A separate trailer with a kitchenette was attached to the first. Some of the men were preparing a simple breakfast as they waited for the helicopter that would fly them back to Mexico City.

The sunlight that beat in through the louvered windows was blinding. Lying in his bunk, Graham felt nothing but bitterness toward the common yellow star that dared to shine its cheery light across his haggard face.

As he was squinting at the light, a dark figure rose from the bunk next to Graham's.

Stretching, Clark Beemer noted Pete Graham's sick expression.

"You think you've got problems?" the PR man asked. "I have to explain this mess to the media. And the way things have been going at NASA lately, it ain't gonna be easy."

Shaking his head, Beemer headed for the trailer's small side door. Stepping into the light, the PR man let the door swing shut behind him.

In the trailer Graham pulled himself woodenly to a sitting position. Someone brought him a steaming cup of coffee. Graham had barely taken a sip when the trailer door opened once more.

Clark Beemer stepped numbly inside. He stood at stiff attention just inside the open door.

"Um, that probe thing?" Beemer said. "You all seemed pretty sure it was kaput last night, right?" When a few sour faces turned his way, Beemer nodded.

"I thought so," the PR man said, squirming. He pointed back over his shoulder. "It's just that when I went out to take a leak just now, it walked around the corner of the trailer. Scary stuff. Pissed my pants and everything."

He indicated the dark liquid stains on the front of his trousers.

"Real funny, asshole," one scientist muttered. They began turning away.

"No, really," Beemer insisted. "It's waiting out there right now. Like it wants to talk to you or something."

The PR man was so insistent and agitated that someone finally went outside for a look. The technician exploded back through the door an instant later, his face filled with shock and joy.