“Cold as fish,” the poet replied proudly. “Cold as the moon herself, who is a far greater power in life than you sentimental, sacrilegious, pub-snoozing, humanity-besotted, degenerate Saxo-Normans will ever realize.” He indicated the Station with a sweep of his arm. “Power from Mona!”

“David!” the novelist exploded. “You know perfectly well that this tidal power toy is merely a sop to people like myself who are against atomic power because of the weapons aspect. And please don’t call the moon Mona — that’s folk etymology. Mona’s a Welsh island, if you will — Anglesey — but not a Welsh planet!”

Dai shrugged, peering west at the dim, vanishing moon-bump. “Mona sounds right to me and that’s all that counts. All culture is but a sop to infant humanity. And in any case,” he added with a mocking grin, “there are men on the moon.”

“Yes,” Hillary agreed coldly, “four Americans and an indeterminate but small number of Soviets. We ought to have cured human poverty and suffering before wasting milliards on space.”

“Still, there are men on Mona, on their way to the stars.”

“Four Americans. I have more respect for that New Englander Wolf Loner who sailed from Bristol last month in his dory. At least he wasn’t staking the world’s wealth on his adventurous whim.”

Dai grinned, without taking his eyes off the west.

“Be damned to Loner, that Yankee anachronism! He’s most likely drowned and feeding the fishes. But the Americans write fine science fiction and make moon-ships almost as good as the Russkies’. Good night, Mona-bach! Come back dirty-faced or clean, but come back.”

Chapter Two

Through his mushroom helmet’s kingsize view window, still polarized at half max to guard his eyes from solar glare, Lieutenant Don Merriam USSF watched the last curved sliver of solid sun, already blurred by Earth’s atmosphere, edge behind the solid bulk of the mother planet.