"If you can stem the encroachment of the Sahara ..." the Moroccan mused.
Marrett grimaced. "Could do better'n that if we had the authority to operate in the Mediterranean. That's where the crux of the motherlovin' problem is. But they won't give us permission. 'Fraid we'll screw up their humpin' weather."
The Moroccan shrugged. "We mustn't hope for more than can be accomplished. As I told you earlier, if even a ten percent increase—"
"Ten percent! Hell, we could stop the goddamned Sahara cold if they'd just let us work things right!" He drained the plastic cup, slammed it on the table, and grabbed the second cup. Then he recognized Kinsman. Raising his cup in greet- ing, Marrett asked, "How's your revolution going?"
Kinsman arched his brows in a "here's hoping" expres- sion. "So far, so good. Had some trouble last night but everything seems cool now."
"Yeah, I heard. Got some interesting queries from my confreres Earthside. Even a few priority calls from Washing- ton and Paris."
"Paris?"
Marrett reached into his shirt pocket. "Damn! No more cigars. Yeah. Paris. They were fronting for NATO headquar- ters in Brussels, I think. And UNESCO's interested in what you're doing, too."
"H'mm." Kinsman thought a moment. "Leonov and I ought to make a worldwide broadcast,"
"Might help to settle people's stomachs."
Kinsman nodded abstractedly, then turned his attention to his cooling breakfast. Marrett kept talking nonstop to the Moroccan and a couple of younger men who joined them. Before long. Kinsman realized that they had stopped talking meteorology and were talking about flying: ultralight planes, jets, soarplanes, even rocket gliders. Kinsman joined their conversation by saying, "I never got the chance to try rocket gliders; they came in after I became a permanent Lunik."
One of the younger men broke into an animated, "Jeez, there's nothing like them!" Using his hands to illustrate, "You stovepipe up to fifty thou, straight up, then drop the boosters, and . . ."
And they were brothers. Fliers, all of them. Without nationality, or race or any creed except the excitement of flying.
"You can keep the rocket stuff," Marrett said, with a wave of a meaty hand. "I'll take soarplanes; that's where the real fun is. I want to make love to those fat humpy cumuli. I want to get into those thermals. I want to feel that goddamned cloud. Feel it."
Kinsman decided he liked the man. Trusted him. On the strength of his enjoyment of flying? Yes, Kinsman realized. 477
On nothing more than that. It's enough. Reluctantly, though, he got up and started out of the mess hall. There's more to do than shoot the shit—dammitall.
As he headed down the corridor for the tube that led up to his command center, he heard Marrett's voice behind him.
"Got a minute, Colonel?"
He turned. "Better call me Chet. I think my commission in the Aerospace Force might not be worth much this morning."
Marrett laughed: a strong, healthy, joyful sound. He was too big for this narrow corridor; he needed a much wider setting to accommodate him. "Okay, Chet. Look, I've got a question. Maybe it's dumb, but I figure there's no such thing as stupid questions, only stupid answers."
