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murmured.
    "Of course. Forgive me."
    "Oh, I'd never hold a grudge against a handsome cowboy." The woman proffered her hand. "Lisa Stephens…"
    * * * *
    Lisa looked away for a second, then glanced meaningfully at Mitchell, who took the hint and faded away, moving over to supervise the wing reassembly.
    "Sorry, Crash. I… forgot about Jet," Lisa admitted. "Stands to reason they'd call you back in, under the circumstances. It's hard enough on you without my making it worse. Besides," she added, with an intrigued glance at the tall, rugged investigator with the light tan, "life on the ‘back forty' seems to… agree with you."
    "Forget it. We've got a job to do here, and I'd as soon get it over and done with," Murphy responded brusquely, determined not to let the green eyes cast their old spell on him. "What's your take on it?"
    Strolling with him back toward the partially rebuilt tail, Lisa told him. "We don't really have enough yet to make a call, Crash, but so far there's no evidence of mechanical failure."
    "Sabotage?!"
    "No, no. Everything is… damn, Crash, I hate to say this… Everything's consistent with… operator error."
    Murphy stopped dead in his tracks. "You're saying…"
    "Yes."
    "No. Not Jet."
    "It might not have been Jackson in the pilot's seat, Crash. You know the commander's prerogative. He could've bumped it to the pilot."
    "Yeah. But you know who the media will blame, Lisa. And Jet was too good, too experienced, to screw up like that." Crash shook his head in disbelief. "Or to let somebody under his command do it."
    "I'm sorry, Crash," she shrugged. "But I have to call ‘em like I see ‘em. I understand how you feel."
    "Do you? Did you--ever?"
    Crash turned on his heel and walked away, leaving her standing there, jaw slack.
    * * * *
    By the end of the day, about fifty percent of the spacecraft's tattered, scorched bulk lay in Building 4619. Unfortunately, that fifty percent still did not include the flight ops recorder. Nor did it include indications of a mechanical or computer failure, to Crash's grim dismay. He got in the rental car and zipped down Rideout Road, back through Gate 9, and hit the interstate spur to his hotel near the space museum. Once he'd checked in and settled into his comfortable, well-appointed room, he picked up the room phone and dialed a number with a Houston area code.
    "Hello--Carter residence."
    "Hi, Elaine. Crash. Is Ham home yet?"
    "Yes, Crash, he just walked in. Hold on a minute." There was a pause.
    "Hamilton Carter…"
    "It's Crash, Ham."
    "What's up, Crash?"
    "Not much, I hate to admit. No sign of anything, so far. Ham, they're trying to put the blame on Jet."
    "…I know, Crash."
    "You an' I both know that's a load o' bullshit."
    "Crash, if there's no sign of structural failure or equipment malfunction… well. Mistakes happen, Crash. Jet is--Jet was--only human."
    Crash was silent for a long moment, thunderstruck and utterly numb, as he listened to Carter. I'm not hearing this, he thought in disbelief. Please, God, tell me I'm not really hearing this. After a moment to gather his thoughts, he said in a shocked tone, "Ham… you know better."
    "I'm sorry, Crash, but… no, I don't."
    Crash shook his head in shocked disappointment, then changed the subject. "Ham, I heard they've started finding the bod--finding the crew."
    "Yeah."
    "Who?" Crash pressed.
    "Not sure yet. The… bodies… are pretty badly burned. Gonna have to use forensics to ID ‘em. I'll have the flight surgeon call ya as soon as we know more, okay?" Ham promised.
    "Okay. Anything else on that end?"
    "Negative." Crash heard Ham sigh.
    "All right. I'm gonna grab a bite, read some more log books, an' get some sleep. I'll let you know if anything turns up."
    "Copy that. ‘Bye, Crash."
    "Bye…"
    Crash hung up and stared at the phone from his prone position on the king size bed. At last he grabbed the remote control from the nightstand and turned on the TV. CNN was reporting on the accident.
    "…And