Marrett gave him an even sourer look. "Some of you Lunatics took over the station. Your glorious leader wants to proclaim the independence of the Moon. Big shit. I've got work to do, buddy."

"I see," said Kinsman. He looked into Marrett's steel- gray eyes. "I'm the glorious leader."

Now it was Marrett's turn to grin. "Should have guessed. My mouth always has been bigger'n my brains. But, c'mon, 450 time's wasting. I've got to be in touch with my people back on Earth. It's important."

Kinsman realized it would help to allay any suspicions Earthside if the experiment went through on schedule. "You won't mention anything about what we're doing here?"

"Hell, I'm no politician. As long as I can get my work done."

"I'll let you go ahead and do it," Kinsman said slowly, thinking it out as he spoke, "but I'm going to ask the lieutenant here to stay with you and make certain you talk only about your work."

"Fine by me," Marrett replied easily. "Only, this job might take ten, twelve hours."

"We'll send a relief if we have to."

Shrugging his big shoulders, Marrett turned to the young officer. "C'mon, sonny," he said.

It was not until they had left that Kinsman asked himself, How in hell would any of us know if he's sticking to his work or sending some sort of nonsense gobbledygook that'll stir up suspicions Earthside? It's one thing to trust Frank Colt;

Frank's with us whether he realizes it or not. But this Marrett character is a complete stranger. The one I'm really trusting is that kid lieutenant, and I can't even recall his name.

The phone buzzed again. From the speaker on the wall a scared, shaky voice said tinnily, "Sir, several of the station crew have broken out of confinement down here on Level Four. They shot two of our men, sir. One of them's dead. The other—he's hurt bad, sir."

Tuesday 14 December 1999:

1810 hours UT

KINSMAN SAGGED BACK on the bench, felt his shoulders slump against the padded walls of the gym. The young officers around him froze in their tasks: one was holding a sheaf of papers; another, sitting across from Kinsman, had been reaching for the coffee mug; the third simply stood staring at the phone on the wall, slack-jawed.

Strangely, Kinsman felt no surprise, no shock. You knew all along that it wouldn't go without fighting. They'd never give up so easily. There had to be blood.

His voice as bleak as his soul, he said into the phone grille, "Seal all the hatches leading into Level Four. Nobody in or out."

"But sir," the kid on the other end of the phone objected, "a couple of our men are still in there."

"Seal off Level Four," Kinsman repeated, with more iron in his voice. "Airtight. Get a couple of men EVA at once and dog down all the outside hatches, too. I don't want a molecule getting out of that level. Understood?" The barest of pauses. "Understood, sir." He punched the phone off. Turning to the officer with the papers in his hand, "How many men does Stahl have down there?"

The youngster pawed through the sheets. "Duty roster, personnel assignments . . . here we are!" He pulled a flimsy sheet from the stack. "According to this checkoff list there are thirty-five men down there—no, make it thirty-three. Two are in sick bay."

"How many of 'em are women?" asked the kid with the coffee cup.

"Looks like ten."

"They won't fight," the kid said smugly. 452

"The hell they won't!" snapped Kinsman. "Give them guns and they'll shoot you just as dead as any man." They fight, Kinsman knew. They die, too.

The officer who was standing seemed to pull himself together. "The small arms supply is down on Level Four. They'll have submachine guns."