"Col. Gascoigne," I said. There was no answer. I took a step forward. "Col. Gascoigne, I'm Harris of CIG. What are you doing?"
The additional step did the trick. "Stay away from me," Gascoigne growled, from somewhere way down in his chest. "I'm programming the bomb. Punching in the orders myself. Can't depend on my crew. Stay away."
"Give over for a minute, I want to talk to you."
"That's a new one," said Gascoigne, not moving. "Most of you guys were rushing to set up launchings before you even reported to me. Who the hell are you, anyhow? There's nobody on board, I know that well enough."
"I'm Peter Harris," I said. "From CIG—you called us, remember? You asked us to send help."
"Doesn't prove a thing. Tell me something I don't know. Then maybe I'll believe you exist. Otherwise—beat it."
"Nothing doing. Put down that punch."
Gascoigne straightened slowly and turned to look at me. "Well, you don't vanish, I'll give you that," he said. "What did you say your name was?"
"Harris. Here's my ID card."
Gascoigne took the plastic-coated card tentatively, and then removed his glasses and polished them. The gesture itself was perfectly ordinary, and wouldn't have surprised me—except that Gascoigne was not wearing glasses.