; his smile reserved, almost strained. He was noticeably younger and much more fit than Komarov. Unlike his commander, he had not taken to drinking vodka or smoking cigars on a regular basis. After nodding politely, he turned to lend his wife a hand. Major Tatiana Sergeievna Pavlova—Tanya—was even more beautiful than Carter recalled. She wore no makeup. Her dark hair was straight, with a slight inward curl at the ends. Her eyes, sharp and businesslike, possessed a disconcerting quality, as if she knew the sort of thoughts a man was contemplating as he gazed upon her. With a slight, almost mysterious smile, she nodded gracefully as she entered the room.
    Close behind and in sharp contrast was the fourth and final member of the Russian-led crew: Dr. Takashi Satomura. The Japanese had paid the Russians a considerable sum to have him placed on the roster. There had been some controversy over his selection within the Japanese Space Agency because he was not universally liked. But no one had quarreled over his qualifications or abilities. They were exceptional. He possessed doctorates in planetary geology and medicine, master’s degrees in physics, chemistry, and literature, and several bachelor degrees. He had been among the crew of the first Japanese-manned spacecraft and had logged the second highest number of hours in space for a Japanese astronaut. And although there were other men just as qualified in their own way, the quarrels over Satomura stemmed mostly from bad feelings. He was ruthless in backroom politics, and several good men had been pushed aside and even ruined for having been in his way.
    The Japanese astronaut was neither young nor physically attractive. His face was streaked with lines caused by years of cigarettes, which he smoked surreptitiously and perpetually gave up cold turkey months prior to the qualifying physical of a mission. As a result of cigarettes and perhaps even more so because of coffee, which he drank by the pot, his teeth were noticeably stained. He told the doctors it was the coffee, and the concentrated amounts of caffeine they found in his blood seem to corroborate his story. When he had fully emerged from the portal, he dipped his head slightly, a compromise to the traditional Japanese bow, and shook the hands of the men present with a formality and precision that induced immediate but guarded respect.
    Robbins, with the video camera fixed to his eye, floated off to the side