“But even if that’s true, what’s it got to do with Moonbase?”

“We can be free of them,” Doug said. “And as long as there’s one place that’s free the rest of the human race has a chance. We can be an example of what people can accomplish when they’re free to think and build and grow.”

For a few moments Joanna was silent. Doug strained to see her face through her visor, but all he saw was the reflection of his own blank helmet.

“Those are fine words, Doug,” she said at last. “And I know you believe them—”

“You believe them, too, don’t you?”

“I don’t know.” She turned away from him, looked out across Mare Nubium again.

“My father believed it,” Doug said. “He died for it. So did Brennart.”

She stood stock-still, facing the vast Sea of Clouds and the tiny red beacons still glowing out where the old buried shelters stood.

“I need your help, Mom.”

“So does Greg.”

“Then you’ll have to choose between us.”

“No,” she whispered.

“Yes,” Doug insisted. “Him or me. My father’s dream, or…” Doug found that he couldn’t finish the sentence.

But Joanna could. “I either help you build Paul’s dream or I help his murderer. That’s what you’re saying.”

“That’s where it is, Mom.”

She turned back to face him. “Buy your damned LTV,” Joanna hissed. “Do what you have to do. I’ll try to get Greg to listen to reason.”

“Thanks.” Doug was surprised by the bitterness in her voice, and even more shocked at the resentful anger he felt welling up inside him.

I’ve won, he told himself. Why does it feel so awful?

VANCOUVER

“Isn’t this city beautiful?” Kris Cardenas asked. “I’m going to hate to leave it.”

She and Wilhelm Zimmerman were strolling along a curving path through Stanley Park’s harborside garden, dazzling with flowers: Above them the sky was a perfect blue, dotted with puffs of cumulus. In the distance the snow-capped peaks of the coastal range floated like blue-white ghosts disconnected from the ground.

“Christchurch is just as beautiful,” said Zimmerman, in his wretchedly accented English. “Almost.”

“I’ve been very happy here,” Cardenas said wistfully. “Pete’s been able to do really useful work among the poor.”

“Are you safe here?” Zimmerman asked. “There have been murders, you know.”

Cardenas laughed lightly. “Safer than Switzerland, Willi. Canadians are the least violent people on Earth, I think.”

“But Canada will sign the U.N.’s treaty,” Zimmerman said heavily.

“New Zealand’s so far away!”

Although he was not that much older than she, Zimmerman looked to passersby like Cardenas’ father or at least a paunchy elder uncle as they walked slowly along the meandering garden path. Puffing away on a foul-smelling cigar that earned him several angry stares, the Swiss biophysicist was sloppy and grossly overweight, his suit jacket flapping in the sea breeze like a loose sail. Cardenas still looked like a California surfer, curly sandy hair and broad in the shoulders, decked in jeans and a light beige sweater.

But her bright blue eyes did not sparkle.

“How does your husband feel about New Zealand?” Zimmerman asked.

She waggled a hand in the air. “A good neurosurgeon can work wherever he goes. That’s no problem.”

“And the children?”

Cardenas smiled at him. “Grandchildren, Willi.”

“No!”

“Of course. What did you expect? My oldest will be thirty in another few months.”

Zimmerman puffed hard on his stogie. “How many grandchildren are there?”

“Two, so far. My daughter’s expecting in November. That’s why I want to stay until the end of the year.”

“Well,” said Zimmerman bravely, “Christchurch is less than an hour away from here, if-you use the rocket.”

Cardenas smiled wanly. “I know. But still…”

“Yes, I know. I understand. I will miss Basel, also. The pastries. And the good beer. More than half of my staff refuse to leave Switzerland. I can’t blame them. Some of them worry about their pensions, others have family they don’t want to leave.”

“It’s not an easy choice, Willi.”

“For you and me, it is. We go where they allow us to work. As long as New Zealand doesn’t sign the verdammt treaty—”

Her phone buzzed. Only the immediate family had access to it, so Cardenas hurriedly pulled the palm-sized instrument from her shoulder purse.

“Yes? Pete?” Zimmerman watched her face relax. She was worried about her pregnant daughter, obviously. “Joanna Stavenger?” She glanced at Zimmerman. “Why in the world would I travel to Moonbase, just to examine her son? That’s ridiculous… No, I’ll call her myself when we get home.”

Her husband said more, and Zimmerman saw Cardenas’ jaw clench. “Oh no! Oh my god.”

He waited as patiently as he could, standing there in the winding garden pathway as couples and families passed them, casting frowns at his cigar, while Cardenas’ face grew whiter.

At last she folded the phone and put it back in her shoulder bag.

“Bad news?”

“New Zealand’s just announced that they’ll sign the treaty, after all.”

“No!”

“Their government is under tremendous pressure from the party that’s backed by the New Morality movement. To stay in power, they’ve decided to sign the treaty.”

Zimmerman flung his cigar butt to the brick walk and stamped on it, swearing in German. Cardenas couldn’t understand the words but she recognized the tone easily enough.

“Well,” she said, her breath fluttering, “Pete really didn’t want to leave Vancouver anyway. And the kids are all here…’ Her voice tailed off.

“The only concession you must make is to give up your career,” Zimmerman said scornfully. “That’s all.”

There were tears in her eyes. “You too, Willi. They’ve stopped us both.”

“Never! I do not stop.”

“Where are you going to go?” Cardenas asked rhetorically. “There’s only a couple of tiny nations that won’t sign the treaty and they don’t have the facilities or the trained personnel you need.”

“Where will I go?” Zimmerman grasped her by the shoulders and turned her to face toward the distant mountains. The pale curve of the Moon hung above the bluish snow-clad peaks.

“There!” said Zimmerman firmly. “I will give up wiener schnitzel. Sausage and pastries and even beer I will give up. Even cigars! But not my work. Never! I will not give up my work, even if I have to live like a cave man!”

MOONBASE CONTROL CENTER

“The first day or so when I came up here,” Greg was telling his mother, “I spent more time in this spot than anyplace else.”

“I remember,” Joanna said.

“The radiation storm.”

“You told me they had a big party going on in The Cave.”

Greg nodded as he walked along the row of consoles. Each was occupied by a man or woman; they all had earphones clamped to their heads, but there was no tension in the room, no excitement. Most of the technicians looked bored as they watched their screens.

The big electronic map of Moonbase that covered one wall of the control center glowed softly. No red lights and only a few amber ones. Everything was under control; no major problems in sight. The base was functioning smoothly.

“We haven’t had a big flare like that one since then,” Greg said. “We’re about due for one.”

Greg made his rounds of the base once each day, walking from his office out to the main airlock, then down the ladder that led to the tunnel that went past the farm, then back along the next tunnel to The Cave, and finally to the control center. The fourth tunnel was entirely living quarters, and Greg saw no need to inspect it every day, although he strolled its length at least once a week, just to check things out.

The control center was the nerve nexus of Moonbase, of course. From its consoles every electronic circuit, every valve, every pump and drop of water and whiff of air was monitored both by the base’s mainframe computer and the human technicians who constantly watched the display screens and the big glowing wall map.