Kinsman held his hands out before him in the shadows of the darkened room. So you're going to survive while every- body else dies. You're guiltier than they are. You've killed. You didn't push any buttons; you did it the old-fashioned way. With your own hands.

"And if thy right hand offends thee, cut it off." The sound of his own voice in the darkness startled him. He knew it was not the correct quotation, but it fit. It fit.

Sunday meetings. The Sunday they found that a squirrel had gotten into the Meeting House and chewed up half the leather upholstery on the benches.

"Serves us right," his father had said. "Upholstered benches are an affectation."

This from the richest Quaker in Pennsylvania. A strange collection of contrasts he was. Wish I had known him better.

The school kids teasing him because he was a Quaker. Calling him William Penn. The tough ones, the big ones, ganging around him. "Let's see you quake, Quaker." How to get your nose broken. How to learn to talk your way out of a fight.

But there's no way to talk yourself out of this one.

Never to fly a plane again! If they wipe themselves out there will be no airplanes. No airfields.

"Who're you trying to kid?" he asked himself. "You couldn't handle one now. Not after years of living in low gee. You're soft as a sponge. Reflexes gone. Pushing forty."

Why do they have to have their war? In a half century of 348

Cold War, haven't they learned anything? Why must they blow up everything?

He knew why. For the same reason he had killed the cosmonaut. Exactly the same reason. It was not necessary. It wasn't. But you get the fury into you and you can't stop. Not until it's too late.

The alarm buzzer sounded. The bedroom lights slowly turned on to half-intensity. Time to get up.

To hell with everything and everybody, he told himself. This is the way it is and this is the way I've got to play it.

Things always look different in the light of day, he mused, even when the light is artificial. Not easier. Not better. But more rational. You can deal with things logically in day's light. In the dark, fearful shapes haunt the shadows.

Kinsman put in a phone call for Leonov, then dry- showered and dressed while he waited. Finally the phone buzzed and the computer told him that the Russian com- mander was on the line.

The screen went gray, but no picture took form. Leo- nov's voice came through strong and clear. "I didn't realize that capitalists got up so early in the morning."

Kinsman shot back, "That's how we stay ahead of you centralized bureaucrats."

"Hah! A slanderous provocation."

Getting serious. Kinsman asked, "You've heard about this Antarctica thing?"

"Yes."

He waited for Leonov to say something more. When nothing came, he asked, "Any further word on your replace- ment?"

"No, not yet."

Leonov's voice sounded strained. They're bugging his line, Kinsman realized. And probably mine, too.

"We've got to get together, Pete, and discuss things. The buggy race and all ..."