The other controllers and technicians left their own stations and drifted tensely, expectantly toward the communications consoles. Their consoles flickered and glowed, untended. The big electronic wall screen that displayed all of Moonbase’s systems hung above them as if nothing unusual was happening.
The chief pushed back her little wheeled chair slightly. “They did it right when they said they would, didn’t they?”
“That’s it, then,” said the male comm tech. “We’re at war.”
No one replied. No one knew what to say. The knot of men and women stood there in uneasy silence. The only sounds were the low humming of the electronics consoles and the soft whisper of the air-circulation fans.
“I’d better pipe the word up to the boss,” the chief technician muttered, reaching toward her keyboard. She started to peck at the keys.
“Shit!” she snapped. “I broke a fingernail.”
PART I: Skirmish
TOUCHDOWN MINUS 116 HOURS 30 MINUTES
Douglas Stavenger stood at the crest of Wodjohowitcz Pass, listening to the silence. Inside the base there were always voices, human or synthesized, and the constant background hum of electrical machinery. Out here, up on the mountains that ringed the giant crater Alphonsus, he heard nothing but his own breathing—and the faint, comforting whir of the spacesuit’s air circulation fans.
Good noise, he thought, smiling to himself. When that noise stops, so does your breathing.
He had climbed down from the tractor near the spot where the plaque was, a small square of gold riveted onto the rock face, dedicated to his father:
On this spot Paul Stavenger chose to die, in order to save the men and women of Moonbase
Doug had not driven up to the pass for the sake of nostalgia, however. He wanted to take a long, hard look at Moonbase. Not the schematic diagrams or electronic charts, but the real thing, the actual base as it stood beneath the uncompromising stars.