"We'll beat 'em, I think!" Knight was hollering.
"Any guns—" Loftus began. I answered that one myself.
"They'd ruin their own show," I said. "A premature show of muscle would tip their hand. If they make it work this way, all we can ever do is accuse, but we won't be able to prove a damn thing. And they'll know what they want to know, and be ready for our quick little shuffle. They'll be ready at those conference tables. If they miss this time, they'll just try again later, another way."
"It sure reads fine," Loftus said. "But I wonder how soon they start shooting."
We were both at the starboard port, watching. We could see McGinty's L-8 out there, floating like a three-barrelled hour-glass, its tiny rocket bank glowing red against the blackness, one side a blinding white brightness in the sun.
The Moon hung like a chewed-up white basketball below the both of us, and you could see the greenish cast of Earthshine stretching out a little beyond the night shadow over the ridge of the lunar Appenines.
"How do you suppose they ever got wise to the microstats in the first place?" Loftus was asking.
"We're still not sure they did. Or sure that he—or sure of anything," I snapped back at him.
"But you think it's McGinty all right, by this time. I mean—"
"I guess so," I said.