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Greens were too conventional for her; but at least they could slow the damage until the revolution.
    There was a knock on the outer door to the corridor. She’d left the door to her office open so she could hear anyone coming. She stood, walked to the door, and opened it. Two men in expensive business suits walked in.
    Trent didn’t like Middle-Easterners; their condescending attitudes toward women grated her. But they were a necessary evil right now, as their money and resources were needed for the revolution. And after the revolution, their oil would be worthless and they would be swept aside. She closed the door behind them.
    “Congresswoman Trent?” one of the men asked in heavily accented English.
    She held up her hand and moved to the window. She turned on a small radio and pointed it at the glass. She did the same for every pane in the office using about ten of the Rwandan-made radios.
    Finally she spoke. “Congress person ,” Trent said emphatically. “Are you from Damascus?”
“Yes,” he replied. “We are authorized to negotiate on behalf of the Baath-Arab states.”
Trent smiled. “Good. We need to arrange a rendezvous. Do you have the missiles?”
“We have secured commitments for their delivery.”
“Good,” Trent said with a heartfelt smile.
    ***
    Dr. Kirsten Hanna-Chun had quit the hospital she’d worked at for the first few years after school and started her own psychology practice in Denver. Although the hospital would always be special to her as the place she met Alex, with a private practice she could be free to see her husband for those brief times when he was on Earth. She was impatiently waiting for Alex, who was flying in from SRI headquarters. He was supposed to arrive two days ago but had been unexpectedly called to Tokyo.
    Finally, he exited the airport’s secure area. She looked over her husband. He was in his late thirties but could easily pass for younger. He was obviously an Oriental-Occidental mix. When she had met him, 17 years ago, Kirsten had been struck by his presence despite his small stature. His face, then and now, was a striking combination of his heritage that Kirsten found magnetically attractive.
    He walked toward her with an ear-to-ear grin. She thought it seemed forced–she figured he’d heard the news about the Moon. After the compulsory airport embrace–with her a full head taller than he–Kirsten asked him why he was so happy.
    “I’ve just been promoted to director,” he said happily.
    Kirsten wrapped her arms around him in congratulations. If he didn’t want to talk about the attack, she wouldn’t push it. She knew from experience he would talk when he was ready, if ever, and not before.
“Shall we go out to celebrate?” Alex asked.
Kirsten took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she breathed softly.
“What?”
    “We have a dinner engagement at Dr. and Mrs. McConnell’s in Englewood. I made the date before I knew you’d be late and this would be your first day here.”
“Can’t get out of it?”
Kirsten screwed up her face. “I could,” she said low.
“But,” Alex continued for her, “it wouldn’t be good. Isn’t he the head of the Denver Psychology Association or something?”
She nodded, bouncing her long, blonde hair.
    Alex smiled. She was still as beautiful as she was when she first walked into his hospital room and they met. She towered above him at two hundred centimeters and still left her hair long down to her waist. “Well, I had to go to Tokyo. Mr. Nakata wanted to tell me of the promotion himself. Plus I saw Mitchel; oh, he says ‘hi.’ I’m sorry.”
    “I suppose we could leave early,” Kirsten said coyly.
    Dr. McConnell was about 65 and balding. His grizzled mustache moved in an undulating motion when he chewed. When he didn’t have food in his mouth he puffed on a cigarette, oblivious to how his guests felt about the noxious fumes. Mrs. McConnell was a dumpy woman who needed to do something, anything, with her short,