"Don't thank me. I'm just doing what Kinsman would do if he was here. If it was up to me . . ."

But Jill had already dropped the handset and was racing down the corridor toward the Russian half of the hospital- Four hours later she was slouched on a softly padded sofa, sipping a glass of scalding tea. Alexsei Landau sat next to her. He was tall, with broad shoulders and the strong, sure hands of a surgeon. Behind his beard he was smiling.

"There is an old Russian proverb that I just made up: If you have five cardiac emergency units available, you will get six cardiac emergencies."

Jill smiled back at him. "At least we got him in time."

"H'mm, yes. But he's going to need support for many days. Weeks, more likely."

"We can bring him back to our side. There's plenty of room."

Landau shook his head. "The rules forbid us to send our patients to your side of the hospital."

"Rules!" Jill snapped. "If we played by their rules your patient would be dead now."

The Russian nodded gravely.

"I'll have Kinsman talk to Leonov, They'll work it out."

"I doubt it. Leonov is due to leave shortly anyway. We don't know who will be taking his place."

"Chet Kinsman will figure out a way to do it," Jill said firmly, dismissing the problem. "Who is the patient? He looked vaguely familiar to me." 327

"He should. He is Nicholai Baliagorev."

"The ballet master?"

"Yes."

"I didn't know he was here!"

"He just arrived. They sent him here to rest his heart, but the rocket flight was almost too much for him."

"Oh, Alex, we've got to save him! We can't let a man like that die because of red tape."

Landau shook his head wearily. "Red tape has killed more people than bullets, dear girl. Far more."

Friday 3 December 1999:

1120hrsUT

Ir WAS STILL NIGHT on the Sea of Clouds, a night that would continue for another week. But the waxing crescent of the Earth, nearly half full now, cast a soft light on the lunar landscape.

Kinsman stood on a slight rise that overlooked the broad undulating plain, listening to the sound of his own breathing and the suit's airblower. A pair of dune buggies were inching their way across the plain, off in the distance. Not far from where Kinsman stood, a group of lunar-suited Americans and Russians were deep in earnest conversation.

Next to him stood Colonel Leonov, in a bright red pressure suit almost identical to Kinsman's own, except for slight differences in the helmet and backpack.

"It should be a good race," Leonov said. Kinsman heard the radio voice in his helmet earphones.