Kinsman tried to look relaxed but he was really burning to know what was beneath the wrap.
"Before I unveil your birthday present," Leonov said, "I have a speech to give . . ."
Everyone groaned.
"Wait, wait!" Leonov held up a calming hand. "It is not a political speech. It is short. Only two sentences."
"We're counting!" came a voice from the crowd.
"Very well. One: We did a great deal of research into your background to select this present, Chet."
The face of the dead cosmonaut drifting helplessly. Kinsman drove the picture from his mind.
"And two: Every permanent resident of Selene gave up two months' worth of personal freight allowance to get this—thing—up here. Dr. Nakamura lent his personal assist- ance and used family connections to acquire the—ah —object. And the dedicated workers of Lunagrad provided the necessary technical assistance to make the thing work correctly."
"That's four sentences, Leonov!"
The Russian shrugged. "I am within a factor of two of my original estimate. That's quite good, compared to what some of you scientists have been doing."
Everyone laughed.
Turning back to Kinsman, Leonov went on, "Very well, then! From all of us Luniks, Chet—Lunagrad, Moonbase, Selene—happy birthday!"
He tugged at the plastic tarpaulin and nothing happened. Everyone roared. Suddenly red-faced, Leonov pulled again, harder, and it slipped to the floor. Revealing a gleaming ebony baby grand piano.
Kinsman felt his jaw drop. "Holy God in heaven."
For a long moment he simply stood there, too dumb- founded to do anything but gape. Then everyone was clap- ping hands. Somebody started singing "Happy Birthday." Diane stepped up to him, threw her arms around his neck, 311 and kissed him soundly- More applause.
"You do know how to play it, I trust?" Leonov inquired.
Keeping one steadying arm around Diane's waist, Kins- man said, "Haven't touched a key in years. I used to be fairly good."
Pat Kelly came up beside them. "We found out you were a child prodigy."
"Bullshit," Kinsman snapped. "I had a recital when I was fifteen or so—my parents pushed me into it." And I always preferred flying planes to practicing piano.
"Play!" Leonov insisted. "I had to keep this thing in hiding in Lunagrad for weeks. I had to find someone to tune it, since there is no such talent in your den of capitalist Babbitts. Now, play something—Tchaikovsky, at least."
Shaking his head. Kinsman said, "You'll be lucky if I can remember 'Chopsticks.'"
He sat at the bench and stared at the keys. Black and white. Like morality. His hands were shaking. Why? Scared or excited or both?
He touched the keys, plucked a few experimental notes, ran through a few scales. The hands remember. Then he knew what the first piano music played on the Moon should be.
He actually closed his eyes. Involuntarily. He was sur- prised when he realized he had done it, and snapped them open again. By then his hands were well into the opening bars of the "Moonlight Sonata."
The crowd was absolutely silent. The soft, measured notes floated through the dome, nearly three hundred years and almost half a million kilometers from their place of birth.
