Selene, hauled up from Earthside over a three-year period. Selene's technicians could maintain and repair them but it would be years before they could even attempt to build such machines on their own.

Following the clattering conveyor belts that carried the pulverized rock, Kinsman came to the electric arcs humming steadily inside their stainless steel jackets. From here onward the factory was a maze of plumbing: pipes overhead, under- foot, lining kilometers of tunnels, sweating beads of precious ice-cold water no matter how much insulation the engineers put on them. Kinsman stepped over, ducked under, squeezed between the pipelines that carried Selene's lifeblood.

Waterman dogged behind him, leaning on his canes, unhappily cataloging his real and projected problems all the way through the factory. Finally, as they walked through the relatively quiet corridors of the factory's office and control area, Waterman said:

"I still don't see what all the rush is about. I wish you'd let me ease off; some of these guys have been working double shifts. They're getting tired enough to start causing acci- dents."

Kinsman stopped in front of the window that looked in on the computer control section. Watching the nearly unat- tended machine's lights nickering in some internally meaning- ful pattern, he answered, "Ernie, we've got a yellow alert slapped on us. We've got to be prepared for a real emergency. Earthside might suddenly need double, triple the rocket fuels we send them now."

"Then we ought to be beefing up the electrolysis facility, not the water production."

"First things first," Kinsman said. "Hydrogen and oxy- gen propellants come from water. If they want more rocket propellants we have to increase the basic water supply."

"Yeah, eventually, but in an emergency . . ."

"First things first," Kinsman repeated. The tautologist's handbook, he thought. When in doubt, fall back on slogans.

"But what about the interconnects with Lunagrad?" Waterman asked. "Why in hell do we have a full crew working to connect them with our increased supply lines when we're just going to have to cut them off when the fighting starts?"

"There isn't going to be any fighting," Kinsman said. "Not here."

Waterman's mouth hung open for a moment. Then he asked, "Whaddaya mean?"

"Just what I said, Ernie."

"I don't get it."

"You will," Kinsman said. "You will."

And he left Waterman standing in the corridor, scratch- ing his head unhappily.

Kinsman worked his way through the underground farms, the workshops and laboratories, the central computer section, the communications center. He did this almost every day, but in no set pattern. Say hello, look for problems, listen to gripes or suggestions. Maintain a high profile, good visibili- ty. Everyone knew him. More important, he got to know everyone in Moonbase, even the ninety-dayers.

The hospital section was always the quietest, most re- laxed, and sanest part of his rounds. As soon as he stepped through the big double doors of the hospital lobby area Kinsman could feel himself calm down. Soft pastel walls, soft voices—even the intercoms and P.A. speakers were muted. Pleasant place to be, he thought, as long as you don't let them get their hands on you.

But today was different.

Two nurses scurried past him, pushing small wheeled consoles. They looked worried, and they went by so fast that Kinsman did not notice just what kind of equipment they were rolling. They disappeared down a corridor that led off from the lobby. A harried-looking young doctor hustled after them.

The P.A. system came to life. A man's voice, sharp and unusually loud, called urgently, "Dr. Meyers. Dr. Meyers. To the ICU immediately!"

The intensive care unit, thought Kinsman. My God, Baliagorev! He sprinted down the same corridor that the nurses and doctor had taken. That's all we need, for him to conk out on us. Talk about international incidents.

He flashed past the ICU monitoring station, where a male nurse spun around from his bank of display screens and yelled, "Hey, you can't . . ." Then, recognizing Kinsman, he said weakly, "Sir?"

Kinsman saw a huddle of white uniforms ahead of him. He skidded to a stop, then shouldered past the outermost ring of nurses.

"I will not talk to any of you enema-wielding vampires! I want Dr. Meyers!"