The first test came almost unnoticed, except by Kinsman and the other Luniks: no senator proposed an amendment to the budget that would eliminate the Moonbase program.
The second test was the roll-call vote of the committee, Kinsman sat in the rear of the ornate committee chamber, holding his breath as the roll call went down the long green-topped table. Only three senators voted nay. Two abstained. McGrath of Pennsylvania was one of the absten- tions.
Moonbase passed. Kinsman leaned back in his chair and let out a year-long sigh.
You've got what you wanted, he said to himself. Now all you have to do is worry about whether it was the right thing to want.
Immediately he answered himself, No! All you have to do is to make it the right thing.
"So that's how Neal's going to handle it," Kinsman was telling Frank Colt that evening as they celebrated at a bar in Crystal City. "He's not going to vote in favor, but he's not going to stand in the way."
The bar was jammed. Half the Pentagon seemed to be there, clamoring for drinks. Music blared from omnispeakers set into the red plush-covered walls. The lights were glitter- ing, splashing off the mirrored ceiling. Colt and Kinsman stood at the bar, wedged in by the frenetic crowd.
Colt hiked his eyebrows. "Politicians! They got more tricks to 'em than a forty-year-old hooker."
Grabbing his drink from the bar before the guy next to him elbowed it over. Kinsman shouted over the noise, "Who cares! We're going to the Moon, buddy!"
The guy next to him gave Kinsman a queer look.
Colt laughed, then turned to look over the crowded, throbbing room. Kinsman did the same, resting his elbows against the bar. All the tables were filled, people were milling around the dance floor, hollering in each other's ears, laugh- ing, drinking, smoking. There was not a square foot of empty space.
Looking over the noisy crowd. Kinsman realized that he would be leaving this kind of scene far behind him. No great loss, he told himself. No real loss at all.
Then he noticed a stunning Asian woman sitting at one of the tiny tables with an almost equally good-looking blonde. The Oriental had the delicate features of a Vietnamese.
Colt spotted them, too. He nudged Kinsman in the ribs. "Now that looks like a scrutable Oriental."
"They do look lonely," Kinsman said.
Colt nodded. "And hungry. Probably waitin' for a couple of gentlemen to offer them a square meal."
"Or a crooked one."
They started pushing through the crowd, heading for the women's table.
"Seems to me," Colt yelled at Kinsman over the blaring music, "it's been a helluva long time since we tried this kinda maneuver together."
Kinsman nodded. "A helluva long time."
Colt's grin was pure happiness.
Washington lay sweltering in muggy late August heat. The air was thick and gray. The sun hung overhead like a sullen bloated enemy, sickly dull orange. Any other city in the world would be empty and quiet on a Saturday like this, Kinsman thought. But Washington was filled with tourists. Despite the heat and soaking humidity they were out in force, cameras dangling from sweaty necks, short-tempered, wet- shirted, dragging tired crying children along with them. Waiting in line to get inside the White House, swarming up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, clumping together for guided tours of the Capitol, the Smithsonian museums, the Treasury Department's greenback printing plant.
Kinsman waited in the cool quiet of the National Art Gallery beside the soothing splashing of the fountain just inside the main entrance. Wing-footed Mercury pranced atop the fountain. Kinsman laughed at the statue's pose. Looks like he's giving us the finger.
Diane showed up a few minutes late, looking coolly beautiful in a flowered skirt and peasant blouse. Kinsman went to her and they kissed lightly, like old friends, like siblings.
"How'd you get my phone number?" she asked. "I'm only in town for a few days ..."
