And, fortunate for Atomic Power, World Government had granted them exclusive rights to its mining.
But you couldn't fit Peterson into any of this. What could he do to the immensely influential Atomic Corporation? Or to Luna? Bill Bonwitt gave it up and went to bed. It was just midnight (Lunar) and only fourteen more days until sunup. Dozing off comfortably, Bonwitt wished he could sleep that long.
The ethertype man awakened him a few hours later. "Wake up, Chief," he husked, shaking, his teeth a-chatter.
Blinking, Bonwitt sat up. "What the hell? What time is it?"
He was climbing into his clothes in a mental hangover of dreams.
"Six. It'd be daylight back home. That mechanic, Pauchek, is dead. Knife in his throat. Peterson's gone. So's Gates."
Now Bonwitt was thoroughly awake. "So!" he grunted, tying his last lace. "We go hunting."
"Right." Crane looked out at the bleak lunar landscape through Bonwitt's dome. Earthlit, that landscape. Cold. Airless.
Bonwitt shivered, looking over at Peterson's dome across the long transverse passage of the workings. "Where the hell are they?" he asked.