They turned to see Hiro waving at them from the hilltop.  "I thought you were leaving," Gunther grumbled.  "You said you were sick of the Moon, and going away and never coming back.  So how come you're upgrading your digs all of a sudden?"

"That was yesterday!  Today, I'm a pioneer, a builder of worlds, a founder of dynasties!"

"This is getting tedious.  What does it take to get a straight answer  out of you?"

Hiro bounded high and struck a pose, arms wide and a little ridiculous.  He staggered a bit on landing.  "Anya and I are getting married!"

Gunther and Krishna looked at each other, blank visor to blank visor.  Forcing enthusiasm into his voice, Gunther said, "Hey, no shit?  Really!  Congratu--"

A scream of static howled up from nowhere.  Gunther winced and cut down the gain.  "My stupid radio is--"

One of the other two--they had moved together and he couldn't tell them apart at this distance--was pointing upward.  Gunther tilted back his head, to look at the Earth.  For a second he wasn't sure what he was looking for.  Then he saw it:  a diamond pinprick of light in the middle of the night.  It was like a small, bright hole in reality, somewhere in continental Asia.  "What the hell is that?" he asked.

Softly, Hiro said, "I think it's Vladivostok."

By the time they were back over the Sinus Medii, that first light had reddened and faded away, and two more had blossomed.  The news jockey at the Observatory was working overtime splicing together reports from the major news feeds into a montage of rumor and fear.  The radio was full of talk about hits on Seoul and Buenos Aires.  Those seemed certain.  Strikes against Panama, Iraq, Denver and Cairo were disputed.  A stealth missile had flown low over Hokkaido and been deflected into the Sea of Japan.  The Swiss Orbitals had lost some factories to fragmentation satellites.  There was no agreement as to the source agggressor, and though most suspicions trended in one direction, Tokyo denied everything.

Gunther was most impressed by the sound feed from a British video essayist, who said that it did not matter who had fired the first shot, or why.  "Who shall we blame?  The Southern Alliance, Tokyo, General Kim, or possibly some Grey terrorist group that nobody has ever heard of before?  In a world whose weapons were wired to hair triggers, the question is irrelevant.  When the first device exploded, it activated autonomous programs which launched what is officially labeled 'a measured response.'  Gorshov himself could not have prevented it.  His tactical programs chose this week's three most likely aggressors--at least two of which were certainly innocent--and launched a response.  Human beings had no say over it.

"Those three nations in turn had their own reflexive 'measured responses.'  The results of which we are just beginning to learn.  Now we will pause for five days, while all concerned parties negotiate.  How do we know this?  Abstracts of all major defense programs are available on any public data net.  They are no secret.  Openness is in fact what deterrence is all about.

"We have five days to avert a war that literally nobody wants.  The question is, in five days can the military and political powers seize control of their own defense programming?  Will they?  Given the pain and anger involved, the traditional hatreds, national chauvinism, and the natural reactions of those who number loved ones among the already dead, can those in charge overcome their own natures in time to pull back from final and total war?  Our best informed guess is no.  No, they cannot.

"Good night, and may God have mercy on us all."

They flew northward in silence.  Even when the broadcast cut off in mid-word, nobody spoke.  It was the end of the world, and there was nothing they could say that did not shrink to insignificance before that fact.  They simply headed home.

The land about Bootstrap was dotted with graffiti, great block letters traced out in boulders:  KARL OPS - EINDHOVEN '49 and LOUISE MCTIGHE ALBUQUERQUE N.M.  An enormous eye in a pyramid.  ARSENAL WORLD RUGBY CHAMPS  with a crown over it.  CORNPONE.  Pi Lambda Phi.  MOTORHEADS.  A giant with a club.  Coming down over them, Gunther reflected that they all referred to places and things in the world overhead, not a one of them indigenous to the Moon.  What had always seemed pointless now struck him as unspeakably sad.

It was only a short walk from the hopper pad to the vacuum garage.  They didn't bother to summon a jitney.

The garage seemed strangely unfamiliar to Gunther now, though he had passed through it a thousand times.  It seemed to float in its own mystery, as if everything had been removed and replaced by its exact double, rendering it different and somehow unknowable.  Row upon row of parked vehicles were slanted by type within painted lines.  Ceiling lights strained to reach the floor, and could not.

"Boy, is this place still!"  Hiro's voice seemed unnaturally loud.

It was true.  In all the cavernous reaches of the garage, not a single remote or robot service unit stirred.  Not so much as a pressure leak sniffer moved.

"Must be because of the news," Gunther muttered.  He found he was not ready to speak of the war directly.  To the back of the garage, five airlocks stood all in a row.  Above them a warm, yellow strip of window  shone in the rock.  In the room beyond, he could see the overseer moving about.

Hiro waved an arm, and the small figure within leaned forward to wave back.  They trudged to the nearest lock and waited.

Nothing happened.

After a few minutes, they stepped back and away from the lock to peer up through the window.  The overseer was still there, moving unhurriedly.  "Hey!" Hiro shouted over open frequency.  "You up there!  Are you on the job?"

The man smiled, nodded and waved again.

"Then open the goddamned door!"  Hiro strode forward, and with a final, nodding wave, the overseer bent over his controls.

"Uh, Hiro," Gunther said, "There's something odd about ..."

The door exploded open.

It slammed open so hard and fast the door was half torn off its hinges.  The air within blasted out like a charge from a cannon.  For a moment the garage was filled with loose tools, parts of vacuum suits and shreds of cloth.  A wrench struck Gunther a glancing blow on his arm, spinning him around and knocking him to the floor.

He stared up in shock.  Bits and pieces of things hung suspended for a long, surreal instant.  Then, the air fled, they began to slowly shower down.  He got up awkwardly, massaging his arm through the suit.  "Hiro, are you all right?  Kreesh?"

"Oh my God," Krishna said.

Gunther spun around.  He saw Krishna crouched in the shadow of a flatbed, over something that could not possibly be Hiro, because it bent the  wrong way.  He walked through shimmering unreality and knelt beside Krishna.  He stared down at Hiro's corpse.

Hiro had been standing directly before the door when the overseer  opened the door without depressurizing the corridor within first.  He had caught the blast straight on.  It had lifted him and smashed him against the side of a flatbed, snapping his spine and shattering his helmet visor with the backlash.  He must have died instantaneously.

"Who's there?" a woman said.

A jitney had entered the garage without Gunther's noticing it.  He looked up in time to see a second enter, and then a third.  People began piling out.  Soon there were some twenty individuals advancing across the garage.  They broke into two groups.  One headed straight toward the locks and the smaller group advanced on Gunther and his friends.  It looked for all the world like a military operation.  "Who's there?" the woman repeated.

Gunther lifted his friend's corpse in his arms and stood.  "It's Hiro," he said flatly.  "Hiro."

They floated forward cautiously, a semicircle of blank-visored suits like so many kachinas.  He could make out the corporate logos.  Mitsubishi.  Westinghouse.  Holst Orbital.  Izmailova's red-and-orange suit was among them, and a vivid Mondrian pattern he didn't recognize.  The woman spoke again, tensely, warily.  "Tell me how you're feeling, Hiro."