Kinsman recognized the kid in the lead. He wore a captain's bars on his coverall collar. Perry: Christopher S., he recalled. The youngster spotted Kinsman and nicked a salute. Kinsman returned the salute lazily as Captain Perry led his file of newcomers toward the power ladder that went down to Selene's living and working areas.
The women ignored him, still chattering and ogling the grave lunar landscape. He was just an anonymous figure in plain coveralls standing in the shadowy expanse of the dome. You can hardly blame them. Kinsman said to himself. The landscape out there is a damned sight more interesting, 281 especially the first time you see it.
The group walked past him and toward the ladder. One of them caught his eye as they pranced past.
Diane? He almost called out her name. But it couldn't be. Diane would not be among a group of government employees assigned to Moonbase for a ninety-day tour of duty. Couldn't be. But she certainly resembled Diane: tall, lithe, dark-haired. The distance and the shadowy lighting prevented a good look at her face. And her hair was shorter than Diane had always worn hers, barely shoulder length.
Kinsman shook his head. No, it could not be Diane Lawrence. You're seeing things that aren't there. Diane wouldn't come to the Moon, no matter how much you'd like her to.
More than six hours later, at precisely 11 A.M. Eastern Standard Time, the President walked slowly, almost reluc- tantly, into the Cabinet Room. The members of the National Security Committee, already in their places around the pol- ished oval table, got to their feet.
"Sit ... sit down." The President forced a smile and fluttered his hands at them. He took his seat at the head of the table as the others murmured a dozen versions of "good morning."
The Secretary of Defense was not smiling as he sat down. "Mr. President, I must bring up a matter that just came to my attention this morning and therefore is not on the agenda."
The President was black. Not very black. His complexion and bone structure both showed decided Caucasian influ- ences, a fact that had cost him votes. His close-cropped hair was peppered with gray, his body had the slim-yet-soft look of a man who played tennis for exercise. He had a warm smile and a gift for making people feel he was on their side. Some said it was his only gift, but they were usually jailed as bigots—no matter what their color.
The Secretary of Defense was cold and spare, with a body as lean as a saber blade. His face was sharp-featured, with piercing gunmetal eyes. Behind his back he was called "the Hawk," which referred to his profile as much as his attitudes. The name secretly pleased him. 282
The President blinked at him. "Not on the agenda? Why not?"
"This information is barely a half-hour old. There wasn't time ..."
Looking around the table at the others, the President tapped the single sheet of paper before him. "A half-hour ought to be enough time to revise the agenda. After all, that's what an agenda's for."
Nodding curtly, the Secretary of Defense said, "Yes, I realize that. But there wasn't time. The Soviets have disabled three of our ABM satellites today—that's since midnight, Universal Time, which means seven P.M. last night, Eastern Stan—"
"Don't get us all confused with time zones." The Presi- dent raised his rich baritone voice. "What's the score over the past week?"
"Over the past seven days," the Defense Secretary said, shuffling through the papers in front of him, "the Reds have knocked out—yes, here it is ... they've disabled seven of our ABM satellites and we've hit only four of theirs."
The President shrugged. "That's not so bad. Was any- body hurt?"
"No, there have been no deaths or injuries since that captain collided his spacecraft with one of their satellites. And that was purely accidental, apparently."
A four-star general in Aerospace Force blue nodded. "We've investigated very thoroughly. There was no possibili- ty of enemy action in that case. Unless the satellite was booby-trapped in some new manner."
"I don't want anybody hurt," the President said.
