"Come on, another one."
"'Greensleeves.'"
Diane put the guitar down carefully beside her, uncoiled her slim legs, and stood up. "Later, okay?"
Kinsman grinned to himself. He knew it would be later or nothing.
The crowd muttered reluctant acquiescence and broke 174 the circle around her. Kinsman stepped the final few paces and stood before Diane.
"Good to see you again." He felt suddenly awkward, not knowing what to do. He held his drink with both hands.
"Hello, Chet." She was not quite smiling.
"I'm surprised you remember. It's been so long ..."
Now she did smile. "How could I ever forget you? And I've seen your name in the news every once in a while."
"I've listened to your records everywhere I've gone," he said.
"Even on the Moon?" Her look was almost shy, almost mocking.
"Sure," he lied. "Even on the Moon."
"Here, Diane, I brought you some punch." Kinsman turned to see a fleshy-faced young man with a droopy mustache and tousled brown hair, carrying two plastic cups of punch. He wore a sharply tailored white suit with a vest and a wide floral scarf.
"Thank you, Larry. This is Chet Kinsman. Chet, meet Larry Davis."
"Kinsman?"
Diane explained, "I met Chet in San Francisco a thou- sand years ago, when I was just getting started. Chefs an astronaut."
"Oh, really?"
Somehow the man antagonized Kinsman. "Affirmative," he snapped in his best military manner.
"He's been on the Moon," Diane went on.
"That's where I heard the name," Davis said. "You're one of those Air Force people who want to build a permanent base up there. Weren't you involved in some sort of rescue a couple of years back? One of your people got stranded or something . . ."
