So was the ship. It was now only a matter of briefings and politics.

Lee sat down in the copilot's seat. An image of Mars, wide and bleak and rust-colored, floated in the overhead display. "It'll come soon enough," he said. "Meantime, I think you ought to get yourself over to the breakfast. You're the star of the show these days, and it wouldn't look real good if you ignored the director."

Rachel frowned. "I hate the politics involved with these things." Actually, she didn't. Not all of it, anyhow. She'd enjoyed meeting the vice president yesterday. But it was part of the astronaut code that all groundhuggers, even vice presidents, were comparative unfortunates. Members of an inferior species.

"What the hell, Rache, grow up." He grinned. Major Lee Cochran was tall and easygoing, with animated good looks and hair that consistently fell into his eyes. "Half the job is politics and public relations. Who do you think pays for this toy?" He was the media darling of the crew. Still in his thirties, he'd shown up last month on somebody-or-other's list of ten most eligible bachelors. Unlike Rachel and the others, he had a talent for delivering quotable lines. He was a twin kill, two for the price of one, an astronaut flight engineer who was also a world-class geologist. Cochran would eventually use the lasers and sample collectors to get at the heart of Mars, to begin putting together, finally, a definitive history of the planet. Still, though no one would admit it, it wasn't his technical skill that had gotten him the assignment, but his ability to relate to the media. He says the right thing, the mission director had told her. Talk to him before you go down the ladder. Get his input. Listen to Lee and there'll be no more of that "giant leap for mankind" crap.

Yeah. Rachel had pretended her feelings were hurt, but the man was right. As was Lee now. If they didn't want to repeat the Apollo scenario, make a couple of trips to Mars and say good-bye, they needed to take the PR seriously. Moonbase Spaceport. 8:11 A.M.

When Vice President Charles L. Haskell stepped out of the microbus onto the passenger walkway, he became simultaneously the highest-ranking U.S. government executive ever to set foot on the Moon, and an overgrown ten-year-old kid. His heart hammered and he very deliberately placed his foot on the exit ramp that led directly through a tube into the passenger lounge. He thought, Yes, this is it, I'm really here. He took a deep breath, recalling the dinosaurs and model starships that had once filled his life. He passed an innocuous remark to Rick Hailey to hide his feelings, and accepted the handshakes of the Moonbase officials waiting to greet him.

Despite all the travel, he felt fresh. It helped that the two space stations and Moonbase operated on EDT, the eastern U.S. time zone, corresponding with the time zone in which both the Lunar Transport Authority and Moonbase International maintained their corporate headquarters.

Officially, Moonbase did not yet exist. It had been up and functioning in one form or another for seven years, or maybe eight, depending on where you wanted to begin counting. But today it would be formally declared operational. That was why Charlie Haskell had come to the Moon.

Journalists were waiting as he emerged into the passenger lounge. They recorded his handshakes with Evelyn Hampton, the chief executive officer of Moonbase International; shouted a few election questions; and wondered why the president hadn't come. Was it because the president wasn't running for a second term and wanted to give Charlie a leg up on other potential nominees?

Charlie pointed out that no head of state was present, that Moonbase was a commercial venture, and that he was on hand because it might be his last chance to get free transportation to the Moon. (The latter remark was a reference to the fact that few expected Charlie to get his party's nomination during the summer.) "But," he added, adopting a serious tone, "the United States is the major stockholder in this venture, and space has always been the special preserve of the vice president. Goes all the way back to Lyndon Johnson."

The truth was that the president didn't like Charlie very much, that Charlie had been on the ticket four years before only because he could deliver New England. From Washington, Moonbase looked like an investment boondoggle, and Henry Kolladner had no wish to be associated with it, even if he had taken himself out of the running. "He knew how much this program meant to me," Charlie continued, bending the truth substantially, "so he asked me to represent him. I'm delighted to be here." He turned and beamed at Evelyn Hampton, who nodded modestly.

Behind the gaggle of reporters, a window looked out over the regolith. The land was flat and gray and flowed out to a very close horizon. TR would have loved it, he thought.

Teddy Roosevelt was Charlie's role model. Tough. Unbending when he thought he was right. Scrupulously honest. Fascinated by the world around him. What would the old Rough Rider not have given to have been able to gaze across that landscape?

Hampton showed him to his quarters while four Secret Service agents accompanied them. The agents were unhappy that they'd been unable to clear the regular occupants out of the area prior to Charlie's arrival. But there wasn't much space yet at Moonbase, and it simply wasn't possible to move out whole wings of people and put them somewhere else. Furthermore, Charlie had pointed out to the senior agent, they don't allow wackos on the Moon.

Evelyn Hampton was a startlingly attractive Senegalese who spoke precise English with a trace of an Oxford accent. She had luminous dark eyes and an imperious manner that left no doubt among her subordinates that she was in charge. "We're delighted you could come, Mr. Vice President," she told him, standing at the threshold to his quarters. "We hope your stay with us will be satisfactory." Her eyes momentarily seemed to promise something more. "Your people have my number," she said. "Please let me know if I can be of assistance."

"I will," Charlie said. He was a bachelor, and the one real regret he had about his political success was the media attention that made it so difficult to lead anything approaching a normal life.

She wore the formal version of a Moonbase uniform, white blouse, navy jacket, slacks, and neckerchief. A pocket bullion was stitched with her name and the Moonbase logo, the Armstrong Memorial. "We're having a celebratory luncheon after the ceremony," she said. "We hope you can fit it into your schedule."

"Of course," said Charlie. "I wouldn't miss it."

His apartment was located in Grissom Country, the section reserved for senior personnel and visiting VIPs. It was more spacious than Charlie had expected: He had two reasonably large rooms plus bath and kitchenette, with a desk, a compact conference table, a couple of occasional chairs, a bookcase (which someone had thoughtfully filled with current novels and histories), and a coffee table. One wall held a universal window through which he could see the lunar surface. Or, if he preferred, Tequendama Falls in Colombia, Mount Bromo in Indonesia, or the limestone hills of Kweilin. If he was feeling homesick, various views across Cape Cod were available. The push of a button brought a bed out of the wall.

Someone had thoughtfully left two Moonbase uniforms on his sofa, one dress uniform, one jumpsuit, and a jacket. The uniform would look good on camera, so he decided he'd wear it to the dedication.

Despite the fact that there was water ice on the Moon, its extraction was still expensive and difficult. Consequently, water was scarce. It was available, but a large sign invited him to substitute the ultrasonic scrubber for the shower. Moonbase personnel had a meager allotment to use as each one chose. Charlie knew that he could run as much water as he liked and no one would complain. But someone would unquestionably leak it to the media. He smiled at his own pun. He climbed out of his clothes, stepped into the stall, drew the curtain, and selected ULTRASONIC. The sensation was not at all unpleasant. A thousand tiny fingers poked and probed, loosening dirt and dried perspiration. He wiped down with a damp cloth.