"Those were the days," Colt muttered.
"Well, a couple of minutes after they passed each other, 341
Cy's gunner turned around to him and started yelling, so he could be heard over the engines, That was a German! What the hell were we waving at him for? Turn around, let's shoot the bastard down!'"
Colt nodded.
"Cy pushed the gunner back away from him and told him, 'You silly sonofabitch, it's dangerous enough up here without shooting at people!'"
Colt started to laugh, but it never became more than a half-hearted chuckle, "Okay, I dig it. It's dangerous enough up here on the Moon without shooting at people. But I've got my orders, Chet. And maybe the Russians never heard your story."
Kinsman replied slowly, "Anyone who's spent any time on the Moon knows that story. They've saved our guys a thousand times and we've saved theirs. Most of their people speak English and a lot of ours know Russian. We live together, Frank. In peace."
"Shee-it," Colt deliberately exaggerated the accent, "next thing you know you're gonna start singing gospel songs. You live in peace, huh? For how long, pal? How long? What happens when they get orders from Earthside to do it . . ." Colt slowly squeezed his thumb down on the tabletop as if he were squashing a bug. Or pressing a FIRE button.
Kinsman said nothing. Colt went on, "It's getting down to the big crunch, man. All this messing around with the satellites. And some Navy dude got himself shot down near the South Pole ..."
"What?" Kinsman felt a lightning flash of startled fear in his guts.
Colt nodded. "Yeah. Couple days ago. Things are warm- ing up."
"In Antarctica? They're shooting at each other in an international zone?"
"Why not? World's biggest coal beds down there. They're gonna fight over it—or something else. Maybe the Middle East again; there's still a lot of oil left there. It's coming, man. Lotta hungry people and not enough resources to keep 'em all going. They're gonna fight over it, sooner or later. Nothing we can do to stop it. We gotta be prepared to win it."
Kinsman started to reply, but there was nothing he could say. He sat there, defeated. Then he saw Pat Kelly coming up, holding a dinner tray.
"Mind if I join you?" Kelly asked. He did not wait for an answer, but put his tray down next to Colt's and pulled out the chair.
"Frank, you know Pat, don't you?" Kinsman asked.
Colt nodded as Kelly sat down. "Just made major, didn't you?"
"Yep," Kelly answered. "Pretty soon I'll outrank you, Flash." His usual rabbit's face looked different: tense, almost angry, flushed with expectation.
Colt flicked him a lazy glance. "I'm not planning on retiring that soon. And what's this 'Rash' crap?"
With a shrug, Kelly said, "You're the hotshot rocket jock, everybody knows that."
"I don't know," Colt said. "Tell me about it."
Kinsman sat there and watched it happen. He felt helpless and fascinated at the same time. Kelly was a good man, bright and dedicated. Frank Colt was just as bright, maybe more so. And whatever was burning inside Colt was far hotter than Kelly's flame, Kinsman knew from long experience. Yet there was something about Colt that called lightning down from the sky. Men either loved him like a brother or hated him. There was no neutral ground.
Kelly was tight-lipped. "Look at you, wearing that uniform like you're at an Academy parade. You know damned well we don't do that up here. But you've got to be the superhero. All-time champion hotshot."
"And you keep your uniform stowed in a closet so everybody'll think you're Mr. Nice Guy, huh? Ever been shot at?"
"That's got nothing to do with—"
