In the display screens he saw conversations stop, people walking down the corridor come to an abrupt halt, heads turning up toward the overhead loudspeakers-
"My name is Chester Kinsman." Suddenly he did not know what to say, "Umm . . , today, a group of us from Selene—Moonbase, as you call it—have taken over com- mand of this space station, as well as Stations Beta and Gamma. Our Russian neighbors from Lunagrad have taken similar actions with their space stations. We have formed a new nation, which we call Selene, independent of the United States and Soviet Russia. Independent of all the nations of
Earth."
He watched their faces. Shock, incredulity, apathy, anger.
"We've taken the space stations as a matter of self- protection. We intend to transport anyone who wishes to return Earthside, just as soon as possible. In the meantime, please carry on your work as usual. Nobody's going to hurt you or bother you. But for the time being we'll have to ask you to remain in your own sector of the station. Please stay on Levels One and Two, and don't try to get any higher than that until we announce that it's all right. And, oh, yes—there will be no communications Earthside for a while, so don't try to get any messages through the comm center. Thank you."
He studied their faces in the display screens. They looked stunned, for the most part. Most of them looked frightened and angry. A few looked surprised, but not particularly uptight. Europeans, Kinsman surmised. Or Americans who can see past the ends of their noses. One or two faces even smiled. But only one or two. Within half a minute there were knots of babbling, arm-waving conversations filling each display screen.
Kinsman set up temporary headquarters in the rec area, up in Level Six, where the effective gravity was even less than lunar. The walls, floor, and ceiling of the big gymnasium were all padded. Appropriate, he thought. Amidst the rowing machines, oversized barbells, and a magnetic pool table, Kinsman and a few of his men pushed together some benches and a Ping-Pong table next to the only wall phone in the area. 448
Men scurried in and out constantly, bringing reports and problems to Kinsman. The phone buzzed incessantly, papers piled up on the table. They just grow. Kinsman thought of the papers, like mushrooms.
The captain of the waiting troopship was told to abort his docking with the station and retrofire for return Earthside. He sputtered indignantly about dropsick troops until told that there were several cases of an unidentified viral infection aboard the station. Then he blasted away gladly. Kinsman had the comm center call Earthside with a request for an immediate medical evacuation mission to take more than a hundred uninfected people off the station.
That brought up a bee swarm of calls from Earthside, including one from General Murdock. Kinsman's officers handled them all from the comm center, sticking to their story, claiming that they were on skeleton-crew status be- cause of the infection.
By 1800 hours Kinsman could relax enough to have a brief dinner brought up from the galley. He was just finishing a not-quite-thawed piece of soyloaf when the phone on the wall, just behind his ear, buzzed. "Kinsman here," he said into the speaker.
"Sir," the voice sounded worried, "one of the civilian scientists down in Level One is putting up a terrific squawk. Claims he has a crucial experiment on weather modification going on and he's got to get to the observatory section by 1900 hours or several years' worth of work will be wasted."
"The observatory's in the zero-gee area, next to the loading and docking facilities," Kinsman thought aloud. "What nationality is this man?"
"American, sir. But he claims he's working for the United Nations—UNESCO, if you can believe it."
"The Weather Watch." Kinsman thought it over for a swift moment. "Send him up here. I want to talk with him."
"Yessir."
Kinsman finished his small meal, wondering how Leonov was doing. Too early to expect any word from him. Shouldn't expect everything to go as smoothly for him as it has for us.
Within a few minutes a Lunik officer and a civilian entered the recreation area and crossed the padded floor to Kinsman's makeshift command post. The civilian did not look 449 like a scientist. He was well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders, an athletic body. He glided smoothly across the padded floor; low gee did not bother him. His face was hard, hawk-nosed, set in a looking-for-trouble scowl. The stump of an unlit cigar was clamped in his teeth. He was completely bald, except for the thinnest white fuzz across his skull. He reminded Kinsman more of a Turkish wrestler than anything else—and an angry one, at that.
Kinsman stood up behind the Ping-Pong table as the trio of young officers working beside him made room for the newcomer.
"Ted Marrett," the civilian said, keeping his beefy hands at his sides. He loomed over them all.
"Chet Kinsman."
"Now listen. I don't have time to be polite or repeat what I say, so listen good. I've got a rainfall augmentation experi- ment project going—been working on it for six fuckin' years. Moving rainfall patterns along the upper Niger valley, trying to hold back the Sahara from creeping farther southward. If I'm not directing the catalysis experiment that starts at 1900, six years' work will fall through, a few million people will starve, and people down on Earth will know that something wonky is happening at this space station."
Kinsman let himself sink back onto the bench. "You're directing the experiment from here?"
"Where the hell else?" Marrett boomed, still standing. "I can see what's happening from here. Key to the whole motherin' setup is the wind and current patterns between the African coast and the Canary Islands. What do you think . . ."
"Whoa, slow down." Kinsman put his hands up, almost defensively. Grinning, he asked, "Do you understand what's happened here today?"
