"The gold-braid circuit. Yessir, can do," the youngster nodded easily, grinning. He started nicking fingers across the master keyboard.

He'd make a good piano player. Kinsman realized that he himself would not be able to play well in this gravity. Or at all, in a full Earth gee. He pushed everything to the back of his mind. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back, annoyed momentarily that the chair they had given him had no headrest.

So far no missiles had been launched. So far the reports from all the space stations and the unmanned ABM satellites looked good. Now he had to make Washington aware of the new situation. Convince them that we can and will shoot down anything they launch.

He rubbed at the back of his neck, corded with tension and aching sullenly. It's not fair, dammitall! Jefferson had weeks to write his Declaration. I've only got minutes.

The display screens that filled the main bulkhead of the center's crowded compartment were beginning to show Earthside military men. Communications technicians at first, but quickly each one was supplanted by an officer; colonels and generals and a pair of admirals scowled or glared or licked their lips nervously, waiting for the message from Space Station Alpha. They were not accustomed to waiting.

"What about the White House?" Kinsman asked.

The youngster looked up from his keyboard, one hand on his earplug. "They're working their way up through a gaggle of flunkies. They say General Hofstader will speak with you. Is that okay?"

Kinsman nodded painfully. "He'll do."

"They have to find him and patch him into the circuit. It's still sleep-time down there."

"Tough. I doubt that any of them are asleep."

The central screen shifted from a female colonel to show the handsome, silver-maned image of General Hofstader. The paneling of the office wall behind him looked more like the Pentagon, to Kinsman, than the White House. A furled 470 flag stood behind him, and he seemed to be glancing at other people who were in the office, off-camera.

"General . . ."

"What is this. Colonel?" Hofstader's voice was crisp, deep, the very model of a commander's decisive tone. "Why have the space stations been off the air and out of contact? Are you under attack?"

"Nosir. We've taken control of the stations, and the ABM network."

"'Control'? 'We'? What are you talking about?"

All the faces on the smaller screens around the General looked alarmed, surprised, concerned, angry. Kinsman al- most laughed. It was like watching a living Rorschach test.

"The people of the Moon," Kinsman said slowly and carefully, "have decided to form the independent nation of Selene. We have taken control of all the space stations, both American and Russian."

For a moment he thought the words had not gotten through. They all Just sat there, with no reaction. Then came the eruption. Fury, shock, rage. They all tried to talk at once. General Hofstader's eyes went absolutely round, his mouth fell open, he seemed to slump inside his well-pressed uniform. For several moments Kinsman let them babble. Finally Hof- stader broke through the confusion.

"That's impossible," he snapped. "You can't . . ."

"We have. And we intend to enforce an absolute ban on all rocket launches. Anything, launched by any nation, from any spot on Earth, will be immediately destroyed."

"This is treason!"

A civilian pushed into view, crowding the General and forcing him to lean back in his plush leather chair. Kinsman recognized the hawklike features of the Secretary of Defense. "Do you realize that the Soviets are counting down for a full-scale nuclear strike?" he bellowed into the camera. "Are you insane, man? You're destroying your nation, your home- land!"

"No missiles have been launched," Kinsman replied evenly. "And if they are, we'll shoot them down long before they near their targets."

General Hofstader edged around the Defense Secre- 471 tary's elbow to roar, "I'll give you five minutes to surrender and turn yourself in! Otherwise you'll see the full striking power of—"

"Bullshit, General!"