"It's not a military base, Neal. Not in the sense that it has anything to do with weapons."

For a long moment McGrath said nothing. Then, "This spaceplane thing . . . it's being built so we can knock out Soviet satellites, isn't it?"

"I'm not supposed to say anything about that."

"But you don't deny it?"

"No," Kinsman said, "I don't deny it."

"It's not a very well-kept secret. They've already spent nearly a billion on the design phase."

"So?"

"I'm still against your Moonbase," McGrath said quietly, but with the implacability of a glacier. "No matter what you 228 say, Chet, they'll turn it into an armed military camp."

"No. They can't."

"Of course they can. They've already escalated the arms race into orbital space. First the antimissile satellites with their lasers and particle beam weapons. Now a manned interceptor to knock out the satellites. Next they'll start the interceptors shooting at each other. They're going to fight a war out there, and your Moonbase will become part of it whether you want it to or not."

Wearily, Kinsman pulled himself up from the bunk. "Maybe you're right. Maybe."

"But you want to go to the Moon anyway."

Turning back to face him, "I sure as hell do."

"At any cost."

"At almost any cost."

"So what should I do about it?" McGrath muttered, more to himself than to Kinsman.

"I wish I knew," Kinsman said, feeling trapped and helpless. "I sure as hell wish I knew."

When they got back to the bar at the galley Diane was nowhere in sight. McGrath went off to look for her. Kinsman took another cup of punch. It was weak stuff, but his mouth felt dry, his soul arid.

People were drifting through the mess hall, drinks in hand, conversing in small groups. Kinsman wandered over to one of the hall's small oval windows and stared out at the slowly revolving stars. Most of the PR flaks had disappeared, leaving the visitors to themselves for the time being.

"Well, Major, what do you think of it?"

Kinsman turned to see a cheerful-looking man of about fifty standing before him, two beer bottles clenched in each hand.

"Very efficient." Kinsman grinned at him.

"Oh, the beer! Beats going back to the bar every five minutes. But I was referring to the station." He tucked two bottles under his arm and extended his right hand. "I'm T. D. Dreyer. My outfit did the main structural work on this flying doughnut."

"Your outfit?"

"General Technologies, Inc."