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of her restraint straps. She thrashed about uncontrollably in her cage until she knocked herself senseless. No gravity, you see. I found her unconscious the next morning. Feathers are still popping up. We were going to see if it was possible to train her to fly in space.”
    “How horrible,” Tanya said as she moved closer to examine the wounded bird.
    “Impossible,” Satomura barked. “A bird’s wing is structured to counter gravity. One flap of her wings and this bird would have gone straight up and slammed against the ceiling.”
    “I am inclined to agree with you,” Endicott said. “The bird’s trainer, however, felt she might adapt. It would have been a most interesting experiment.”
    Tanya turned away in disgust. She stopped at the sight of a small aquarium filled with goldfish. As she moved closer, she noticed there was something very odd about the way they were swimming. Some were upside down, some were right side up, and some were sideways. She watched one goldfish swim belly-up toward her. The fish stopped within centimeters of the glass and for a brief second appeared to study her face, then turned and headed sideways to the center of the aquarium, where it pushed its nose against a large air bubble. At the bottom, a school of fish was floating horizontally to the surface, but as they swam upward and separated from each other they quickly lost their orientation.
    “The next module is GEM II—the German Experimental Module,” Nelson said.
    C olonel Komarov had coaxed Carter into the Russian shuttle on the third evening of their stay with the promise of vodka. Carter knew that if NASA found out he had imbibed alcohol, there was a chance he would be scrubbed from the mission, even at this late date. NASA regulations on the consumption of alcohol in space called for the immediate and permanent dismissal of an astronaut. All the same, Carter was not overly concerned—like all the other times he had violated a regulation, he had no intention of being caught.
    Dmitri squeezed the plastic container until two ounces of the Russian vodka passed his lips. His eyes brightened as the chilled liquid burned its way through his body. He smiled and handed the vodka to Carter. Without hesitation, Carter put the container to his lips and squeezed. He welcomed the taste like a long-lost friend, and fought the desire to drink more.
    “Good,” he whispered, his voice stolen by the fumes of the alcohol. He handed the container back to the Russian. “You’ll need to come to the States and try some of our sour mash.”
    “Sour mash?” Dmitri asked, puzzled.
    “Bourbon,” Carter replied.
    “Ah, no thank you. I have tried. It tastes like bad scotch.” Dmitri grinned broadly and took a drink from the container. “Another?”
    “I must be careful,” Carter said. “Regulations.”
    “I understand. Your country, with all its talk about freedom, still has its restrictions. Does it not? No matter. Politics are not why we are here. Let us talk flying. Tell me about the X-51.”
    “Much of what I could say about the X-51 is classified,” Carter replied.
    “I would not want you to reveal classified information, of course. Tell me what you can. No more.”
    “I’ll have that drink after all,” Carter said, partly to reassure Dmitri that he trusted him and partly because it had occurred to him suddenly that he was acting like a prude. He took a large swig and felt the familiar warmth of the liquor entering his system. “I’m a stick and rudder man,” he said, sinking into a deep Southern drawl. “The X-51 flies too much like the shuttle for my liking. Almost everything is controlled by computers. If today’s engineers had their way, they would eliminate us pilots altogether. Reduces the number of parameters they have to concern themselves with. She sure is one helluva ride though. One minute you’re under a blue sky, the next the sky is black as night.” He took another drink, this time unconsciously, as he