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The car pulled away with a screech of tires on the wet paving, a rare sound in conservation-conscious Washington. Kinsman watched the limousine thread its way through the sparse traffic. Not a bad way to travel, he mused, for somebody who sings about the hungry poor.

 

The weather had cleared enough for Kinsman to take the bus back to the Pentagon. The sky was still gray as he waited for the bus in the L-shaped enclosure at the curb, but the rain had ended. The enclosure was filthy with litter, its plastic 195 walls scribbled with graffiti. It stank of urine. Finally the steamer came chugging into sight. Just as its doors opened for Kinsman, another man came running down the sidewalk hollering for the driver to wait for him.

 

Kinsman saw that it was Tug Wynne puffing toward the bus, and silently wished the driver would close the doors and hurry on. But the sallow-faced Hispanic was in no hurry. He waited patiently for the burly newsman.

 

Kinsman took a back seat in the nearly empty bus. Sure enough, Wynne came over to him. "Mind if I sit with ya?"

 

"Not at all," Kinsman lied. "Go right ahead." Wynne slid into the seat, wedging Kinsman solidly between the window and his own bulk. From the smell of it, Wynne's lunch had been mostly bourbon.

 

"Not much fireworks in this morning's hearings, eh?" "Not much," Kinsman agreed. The bus lurched around a corner and headed down Delaware Avenue, chuffing.

 

"You see the look on the chairman's face when that perfessor started talkin' about the dangers of beaming micro- waves through the atmosphere?"

 

"That's when he closed the session, wasn't it?" "Sure was. He's not gonna give any eco-nut a chance to scare people about power satellites. Not with GE back in his home state!" Wynne chuckled to himself.

 

"It was time to break for lunch anyway," said Kinsman. "Yeah. Say, wasn't that Diane Lawrence in the cafeteria with you?"

 

"Yes. She was singing at the party last night. Didn't you hear her?"

 

Wynne looked impressed. "And now she's breaking bread with you. Fast work. Or is she an old family friend, too?"

 

"I've known Diane for years," Kinsman said, staring out of the bus window at the passing buildings. This part of Washington was drab and rundown. Not much money be- tween the Capitol and the Navy Yard. Just people's homes. Kids playing on the sidewalks. They'll grow up to stand in unemployment lines.

 

Wynne jarred him out of it. "Haven't seen you with any women since you arrived in Washington." 196

 

"My private life," Kinsman said, still staring out the window, "is my private life."

 

"Sure. I know. And I guess it must make some kinda mental block . . . killing that girl like that."

 

Kinsman whirled on him. "Stop fishing, dammit! I've got nothing to say to you on that subject."

 

"Sure. I understand. But you know, reporters hear things . . . rumors float around. Like, I heard you got hurt pretty bad yourself up there." He waggled a forefinger skyward.

 

"Bullshit," Kinsman snapped.

 

"I know you gotta deny it, and all. But what I heard was that you got hurt . . . radiation damage, they say. And now you're impotent. Or sterile."

 

Thinking of the thousands of nights he had spent alone since returning from that mission and the agonies of the few times he had tried to make love to a woman, Kinsman laughed bitterly.

Are sens

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