“I have your laser,” Fuchs said. “It’s in the cargo bay.” Nodon looked up from his food. “I will check it out.”
“You do that,” George agreed. “I’ll call up the IAA people in Selene.”
“No,” said Fuchs. “We’ll call IAA headquarters on Earth. This story must be told to the top people, and quickly.”
“Okay. Soon’s I polish off some dessert. Whatcha got in the freezer?”
Turning to Nodon, Fuchs said, “I’m carrying a cutting laser, too. It’s stored in the cargo bay, along with yours.”
The Asian asked softly, “Do you want me to connect them both to power sources?”
Fuchs saw calm certainty in the young man’s hooded brown eyes. “Yes, I think it might be wise to have them both operational.”
George caught their meaning as he got up and stepped to the freezer. “How’re you gonna fire ’em from inside the cargo bay, mate?”
“Open the hatches, obviously,” said Fuchs.
“Better wear a suit, then.”
Nodon dipped his chin in silent agreement.
“You both think he’ll be back, then,” said Fuchs.
“Perhaps,” Nodon answered.
“Better to be ready if and when,” George said, as he scanned the inventory list on the freezer’s display screen. “I don’t wanna be caught with me pants down again. Could be fatal.”
Diane Verwoerd could see that her boss was getting cold feet. Martin Humphries looked uncomfortable, almost nervous, as she entered the spacious living room of his mansion.
“How do I look?” he asked her, something he never did ordinarily.
He was dressed in a full-fledged tuxedo, complete with a bow tie and plaid cummerbund. She smiled, suppressing the urge to tell him he looked like a chubby penguin.
“You look very debonair,” she said.
“Damned silly business. You’d think that after a couple of centuries they’d figure out something better to wear for formal occasions.”
“I’m impressed that you knotted the tie so perfectly.”
He frowned at her. “It’s pre-tied and you know it. Don’t be cute.”
Verwoerd was wearing a floor-length sheath of glittering silver, its long skirt slit nearly to the hip.
“Stavenger didn’t invite me to the damned opera out of the goodness of his heart,” Humphries complained as they headed for the door. “He wants to pump me about something and he thinks I’ll be off my guard in a social setting.”
“Cocktails and dinner, and then H Trovatore,” Verwoerd murmured. “That’s enough to relax you to the point of stupefaction.”
“I hate opera,” he grumbled as he opened the door.
Stepping out into the garden behind him, Verwoerd asked, “Then why did you accept his invitation?”
He glared at her. “You know why. Pancho’s going to be there. Stavenger’s got something up his sleeve. He may be officially retired but he still runs Selene, the power behind the throne. He lifts an eyebrow and everybody hops to do what he wants.”
As they walked through the lush shrubbery and trees that filled the grotto, Verwoerd said, “I wonder what it is that he wants now?”
Humphries threw a sour glance at her. “That’s what I pay you to find out.”
The cocktail reception was out in the open, under the dome of the Grand Plaza next to the amphitheater that housed all of Selene’s theatrical productions. When Humphries and Verwoerd arrived, Pancho Lane was standing near the bar deep in earnest conversation with Douglas Stavenger.
Nearly twice Humphries’s age, Doug Stavenger still looked as young and vigorous as a thirty-year-old. His body teemed with nanomachines that kept him healthy and youthful. Twice they had saved him from death, repairing damage to his body that ordinarily would have been lethal.
Stavenger was not an ordinary man. His family had founded the original Moonbase, built it from a struggling research station into a major manufacturing center for nanomachine-built spacecraft. Stavenger himself had directed the brief, sharp battle against the old U.N. that established the lunar settlement’s independence from Earthside government. He had chosen the name Selene.
Towing Verwoerd on his arm, Humphries pushed through the chatting crowd of tuxedoed men and bejeweled, gowned women to join Stavenger and Pancho. He nearly pushed himself between them.
“Hello, Martin,” Stavenger said, with an easy smile. He was handsome, his face somewhere between rugged and pretty, his skin slightly lighter than Pancho’s, a deep golden tan. It always surprised Humphries to see that Stavenger was considerably taller than himself; the man’s compact, broad-shouldered build disguised his height effectively.