"So's my hairy ass! Anybody with a pencil and paper can figure it out, for Chrissakes! You want to be sure you've got several satellites over every possible launching area —including all the oceans—every minute of the day. If the satellites are in low orbit, which they are, to save on laser power, then you need between a hundred and a hundred-fifty to do the job. Right?"

With a grin. Kinsman said, "You're making the numbers, not me."

"All right, how many working satellites does the U.S. have in orbit right now?" "Classified."

Harriman glared at him. "How many do the Russians have up?"

"Ask Leonov."

"How many are there between the two?"

Kinsman started to answer, then it struck him.

"Ah-hah!" Harriman crowed. "Dawn is breaking inside that murky skull. There are already more than a hundred satellites in orbit and in perfect working condition. Right? And if you and Leonov can grab all of them, Selene would have an ABM network that could prevent anybody from launching anything. Right?"

Kinsman heard himself say, "Including troop shuttles to take Selene away from us."

"Exactly!" Harriman said. "You get an A. Go to the head of the class."

Suddenly Kinsman was out of breath, winded as if he had sprinted through an obstacle course. He could feel his heart thumping inside his ribs. "Hugh, if we could do that . . ."

"It would guarantee Selene's independence, our freedom from attack, and it would prevent them from starting their war—at least, they wouldn't be able to launch missiles at each other."

"But ..." Kinsman was still trying to catch his breath. "But to seize control of the ABM networks we'd have to take over the manned space stations."

"Right. Which is probably why you didn't think of the idea yourself."

"Why?"

"Simple psychology, friend," Harriman said. "Despite 387 your lofty military rank, you're not a violent man. You don't want to hurt anybody. You could see your way to declaring Selene independent because you don't think there'd be any fighting involved. But taking the space stations is another matter. Those guys in the station aren't Luniks. They'll fight you."

Kinsman nodded.

"It'll take bloodshed," Harriman said, very gravely. "There hasn't been a political movement in all of history that hasn't spilled blood. Dammit."

Pat Kelly had spent much of the morning searching for Frank Colt. After a fruitless couple of hours trying to get the computerized phone system to track him down or page him, Kelly finally left his cubbyhole office and the work he was supposed to be doing and set out himself to look for the black

Lieutenant Colonel.

It was nearly noon when he found him, out at the catapult launching facility, at the extreme end of the longest tunnel in Selene. The facility was mainly underground, al- though the ten-kilometer-long catapult itself was up on the surface, its angled aluminum framework looking frail and spidery compared to the heavy construction of Earthside structures. Yet it still seemed strikingly bold and gleaming new against the tired ancient hills and worn pockmarked plain of the Sea of Clouds.

The control center was in a small surface dome. It looked rather like the control tower of a minor airport Earthside, mainly because it served much the same function. Instead of guiding aircraft into and out of an airport, however, this control center handled outgoing traffic only: the drone supply packages that were launched to the manned space stations in orbit near the Earth.

As Kelly stepped off the power ladder and onto the plastic-tiled floor of the dome, he saw Colt standing in the middle of the clustered desks and electronics consoles that lined the long curving windows across the way. The dome was dimly lit. In the shadows a dozen men and women were sitting tensed over their desktop control panels, watching the flicker- ing computer readouts, listening to the commands and data updates through the pin-sized earphones they all wore. 388

Through the window Kelly could see a bulky wingless cylinder squatting at one end of the long catapult track. Colt stood at the opposite side of the dome, silent and umnoving, as the launch crew carried out the final stage of their operation in the cool, clipped tones of their profession.

"T minus thirty seconds and counting."