"I don't think so. The LTA says they'll cooperate and get the planes out here forthwith. It'll be tight; some of us leaving on the last flight Saturday will have a damned good view of the fireworks. But everybody will be off. Barring glitches." She bit into her toast. "We always assumed the most likely emergency would be an upturn in the solar flare cycle. Something like that. That all we'd have to do would be to get people under cover. I don't think it ever occurred to anybody we'd have to evacuate the entire complex. We're talking about the Moon, for God's sake." She was having a hard time keeping her voice steady. "We've already shipped off the first load of people to L1."

Opposite them, a virtual mountain brook ran through a tank. There were rocks in the water, and a broken cupola stood off to one side, half-submerged in the stream. Evelyn glanced at it, watched the image change and dissolve into a USA Today headline:

COSMIC BULLET TO STRIKE MOON

Narrow Miss For Earth, But Other Objects Have Come Closer

The headline was replaced by an image of the comet. All comet heads-at least, all the ones whose pictures she'd seen- looked alike. Below the golden halos they were dark fissured chunks of ice and dirt, occasionally cratered, irregularly shaped. They were singularly uninteresting, and she never quite understood why anyone would care about them. This one was no exception. It had a couple of craters, and some long parallel rifts, as if someone had taken a scraper to it. "It looks pretty ordinary," she said.

Charlie shook his head. "It's wider than New Jersey. We don't want to be here when it shows up."

Evelyn felt thoroughly beaten. Had the comet given her a few years, allowed Moonbase to prove its value and develop a cash flow, the corporation might have survived even this kind of catastrophic hit. But not now. This was the critical moment, and she could not escape the sense that the comet's appearance was somehow deliberate, as if the universe were out to get her. "You know what else?" she said. "When this is over, L1 won't be worth a damn anymore either."

"Why not?"

She looked at Charlie, surprised. "Because it's the mutual attraction of Earth and Moon that keeps it in place. You won't be able to maintain a satellite there if the Moon goes south. There won't be a Lagrangian point."

"Oh."

"So we'll be confined to low earth-orbit, and there won't be a convenient short-range target left in the sky. Charlie, we had a window when the technology, the money, and the will were all there. Briefly. But I think the window is closing."

3.

Moonbase, Grissom Country. 10:55 A.M.

The newscasts were now beginning to run simulations and comparisons. There was enough rock and ice in the comet head to fill the Grand Canyon a hundred and fifty times. Or to construct a covering fifty feet high completely around the Earth.

Here's what it'll look like Saturday night. Viewers could watch an animated graphic of the comet crossing the orbit of Venus, arrowing toward the Moon, and finally blending with it. A little cloud appeared at the point of impact.

People were packing. There was what one might describe as a sense of calm urgency. Jack Chandler's staff put together a departure schedule and copies were posted everywhere. Visitors would leave first, followed by all those deemed nonessential: astronomers, mathematicians, chemists, hydroponics experts, entrepreneurs, recreation directors, general maintenance workers, and everyone else not needed to launch spacecraft or keep the power on. They did need the life support technicians, the spaceport people, the communicators and systems analysts. And, Chandler decreed, senior managers. Even if they couldn't help directly.

Personnel from outlying stations were recalled. The issue of whether there should be an attempt to salvage equipment was raised and quickly discarded. Whatever we can't put on a disk, Chandler told his people, we'll forget about. A modest luggage allowance was announced and a duty officer was made available to receive suggestions or complaints, and to assist with problems.

Rick Hailey read the document on his wallscreen and noted that the Micro, which was to have carried the vice presidential party off at lunchtime, was preparing to leave momentarily with a different set of passengers. He'd gone to bed last night in a sedate facility that was looking forward to a long period of prosperity and discovery. This morning he'd awakened to chaos. In physics, he realized, as in politics, things can turn around in a hurry. And without warning.

His phone rang. "Hailey," he said quietly.

"Rick." It was the vice president. "Things have been happening. If you've got a few minutes, we need to talk."

Rick watched the news reports while he brushed his teeth. He saw an interview with Tomiko Harrington, saw an animation of the expected collision, noted the noncommittal stance taken by the White House. ("The president is watching developments. ")

When he reached Charlie Haskell's quarters, the agent stationed outside wished him good morning, knocked, heard a response, and opened up. Haskell was on the phone.

"Yes, Henry," he was saying, "everything's under control. As far as I can see."

That would be the president.

"No, you can tell them we're fine. There's plenty to eat and everybody'll be gone well before the thing gets here." Charlie was stretched out across his sofa with his long legs thrown across a coffee table. He pointed at a chair for Rick. "Henry, I assume we'll be getting back sometime Sunday morning. I'm not sure they have a detailed schedule yet."

Sunday morning? Rick frowned at the vice president, who held up a hand asking him to be patient.

"Yes, I know," Charlie continued. "And we appreciate it. As far as I'm aware, Evelyn and her people are taking care of everything. But I'll tell her." Charlie listened. And nodded. "Yes, sir. We will. See you in a few days." He looked at the phone thoughtfully and clicked off. "He's worried about us, Rick."

"So am I. What's this about getting in Sunday morning?" "They're sending four planes to evacuate us. Two will leave Friday and two on Saturday. The last flight will get away just an hour or so before impact."

"You lied to the president. You said they hadn't worked out a schedule yet."

"The schedule's tentative. My question to you, Rick: Which of the planes should the vice president be on?"

Rick sensed doors closing. "You can be a son of a bitch, Charlie."

Charlie held out his hands. "What choice do I have?"

Rick shook his head. "None that I can see."

The president wasn't in a very good situation either. Overnight, Moonbase had turned into a monumental political liability. And it would get worse in direct proportion to the size of the disaster. They would hope no one got killed, although it occurred to Rick, as it must have to the president, that a heroic VP going down would have a distinct upside. Or even, he thought with a chill, his media advisor. Valiant bureaucrat lost on Moon. But God forbid any innocents get hurt.

Charlie pursed his lips thoughtfully. "How about you?" he asked. "Do you want an early flight?"

Yes, Rick thought. By all means. "I'll stay until Saturday," he said. "But I don't think I want to go out on the late flight."

"Nor do I. But I'm not sure I'm going to be able to avoid it."

"Charlie, the campaign's not worth your life." Rick was angry, but not sure at whom.

"In the meantime, Rick, I'd like you to keep close. I'm going to be dealing with the press constantly over the next three days and I'll need some ideas. You know, comments on the courage and coolness of the lunies under extreme stress. Of, uh, the American personnel, especially. Can we find a way to say that without offending anybody?"