Colt made a disgusted face.
"A toast!" Leonov called, raising his glass. It looked like a tumbler of water. Kinsman guessed that it was at least four ounces of straight vodka. "To international cooperation in space. An end to all military secrets. Peace and total disarma- ment. Brotherhood throughout the cosmos. Friendship among all . . ."
"Is this a toast or a speech?" Colt grumbled.
"Nazdrovia!" Leonov snapped back and tossed down half his drink in one gulp.
"I've got a toast," Durban said. "May the work that is done here, underground, result in the four of us meeting underground again ... on the Moon."
They drank again. And again. The waitress brought fresh drinks. Through it all Kinsman kept wishing he could get away, escape. The whisky was not making him drunk. It couldn't. He would not let it.
"Frank, my friend," Leonov said over their glasses, "why are you scowling? It is no crime to be drinking with a Russian."
Colt hunched his shoulders and leaned forward over the table. "Pete, I'm just drunk enough to tell you to go to hell. You know I don't believe a word of this peace and friendship bullshit."
"And I am drunk enough to know capitalist brainwash- ing when I hear it."
"Come on now," Durban said, relighting his pipe for the nth time. "Let's not get into a political squabble."
"Easy enough for you," Colt growled. "Mr. Internation- al Astronautical Federation. You can go around the world being friendly and setting up programs where we gotta cooperate with the Reds. But we"—Colt's gesture included Kinsman—"we gotta figure out how to cooperate with 'em without letting 'em steal the whole fucking store! We gotta defend the nation against 'em and cooperate with 'em at the same time. How d'you do that?" 159
"By giving up all weapons in space," Leonov answered. "Put an end to this Star Wars program of yours and dismantle your antisatellite weapons and we will do the same."
"Uh-huh. And you'll let me come over and inspect your boosters and satellites to make sure you're not cheating?"
"Allow you to spy on our space bases? Never!"
Kinsman leaned back in the booth, utterly sober, staring at his emptied glass and wishing he could disappear from the face of the Earth. Colt's superpatriotism always surprised and embarrassed him. Childhood prejudice, he knew. Blacks were anti-Establishment when you were a kid and you expected them all to be anti-Establishment forever.
But America was truly multiracial now. There were black generals, Hispanic bank presidents, Oriental board chairmen. The talk was that there would be a black President before much longer.
What will they call the White House then? Kinsman wondered. Will they repaint it? More likely they'll repaint the new President.
Leonov was chuckling. "Frank, my hotheaded friend, I refuse to get angry with you. We are both alike! You want to fly in space; so do I. Your government has ordered you to be an intelligence-gatherer for the duration of this international conference and ferret out as many of our secrets as you can. My government has ordered me to be an intelligence officer for the duration of this meeting and ferret out as many of your secrets as I can. How do you think I can roam around this underground rabbits' nest without a KGB 'guide' at my elbow?"
Intelligence officer? Kinsman snapped his attention to Leonov's eyes. The Russian met his gaze, smiling pleasantly, a bit drunkenly. There was no hatred there, not even suspi- cion. He doesn't know about me. Still, Kinsman's knees felt suddenly weak.
"You already know all our goddamned secrets," Colt groused.
