Bigfoot appeared. "The Micro's running on time," he said in the overdramatic, wooden manner of a poor amateur actor. Charlie decided he'd been cued. "We'll be leaving from Bay Four."

He waited a minute or so for a brief exchange between Morley and the vice president. Yes, admitted Charlie, this was an unnerving situation and he'd feel better when he was on his way. Then he turned the interview around, asking Morley for his thoughts. The reporter was amenable and laughed, and they recorded a conversation that Charlie knew was going well.

"This won't be the end of manned space flight," Charlie told the television audience, by way of rounding off the interview. "One way or another, we'll be back."

He didn't really think so, though it seemed like the right thing to say. But if "back" meant out in space again, it wasn't going to happen. The economics wouldn't support it. Maybe manned space flight would happen again one day, but it would be far down the line somewhere, so far down that he suspected the human race might have time to forget it had ever traveled to its Moon. He'd always been a supporter of Moonbase International and the Lunar Transport Authority and NASA, but he knew which way the wind would blow after this. The next campaign would be about fiscal sanity. Next time, they'd let another generation impoverish itself.

Briefly, they'd touched the sky. And it had been to no purpose.

A vast emptiness opened inside him. The White House seemed far away, as remote and unattainable as Mars. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he was not sure for whom they came-himself, or something far greater.

Bigfoot was gritting his teeth and looking at his watch. Charlie signaled that was enough. Morley thanked him on camera, signed off, shut down, and thanked him again.

Bigfoot led them into the passenger waiting area. "I'll be talking to you over the PA," Bigfoot said. "When I ask you to, go down that tunnel over there." He pointed. "The door'll be closed at the far end. It'll open when the Micro's down. There'll be a tube. Go through the tube and into the passenger cabin. As quick as you can. Okay? I don't need to emphasize that there'll be no time to waste."

"What about you?" asked Evelyn.

"Don't worry about me. I'll be going in through a different door." He started out of the room, but turned back. "Good luck," he said.

He left them and Evelyn looked at her watch. "Getting late. What do you think's keeping Jack?" Moonbase, McNair Country. 10:01 P.M.

The medication obviously wasn't working. He opened the bottom drawer in a side table and extracted a bottle of Scotch. He filled a tumbler, straight, and drank it down. Its warmth spread through him and the tension began to dissipate.

His cell phone chimed. "Jack?" Evelyn's voice. "For God's sake, where are you? It's late."

"I've decided not to go, Evelyn."

"Jack, you can't do this."

"I don't want to go back."

"I think we should talk about this later. Where are you now?"

"My apartment."

"My God, Jack-"

"That's right. I couldn't get over there in time if I wanted to."

"Jack-" He heard her struggle to control her voice. It felt good to know she really cared about him. Other than professionally.

"Good luck, Evelyn. You'll make it. And thanks for everything."

He disconnected. When the cell phone chimed again he took out the batteries and laid it on a table. Then he pulled the jack on the table phone.

He walked over and looked at his certificate from the Wilmington bridge tournament. That had been a good weekend. One of his best.

He poured a second glass of Scotch. Moonbase Spaceport. 10:02 P.M.

"I'm going after him."

Charlie had overheard Evelyn's side of the conversation. "There isn't time," he said. "You don't even know where he is."

"He's in his quarters. Where else would he be?"

"He's in his quarters now. It doesn't matter. He's made his choice, Evelyn. You have to respect it." He drew her to him and held her. Her cheeks were wet and she was trembling.

"I should have known," she said.

"How could you have possibly known?"

She started to answer, but broke it off and simply held him. And Charlie remembered the silent message he'd seen passed to her from Chandler.

"I love you."

"Damn him," she said quietly.

7.

Manhattan. 10:03 P.M.

Louise Singfield lived in a rooftop apartment in a four-story brownstone on 77th Street just off Central Park. It was perfect for a moonwatch party.

Marilyn and Larry arrived by taxi, identified themselves through the intercom, and were admitted. They rode a creaky elevator to the fourth floor and climbed a staircase the rest of the way. Louise's door opened off a narrow landing.

There was laughter inside and familiar voices. Marilyn immediately recognized Doug Cabel, Larry's boss. She didn't like Cabel, not because of anything he'd ever done, or even was, but because of the way her husband turned into a toady in his presence. Larry was a good man: He treated her well, made a decent living, didn't cheat, didn't demonstrate any major vices. Yet he seemed to be admirable for what he didn't do rather than for what he did. She'd been married three years and had come to realize that she was making do. The great romance she'd dreamed of in college, like the ones she read about every day in her job, had not happened. And now, she knew, would not happen.

Well, it could have been worse.

Louise's door opened and there stood the hostess herself. She wore a white blouse with navy collar and sleeves and navy slacks. The blouse was cut to reveal some breast. A bit much, Marilyn thought, for a casual office BYOB affair.

"Good to see you, Marilyn," Louise said, delivering a peck on the cheek. She accepted a kiss from Larry and introduced her boyfriend du jour. Mike Somebody-or-other.

Marilyn knew most of the people there. Larry's department did a lot of socializing. Doug believed it was good for morale and he encouraged it.

They contributed their bottle of Jamaica rum to the cache, made a couple of daiquiris, and went out onto the terrace. Larry paid his customary obeisance to Doug. Doug commented on this being quite a night, and then asked how the Kiplinger's report on BRK Merchandising should be handled. Or something of that nature.

The comet had grown appreciably from night to night. Now it commanded the sky east of the Moon. Nearby stars had faded, and when Marilyn walked to the far edge of the terrace, near the roof and away from the lights, she thought the illumination from the comet strong enough that she could have read by it.

Marv Taylor joined her. "Spooky, isn't it?" he said.

Marv, like Larry, was an account executive. He was quiet, introspective, gentle. His eyes were light blue, like the sky during late morning, and they seemed always amused and sad at the same time, as if he knew the truth about her. (What was the truth about her?) He was not married. There'd been a fiancee when she'd first met him. But the woman was gone and Marilyn, for reasons she did not entirely understand, had been relieved at her departure.

"Yes," she admitted. "I've never seen a sky like that."

He was not drinking. "This'll be a night to tell your grandkids about."

Marilyn tasted her daiquiri. It was strawberry. "Larry thinks it'll fizzle. He says astronomical stuff, comets specifically, always fizzle."

He smiled. "He's probably right," he said.

She looked into his eyes. Marv Taylor, I'd like very much to bed you. But she wouldn't. If she were sure she could get away with it, she'd think seriously about giving it a try. She felt entitled to one real passion during her life. But she'd get caught. Larry would know.