The Spaceport, like the rest of the facility, was submerged in the regolith. The hangers and pads were designed to accommodate a multitude of vehicles: the buses that connected Moonbase to L1, and a variety of space trucks and moon-hopping cargo carriers called lobbers that could haul equipment and products between the central complex and outlying factories and research posts.

A group of evacuees were milling about in the passenger lounge while technicians ran preflight checks on the two vehicles-a bus and the Micro-that were scheduled to depart within the half hour for L1. Most were middle-aged movers and shakers, VIPs who'd come to Moonbase for the ceremony. These included an eminent historian, a world-famous sculptor, and two Hollywood types. Wolfgang Weller, the German foreign minister, and his three-person entourage were also here.

Weller was tall and imposing, with cold gray eyes and an imperious manner. He looked annoyed, and Tony wondered whether the source of his irritation was the impending destruction of Moonbase or the fact that he was being herded about with the commoners. He looked like an easy man to dislike. Curious quality in a diplomat.

Or maybe the trouble was in Tony's mind. He didn't like high-powered types. They always seemed to need special attention, and to expect people to fawn over them. He made it a point therefore to seem unaware of the rank of any such passenger.

The passengers parted to let Tony through. He strode up the ramp and was greeted inside by Shen Ka-tai, the flight attendant. "Saber's on board," he told Tony.

Tony nodded and passed into the snug passenger compartment. There were four seats on either side of the aisle, set in pairs. The nature of traffic between L1 and Moonbase dictated the need for a compact, fuel-efficient vehicle to transport small groups and occasionally single persons. That vehicle was the Micro. Two more microbuses were currently under construction and were to join the fleet within the month.

His passengers were coming in behind him. Weller and three aides, and a family with two kids. Eight people in all. The manifest described the family as tourists and indicated their final destination as London. The two kids, a freckled girl about ten and her slightly younger brother, looked excited.

The parents, however, were brusque and nervous. They issued sharp commands to their progeny to sit down, buckle in, and please don't make so much noise. Tony reassured them, explaining that they'd be safely home when the comet arrived, a state of affairs that clearly disappointed the kids. The mother began a lecture about how this was not funny and they were lucky to be on their way.

Tony climbed the ladder and slipped through the overhead hatch onto the flight deck.

Saber was going through the preflight routine. "Hello, Tony," she said, smiling at him over one shoulder. She was tall and lean, almost six feet, with a boyish build. She had black hair and luminous blue eyes, and despite her lack of dimensions, never seemed to want for male escorts. Her name was Alisa Rolnikaya, and she'd been born in Florence into a Russian diplomat's family. She'd learned to fly when she was fifteen, returned to her family's home in St. Petersburg for her education, learned to fly jets, and spent several years with a NATO squadron whose pilots had been mostly Italian. There she'd acquired the code name "Saber," which had followed her to the Moon. The name fit, Tony thought. There was an edge to her personality, and to her sense of humor. She'd been with the Lunar Transport Authority three months, and her assignment to the Micro was her first. So far she seemed competent enough.

"Have you seen the comet pictures?" she asked.

He nodded. He was already making retirement plans. Below, Shen was getting the passengers seated.

"Switch to internal power," said Saber.

"Micro." Moonbase Control on the circuit.

"Go ahead, Control."

"You are unplugged and ready for departure in six minutes."

The Micro was a sphere set on top of a pair of landing treads. The flight deck was located inside a blister at the top of the sphere. At that moment Tony was looking out across the bay, where he could see the power and fuel umbilicals dropping away. The indicator lamps on his status board blinked yellow. Depressurization in the bay had begun.

The pad clamps released.

Tony listened to the sounds in the cabin below: footsteps, voices, luggage being placed in the overhead bins. Then the closing of hatches, inner and outer. The air pumps picked up a notch.

Shen reported the passenger cabin ready for departure.

Control again: "Micro, your turnaround time at L1 is going to be as quick as they can make it. Sleep when you can. It doesn't look as if you're going to have any down time until Friday."

"That's what I hear. It's going to get rank in the old Micro."

Saber smiled and shook her head. They both knew there'd be a quick break while the vehicle was being serviced after each flight. Not a lot of time, but enough to get scrubbed off and change into a fresh uniform.

"It's always been rank in the old Micro," said a new voice, which Tony recognized as that of the operations supervisor, Bigfoot Caparatti.

"Hello, Bigfoot," he said.

"See you when you get back, Tony," said Caparatti. "Good flight."

The overhead doors began to open.

"Green board, Tony," said Saber.

"Countdown to ignition. On my mark. Ten…"

The Micro mounted a single General Electric 7RV engine, capable of providing a steady one-g acceleration. At zero, Tony started it. It roared into life. The flight deck trembled and the Micro began to rise. Then they were out of the illuminated bay, ascending into the night. White House, Truman Room. 1:27 P.M.

"Al, is everyone here?"

The president had summoned his cabinet for a teleconference about the comet with two scientific experts.

Kerr had been talking with the secretary of defense when Henry entered. He glanced around the table, did a quick count, and nodded. "Yes, Mr. President. Only one missing is Hopkins."

Armand Hopkins, the secretary of the interior, was on the West Coast. Henry took his seat, trying not to show that he was in pain. He hurt all the time now, but only Emily knew. And probably Al.

Henry had been a vibrant, energetic head of state during the first two years. He still tried to maintain the pretense, but it was getting harder. The disease was sucking his life away. He'd have kept the story quiet if he could, but there'd been no way to do that. Still, as long as people didn't see it happening, he could continue to function. He'd become almost a tragic figure, perceived as a kind of saint, a man confronting eternity, with no motive to do anything other than what was right for the nation. Everyone treated him with deference, more or less as though the entire nation were attending a bedside vigil. It was a situation unique in American history. Other presidents had received the country's adulation in retrospect. Henry enjoyed it while in office. In the United States of 2024, it was not considered sporting or decent to attack the president. On the other hand, he was the ultimate lame duck.

"Mr. President," Kerr said, "unless you have a preliminary comment, we're ready to go remote."

"Do it."

Split-screen images, a man and a woman, flickered onto a wall display. Henry had seen the man's face before, but he couldn't put a name to it.

He had caught a second breath since his meeting with Juarez, and his basic philosophy, that everything turns out okay if people just don't panic, had taken hold. One of the TV images, the man, wore a graveyard demeanor. We don't want that dumb son of a bitch talking to the media, Henry thought. Who brought him in? But Henry thought his cabinet members and advisors also looked gloomy.