Murdock blinked and almost smiled. "There's no guarantee ..."
"You'll still be in command of the overall lunar pro- gram," Colt argued smoothly. "And the program's going to be a lot bigger than anybody had thought. You'll be running the whole operation from Vandenberg while we're up at Moonbase. They'll have to give you a star.''
Breaking into a contented grin, Murdock said, "You know, you might be right. It's more responsibility, bigger budget, bigger staff. They couldn't pass me over again."
The two majors left the smiling Colonel at his office, then continued down the corridor to their own cubicles. The hallways were empty; the Pentagon had only a skeleton crew after 4:30 P.M. Their footsteps clicked against the worn floor tiles and echoed off the shabby walls.
"You finally came around," Colt said. "I never thought you'd make it."
"You make it sound like a religious conversion," Kins- man grumbled.
"Just the opposite, man. Just the opposite. You finally got it through your skull that if you want something you gotta give something. You want to be commander of Moonbase, 249 you gotta let them have what they want. No other way."
"We're not going to put weapons on the Moon."
Colt looked at him. "Yeah, I know. But those mines and ore processors . . . long as we're using them to ship raw materials to orbital factories so they can build laser satellites, then they're part of a weapons system."
Kinsman did not break stride, but inside he stiffened.
"You're gonna be commander of a military base, Colonel Kinsman. Moonbase is gonna be the key to the biggest military operation the world's ever seen."
And that's the price for my soul, thought Kinsman. He left Colt and slipped into his own cramped office. The air-conditioning had been turned off at the official quitting time for the daytime staff. The paper-strewn cubicle was already muggy and stuffy.
It may be a military base, Kinsman told himself, and it may be there to supply raw materials for weapons systems, but there'll be no fighting on the Moon. Not while I'm there.
Then Marcot's cagey, cynical face appeared in his mind. "First get the Congress to vote the funds," he heard the Deputy Secretary saying.
"The Hungarian recipe for an omelet," Kinsman mut- tered. "First, steal some eggs."
With a sigh he sat at his desk and tapped out Neal McGrath's phone number. An answering service responded. Kinsman did not bother to leave his name on the tape. Then, out of pure routine, he tapped his own message key on the computer board. The display screen spelled out in green letters: PLS CALL MS WOODS; 291-7000 EXT 7949.
Kinsman stared at the message for a long moment. Persistent woman, he thought. As he punched the number she had left, he grinned at her use of the "Ms." Helps her forget she's married, I guess.
Jinny's face looked blander, plainer than he remembered it when she appeared on the tiny display screen.
"Oh . . . Major Kinsman! You got my call. I was in the shower. They've been touring us all around Washington all day . . ."
No makeup, he realized. That's what it is.
