The sun was only a finger's breadth over the highlands by the time Chatterjee A loomed into sight.  Gunther glanced at it every now and then, apprehensively.  With his visor adjusted to the H-alpha wavelength, it was a blazing white sphere covered with slowly churning black specks:  More granular than usual.  Sunspot activity seemed high.  He wondered that the Radiation Forecast Facility hadn't posted a surface advisory.  The guys at the Observatory were usually right on top of things.

Chatterjee A, B and C were a triad of simple craters just below Chladni, and while the smaller two were of minimal interest, Chatterjee A was the child of a meteor that had punched through the Imbrian basalts to as sweet a vein of aluminum ore as anything in the highlands.  Being so convenient to Bootstrap made it one of management's darlings, and Gunther was not surprised to see that Kerr-McGee was going all out to get their reactor online again.

The park was crawling with walkers, stalkers and assemblers.  They were all over the blister-domed factories, the smelteries, loading docks and vacuum garages.  Constellations of blue sparks winked on and off as major industrial constructs were dismantled.  Fleets of heavily-loaded trucks fanned out into the lunar plain, churning up the dirt behind them.  Fats Waller started to sing The Joint is Jumping and Gunther laughed.

He slowed to a crawl, swung wide to avoid a gas-plater that was being wrangled onto a loader, and cut up the Chatterjee B ramp road.  A new landing pad had been blasted from the rock just below the lip, and a cluster of people stood about a hopper resting there.  One human and eight remotes.

One of the remotes was speaking, making choppy little gestures with its arms.  Several stood inert, identical as so many antique telephones, unclaimed by Earthside management but available should more advisors need to be called online.