'Chancellor here. Who's calling?'

'Heywood? This is Victor. How are you?'

In a fraction of a second, a whole kaleidoscope of emotions flashed through Floyd's mind. First there was annoyance: his successor – and, he was sure, principal contriver of his downfall – had never once attempted to contact him since his departure from Washington. Then came curiosity: what did they have to talk about? Next was a stubborn determination to be as unhelpful as possible, then shame at his own childishness, and, finally, a surge of excitement. Victor Millson could be calling for only one reason.

In as neutral a voice as he could muster, Floyd answered:

'I can't complain, Victor. What's the problem?'

'Is this a secure circuit?'

'No, thank God. I don't need them any more.'

'Um. Well, I'll put it this way. You recall the last project you administered?'

'I'm not likely to forget, especially as the Subcommittee on Astronautics called me back to give more evidence only a month ago.'

'Of course, of course. I really must get around to reading your statement, when I have a moment. But I've been so busy with the follow-up, and that's the problem.'

'I thought that everything was right on schedule.'

'It is – unfortunately. There's nothing we can do to advance it; even the highest priority would make only a few weeks' difference. And that means we'll be too late.'

'I don't understand,' said Floyd innocently. 'Though we don't want to waste time, of course, there's no real deadline.'

'Now there is – and two of them.'

'You amaze me.'

If Victor noticed any irony, he ignored it. 'Yes, there are two deadlines – one man-made, one not. It now turns out that we won't be the first to get back to the – er, scene of the action. Our old rivals will beat us by at least a year.'