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Poindexter of Editing will meet you in front of the airline ticket counter at 2:30 A.M. He'll have all the necessary information with him, including a study folder on your background and present duties."
    Nick was on Route 1 again, heading south through an anonymous world of rushing lights and darkness. Hawk's voice began to fade and he leaned forward, adjusting the knob on the tiny, ultra-sensitive two-way radio concealed among the dazzling array of dials on the dashboard.
    When the head of AXE paused, he said, "If you'll excuse the expression, sir, I don't know beans about outer space. How can I hope to masquerade as an astronaut?"
    "We'll come back to that in a moment, N3." Hawk's voice was so sharp that Nick winced and adjusted the volume control of his earplug. Any similarity between the rambling, glassy-eyed drunk of that afternoon and the man who now sat speaking to him from his desk at AXE's Washington headquarters was strictly the result of Hawk's acting ability and of a stomach as tough and leathery as his hide.
    "Now regarding the situation at the Bali Hai," Hawk continued, "let me explain. There has been high-level leakage of information for months. We think: we've narrowed it down to this restaurant. Senators, generals, top government contractors dine there. There's careless talk. The microphones pick it up. But where it goes, we don't know. So this afternoon I deliberately gave out false information." He allowed himself a brief, humorless chuckle. "Rather like tracing a leak by dumping yellow dye into the plumbing system. I want to see where that yellow dye comes out. AXE has sensitive listening posts at all levels in every government and espionage organization in the world. They'll pick it up and presto — we'll have the connecting pipeline."
    Through the curved wind screen Nick watched a reddish glow of lights growing rapidly larger. "So everything I was told in the Bali Hai was false," he said, slowing for the Vero Beach Interchange. He thought fleetingly of the suitcases containing his personal things. They were sitting in a room he'd never even entered at the Gemini Inn in Cocoa Beach. No sooner had he registered than he'd had to rush back to his car to contact AXE. No sooner had he contacted AXE than he was on his way back to Miami. Had the trip north really been necessary? Couldn't Hawk have brought his own stooge along to Palm Beach?
    "Not everything, N3. That's just the point. Only a few items were false — but vital ones. I suggested that the U.S. moon program was a shambles. I further suggested that it would be a couple of years before it would get under way again. The truth, however, is — and this is known only to me, a few top officials of NASA, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the President, and now you, Nicholas — the truth is that NASA is going to attempt another manned flight within the next few days. Not even the astronauts themselves know about it. It's to be called Phoenix One — because it will arise from the ashes of the Apollo project. Fortunately Connelly Aviation has the equipment ready. They're rushing a second capsule to Cape Kennedy from their California plant. The second team of astronauts are at the peak of their training, ready to go. It's felt that this is the psychological moment for another shot." The voice paused. "This one, of course, must go off without a hitch. It's felt that a smashing success at this moment is the only thing that will remove the bitter taste of the Apollo disaster from the public's mouth. And that taste must be removed if the U.S. space program is to be saved."
    "And where," Nick asked, "does Astronaut N3 enter the picture?"
    "There's a man lying in a coma in Walter Reed Hospital at this moment," said Hawk harshly. He spoke into the microphone on his desk in Washington and his voice was scrambled into meaningless vibrations along the airwaves that were translated into normal human sounds by a complex series of microscopic relays in the car radio. They