"Why is it crazy?" Jamie asked.

Al puffed out a breath of steam and turned to squint at his grand-son, standing with his back to the sun.

"The Russians are runnin’ the show, right?"

"It’s an international mission, Al. The U.S., the Russians, Japanese, lots of other countries."

"Yeah, but the Russians are callin’ most of the shots. They been shootin’ at Mars for twenty years now. More."

"But they need our help."

"And the Japs."

Jamie nodded. "But I don’t see what that’s got to do with it."

"Well, it’s like this, son. Here in the good old U.S. of A. you can get on the first team because you’re an Indian now don’t got mad at mo, sonny. I know you’re a smart geologist and all that. But being a red man hasn’t hurt you with NASA and those other government whites, has it? Equal opportunity and all that."

Jamie found himself grinning at his grandfather. Al ran a trinket shop on the plaza in Santa Fe and milked the tourists shamelessly. He harbored no ill will for the Anglos, no hostility or even bitterness. He simply used his wits and his charm to get along in the world, the same as any Yankee trader or Florida real estate agent.

"Okay," Jamie admitted, "being a Native American hasn’t hurt. But I am the best damned geologist they’ve got." That wasn’t entirely true, he knew. But close enough. Especially for family.

"Sure you are," his grandfather agreed, straight-faced. "But those Russians aren’t going to take you all the way to Mars on their ship just because you’re a red man. They’ll pick one of their own people and you’ll have spent two-three years training for nothing."

Jamie unconsciously rubbed at his nose. "Well, maybe. That’s a possibility. There are plenty of good geologists from other countries applying for the mission."