"The . . . bullhorn," Kinsman puffed. Christ Almighty! Twenty paces and you're half dead.

The policeman hesitated, then held out the bullhorn. Kinsman took it, with a click and whir of servos. He put the bullhorn to his lips.

"I . . ." His voice cracked, his throat burned.

Landau reached out to support him. Marrett and Nicker- son came up on the other side.

"I am Chet Kinsman," he said, and heard his magnified voice boom hollowly off the tunnel walls.

The crowd seemed to flow backward a pace or two, buzzing. Like a rattler trying to make up its mind about striking. Kinsman thought.

"I'm the man who's being accused of treason." Kinsman took a deep, rasping breath. "I can only tell you . . . that we declared independence ... for the Moon ... in the same spirit that our forefathers . . . declared independence . . . for the United States."

Can't get air into my lungs!

"The people of Selene . . . would like to live in peace 527

. . . with all humankind. . . . There's no more reason for you to fear ... an independent Selene . . . than there has been for England to fear . . . an independent United States." The crowd was murmuring, wavering. Kinsman let his arm drop. Someone took the bullhorn from his fingers. There's more to tell them, he knew. But 1 can't. I can't. Too bloody tired.

Thursday 30 December 1999:

1332 hrsUT

FLOATING. HE WAS floating in free-fall, connected to reality only by the lifegiving umbilical snaking back to the space- craft. Kinsman glorified in the freedom of it. Turning slowly in space he saluted each of the stars in turn: Rigel, Betel- geuse, Sirius, Procyon, the Twins, the Crab, the Scorpion with Antares glowering redly in its middle. Antares, the rival of Mars. Enemy of Mars. Enemy of war.

And then she drifted into his view. Dead. Arms still outstretched in terrified supplication, oxygen lines ripped away by his hands. She was turning slowly, ever so slowly, showing her back to him at first but slowly, slowly revolving so that now he could see the bulge of her helmet where the right earphone was built in and now the hinge of her dark-tinted visor and the first red initial of CCCP across the top of her helmet.

No! I want to wake up!

But she drifted closer to him, still turning toward him, her arms extended now in a cold embrace of death. He wanted to tear his eyes away, but instead looked deeply into that visor through the darkness and saw her face.

Diane's face. Dead.

"Noooo!" he screamed.

Kinsman was trying to sit up, eyes wide open, room still echoing with his nightmare shout. The lights snapped on 528 harshly, painfully. Dr. Landau and two nurses burst into the room.

He saw that he was lying on a water bed, felt it sloshing wildly beneath his struggles. A light plastic web harness was fastened over him, making it impossible for him to get free. In his ears he heard the peculiar double beat of his natural and artificial hearts, thumping hard in syncopation.

"Chet, Chet! Don't try to get up!" First time Alex has ever called me by my first name. Kinsman realized with a detached part of his mind.

"I'm all right," he said, relaxing, sinking back into the water bed's warm caress. "Just a dream ... a bad dream."

One of the nurses, a tall leggy African, had a syringe in her hand. Landau waved her away.

As they unfastened the web harness Kinsman lay back and let the buoyancy of the water carry him. The room was big, huge by lunar standards, and plushly furnished. The ceiling was richly paneled in wood, the floor thickly carpeted; deep comfortable chairs and couches were scattered in a smooth luxurious arrangement.

The other nurse touched a button on the wall and the drapes slid back, letting sunlight filter through the ceiling-high windows. There was a spacious desk by the windows, with various electronic gadgetry neatly arranged on its top and a special contour chair behind it.