"Why isn't Ernie back?" Kelly worried out tou-d. He peered nervously down the dim walkway.
Maybe Perry's men intercepted him, Kinsman hoped. Another explosion boomed faintly. Far off. Gas grenade? More likely another chunk of the factory being destroyed.
Kinsman got slowly to his feet. "Frank, Pat—have either of you thought about what it is that you're defending? The United States of America. Is it really the nation you want it to be? Does it work the way you want it to?"
"Don't start that," Kelly muttered.
"Think about it," Kinsman said. "Look at what's hap- pening down there. Fuel shortages. Food shortages. Riots. More people in Jail than on the streets. Army patrols in every city. Curfews. Surveillance. What the hell kind of a nation is that?"
"So you want to let the Russians blow it up?" "No! I want it changed. But they're not heading toward change. They're heading toward war."
"The United States will never start a war," Kelly said. "What difference does it make who starts it?" Kinsman snapped. "Who's going to prevent it? We're the only ones who can."
"The United States . . ."
'Tat, stop spouting schoolbook lessons! There are peo- ple down there who want the war! They think they'll live through it while the rabble get fried."
"That's Communist propaganda!"
Kinsman shook his head. "The two of you—open your eyes. That wonderful land of the free and home of the brave—it's gone." With a chill in his heart. Kinsman realized it was something he had known for years, but ignored, buried, hid away from his conscious thoughts. "That beautiful nation died in 1963, while we were still kids. Maybe someday it'll be beautiful and free again, but not the way it's going now. Not if it's subjected to a nuclear attack."
For a long moment the three men stood facing one another, an unresolved triangle of silence.
Suddenly a rumbling noise startled them. Turning, they saw Waterman limping along the walkway, painfully towing a handcart laden with bulky, heavy-looking shapes. Where is Perry? Kinsman screamed to himself. "Got batteries, connectors, firing actuators—everything we need," Waterman said tiredly. "Had to come the long way around, though. Soldier-boys all over the place, swarming on the catwalks, everywhere. They're ripping out the explosives wherever they find them."
It's only a matter of time, Kinsman told himself. Maybe the factory isn't too badly damaged. Maybe we can still make it happen.
Wordlessly he watched Waterman and Colt work at fever pitch to connect the batteries to the explosives. But if they blow the arcs here, we're finished. Kinsman knew. "A matter of time," he said aloud. Waterman glanced up from his work at Kinsman, "C'mon," Colt urged the engineer. "We gotta get it off 428 before the troops show up." He looked over toward Pat Kelly. "Go down the walkway there as far as the end of this row of arcs. Lemme know when they're in sight."
As Kelly started down the dimly lit walkway Kinsman took two quick steps, brushed past the kneeling Colt, and grabbed Waterman by the back of his collar. He yanked the engineer away from the explosives and sent him staggering backward. Colt sprang to his feet and pulled the pistol from its holster as Waterman landed on the seat of his pants with a painful thwack.
For an instant no one moved. Kelly stood a few paces up the walkway. Waterman sat sprawled on the fioor. Colt pointed his gun at hip level toward Kinsman.
"You're not going to do it," Kinsman said. "Even if I'm dead wrong, this is the only chance we have to get out without a war." He stooped down and grabbed a fistful of wires.
Colt's voice was gunmetal cold. "You're not just gonna be dead wrong, Chet. You're gonna be dead."
"Goddammit to hell," Waterman moaned. "You bent my goddamned brace. Hey, leave those wires alone! If you touch that red one to the battery terminal ..."
