"Sure, he opposed it. He wants you for himself."

Ingrid took a handkerchief from her coverall pocket and dabbed at her eyes. "Well, he can't have me. At least, I'll be able to pick the men I want. You can bet your bottom ruble that he won't be one of them. Unless he's one of those left over after all the picking and choosing is done. Then, hell be assigned by a committee. And the poor woman that gets him won't have a thing to say about it."

Broward said, "I suppose that, the situation being what it is, nothing else could be done. It's..."

"What kind of a man are you?" she wailed, and she began crying again.

"I'm trying to be logical. Objective. Getting emotional isn't going to help any."

"Well, I intend to be emotional. All emotional. I haven't got a bit of logic about this, and I don't intend to have any! Are you really telling me you'll stand by while some other man takes me off to bed?"

"If there's a way out, I'll think of it," he said. "But it'll take brain power, not tears."

Ingrid turned away from him and ran away. He watched her flight down the hall, the luminescence of the panels keeping pace with her. "A firefly," he thought. "In reverse. The flames pursuing her."

And he laughed, though weakly, at himself. Always the romantic poet, no matter what the situation.

He decided it would do no good at the moment to follow her and try to comfort her. He entered the conference room in time to hear Scone appoint a committee of nine. This was to consider methods for implementing the new rule, already termed "Sexual Grouping Policy." After drawing up a set of principles and rules for enforcing them, the committee was to submit them for a general vote.

Some of the women were angry, and some were pale with shock. But it was obvious that nothing could have more pleased Sonya Abarbanel, the beautiful biochemist. Seeing her, Broward became even more angry. For a second, he thought of proposing that the problem be solved by making her an official whore for both Eratosthenes and Clavius. Then, controlling himself, he saw how ridiculous he would appear and what a sharp public rebuke he would receive.

Nevertheless, he could not help loathing her. It did not detract from his feeling to remind himself that he had once had an affair with her. His celibate life on the Moon had made him an easy prey for her—if prey was the word for such a willing participant as himself. Then, on discovering that she was bedding with at least ten other men at the same time, he had quit her in disgust and shame.

A moment later, as usual, he regretted his loathing. Poor creature, she could not help it. Who knew what strange and powerful desires moved her, what her compulsions were? And she had served—was serving—a deep need. Many of the men led monastic lives here. As long as they were to be here only a year or two, they could be supposed to endure the enforced continence or could not be blamed if they took advantage of any chance to break it

But, no man now could be expected to live like a holy hermit the rest of his life, especially since, unlike the ancient hermit, he would come into daily contact with women. So, despite his anger and Ingrid's grief, he had to admit that the decision was the only one to make. That did not mean he had to like it.

It was a mess, and God only knew how many heartbreaks— his among them—would result.

His attention was caught by the man then speaking from the floor. He was Pierre Schwartz, the only Swiss on the Moon, and he was making a motion that nationalism be condemned. He proposed that each base transfer a third of its personnel to another. This would also pave the way for men to think of themselves as Soviets only, not American Soviets or Russian or Chinese Soviets. It would be a foolproof way to make certain that their sons and daughters would think of themselves as members of a single group.

Several dozen people leaped up, shaking their fists and screaming at Schwartz. Order was restored only by Scone's gavel and his roaring.

"Schwartz! I am denying you the right to make such a motion! You yourself are the living proof that people of different national origins and speaking different languages can live harmoniously! You are—were—a citizen of

Shrugging, the Swiss obeyed. Immediately, Jack Campbell, a Canadian, got Scone's recognition.

"Mr. Chairman, are we to understand that the principle of nationalism—although basically not one of Marx's tenets— is the recognized rule on the Moon? And, when we return to Earth, on Earth?"

"It is, Mr. Campbell."

"I have just been talking to Mr. Gomez, a Mexican, and Mr. Lorilleux, a Frenchman. We agree that, following your rule, we each have a valid right to a base where we may establish and preserve our own nationalities. Contrary to what you seem to take for granted, those of us who are not Yankees are not happy at the prospect of becoming Yankees. We are as proud of our nationalities as you are of yours."

For the first time since Broward had known him, Scone became red in the face.

He shouted, "It's obvious to anyone but an idiot that this rule can be followed only when practical! We don't have the means for every piddling little national to go his own way. What would you do, have us dig you two cells in the rock a thousand miles away and set a dome over it and hoist the Canadian flag over it? And do the same for the Swiss, and the Frenchman, and the Mexican, and the Swede? How would you reproduce? Would each of you take a woman with you, a woman who probably would not want to give up her nationality for yours?

"No, Mr. Campbell, you're being utterly ridiculous. You know it; you're trying to wreck the proceedings of this conference, and trying to make me look foolish."

"If I'm ridiculous," said Campbell, "then so is everyone else here, you included. There aren't more than three hundred people on the Moon, yet you talk of maintaining nationalities and separate bases. We need each other. We must tear down all barriers. I think that Schwartz's proposal is a very sensible one, the only one, in fact. Unless we all move into one base."

Broward was about to leap to his feet to back Campbell when he became aware of a man standing by him. He looked up to see Sergeant Ross.

'Time for you to report to the Dorland, sir." Broward started to ask why an escort had been sent for him. Then, he closed his mouth. Scone did not want him to talk to Ingrid before he left.

He rose and said, "I want to see somebody for a minute."

The sergeant looked at his watch and shook his head. "No time, sir. Your takeoff is automatic; your flight path is, too, until you reach your destination. You can't be one second behind time."

Broward knew that this was not true. The latest navigational equipment had capabilities for self-adjustment to changes. But Scone must have given Ross strict orders. Sighing, Broward nodded and walked out of the room.

He found Moshe and Wellers and several engineers and technicians waiting for him. Wellers gave them final instructions. Then, just as they were ready to board the Dorland, they saw a sergeant enter. He held a carton of cigarettes in his hand.

Coming up to Broward, he saluted, then said, "Compliments of Colonel Scone, sir."

Broward took the carton and said, "That's very nice of the colonel, Sergeant. Tell him thanks for me."

"It's the last one in Clavius, sir," replied the sergeant. "Maybe the last in the whole Moon."

"And he sent it to me," murmured Broward. "In the old days, the condemned were always given a big meal and cigarettes just before the execution," Yamanuchi said.

Yes, thought Broward, but this gift was not one to be expected from Scone. He was thoroughly unsentimental. Moreover, Scone smoked and giving this carton meant a sacrifice for him. Until the tobacco plants were taken from the Zemlya's tanks and placed in a garden in the Moon, there would be no more smokes for the Moon personnel. And it was not likely that it would be grown for a long time. The strict economy of the Moon could not afford the luxury of tobacco fields.