Kinsman was standing in front of him as he slammed the receiver down on its cradle.

"Well?" Kinsman demanded.

Harriman rolled his eyes and made a fluttering motion with one hand. "Not too good, not too bad. I got all the damage-control teams to put their preliminary assessments into the computer and then let the stupid machine mull it over for a few minutes."

"And?"

"Preliminary analysis: water production down roughly forty percent. Minerals and ores down a little less, maybe 433 twenty-five, thirty percent. They blew a lot of plumbing, but the big hardware—the rock crushers—they just didn't have enough explosives to really damage those monsters."

"Forty percent," Kinsman muttered. "For how long?"

Harriman said, "Two weeks. But that's too damned preliminary to count. Say a month, at least."

Kinsman did a quick mental calculation. "We can live with that. Water'11 be scarce for a month or so, but we can do it."

Harriman lurched to his feet. "So we'll drink our booze straight, eh?"

And suddenly they were all laughing, almost cheering, with relief. Perry's strong tenor voice cut through the noise. "I've got Lunagrad! They're bringing Leonov to the phone!"

The office went absolutely silent. It all hangs on Pete, Kinsman knew.

He went to the desk. Perry got up from the chair and handed the receiver to Kinsman. He felt suddenly weak and dwarfed beside the younger man. Sitting, he glanced at Diane, who swiveled the phone screen around for him to see it.

The screen was a blur of rainbow static. Then it abruptly cleared and Piotr Leonov's face took form. He looked serious, his iron-gray hair disheveled.

"My apologies, old friend," Leonov said. His voice sounded slightly hoarse.

Kinsman's heart seemed to stop beating.

"I should have thought of the laser link earlier," the Russian went on. "The hard-liners tried to seize the main communications and power centers."

"Tried to?"

"Yes. There was some shooting, I'm afraid we had to kill a few of them. But it's over now. We are in firm control."

A collective gasp of relief from everyone in the office.

"Fine, Pete, fine," Kinsman said soberly. "We've got this end of Selene under control, too."

For the first time Leonov smiled. "Congratulations, then. We must toast the birth of Selene, the newest nation of humankind!"

"Not yet," Kinsman said. "Not until we take command 434 of the space stations. Without them, what we've done so far is meaningless."

Leonov shook his head slowly. "That cannot be done overnight, you understand. But I am already picking reliable men for the task. And the stations themselves are manned by a great variety of peoples—Ukrainians. Uzbeks, even a few Poles and Czechs."

"Really?" Kinsman could feel the tension among the people around him fading. "How did that happen?"

His smile returning, Leonov answered, "A few years ago I served a tour of duty as personnel director for orbital operations. I managed to place emphasis on training, educa- tion, and technical skill, rather than Party affiliation and nationality. Enthusiasm and Leninist ideals—although basi- cally correct, you understand!—are no substitute for techni- cal capabilities when you are in a space station."