«Being on the Moon means that much to you?» Diane asked.
Kinsman nodded.
«I don’t get it,» McGrath said. «What’s so damned attractive about the Moon?»
«What was attractive about the great American desert?» Kinsman shot back. «Or the poles? Or the Marianas Deep? How the hell should I know? But a while ago you were all asking what turns me on. This does. Being out there, on your own, away from all the sickness and bullshit of this world—that’s what I want. That’s what I need.»
Mary-Ellen shook her head. «But it’s so desolate out there … forsaken …»
«Have you been there? Have you watched the Earth rise? Or planted footprints where no man has ever been before? Have you ever been anywhere in your life where you really challenged nature? Where you were really on your own?»
«And you still want to go back?» McGrath had a slight grin on his face.
«Damned right. Sitting around here is like being in jail. Know what they call us at the Pentagon? Luniks. Most of the brass think we’re nuts. But they use us, just like Murdock is using me. Maybe we are crazy. But I’m going to get back there if I have to build a mountain, starting at my desk, and climb up hand over hand.»
«But why, Chet?» Diane asked, suddenly intent. «Why is it so important to you? Is it the adventure of it?»
«I told you—it’s the freedom. There are no rule books up there; you’re on your own. You work with people on the basis of their abilities, not their rank. It’s—it’s just so completely different up there that I can’t really describe it. I know we live in a canned environment, physically. If an air hose splits or a pump malfunctions, you could die in seconds. But in spite of that—maybe because of that—you’re free emotionally. It’s you against the universe, you and your friends, your brothers. There’s nothing like it here on Earth.»
«Freedom,» Diane echoed.
«On the Moon,» McGrath said flatly.
Kinsman nodded.
Staring straight at him, Diane said slowly. «What you’re saying, Chet, is that a new society can be built on the Moon, a society completely different from anything here on Earth.»
Kinsman blinked. «Did I say that?»
«Yes, you did.»
He shrugged. «Well, if we establish a permanent settlement, I guess we’ll have to work out some sort of social structure.»
«Would you take the responsibility for setting up that social structure?» Diane asked. «Would you shoulder the job of making certain that all the nonsense of Earth is left behind? Would you do the job right?»
For a moment, Kinsman didn’t know what to answer. Then he said, «I would try.»
«You’d take that responsibility?» Diane asked again.
Nodding. «Damned right.»
Mary-Ellen looked totally unconvinced. «But who would be willing to live on the Moon? Who would want to?»
«I would,» Diane said.
They all turned to look at her. Mary-Ellen shocked, McGrath curious.
«Would you?» Kinsman asked. «Really?»
Very seriously, she replied, «If you’re going to build a new world, how could I stay away?»
Kinsman felt himself relax for the first time all evening. «Well, I’ll be damned! You can see it!» He started to laugh.
«What’s funny?» McGrath asked.
«I’ve won a convert, Neal. If Diane can see what it’s all about, then we’ve got it made. The idea of a Moonbase, of a permanent settlement on the Moon—if it gets across to Diane, then the kids will see it, too.»
«There are no kids in Congress.»
Kinsman shrugged. «That’s okay. Congress’ll come around sooner or later. Maybe not this year, maybe not until after Murdock retires. But we’ll get it. There’s going to be a permanent settlement on the Moon. In time for me to get there.»
«Chet,» Diane said, «it won’t be fun. It’s going to be a lot of work.»
«I know. But it’ll be worth the work.»
They sat there, eye to eye, grinning at each other.
McGrath slouched back in the sofa. «I guess I’m simply too old to appreciate all this. I don’t see how—»
«Neal,» Kinsman said, «someday the history books will devote a chapter to the creation of man’s first extraterrestrial society. Your name will be in there as one of the men who opposed it—or one of the leaders who helped create it. Which do you want to be put down beside your name?»
«You’re a cunning bastard,» McGrath mumbled.
«And don’t you forget it.» Kinsman stood up, stretched, then reached a hand out for Diane. «Come on, lunik, let’s take a walk. There’s a full Moon out tonight. In a couple years I’ll show you what a full Earth looks like.»
CRISIS OF THE MONTH
«Crisis of the Month» began with my wife’s griping about the hysterical manner in which the news media report on the day’s events. Veteran newscaster Linda Ellerbee calls the technique «anxiety news.» Back in journalism school (so long ago that spelling was considered important) I was taught that «good news is no news.» Today’s media takes this advice to extremes: no matter what the story, there is a down side to it that can be emphasized.
So when my darling and very perceptive wife complained about the utterly negative way in which the media presented the day’s news I quipped, «I can see the day when science finally finds out how to make people immortal. The media will do stories about the sad plight of the funeral directors.»
My wife recognizes an idea when she hears one, even if I don’t. She immediately suggested, «Why don’t you write a story about that?»
Thus the origin of «Crisis of the Month.»
While I crumpled the paper note that someone had slipped into my jacket pocket, Jack Armstrong drummed his fingers on the immaculately gleaming expanse of the pseudomahogany conference table.
«Well,» he said testily, «ladies and gentlemen, don’t one of you have a possibility? An inkling? An idea?»
No one spoke. I left the wadded note in my pocket and placed both my hands conspicuously on the table top.
Armstrong drummed away in abysmal silence. I guess once he had actually looked like The All-American Boy. Now, many facelifts and body remodelings later, he looked more like a moderately well-preserved manikin.
«Nothing at all, gentleman and ladies?» He always made certain to give each sex the first position fifty percent of the time. Affirmative action was a way of life with our Boss.
«Very well then. We will Delphi the problem.»
That broke the silence. Everyone groaned.
«There’s nothing else to be done», the Boss insisted. «We must have a crisis by Monday morning. It is now …» he glanced at the digital readout built into the table top, «… three-eighteen p.m. Friday. We will not leave this office until we have a crisis to offer.»
We knew it wouldn’t do a bit of good, but we groaned all over again.
The Crisis Command Center was the best-kept secret in the world. No government knew of our existence. Nor did the people, of course. In fact, in all the world’s far-flung news media, only a select handful of the topmost executives knew of the CCC. Those few, those precious few, that band of brothers and sisters—they were our customers. The reason for our being. They paid handsomely. And they protected the secret of our work even from their own news staffs.
Our job, our sacred duty, was to select the crisis that would be the focus of worldwide media attention for the coming month. Nothing more. Nothing less.