"That's right, baby. Kill. Chet might look easygoing, but underneath he's as stubborn as a Christian martyr. And damned popular around here. He's turned Moonbase into a freakhouse for all the eggheads who think they can live with the Russians. When the button gets pushed, Chet's going to be very hard to stop. Very hard. Talking won't do it."
"But . . . killing him . . ." Kelly was suddenly afraid.
"I know. It sucks. So's everything else. Maybe we can get away without it coming to that. But we gotta be ready to face it."
Kelly pushed at his thinning hair. "I don't know . . ."
"But I do. That's the difference between us, baby. And one other thing," Colt said, iron-hard. "Everything I've told you is based on the assumption that you're right, and Chet's 393 going to hand this base over to the Russians. If I find out you're wrong, this whole planet won't be big enough to hide you. I will personally take you apart, little friend. Count on it."
Academician V. I. Mogilev was livid with rage. He flailed his arms angrily in the tight confines of the space station's compartment as he bellowed into the face of the station's commander.
"But this is insanity! It's preposterous! Bureaucratic interference with scientific research that has won the highest approval from the Supreme Soviet ..."
The station commander listened with Oriental patience. The son of an Uzbek herdsman does not rise to the rank of captain in the Soviet Strategic Rocket Corps without learning patience. He had been screamed at by true experts; this little professor was a rank amateur.
After some time the academician wound down. "You can understand what idiocy this is, can't you?" His voice was almost pleading now. "We are in the middle of such delicate studies. All the instruments are at last aligned and working well. The quasar's peak of radiation intensity will be reached in another fourteen hours, if Chalinik's calculations are correct, and . . . and . . ."
"My dear professor," the Captain said as politely as he could, but still coldly enough to leave no doubt as to who was in command, "I appreciate the extreme importance of your work. But you must realize that orders from the Kremlin leave no room for argument. I cannot refuse to obey my orders. Do you want to have me shot?"
"No, no, of course not." There seemed to be some little doubt in the academician's tone, despite his words.
The Captain shrugged elaborately. "Then what can I do? I have my orders. You and your assistants must be prepared to leave within another . . ."—he glanced at his wristwatch—". . . another three hours."
"But our work . . . the instruments ..."
"We will take care of the instruments," the Captain said. "No one will disturb them, I assure you."
The astrophysicist continued muttering as the Captain rose and squeezed out from behind his little desk and 394 escorted the older man to the airtight hatch that opened onto the space station's main corridor.
"You will allow the instruments to keep recording the quasar's activities?"
"Of course. Certainly."
The scientist went slowly down the corridor, shaking his head and mumbling to himself. No sooner had the Captain seated himself at his desk again than a younger officer stepped through the open hatchway. He was stocky and blond, a true Russian.
He'll advance faster than I will, thought the Captain as he glowered at the younger man.
"Sir," the young officer said.
