"Chet Kinsman."
"Now listen. I don't have time to be polite or repeat what I say, so listen good. I've got a rainfall augmentation experi- ment project going—been working on it for six fuckin' years. Moving rainfall patterns along the upper Niger valley, trying to hold back the Sahara from creeping farther southward. If I'm not directing the catalysis experiment that starts at 1900, six years' work will fall through, a few million people will starve, and people down on Earth will know that something wonky is happening at this space station."
Kinsman let himself sink back onto the bench. "You're directing the experiment from here?"
"Where the hell else?" Marrett boomed, still standing. "I can see what's happening from here. Key to the whole motherin' setup is the wind and current patterns between the African coast and the Canary Islands. What do you think . . ."
"Whoa, slow down." Kinsman put his hands up, almost defensively. Grinning, he asked, "Do you understand what's happened here today?"
Marrett gave him an even sourer look. "Some of you Lunatics took over the station. Your glorious leader wants to proclaim the independence of the Moon. Big shit. I've got work to do, buddy."
"I see," said Kinsman. He looked into Marrett's steel- gray eyes. "I'm the glorious leader."
Now it was Marrett's turn to grin. "Should have guessed. My mouth always has been bigger'n my brains. But, c'mon, 450 time's wasting. I've got to be in touch with my people back on Earth. It's important."
Kinsman realized it would help to allay any suspicions Earthside if the experiment went through on schedule. "You won't mention anything about what we're doing here?"
"Hell, I'm no politician. As long as I can get my work done."
"I'll let you go ahead and do it," Kinsman said slowly, thinking it out as he spoke, "but I'm going to ask the lieutenant here to stay with you and make certain you talk only about your work."
"Fine by me," Marrett replied easily. "Only, this job might take ten, twelve hours."
"We'll send a relief if we have to."
Shrugging his big shoulders, Marrett turned to the young officer. "C'mon, sonny," he said.
It was not until they had left that Kinsman asked himself, How in hell would any of us know if he's sticking to his work or sending some sort of nonsense gobbledygook that'll stir up suspicions Earthside? It's one thing to trust Frank Colt;
Frank's with us whether he realizes it or not. But this Marrett character is a complete stranger. The one I'm really trusting is that kid lieutenant, and I can't even recall his name.
The phone buzzed again. From the speaker on the wall a scared, shaky voice said tinnily, "Sir, several of the station crew have broken out of confinement down here on Level Four. They shot two of our men, sir. One of them's dead. The other—he's hurt bad, sir."
Tuesday 14 December 1999:
1810 hours UT
KINSMAN SAGGED BACK on the bench, felt his shoulders slump against the padded walls of the gym. The young officers around him froze in their tasks: one was holding a sheaf of papers; another, sitting across from Kinsman, had been reaching for the coffee mug; the third simply stood staring at the phone on the wall, slack-jawed.
