Overhead a silvery speck started to materialize into an executive Jetcopter, and Colt could hear the wush-wush-wush 499 of its huge rotor blades even over the shrill scream of its turbine engines. Colt and his two guards came to a parade rest, quite unconsciously, at the edge of the painted yellow circle marking the helicopter landing area. A service truck was racing across the concrete off in the distance, coming up to plug in electricity for the copter's communications, lights, and air-conditioning.
The jetcopter settled down on the concrete landing apron in a scream of gale-blown grit and pebbles. As it squatted on its springy landing gear and the rotors slowed, Colt looked up and saw that it bore no insignia except for a standard USAF star and the identification number H003. The "three" in the number struck Colt at once. Number one's for the President, and two's for the Vice President, he knew. He was impressed with the man inside, the man who had come to see him.
The copter's main hatch swung upward and a lieutenant in spotless uniform stood in the hatchway as metal stairs trundled out and touched down on the concrete. He looked at Colt and saluted, sallow-faced, pinch-eyed, but very crisp and professional in bearing. Colt returned the salute and went up the stairs and into the helicopter. His two guards remained outside in the glaring sun. In the week that they had been escorting Colt everywhere, they had yet to say a word to him. Get a good tan, fellas, Colt silently wished them.
Inside, the copter was frigid. The Lieutenant was tall enough to have to duck his head as they stepped through a smaller hatch set into a gray-painted partition. Colt stepped into a sort of conference room—a compartment, really; spacious for a helicopter, perhaps, but crowded already by the three people seated at its narrow table.
Colt snapped to attention and saluted. The weary- looking Two-Star General seated across the table flicked a salute back to him. He was flanked by a puffy-faced colonel and a civilian, a man in a dark suit who sat hunched over, his burly shoulders bulging strangely inside the suit jacket, his face seemingly stamped with the red heat of constant pain.
There was one lightweight plastic chair unoccupied. The General gestured to it; Colt sat down. The Lieutenant stayed at the hatchway, behind Colt's back. He had noticed that the Lieutenant wore an Air Police armband but carried no gun. Standing behind him, though, it would be possible for him to 500 kill Colt with his hands if he were told to.
"I am Major General Cianelli," said the General. "This is my aide, Colonel Sullivan."
Colt nodded. But two-star generals don't get chopper number three, he knew. This bird must belong to the civilian. He turned expectantly to the red-faced man, who was sitting on his left.
"My name is not important," he whispered, harsh and labored.
For a moment there was silence in the compartment. Colt could hear the distant muffled drone of the service truck's diesel generator, nothing else.
General Cianelli looked pained. "We are here to review your case; that is, the statements you made to the investigat- ing board earlier this week."
"Yessir," Colt said, going into his professional act. "I'd be happy to clear up any questions you have."
"You said that you led a group of counterinsurgents," Colonel Sullivan said, in a surprisingly high tenor voice, "and attempted to destroy Moonbase's water production facility."
"Yessir. We were only partially successful, though. We were overwhelmed by sheer numbers before we could do more than superficial damage."
"Only superficial damage?" came the tortured whisper from his left.
"I heard, while I was under arrest afterward, that our action cut down Moonbase's water production by about one third . . ."
"Ah?"
". . . but the damage could be repaired in a few weeks."
"Without needing any parts or supplies from Earth?" General Cianelli asked.
"That's right, sir. They have everything they need for the repairs there at the base."
