Kinsman grinned back at him. "What's your question?"
"Just what in the seven tiers of heaven are you trying to accomplish with this revolution of yours?"
"You want the answer in twenty-five words or less?"
"Less."
They stood facing each other, the big meteorologist with his heavy hands planted on his hips. Kinsman looking up at him, the rest of the corridor empty and sterile-looking, a row of plastic doors set into aluminum-framed curtainwalls.
"Well, Dr. Marrett . . ."
"Ted."
"All right, Ted. What we're trying to accomplish is peace. No war. No missile strikes. No fighting between Russians and Americans on Earth, at least no nuclear fight- ing. So there'll be no need to fight on the Moon."
"That's about what I thought." Marrett gestured toward the tube hatch. "Goin' upstairs?"
"Yes. To Level Three."
"Good. I'm headin' back to the observation bay." He started walking toward the hatch. Kinsman followed. As they padded up the metal steps, circling the thin metal wall that held the cold vacuum of space at bay, Marrett said, "Got another question for you."
In the dim lighting of the tube Kinsman could not see Marrett's face too well. But his voice was low, serious, as it echoed along the metal cylinder.
"What is it?" Kinsman asked. 478
"Your new nation gonna apply for membership in the UN?"
"I suppose so. Why?"
"Listen. I've been working for the UN for more than ten years now, watching the best weather-modification work in the world get pissed down the drain because one nation or another blocks it."
"You don't look that old."
Marrett cast a baleful eye on him. "How do you think I got bald? X-ray treatments?"
"Okay," Kinsman said as they continued climbing the metal steps. "So your work has been stymied by individual nations."
"And blocs. Western Europe, Pan-Arab—you name it. They all think of themselves as the one and only outfit on the planet. Nobody else counts. And UNESCO, the whole diddling UN, is helpless as long as one nation refuses to go along with our ideas."
