"Nothing as important as this! Holy hell, we've been trying to see him for four solid days."
"The Secretary General doesn't often make time to see a couple of lowly UNESCO scientists. His schedule is arranged . . ."
Marrett wheeled toward the Mongol. "Don't give me that humble Oriental crap! I know you better. You're just as worked up about this as I am."
Jamsuren allowed himself a smile. "Perhaps I did use my 496 consanguinity with the Mongolian ambassador to further our cause."
"Youbetcha."
"But it won't do us any good if you're an incoherent wreck when ..."
The door opened. Marrett turned, taking the cigar from his mouth. Jamsuren stood up.
Emanuel De Paolo was a slight, frail-looking man. His skin was dark, his hair as gray as volcanic ash. His eyes were utterly black, but alive, youthful and alert in an aging man's face. His suit was very conservatively cut, with cuffed trousers and a double-breasted jacket over his soft turtleneck sweater. But the suit was the blue of the skies over the Andes; the sweater Incan gold.
"Gentlemen," he said in a soft, almost musical voice. "Please do not be formal. Sit, sit."
Marrett eased his big frame slowly into the chair that Jamsuren had been using, without taking his eyes off the Secretary General. The Mongol scientist wordlessly moved aside and took another chair. De Paolo relaxed in a webchair of Scandinavian wood and rope.
"May I please ask you to be brief," the Secretary General said pleasantly. "There is a meeting of the Security Council this afternoon to discuss the recent events on the Moon, and I have several appointments on my calendar before the session begins."
Marrett glanced at his friend. Jamsuren said, "I am not sure of how much the Mongolian Ambassador told you, sir."
"Very little," said the Secretary General. "I must con- fess that he seemed to enjoy making this as mysterious as possible."
"It's not mysterious," Marrett said, stubbing out his cigar in the ashtray by his chair. "No more mysterious that the rain falling out there."
An hour later an aide knocked discreetly on the door of the room to remind the Secretary General of his ten-fifteen appointment. De Paolo told him to cancel it. The phone rang once, and De Paolo spoke harshly into it in Portuguese. They were not interrupted again, except for when the Secretary General suggested that they have some lunch brought in.
The Security Council meeting began without him. By 497 mid-afternoon De Paolo was asking, "Can all this really be done?"
Marrett was chewing the soggy end of his last cigar. It had gone dead hours earlier. "If you mean technically, the answer is yes. Sure, it'll be some time before we can tailor- make local weather on a small scale, but we know enough right now to ruin a nation's crops anytime we want to. And we've been able to steer major storm systems for years —when we're allowed to do it."
"Within limits," Jamsuren added.
The Secretary General had taken off his jacket. He dabbed at his forehead nervously. "But this is fantastic. Do you realize what power you are speaking of? Do you have any conception of what you are offering?"
"It is awesome," Jamsuren agreed quietly.
