"Humph. Goddamned Cyrano de Bergerac in our midst!"
"My nose isn't that bad," Kinsman said.
"I like your nose," said Diane.
Harriman tried to make his round face frown, and almost succeeded. "I'm consumed with jealousy," he groused. "You get to do everything. Kinsman. I can't piay a note. I can't even get my stereo to work right."
With a laugh. Kinsman answered, "Playing a piano is like politics, Hugh. The secret is not letting your left hand know what your right hand is doing."
Several other people tried their hand at the piano. The dome rang with concussion rock, Chopin, soul, Strauss. One of the new ninety-day youngsters ran through some of the neo-Oriental style that was getting popular back in the States.
"Bah! Peasants and degenerates," Leonov grumbled at last, and plopped himself down on the piano bench. He pounded out some heavy-handed Mussorgsky, then broke into melancholy Russian folk tunes.
"Hey, I know that one," Diane said. She sat down beside Leonov and sang in Russian.
"What do the words mean?" she asked when they finished.
Leonov smiled at her. "What difference, beautiful one? Just to hear such a voice makes the words pale into insignifi- cance."
With a reluctant sigh, Leonov hauled himself up from the piano and began saying goodbye to everyone. "I must return to the workers' paradise," he told Kinsman.
"Thanks for the surprise, Pete. Feel free to come over and use it anytime. It belongs to all the people of Selene:
Moonbase and Lunagrad alike."
Leonov closed his eyes briefly. It was a gesture he used in place of a nod. "I understand." He hesitated and carefully refrained from glancing over his shoulder. Lowering his voice, he said, "My friend, we must get together for an inspection tour of the route for the buggy race. Just the two of us. Do you agree?"
"Away from the lip-readers?" Kinsman smiled grimly.
"Exactly."
"All right. Tomorrow?"
Leonov blinked slowly again. "I will call you."
"Good."
"Happy birthday, comrade. May you have many more of them."
