Before Kinsman could answer or maneuver himself out 152 of the booth, Durban turned toward the barkeep and called, "Can I have a mug of lager, please, and another of whatever my friend here is drinking?"
The bartender nodded. "Ryte awhy, mate."
"Now then, the logistics are taken care of." Durban put his unlit pipe in the battered ashtray, then fished in his jacket pockets to produce a pouch of aromatic tobacco, lighter, and all the surgical instruments that pipe smokers carry.
"I really should be going," Kinsman said, starting to feel desperate.
"Where to?"
"Well . . ."
"There's nothing going on except that damned dedica- tion ceremony. Everybody else is there, except for thee and me. And except the miners." He started reaming out the pipe and dumping the black soot into the ashtray. The barkeep brought their drinks and put them down on the table.
"How much?" Durban asked.
"I'll keep a tab runnin'. Got a bloody computer f keep track of you blokes. Prints up your bill neat an' clean when you're ready t' go. Even keeps track o' the ice!" He laughed his way back to the bar.
"I haven't seen much of the mines yet," Kinsman said, stil! trying to get away.
"Nothing much to see," Durban muttered, putting his pipe back together. "Take the tour tomorrow morning. Just some tunnels with automated machinery chipping away at the rock. The real work's done by a half-dozen engineers in the control center. Looks Just like mission control at Kennedy or Vandenberg."
"I haven't even seen the surface. We landed last night . . ."
"Desert. They won't let you up there by yourself. Fifty degrees Celsius. That's why the miners live down here."
"I know." The sun will broil you in minutes. And it's empty up there. Clean and empty. No one to see you. No one to watch you. They wouldn't find your body for days.
Durban took a long swallow of beer. "Fifty degrees," he murmured. "Sounds hotter if you say 120 Fahrenheit."
"Like the Moon."
Durban nodded. "That's why we're opening this training 153 center here. People will have to live underground on the Moon, so we'll train them here at Coober Pedy."
"It was your idea, wasn't it?"
Another nod. "Not mine exclusively. Several other peo- ple thought of it, too. Years ago. But when you live long enough to be an old fart like me in this game, they give you credit for enormous wisdom," He laughed and reached for his beer again.
Kinsman sat quietly, wondering how he could break away, while Durban alternately sipped his beer and packed his pipe. The old man still had a tinge of red in his silvery hair. His face was thin, with a light, almost delicate bone structure showing through skin like ancient parchment. But the cobalt- blue eyes were alive, alert, inquisitive, framed by bushy reddish brows. Durban had seen it all, from the struggling beginnings of rocketry when people scoffed at the idea of exploring space to the multinational industry that was now on the verge of colonizing the Moon.
"You look damned uncomfortable, son. What's wrong?"
Kinsman felt himself wince. "Nothing," he lied.
Those bushy eyebrows went up. "Am I bothering you? Did I say something I shouldn't? Am I keeping you from a date or something?"
"Nosir. None of the above. I'm just . . . well, I guess I feel out of place here."
Durban studied him. "You were on the plane with me, the L.A. to Sydney flight last night, weren't you?"
