From somewhere deep and off to one side was an explosion. The rock swelled. Then, subsided.
Silence.
Only his breathing.
For about six seconds while he thought that the Russian ships stationed outside the base must have located the sunken Axis vessel and destroyed it just before it blew up the base.
From the dome, a hell's concerto of small-gun fire.
Broward ran again, leaping over the twisted and shattered bodies of Russians and Axes. Here the attacking officers had been met by Soviet guards, and the two groups had destroyed each other.
Far down the corridor, Scone's tall body was hurtling alone, taking the giant steps only a long-time Lunie could safely handle. He rounded a corner, was gone down a branching corridor.
Broward, following Scone, entered two more branches, and then stopped when he heard the boom of a .45. Two more booms. Silence. Broward cautiously stuck his head around the corner.
He saw two Russian soldiers on the floor, their weapons close to their lifeless hands. Down the hall, Scone was running.
Broward did not understand. He could only surmise that the Russians had been so surprised by Scone that they had fired, or tried to fire, before they recognized the North American uniform. And Scone had shot in self-defense.
But the corridors were well lit with electroluminescent panels. All three should have seen at once that none wore the silver of Argentina or the scarlet and brown of the South Africans. So... ?
He did not know. Scone could tell him, but Broward would have trouble catching up with him.
Then, once more, he heard the echoes of a .45 bouncing around the distant corner of the hall.
When Broward rounded the turn as cautiously as he had the previous one, he saw two more dead Russians. And he saw Scone rifling the pockets of the officer of the two.
"Scone!" he shouted so the man would not shoot him, too, in a frenzy. "It's Broward!"
Coming closer, he said, "What're you doing?"
Scone rose from the officer with a thin plastic cylinder about a decimeter long in one hand. With the other hand, he pointed his .45 at Broward's solar plexus.
"I'm going to blow up the controls and the transmitters," he said. "What did you think?"
Choking, Broward said, "You're not working for the Axis?"
He did not believe Scone was. But, in his astonishment, he could only think of that as a reason for Scone's behavior. Despite his accusation about Scone's intentions, he had not really believed the man meant to do more than insure that the controls did not fall into Axis hands.
Scone said, "Those swine! No! I'm just making sure that the Axes will not be able to use the bonephones if they do seize this office. Besides, I have never liked the idea of being under Russian control. These hellish devices..."
Broward pointed at the corpses. "Why?"
"They had their orders," said Scone. "Which were to allow no one into the control room without proper authorization. I didn't want to argue and so put them on their guard. I had to do what was expedient."
Scone glared at Broward, and he said, "Expediency is going to be the rule for this day. No matter who suffers."
Broward said, "You don't have to kill me, too. I am an American. If I could think as coolly as you, I might have done the same thing myself."
He paused, took a deep breath, and said, "Perhaps, you didn't do this on the spur of the moment Perhaps, you planned this long before. If such a situation as this gave you a chance."
"We haven't time to stand here gabbing," said Scone.
He backed away, his gun and gaze steady on Broward, With his other hand, he felt around until the free end of the thin tube fitted into the depression in the middle of the door. He pressed in on the key, and (the correct sequence of radio frequencies activating the unlocking circuit) the door opened.
Scone motioned for Broward to precede him. Broward entered. Scone came in, and the door closed behind him.
"I thought I should kill you when we were behind the bank," said Scone. "But you weren't—as far as I had been able to determine—a Russian agent. Far from it. And you were as you said, a fellow American. But..."
Broward looked at the far wall with its array on array of indicator lights, switches, pushbuttons, and slots for admission of coded cards and tapes. He turned to Scone, and he said, "Time for us to quit being coy. I've known for a long time that you were the chief of a Nationalist underground."
"What?"
Then, the cracks closed up, the cliff-front was solid again.
"Why didn't you report me. Or are you...?"
"Not of your movement, no," said Broward. "I'm an Athenian. You've heard of us?"
"I know of them," said Scone. "A lunatic fringe. Neither Russ, Chinese, nor Yank. I had suspected that you weren't a very solid Marxist. Why tell me this?"
"I want to talk you out of destroying the controls and the transmitters," said Broward.
"Why?"
"Don't blow them up. Given time, the Russ could build another set And we'd be under their control again. Don't destroy them. Plant a bomb which can be set off by remote control. The moment they try to use the phones to paralyze us, blow up the transmitters. That might give us time to remove the phones from our skulls with surgery. Or insulate the phones against reception. Or, maybe, strike at the Russkies. If fighting back is what you have in mind. I don't know how far your Nationalism goes."
"That might be better," said Scone, his voice flat, not betraying any enthusiasm for the plan. "Can I depend upon you and your people?"
"I'll be frank. If you intend to try for complete independence of the Russians, you'll have our wholehearted cooperation. Until we are independent"
"And after that—what then?"
"We believe in violence only after all other means have failed. Of course, mental persuasion was useless with the Russians. With fellow Americans, well..."
"How many people do you have at Clavius?"
Broward hesitated, then said, "Four. All absolutely dependable. Under my orders. And you?"
"More than you," said Scone. "You understand that I'm not sharing the command with you? We can't take time out to confer. We need a man who can give orders to be carried out instantly. And my word will be life or death? No argument?"
"No time now for discussions of policy. I can see that. Yes.
I place myself and my people under your orders. But what about the other Americans? Some are fanatical Marxists. Some are unknown, X."
"We'll weed out the bad ones," said Scone. "I don't mean by bad the genuine Marxists. I'm one myself. I mean the non-Nationalists. If anyone wants to go to the Russians, we let them go. Or if anybody fights us, they die."
"Couldn't we just continue to keep them prisoners?"
"On the Moon? Where every mouth needs two pairs of hands to keep breathing and eating? Where even one parasite may mean eventual death for all others? No!" Broward said, "All right They die. I hope..."
"Hopes are something to be tested," said Scone. "Let's get to work. There should be plenty of components here with which to rig up a control for the bomb. And I have the bomb taped to my belly."
You won't have to untape your bomb," said Broward. "The transmitters are mined. So are the generators."
"How did you do it? And why didn't you tell me you'd already done it?"
"The Russians have succeeded in making us Americans distrust each other," said Broward. "Like everybody else, I don't reveal information until I absolutely have to. As to your first question, I'm not only a doctor, I'm also a physical anthropologist engaged in a Moonwide project I frequently attend conferences at this base, stay here several sleeps. And what you did so permanently with your gun, I did temporarily with a sleep-inducing aerosol. But, now that we understand each other, let's get out."