Slow Burn

The problems of space were multiple enough without the opinions and treachery of Senator McKelvie—who really put the fat into the fire . All Kevin had to do was get it out....
Tell 'em to look sharp, Bert. This pickup's got to be good. Kevin Morrow gulped the last of his coffee and felt its bitter acid gurgle around his stomach. He stared moodily through the plastic port where the spangled skirt of stars glittered against the black satin of endless night and a familiar curve of the space station swung ponderously around its hub.
Four space-suited tugmen floated languidly outside the rim. Beyond them the gleaming black and white moonship tugged gently at her mooring lines, as though anxious to be off.
Bert Alexander radioed quiet instructions to the tugmen.
Why the hell couldn't he stay down there and mind his own business? Kevin growled. McKelvie's been after our hide ever since we got the appropriation, and now this. He slapped the flimsy radio-gram.
He looked up as the control room hatch opened. Jones came in from the astronomy section.
Morning, commander, he said. You guys had breakfast yet? Mess closes in 30 minutes. Kevin shook his head.
We're not hungry, Bert filled in.
You think you've got nerves? Jones chuckled. I just looked in on Mark. He's sleeping like a baby. You wouldn't think the biggest day of his life is three hours away.
McKelvie's coming up to kibitz, Morrow said.
McKelvie!
The one and only, Bert said. Here, read all about it.