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said. “It starts at five?”
    “I know. The phone just reminded me.”
    A potbellied, swarthy Venezuelan in grease-stained green coveralls frowned his way past the secretary. He waddled across the carpeting and went straight to the window, gazed down at the growing puddle, then looked up at the top of the window. He heaved a great wheezing, grunting sigh.
    “I’m leaving,” Dan said to his secretary. He patted her rump as he went by her, and she smiled compliantly.
    “You’re going to dress for the party?” she asked.
    “Right.” Dan glanced at his wristwatch. More than enough time. “Want to help me?”
    She shrugged deliciously and wrinkled her nose for him. Without waiting to see if she were following, Dan headed for the private elevator that went down to his apartment, thinking happily of what the Russian’s face would look like if he knew that Astro Manufacturing had just taken the first step toward tapping the mineral resources of the asteroids, resources that were thousands of times richer than the ores the Russians could scrape from the powdery surface of the Moon.
    The secretary scampered after him and made it into the elevator just before the doors slid shut. She smiled sweetly for Dan. He wished he could remember her name. She had just started working for him a week ago. And she would be gone before long, he knew. Just like all the others.

Chapter SIX

    Rafael Miguel de la Torre Hernandez was Venezuela’s Minister of Technology, a post of high importance and considerable delicacy. He felt himself in the grip of a powerful vise, constantly being squeezed by the boorish, imperious Russians on one side and, on the other, by the demanding, dangerous American expatriates led by Dan Randolph. But Hernandez recognized that, if he could survive this pressure, if he could successfully play the Yankee capitalists against the Communist bullies, he would one day be elected president of Venezuela.
    So he bore the travails of his position with patience and good grace. He was a tall, stately patrician who looked perfectly at ease in a formal dinner jacket and the bemedaled blue sash of his office. His cheekbones were high and his nose as thin and finely arched as any true Castilian’s. His hair was silver, although his trim mustache was still handsomely black. Only his eyes betrayed him. They were the color of mud, as flatly brown as a peasant’s or Indian’s, the eyes of a man whose schemes and calculations never rose further than his own personal ambitions.
    He stood tall and haughty at the head of the reception line as Dan stepped from his limousine, safe from the torrential rain under the protection of the Hernandez mansion’s marquee. He watched the American sprint up the front steps of the stately old house; no sense of dignity or refinement, the man had nothing in him except brashness and impatience.
    As he hurried up the steps, eager to get out of the musty chill of the rainstorm, Dan saw Hernandez at the head of the reception line. Next to him stood Vasily Malik, the new director of the Soviet Union’s space program. Malik broke all the stereotypes in Dan’s mind about Russians. Instead of being dumpy, dour and declasse, Malik was inches taller than Dan himself, glowing with robust good cheer, ice-blue eyes sparkling, longish golden hair curling slightly over his ears in the latest Western fashion. His dinner jacket fitted him perfectly and showed that Malik was keeping his broad-shouldered body in good trim. He was reputed to be something of an athlete and a martial arts buff. He was considerably younger than Dan had expected, several years younger than Dan himself. Quite a contrast to the usual Soviet octogenarian. Malik’s smile was bright and seemed sincere. He was enjoying himself as he shook hands with the arriving guests.
    Hernandez took Dan’s hand in his own slightly limp, long-fingered grip. “So glad that you could find the time to join us.” he said in English.
    “I’m delighted that