Naomi looked at me quizzically. Was I in fact the leader?
I hedged. "Look, Ginger. There isn't time to investigate his story. Right now, Naomi and I have a little mission to accomplish. So keep this guy under guard until we get back."
Deep down in me I felt resentment about all this tact I had to use. Why shouldn't I be the leader? The girls instinctively looked to me, obeyed me. Why shouldn't I be the one to give orders, make decisions? This pretense of shared leadership with Naomi could only last a day, two days, a week at most. And then would come the final showdown.
We rocketed into orbit with Jupiter's innermost satellite—I piloting, Naomi astrogating. Io showed up like a pea-sized blemish against the bloated planetary face, whirled into tan-grey zones of supercold methane by thousand-mile-per-hour helium tradewinds. Jupiter the heavy, inhospitable.
Almost beneath us now, the boys' domed hangout glowed dully green in the feeble Jovian sunlight. Naomi readied the missile launchers. Seconds later, before we were within firing range, the first of the boys' space cruisers zoomed up to intercept us. They were ready for our ship but not our strategy.
Down we plunged in a searing power dive, straight for the hangout's vulnerable airlock. Missiles exploded on all sides of us, harmlessly, as our phantom target defense went automatically to work. Our radio crackled with barked commands and alarmed oaths between the boys' ships and Io headquarters.
"Zero range!"
"They're coming in!"
"Damn those girls!"