Stopping him with an upraised hand, Paul said, “Orbital manufacturing doesn’t make economic sense if you have to lift the raw materials from Earth. We both know that. But if we can provide the raw materials from the Moon it’ll reduce your costs by a factor of twenty or more.”

The kid made a half-hearted nod. “Okay, so the Moon’s got low gravity and no air and you can shoot payloads off its surface with an electric catapult. That makes it real cheap.”

“And the raw materials are there. Aluminum, silicon, titanium, iron…”

“But how much will it cost to set up a mining operation on the Moon?” the youngster asked. “How long will it take? How much will that electric catapult cost and how soon can I you have it in operation?”

“As soon as I goddamned can,” Paul said. Meaning, As soon fas I can get the board of directors to put up the money I need to get Moonbase up and running.

The younger man nodded, unimpressed.

“In the meantime,” Paul said, “I want you to get the Windowall operation through development and into production. We can make enough money off that to keep your alloy processing going.”

Joanna was still in the sleeping bag when he returned to their quarters. She was awake, though, and looking almost healthy.

“It’s all right if I keep still,” she told Paul. “But as soon as I move my head, even a little bit, everything starts spinning.”

“I guess this was a lousy idea,” he said, hovering a few inches from her. For a moment he felt as if he were floating above her as she lay cocooned in the mesh sleeping bag, and a shudder of erotic heat flashed through him. He forced his feet into the restraining loops on the deck and his perspective shifted immediately; he was standing in front of her and she was pale and despondent.

“No, it was a wonderful idea. I’m just not cut out to be an astronaut.”

Paul disagreed. “It’s only a matter of adjustment. If we stayed up here for a week you’d be fine.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Your body’s already adjusting to zero gee. You’ve grown at least an inch taller.”

“Have I?”

“Look at the cuffs of your pants,” he said. Then quickly, “No, don’t bend your head down. But your sleeves are shorter now, too. See?”

“I really have grown taller,” Joanna said.

“Everybody does in zero gee. The spine unbends and you gain an inch or two. Your waist gets slimmer, too.”

“But my head feels so stuffed.”

“Mine too. The sinuses can’t drain the way they do on Earth. Zero gravity means no post-nasal drip.”

“I wish there was something I could take to make me feel better,” she said.

“The transdermal patches haven’t worked?”

“I don’t think so,” Joanna said, fingering the flesh-colored circular patch behind her ear. “Or maybe they are working and I’d feel even worse without them.”

He sighed. “I could call for a Clippership to take us back tonight.”

“No,” Joanna said firmly. “You’re not going to spend a few million dollars just to pamper me.”

He grinned at her. “Who else should I pamper?”

Before she could answer the phone buzzed. Paul reached across the tiny cubicle to the computer keyboard built into the bulkhead and tapped a key.

Bradley Arnold’sflorid face appeared on the display screen.

“Ah, I got the two of you together,” he said, smiling widely. “Good.”

“What is it, Brad?” Joanna asked. Paul was surprised at the sudden strength in her voice.

“I’ve had a long talk with Greg. Did you know he’s been — ah, seeing — Melissa Hart?”

“Is that why you called?” Paul asked, annoyed.

“No, no, no. Not at all. But Greg and I had a long talk, almost a father-son talk, you might say.” The man is a monument to poor taste, Paul thought.

“How is he?” Joanna asked.

Arnold blinked his frog’s eyes twice. “He seems to be bearing up well. Physically, he’s fine.”

Sure; he’s getting physical therapy from Melissa, Paul growled to himself.

“He wants to have a meeting with you, Paul,” Arnold went on. “To discuss the videodisk.”

“Discuss it? What do you mean?” Paul asked.

“Greg hasn’t decided whether or not to take the disk to the police. He wants to talk it over with you before he makes that decision.”

Paul felt alarmed. There’s more going on here than Brad’s telling us. But Joanna smiled tightly and answered, “We’ll be glad to sit down and talk it over with him. Just as soon as we can. We can leave the station right away, can’t we Paul?”

Paul nodded, thinking that the few million she wouldn’t spend to alleviate her own physical distress wasn’t even a consideration in her mind when it came to trying to patch it up with her son.

Dead reckoning. Paul tried not to think of the irony in the term.

With no navigational aids to help him, Paul looked across the glassy crater that he had fallen into and lined himself up with his own boot prints, shining bright against the dark lunar regolith. Turning, he looked for a recognizable feature on the sharp horizon.

Okay, he said to himself. You head for that big squarish boulder. March.

He started off again, checking his watch to see how much progress he had made. How the hell can I tell how far I’ve come? he fumed at himself. Pissing suit doesn’t come with an odometer. Three hours since I started. Legs still feel pretty good. No stiffness.

But his left heel hurt worse each time he set the foot down. Wonder if that’s the same heel that did in Achilles?

He struggled on, doggedly aiming for the boulder, big as a fair-sized house. When I get there I’ll take a break, he promised himself. Sit down in the shade and rest a spell. Just a few minutes. Don’t have enough oxygen to sit around for long. Don’t want the legs to stiffen up, either. Got to keep moving. But you’ve earned a little break. Just a little one. Just a couple minutes.

The horizon cut across his view like the edge of a cliff, much closer than on Earth, much sharper in the airless clarity of the Moon. Wonder what Columbus’s crew would’ve thought about the horizon here. They were scared they were gonna fall over the edge when they were sailing across the Atlantic. How’d they like to walk to the edge of this horizon?

Paul turned his head slightly inside his helmet and put his lips to the water nipple. Nothing. Fear flared through him. No, wait. A few drops. He sucked harder. Damn! It was dry.

The suit had a full water tank when I put it on, he told himself. He tried to remember. He had checked out the suit in a panicky hurry, but all the indicators were in the green. He Iooked at the indicators now. Still green.

But no water coming through the nipple. Maybe the tube got bent when I fell down. Banged my head pretty good, might’ve whacked the pipe. It’s only a small plastic tube. Maybe it’s just kinked a little. Just needs to be straightened out. But how the hell can I fix it from inside the suit?

Think! he commanded himself. Don’t make a move until you think it out. Remember what that old cosmonaut Leonov said: In space, think five times before you move a finger. In the meantime, keep moving.

Think. You can pull your arm out of the suit sleeve, you know that. Maybe worm your hand up past the collar ring and try to straighten out the tube. Maybe that’d work.

He closed his eyes to get a better mental picture of the inner workings of the surface suit. Hell, guys have smuggled women into these suits. Take a joyride up on the surface and watch the Earthlight. He remembered the first time he’d seen the night side of Earth, the glowing lights of cities and highways outlining North America. The fantastic shimmering of the aurora’s pale blues, reds and greens. Very romantic.

Keep your mind on your problem, butthead! he raged at himself. The suit’s loose enough to jerk off in, too, but that ain’t gonna help anything.