Ben Bova - Moonwar

Edith was studying Doug, too. She saw an earnest-looking six-footer in his mid-twenties (which she knew from checking his bio before coming to the Moon). Olive skin, nice smile, dark hair, gray-blue eyes. Broad shoulders. His coveralls were a couple of shades darker than her own.

“I’m glad you decided to come into Moonbase,” Doug said, “although your presence here is a little awkward for us.”

“Awkward?”

He made a gesture with both hands. “You don’t have any clothes except what you’re wearing. And I’m not quite certain what to do with you, now that you’re here.”

“Do with me? I want to interview you and the others here. I want to beam your story back to the news media on Earth.”

“The media haven’t paid any attention to us,” Doug said. “They even ignored our declaration of independence.”

“Declaration…? You’ve declared independence?”

“Five days ago, when Faure told us he was sending Peacekeepers here to take over the base.”

“I didn’t hear a word about it!” Edith seemed genuinely shocked.

“You see what I mean?” he said. “The media have smothered us.”

“Well, they won’t now,” she said. “Not with Global News’ top personality on the scene.”

Doug almost laughed. She seemed serious, and not at all embarrassed at describing herself that way.

“There’s more to it, though,” he said, sobering at the thought.

“More? What?”

“Well…” he hesitated, then decided he might as well let her know. “You might be a spy.”

“A spy?” Edith’s emerald eyes went wide. Then she burst into full-throated laughter.

“You find that funny?” Doug asked, feeling a little disconcerted.

“Man, I’ve never kept a secret in my life! Some spy.”

Doug found himself grinning back at her. But he heard himself saying, “Look at it from my point of view. The Peacekeepers just happen to bring a news reporter along with them. Once it becomes obvious that they can’t muscle their way into Moonbase, this reporter talks her way into the base—”

“By risking her neck,” Edith pointed out.

“By depending on the good graces of the Moonbase people,” Doug countered.

“And now this reporter is in your midst, and she’s going to stay with you while the Peacekeepers are leaving.”

Doug nodded.

“That doesn’t make me a spy.”

“Probably not, but the thought has crossed my mind.”

Edith stared at him. He was pleasant and charming and very careful. He took his responsibilities seriously.

“For one thing,” Edith said, “how would I get information back to Earth, if I’m a spy?”

“In your news broadcasts.”

“Really?”

“In code, I guess.”

She could feel her brows knitting. “Are you serious or are you just pulling my leg?”

“I’m serious,” Doug said, “although I’ve got to admit that the more I think about it, the less likely it all seems.”

“Good. I’m not a spy.”

“I hope not.”

“In fact, I can do you some good. I can get your story out. The media can’t ignore me.”

Doug nodded and decided that, whether she was a spy or not, she might be useful at that. And it’s going to be fun showing her around Moonbase, he thought.

Georges Faure took Rashid’s call in his office atop the U.K. secretariat building because his comfortable, luxurious apartment was a wreck.

The secretary-general had spent long, agonized hours speaking with the timid lieutenant who had taken command of the Moonbase mission. Faure had felt his blood pressure rising, his innards burning with rage and frustration as the Peacekeeper officer reluctantly admitted his failure to capture the base.

Struggling to keep his temper under control, Faure had left his office and had his chauffeur drive him the three blocks through Manhattan’s noise and filth to his penthouse apartment on the East River. He had given the driver the rest of the evening off, smiled his usual condescending smile at the heavily armed doorman, and gone straight to the private elevator that rose directly to his penthouse apartment.

Once safely inside, with the door locked and the phone’s answering machine on, Faure took off his pearl gray homburg and flung it across the room. He stripped off his suit jacket and slammed it to the carpet, then stamped on it. He grabbed the vase by the doorway and smashed it against the wall. He went through the apartment like a one-man band of vandals, smashing, tearing, breaking everything he could lay his hands on.

He spoke not a word, made no sound except for the gasping of his labored breath. Paintings came down from the walls and were torn to shreds. Chairs were overturned, kicked, pummelled. The coffee table was splintered, the bedclothes ripped.

Only his clothes closets were spared his ravages. And the bathroom. When at last he was too weak to continue, sweating and gasping for breath, Faure tore off his sodden clothes, showered, then slowly dressed in an immaculate suit of dove gray. Dressing always soothed him. He found his homburg in the litter of the living room, picked it up, dusted it off, and set it carefully on his head. Feeling almost relaxed, he rode the elevator down to the lobby and asked the concierge to call another limo for him. He had a dinner engagement with six delegates from Latin America.

“By the way,” he told the concierge, “please send a team of people to clean up my apartment. It has been wrecked.”

And he left the astounded young man sitting at his little desk in the marble-floored lobby, open-mouthed.

After dinner, he went to the secretariat building instead of the apartment. He would sleep in the suite adjoining his office, and give the cleaning team the whole night to put his apartment back in order.

A telephone message from Ibrahim al-Rashid, chairman of the board of Masterson Aerospace Corporation, awaited him. Faure toyed with the idea of waiting until the morning to return Rashid’s call. Then he decided not to; I will interrupt his evening, instead.

Now he looked across his office at the image of Rashid’s somber, darkly bearded face on the flat screen wall display. It certainly looked as if Rashid were in a house or apartment, not an office. Faure smiled inwardly, pleased with himself.

“I am sure that I don’t have to remind you,” Rashid was saying,’that Mrs Brudnoy is not only a leading citizen of the United States, but a very important member of the board of directors of Masterson Aerospace Corporation.”

“If you do not have to remind me,” Faure said testily, “then why are you reminding me?”

“Believe me,” Rashid replied, “I don’t enjoy this any more than you do. But it is my duty to make certain you understand that Mrs Brudnoy is be treated with every respect.”

Faure felt his blood pressure rising again. He opened his right-hand desk drawer slightly and reached for the weighted silver balls that he kept there. They were supposed to help calm him. Fondling them in his hand, he felt no relief from the frustrated anger building inside him all over again.

“I assure you, Monsieur Rashid, that Madame Brudnoy is not being brought back to Earth as a prisoner. She will be brought to New York to discuss the Moonbase situation with me, personally. She will be accorded every courtesy.”

Rashid nodded once, barely. His eyes looked bleak. “My board of directors has instructed me to tell you that we expect Mrs Brudnoy to have full freedom of movement and association. She will want to go to her home in Savannah, of course—”

“Of course,” said Faure, trying to smile.

“And she will not want to have Peacekeeper or United Nations personnel escorting her.”