The crew seemed fairly typical. The average was relatively inexperienced, the sort you'd expect on the type of assignment that was often used as advanced training. I managed to single out several possibles—men who might crack, depending upon the gravity of the situation. The captain-designate wasn't one of them; nor was the survey-team co-ordinator.
GSS 231 was on station—big and reflective and innocently ominous, held methodically by robopilot in an orbit that matched exactly the rotation of Epsilon-Terra—precisely over the largest land mass.
Moya conned us in like a dream, paralleled, rectified, grappled, and mated locks.
I showed up in Astrogation in a full-pressure suit, carrying the helmet.
The crew gawked, and somebody snickered.
"You think it's silly, do you?" Moya snapped.
"Better flush your side as soon as I get clear," I advised.
Moya nodded, lowered and secured the helmet, checked lines, and rapped O.K.
An hour later, I still didn't feel silly. I had the helmet open now. I sat in front of the communications console.
Moya responded as if he had been waiting with his finger on the stud. I didn't have to specify taping; all star ship radio traffic is automatically recorded.