"Simple psychology, friend," Harriman said. "Despite 387 your lofty military rank, you're not a violent man. You don't want to hurt anybody. You could see your way to declaring Selene independent because you don't think there'd be any fighting involved. But taking the space stations is another matter. Those guys in the station aren't Luniks. They'll fight you."
Kinsman nodded.
"It'll take bloodshed," Harriman said, very gravely. "There hasn't been a political movement in all of history that hasn't spilled blood. Dammit."
Pat Kelly had spent much of the morning searching for Frank Colt. After a fruitless couple of hours trying to get the computerized phone system to track him down or page him, Kelly finally left his cubbyhole office and the work he was supposed to be doing and set out himself to look for the black
Lieutenant Colonel.
It was nearly noon when he found him, out at the catapult launching facility, at the extreme end of the longest tunnel in Selene. The facility was mainly underground, al- though the ten-kilometer-long catapult itself was up on the surface, its angled aluminum framework looking frail and spidery compared to the heavy construction of Earthside structures. Yet it still seemed strikingly bold and gleaming new against the tired ancient hills and worn pockmarked plain of the Sea of Clouds.
The control center was in a small surface dome. It looked rather like the control tower of a minor airport Earthside, mainly because it served much the same function. Instead of guiding aircraft into and out of an airport, however, this control center handled outgoing traffic only: the drone supply packages that were launched to the manned space stations in orbit near the Earth.
As Kelly stepped off the power ladder and onto the plastic-tiled floor of the dome, he saw Colt standing in the middle of the clustered desks and electronics consoles that lined the long curving windows across the way. The dome was dimly lit. In the shadows a dozen men and women were sitting tensed over their desktop control panels, watching the flicker- ing computer readouts, listening to the commands and data updates through the pin-sized earphones they all wore. 388
Through the window Kelly could see a bulky wingless cylinder squatting at one end of the long catapult track. Colt stood at the opposite side of the dome, silent and umnoving, as the launch crew carried out the final stage of their operation in the cool, clipped tones of their profession.
"T minus thirty seconds and counting."
"Beta Station acknowledges."
"Sled power on."
"All track relays green."
"Fifteen seconds . . ."
Across the sweep of the control panels tiny lights were changing from amber to green, like a Christmas display. At the extreme right end of the curving row of consoles the ARM and FIRE lights of the launch controller still glared red. The controller herself sat with her back to Kelly, her eyes riveted to the panel lights.
"Internal power on."
"Terminal guidance and control green."
"Thrusters green."
"Ten seconds ..."
The launch controller manually lifted the two switch covers with her right hand, and the two red lights went amber.
