IN THE PACIFIC and through much of Asia it was already the New Year. Holiday crowds celebrated in the summertime streets of Melbourne and Sydney. In Tokyo, where Western- style observances were frowned upon, the streets were silent. A waning crescent Moon looked down across China, the vast Himalayan wastes of high rock and ice, and the steaming subcontinent of India. If the new millennium was being celebrated there, it was quietly, in private homes or govern- ment palaces. Or in shrines.
In Florida it was high noon. Fifty men, women, and children who had traveled from all over the world to the Kennedy Space Center were being led away from the sleek silvery space shuttle that they had expected to board.
They looked tired and more than a little bewildered as they marched in a ragged line under the high Florida sun, across the cement shimmering with heat haze, under the mirrored sunglasses of uniformed guards. They were better dressed than most refugee groups but they still gave an impression of bedraggled despair to the technicians and security guards watching them.
In a dozen different tongues they asked each other, "Why? What has caused this delay? When will we be allowed 544 to take off for the Moon and our new lives?"
In a Southwestern twang, a crew-cut Army major, dressed in civilian clothes, told them, "We are experiencing some technical difficulties with the shuttle that was going to take you to Space Station Alpha. We'll let you know more as soon as we have further information."
The refugees were led into very comfortable quarters, complete with air-conditioning, separate bedrooms, color television, and an open cafeteria.
"You are the guests of the government of the United States of America," the Major told them cheerfully.
The one hundred U.S. Army Rangers who were check- ing their automatic pistols and gas grenades and electric stunners were housed only half a kilometer away, in a gray cement building that had no amenities except a Coke machine that took silver dollars and an immaculate white-tiled latrine.
The Sun raced across the other side of the world and the line of midnight swept westward, carrying the new year and the new millennium with it.
In New York City by 5 P.M. it was already dark. A cold wind had swept the city all day long and now as Kinsman stood by the high-ceilinged windows of his room in the UN Secretariat Building he could see a single star hanging high in the inky sky. Jupiter? Saturn? Or could it be Space Station Alpha?
"You should sit." Alexsei Landau's heavy voice came to him from across the room.
Kinsman turned slowly, to a grating symphony of servo noises. "Alex, I've got to move around. I can't stay in that damned chair all the time." But it's hard to stand, he admitted to himself. My back aches, head hurts. I'm falling apart like a geriatrics case.
"That was the last of the visitors," Harriman said glumly from the desk.
He's tired, too. Kinsman realized. And feeling the strain of being cooped up in this room. "Ted," he called, "how about taking us on a guided tour of the building."
"Huh?" The meteorologist looked startled.
"Absolutely impossible," Landau said. "I forbid it."
"Alex, we're going crazy in here!" 545
Landau shook his head. 'The air out there is full of viruses and bacteria, dust, dirt, pollutants. No, it's impossi- ble."
Frowning, Kinsman said, "I'll wear my oxygen mask, for Chrissakes!"
"And he can stay in the chair," Harriman added.
