"Hell it don't! Know why you're here, Mr. Nice Guy? D'you know why you can dance around on the Moon and collect rocks and advance in rank every three years?"

"Now, wait . . ."

Colt silenced him with a long forefinger jabbed toward his face. "You're here on the Moon, Major Kelly, because it's cheaper to supply our space stations and orbital factories from lunar resources than from Earth. That's it. I don't give a shit 343 how many scientists you got up here or how many cripples you've saved. The only reason the taxpayers of the United States support this fairy palace is because it's cheaper than boosting supplies and raw materials into orbit from the Earth. Got that?"

Kelly was white-faced now. "That's about what I'd expect from you. Did you bring any bombs with you?"

Colt leaned back in his chair and laughed. "Shit, baby, you know nuclear weapons are outlawed in space. We signed a treaty with the Russians thirty years ago. No weapons of mass dee-struction. I bet if you swung a search-and-destroy patrol through Lunagrad right now you wouldn't find more'n three or four nukes."

Kinsman butted in. "Both you guys are supposed to be officers and gentlemen. How about acting that way? You're giving everybody a helluva floor show."

Kelly glanced over his shoulder. The people at most of the other tables were staring at them. Including the Russians. Colt just sat back and toyed with his fork.

Very quietly, Kelly said to Kinsman, "Chet, you had me just about convinced to bring my family up here. But 1 can see that it's useless. It only takes a few Neanderthals to ruin everything, whether it's Earthside or on the Moon."

He got to his feet and walked stiffly out of the cafeteria, leaving his untouched tray at the table.

Colt pursed his lips and looked at Kinsman. "He's too soft to be an officer."

"He's a good man, Frank."

"Yeah, but nice guys finish last. And in a two-man race, only the winner survives."

They finished their meal in silence with Kelly's food getting cold beside them, a mute reminder of their differ- ences.

Kinsman took Colt back to his own quarters after dinner. "I've got a bottle of homebrew," he said as Colt plopped on the living-room couch. "See what you think of it."

Kinsman slid back the partition to the kitchenette and reached into a closet built in above the microwave cooker. He pulled out a bottle of colorless liquid. "It's sort of a cross between vodka and tequila. The guys in the chem lab made it."

Colt was relaxed happily on the couch. "Y'know," he said as he accepted a plastic cup from Kinsman, "I had forgotten what luxury you cats live in. A living room, a bedroom, a kitchen, all the electric power you want, all sorts of display screens and gadgets—fantastic!"

Kinsman pulled up one of the webbed chairs that had been scavenged from a wrecked dune buggy. 'T guess it is pretty soft compared to the orbital stations."

"Compared to Earthside, man!" Colt said fervently. "Compared to Washington or Vandenberg or anyplace else. You'd have to be damned well off to have quarters this nice."

"Well," Kinsman filled Colt's cup and his own, "wel- come to Selene, Frank."

He hoisted his cup and Colt returned the salute. Kinsman sipped at his drink, carefully letting the burning liquid slide over his tongue. Colt gulped.

"Aargghhh!" Colt squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head viciously. "Wow! That's some chem lab you got, man!"

"They do good work," Kinsman admitted, grinning.

"On their own time, of course. No taxpayers' money wasted on frivolities."

"On their own time," Kinsman said. "And under careful supervision from the management. I won't let any bootleg- ging operations get started around here."

Colt took another swallow. He held the cup up and admired it. "Real rocket fuel, all right." He downed the rest of it.