A Ship Takes Shape

MASTER OF MY FATE: A SHIP TAKES SHAPE Copyright © 2007 Mary Ann Steele All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Double Dragon eBooks, a division of Double Dragon Publishing Inc., Markham, Ontario Canada. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from Double Dragon Publishing. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. A Double Dragon eBook Published by Double Dragon Publishing, Inc. PO Box 54016 1-5762 Highway 7 East Markham, Ontario L3P 7Y4 Canada http://www.double-dragon-ebooks.com http://www.double-dragon-publishing.com ISBN-10: 1-55404-528-2 ISBN-13: 978-1-55404-528-0 A DDP First Edition January 8, 2008 Book Layout and Cover Art by Deron Douglas www.derondouglas.com

MASTER OF MY FATE: A SHIP TAKES SHAPE By Mary Ann Steele

Genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains. Jane Ellis Hopkins, Work Amongst Working Men [1870].

THE NINE WORKS OF SCIENCE FICTION IN MARY ANN STEELE’S SERIES Listed in the order in which they should be read: Warrior-Woman: The Forging of the Legend Master of Intrigue Partnership of Equals Birth of a New Breed: Genesis Birth of a New Breed: Attainment Trial By Fire: Survival Trial By Fire: Final Reckoning Dangerous Adversaries: Battle Joined Dangerous Adversaries: No Turning Back Dark Bargain To Find, and Not To Yield: Calculated Risk To Find, and Not To Yield: Daring Rewarded Master of My Fate: Ashes of Wrath Master of My Fate: A Ship Takes Shape Master of My Fate: The Phoenix Rises

THE STORY THUS FAR: Alone in the hard vacuum of space, an artifact of human origin insignificant by cosmic standards travels a long elliptical orbit around a giant gaseous planet: a coldly splendid body ruling a sizeable minisystem. Marooned aboard the rotating toroidal ring upon which thirty-nine bulbous hulls and an equal number of slender countermasses rise from the rim like the points on a tiara, six Columbian military corpsmen and one noncombatant Gaean woman sleep peacefully. The repose of the seven castaways occurs in the aftermath of a traumatic confrontation between the female Gaean prisoner of war and the brilliant, dangerous, fascinating, and occasionally cruel Columbian second officer. Four weeks earlier, the Captain, a forceful leader inflexibly bent on maintaining his dominance over a crew cut off from all contact with their military corps, implemented two decisions intended to prevent the presence of an ultrafeminine enemy from sparking sexual tensions that could shatter that control. The Columbian officer made the Gaean civilian engineer a member of the team of spacers whom he persuaded to work willingly at the hazardous task of refitting a section of the station to serve as an autonomously operated, free-flying vehicle. He also arranged to share the attractive woman sexually with his five crewmen. Initially consumed by fierce hatred of the female foe who had mounted the astonishing rear guard action that enabled her Gaean comrades to escape, thereby stranding the six Columbians after they docked a mortally crippled military ship on the station, the Lieutenant’s feelings underwent radical change, as the captive’s raw courage inspired profound admiration. That new emotion vanquished the second officer’s hatred, but it swiftly engendered possessiveness: emotion that became intensified by Nigel’s envy of the Captain grimly resolved both to maintain his control over his crew,

and to attain his self-imposed goal of breaking out of exile. When the Lieutenant’s jealousy led to a close brush with tragedy, a new, far more unselfish love for the woman he shared with five other men arose from the ashes of the chastened offender’s wrath. The lone woman, a Gaean prisoner of war whose dauntless courage, capacity for warm affection, and professional capability combined to earn her the love of all six of her companions, loves them with equal fervor, acknowledging no favorites, even in the innermost recesses of her mind. On this night, she sleeps in the arms of the Lieutenant whose wholly uncharacteristic apology and patently sincere declaration of love earned him the forgiveness of the woman he had so deeply offended. Saturday night of week four passes slowly into history. At 0400, the sleep-shift ends for the seven slumbering challengers of a cruel fate seemingly wished upon them by some malevolent dark Power.

WEEK FOUR: SUNDAY Cleo awoke still clasped in Nigel’s arms. Grown aware of fingers gently tracing the contours of one bare shoulder, she sought to account for an ominous sense of foreboding. Slowly, the events of the previous day rose to flood her mind. Conscious of having trod the edge of a yawning void, she shuddered even as she savored vast relief at having escaped a plunge into the depths. Enveloped in warmth, she knew herself safe. A smile of utter contentment slowly transfigured her still-pale face, smoothing out the lines of care. Brooding dark eyes took in the change. “Awake, hm?” Opening her eyes, Cleo nodded. “Awake, and alive. So are you, thank the Powers. All of you…safe. Me, too. For now, anyway.” “For as long as I can keep you so, Cleo, no matter whom you choose in the end.” Remorse scourged the woman remembering a reprehensible descent into blind, murderous rage. “Nigel…I came so close to killing you…” “You had reason.” “And what I said…!” “Was true. You’re not our possession, Cleo. You’re a privilege, which I abused. I believe, now, what you tried to tell me. You can love six men at once. Your heart’s big enough to love ten. I’ve belatedly accepted that facet of our relationship. “I won’t change, much, in consequence. I’m too old…too set in ways too hard to change…but I’ll work at keeping you free of at least one source of emotional pain. You no longer need fear, ever again, that I’ll do anything regrettable to anyone, out of jealousy arising from my regard for you. I’ll suffer recurring bouts of envy, no doubt, but I’ll bury how I feel. My word

on it.” “Nigel, you can’t know what that promise means to me!” As that cry from the heart rang out, the profoundly relieved woman dug her fingers into both of Nigel’s arms. “You simply can’t know…” The clear voice trembled, as she added, “That perfect rose…that precious gift fashioned by your own hands…I’ll treasure for the rest of my life.” Impulsively, she kissed the man she had come so close to killing in so ghastly a fashion. Nigel’s arms tightened around her. His kiss conveyed pure tenderness. Passion for once played no part in that gesture, although he took his time. When at length he freed her lips, Cleo melted against him, pressing her cheek against his chest, and tightening her arm around him. He lay stroking her hair, watching the inevitable advance of the marching seconds register on the digital dial of the clock. At length, both occupants of the bed reluctantly bowed to the need to rise, and dress. Lifting the glass blossom, Cleo turned it in careful fingers, examining the tiny thorns, the lifelike petals, the perfect drop of moisture that she knew represented dew. After wrapping the peace offering most carefully in the glass-cloth sheath, she laid it gingerly in a drawer, before tucking two squares of threadbare, cast-off fabric that served her as pocket-cloths around the fragile sculpture. The radiant happiness animating the face that had ceased to seem haunted brought an answering gleam to the dark eyes fixed solely on her. Michael looked up from his plate to stare narrowly at the woman so traumatized on the prior day, as she preceded Nigel into the dining hall. Instantly, he realized that the glow that lit her face transcended relief, and that the radiant aura she exhibited testified to more than a mere cessation of angry feelings. Well, it finally happened, he acknowledged glumly, as pain knifed his gut. She just fell in love with Nigel, just as you knew from the start she

would! Seating herself opposite Michael, the woman guiltily conscious of an egregious fall from grace met his glance squarely. A flush produced by embarrassment mounted upwards in her cheeks, as shame born of the memory of her action of the previous day scalded her conscience. She nonetheless held the penetrating glance focused on her by the Captain. “Good morning, Michael,” she greeted him, her tone creditably noncommittal. “Good morning,” he responded, his voice revealing no more of his inner feelings than had his face. Is she embarrassed because of losing control of herself so completely yesterday, or over this other surrender? he asked himself. Or both? Acting with deliberate intent, he turned his eyes elsewhere, noting that only then did she drop hers to her plate. Nigel seated himself next to the patently embarrassed Gaean. His eyes met Michael’s coolly, and his manner remained devoid of the least sign of embarrassment. His sibilant voice betrayed no faintest hint of emotion as he wished those at the table good-morning, and applied himself calmly to his meal. As he ate, Michael covertly studied the more blameworthy of the two offenders out of lidded eyes. Observing a composure that equaled his own, he went on scrutinizing the man whose subtle body language he had learned to read with a fair degree of accuracy over a considerable number of Earthyears. No trace of smugness, the shrewd judge noted. No arrogant, selfsatisfied pride that he just made a conquest. Michael continued to watch, without seeming to scan the ill-favored face of his second officer. Damned if he doesn’t look…content, the Captain admitted, amazement blending with a new upsurge of pain. No, by all the stars in the wheeling

galaxy! He’s happy! He looks as radiantly joyous as Cleo! Suffering shades of the moldering ancients of Earth, Nigel has fallen in love with her! I wonder if she has any conception of what a monumental accomplishment she just managed! Jolted by his conclusion, the Captain pondered this new turn of events. You issued Nigel an order yesterday. There was no way in hell you could have enforced that command, he castigated his alter ego savagely. You invited mutiny, when you told him to make it up to her. Bad business, barking out that sort of order. You weren’t fully in control of yourself when you issued it. Even so, he seems to have obeyed it. Not out of fear of you, spacer-captain. Because he suddenly realized, yesterday, that he doesn’t simply desire her…that he truly loves her! Damn my lack of foresight! Sipping his coffee, Michael studied the woman sitting opposite. Well, things have worked out for her, as you hoped last night they would, he admitted, brightening even as pain racked him anew. She looks radiant! An odd excitement mingled with that bitter mental pain. She told you that she’d likely end by caring deeply for all of us, the leader bearing an unrelenting burden of responsibility reminded himself. Never has she tried to lie to you about her feelings, even by omission, and she won’t now. You haven’t lost anything. And by all the wealth of Earth…just possibly…this development could mean that the angle for which you’ve been searching so frantically just fell into your lap! Objections to his wild notion that the visionary until this moment had deemed insurmountable suddenly lost their formidable strength. I need time to reconsider my options, Michael decided. Well…there’s one aspect of the business that you don’t need to rethink, he added with bittersweet certainty. That’s clearer in your mind than any idea has ever been. You love Cleo, spacer captain.

Marvin, who had followed Cleo and Nigel through the line, took his seat next to Michael, diagonally across from Cleo. Instantly grown aware that a reconciliation must have taken place, the man so instrumental in solving the lone woman’s problem savored unqualified relief. A fervent hope possessed him that Cleo’s eyes would never again display the haunted look that had so wrenched his heart on the previous evening. The smile she flashed him filled him with warmth, as they exchanged greetings. Buoyed by her response, he stole a series of shy, appraising glances at her as he ate. The realization gradually dawned on him that more than reconciliation had transpired. With all the force with which the same realization had struck Michael, the truth hit the man assessing evidence, and the socially handicapped spacer recognized the glow in Cleo’s eyes for what it was. Marvin’s pain equaled Michael’s, but for the computer expert, pain formed a far more familiar feeling. Well, you got your wish, he reminded himself sadly. And for her sake, be glad! You know better than to expect that any woman would find you more attractive than Nigel. Or Michael. Or Justin. Or any man who isn’t a tongue-tied, walking tangle of problems. It’s amazing that she cares for you as much as she does. Be grateful for that! Accepting his desolate assessment of his own lack, Marvin drew what comfort he could from his absolute trust that whatever depth of love Nigel had won on the previous night, Cleo’s avowal of her feelings about himself had been the truth. You can rest assured that she wouldn’t say that lightly, he consoled himself. She’s as honest as space is deep. Shifting focus, Marvin studied Nigel as covertly as had Michael. Far less practiced at reading the Lieutenant’s feelings from face or body than was the Captain, the intent observer failed to see past that carefully cultivated impenetrability.

Nigel strides through world and space hurting whom he pleases, he raged, roused to a flash of rare anger. He has slain men who tossed off a careless, snide word he resented. He has holed others whom he insulted: men who had guts enough to demand satisfaction from him. He hurt Cleo, badly. Angry as she was, surely even the gift Justin said Nigel fashioned wouldn’t have been enough. Did the arrogant bastard apologize? I’ve never known him to do that, to woman or man. Fixing an intent glance on Cleo’s radiant face, he winced as pain stabbed him anew. You might have known that she’d grow to love Nigel, he castigated his alter ego scathingly. Women fall for his type. The only amazing thing about it is that it took her this long. I can understand her finding him irresistible. I’ve spent Earthyears—from my university days until now—wishing that the groups of comrades flamboyantly fascinating men like Nigel dominate, had a place for me. He has always attracted me, even while I disapproved of the things he did. So how can I blame Cleo? With bitter but impeccable logic, Marvin excused the woman he loved: the woman he could imagine no combination of circumstances ever driving his own self to wound as Nigel had wounded her. Sighing audibly, he concluded accurately, Life’s damned unfair, but Cleo has divided her affection among us as evenly as she knew how. Be grateful for that. The brief flash of ire dissipated, as the apologist unconsciously included Nigel in his exoneration of Cleo from all blame. Towards the end of the meal, Michael rose, and collected his crewmembers’ glances with his eye. “We’ll knock off at 1500,” he announced. “At that time, we’ll assemble in the recreation hall. Cleo, I’ll be lowering the level in Central’s accumulator tank drastically this morning, and rerouting the water, so you won’t be able to shower until just before the beginning of the sleep-shift.

Enough will accumulate by then. Justin has prepared two cold meals, given that the cooks won’t have water enough for doing dishes, today, either. Conrad will set out all the rations of water for personal washing, first thing this morning, before I do what I’ve planned.” Michael reseated himself, his delicate sensors assuring him that the storm of yesterday seemed to have cleared the atmosphere, as storms on Earth were reputed to have done. Maybe Justin’s right, he mused speculatively. There’s nowhere to go from the bottom but up. Cleo has wrought a profound change in Nigel. Not due to his narrow escape, that alteration. He takes close shaves in stride. No, he finally realizes what she means to him. Nigel in love! I wouldn’t have wagered he’d lose what he calls his heart to any woman. She’s the one who can boast of making a conquest! Having asked Cleo to reactivate the ion-exchange resins in Eleven’s urine-treatment apparatus, and in the process teach Leonard how to do that chore, Nigel left Cleo and Leonard engaged in that task. Ascending the ladder, he walked with his customary silent tread to the bridge. Crouched on the deck under the board, connecting a power line, Marvin heard the door slide open. On spying the Lieutenant, the programmer scrambled out from the cramped space, to face his visitor. “Marvin, I came to thank you,” Nigel declared evenly, his manner totally devoid of arrogance. “Not for the consequence your courageous act had for my own self, but for the beneficial effect it conferred on Cleo. I stand in debt to you.” Surprise and embarrassment failed to prevent Marvin from meeting Nigel’s eyes squarely. Flushing, the man thus addressed thought rapidly for a few seconds, before returning an earnest answer. “Nigel, I’m glad of both consequences,” he asserted, his sincerity patent. Impulsively, he thrust out his hand.

Nigel gripped it. The eyes of the two men held for a time. In Nigel’s, respect mingled with something that Marvin suspected to be gratitude, as seldom as the arrogant features of the premier duelist had ever mirrored that emotion. To the spacer who habitually suffered from loneliness while in the midst of five teammates, that fleeting projection bore the weight of an accolade. Buoyed by the crushing grip Nigel’s hand exerted on his own, Marvin sought to equal the pressure. “Well, I’ve got work to do,” the visitor affirmed. Turning on his heel, he left. Marvin’s eyes followed his visitor out of sight. Warmed by the gesture that the programmer knew had not been an easy one for Nigel to make, he returned to the cables dangling from beneath the board, feeling immensely cheered. Striding out one of the three doors leading from the bridge, Nigel barely avoided colliding with Michael, who issued a crisp directive. “If your team can do without you for a time, I’d like to confer with both Marvin and yourself regarding some technical problems on which I need advice, Nigel. Now, if possible.” “Now suits me.” Savoring the cognizance that he had taken the time to inform his crew of what work he wished to see completed that morning, the second officer followed the Captain back into the bridge. When the hour arrived at which Cleo normally took her break, she observed that the team leader had not reappeared. Leonard likewise noticed the time. “Cleo, take a break. Nigel won’t mind,” he urged. Acting on her teammate’s advice, Cleo ascended to the upper deck, and headed for the bridge. The door she saw to be closed, but she knew that the meticulous expert always kept it shut, so as to exclude dust and moisture. Giving the door a vigorous shove, she stepped inside to behold Marvin deep in consultation with Michael and Nigel.

“Oh, excuse me,” she exclaimed in embarrassment, while preparing to withdraw in haste. “Come in, Cleo,” Michael instructed briskly. “Do you need to talk to Nigel?” “No. I came to see whether Marvin might be free to take his break. I didn’t mean to interrupt a conference…” Pink-cheeked, the intruder backed towards the door. Flashing the equally crimson programmer a broad grin, Michael directed, “Take a break, Marvin. It’s that time. So will Nigel and I. We’ll finish up afterwards.” Marvin’s pulse quickened. Rising abruptly, he so far forgot his resolve as to stammer a bit. “If…if you don’t mind, Michael…” Turning, he followed Cleo out the door, flushing even more deeply than had she. “Marvin, let’s make ourselves scarce,” she urged, striding in haste towards a far corner of the deck, followed by the man she had so publicly summoned. Having reached the relative privacy of that sanctuary, Cleo turned to face him. Reaching out, she took both of his hands in hers. “Marvin,” she stated apologetically, “I wasn’t in any shape last night to thank you properly for what you did for me…and for Nigel…but I want you to know how deeply grateful I am. I owe you…for your kindness, as well as for your quick thinking and your amazing courage.” “Cleo, don’t thank me. I told you, last night, that I owe you far too much to feel that I need any thanks. I could see, today, that things did work out for you. I told you they would. I’m glad, girl. Let’s put yesterday behind us.” Affection shone out of the brown eyes still faintly shadowed by dark smudges. “I will,” the woman still horrified by the narrowness of Nigel’s escape breathed, “but I won’t forget.” Dropping to the deck with her back against the wall, she smiled up at the gangly expert. “Can I persuade you to

sit down and spend your break with me?” His face lighting with one of his rare, transfiguring smiles, Marvin seated himself opposite her, his arms clasping both bent knees. “Do you think I need persuading, Cleo?” That question evoked laughter. The happiness that had brimmed in mind and heart since the Gaean had awakened—the glorious sense of relief that an intolerable burden no longer rested on her shoulders—lent that rippling laugh a charm that Marvin found irresistible. “You know, today’s Sunday,” she confided in the tone of someone’s spilling a secret, stimulating her companion to internal mirth. “I rate a shower this evening. One night of blissful cleanliness, before six in which I’m painfully conscious of how grubby I appear compared to whoever arrives freshly scrubbed.” Chuckling, Marvin protested, “You’ve never looked grubby to me, Cleo.” “You’re too much of a gentleman to admit to having noticed. I never knew what a luxury a daily shower really is. Too bad no one has ever invented a way to burn off dirt, sweat and dead skin cells the way a shaving cabinet instantaneously vaporizes a shadow of beard!” “That’s a novel idea that bears thinking about.” Marvin’s expression turned serious. “You know, Cleo, you boast a creative imagination. Like remembering that black cloth, and thinking of a tent to solve my problem. I know lots of researchers who lack that ability to make connections between things seemingly unrelated.” “Well, thank you! That was a quality I always admired in the wife of our team leader. Marva routinely makes that sort of mental jump. Her mind has never settled into a mold.” “Bane of bureaucrats, that.” “I gather yours are like ours.”

“Hazard of the occupation, in whatever world.” “Isn’t it, though!” Marvin leaned back, his arms extended from the hands clasped around his knees. His gangly body relaxed, but the mind behind the pensive face raced. “You know, Cleo, our ancestors must have lost, or failed to bring with them, a massive part of the technology in use on Earth and in the space of Sol System, when they left almost an Earthcentury and a half ago. Of course, I’m ignoring the twenty thousand years that passed on Earth while our ancestors made their time-dilated jump. Very possibly there aren’t any Earthmen left. I’m going by our time frame, in which the Jump seemed to take only a few hours. Surely there’d been all sorts of technological advances back there that we’ve no inkling of, now. Our forebears took what they needed, and what they felt comfortable using. Of course, they were limited in what information they could cram into the memory of their ships, but still…” Pausing as he ordered rapidly evolving thoughts, the man normally all but mute in the presence of shipmates spoke his thought in a rush of words. “It’s surely true that neither our scientists nor our manufacturers, private or governmental, have ever been able to build directed-energy weapons like those mounted on the original twenty-four military ships: vessels that rode here attached to the hulls of the three huge motherships hurled by a method also inexplicable to us, from the environs of Jupiter to this star-system. “I also find it hard mentally to grasp the destructive capabilities Johann’s Flagship is rumored to have possessed. It’s a good thing, likely, that he vanished in that fabulous vessel, hid it, and presumably died aboard it. But undoubtedly, a huge store of priceless knowledge, both theoretical and practical, remains unknown to us: technological breakthroughs for which

we don’t even know the name. All that lost heritage of ideas awaits rediscovery, here on this crude frontier.” Cleo shuddered visibly. “Just imagine what would have happened if those first Columbians had succeeded in wresting the Flagship from Johann, and then used that frightful weaponry! Bad enough what Norman has done!” she expostulated. Acutely conscious of her own so nearly tragic lapse into violence, and mindful of the debt she now owed Marvin, Cleo veered away from the topic of war. “You’re right, about the notion that advances in knowledge must have occurred about which we know nothing,” she acknowledged sadly. “I stumbled on a fragment from an old journal, quoted in a report which got quoted in turn by a modern writer. That gave me the idea for the research I began and pursued here on the station. The process I hope to perfect—one not used in Gaea, or in Columbia either, I’m sure—could very well have become common practice on Earth. But our ministries synthesize food so routinely, and maintain the system supporting life in our web of habitats in so standardized a fashion, that we seldom consider tinkering radically with any aspect of that smoothly functioning process, even out of insatiable curiosity, which I confess to possessing in abundance.” That admission generated smiling acquiescence. “You surely do. I’d say that’s the first qualification of a first-class researcher,” the Columbian added, the sincerity of that observation manifest to his companion. “I sometimes think our system functions too smoothly. For all that they had to have been fearless, rugged individualists, our ancestors still fell into the old pattern of allowing a bureaucracy to come into being and gain a stranglehold on technology. You’d think that they’d have tried desperately to avoid that outcome, faced as they were with the dismal example Earth’s society offered.”

Cleo pondered that notion. “Perhaps what we think of as a bureaucracy really represents a mild form of the disease,” she ventured. “And our airless worlds present dangers the parent world didn’t. On Earth, if an agency adopted sweeping changes, failure of any aspect wouldn’t have created an immediate life-threatening crisis. If the highest echelon of our Ministry of Life-support Maintenance decided to try a new sort of photosynthetic exchanger, however, whole municipal units could run out of air, if something unexpectedly went wrong.” “That’s true, but it’s not a good enough excuse. Such advances could be piloted safely. No, inertia in our ministries accounts for the stagnation that has hampered change. “Once in a while, someone makes a dent in that complacency. Arlen managed that feat, when just a young man. He invented a marvelous improvement on the fields that protect hulls from meteoroids. No telling what more he might have accomplished, if he hadn’t succumbed to the temptation that overcomes so many talented Columbians: to reach for power. “Arlen chose the military route. He swiftly rose to the rank of commander of one of the five Columbian military corps. Despite his intellectual brilliance, and his amazing versatility—he’s a physician, a psychologist, and a physicist, as well as a warrior—he hasn’t invented anything notable since. Damned shame, that.” Arlen. That’s one of the three commanders whose names I didn’t know, the Gaean acknowledged, storing that tidbit of information in memory. Reaching for power seems to come naturally to Columbians, she reflected censoriously. Even Michael’s not immune to the temptation! “It surely does seem a shame,” Cleo agreed. “Talented inventors constitute a rarity.” As he nodded, Marvin’s eyes filled with something akin to regret. “If

I’d ever nursed a hope that an invention of mine would be readily adopted by any of our government’s ministries, I’d have gone for the joy pure research offers, but it’s damned hard to land a job that allows one to conduct pure research. Besides, even if I had conceived an idea the equal of Arlen’s, I’d have lacked both the opportunity to implement it afforded by his private wealth and aristocratic family background, and his persuasive ability to promote it. So I chose a life that doesn’t fully challenge my ability. Or at least, a life that hasn’t challenged it, until now.” Moved to profound sympathy, Cleo asserted forcefully, “It’s lucky for all of us that you did land here, at this particular time and crisis, Marvin. I know what you mean, about that lack of opportunity. I worked for our Ministry of Life-support Maintenance for a number of Earthyears, and genetically altered three species of plants in a way that could have had a considerable impact on the growth yield of the tertiary tanks. But I encountered the same inertia when I tried to push for change. It seems that you can’t implement changes across two bureaucracies. The Ministry of Food Resources wasn’t about to alter its processes to accommodate a radically new starting material, even if it could be produced in greater abundance, with less of a burden on the life-support technicians who tend the plants in the tanks.” “How disgustingly typical of bureaucracies in general,” Marvin commented wryly. “At least, as a Second Corpsman with a specialist’s rating, I get a hearing from Michael when I contribute an idea. He has adopted a number of mine to solve problems our teams encountered, and he has always given me full credit in his reports to Galt. It’s all too easy for a captain to shade those in a way that reflects well on himself at his subordinates’ expense, but Michael’s scrupulously fair. If I ever do find a niche later on that would provide me a laboratory, equipment, and a reasonable salary while I produce nothing of immediate commercial benefit,

I’ll already have established a certain reputation, in military circles, at least.” Warm brown eyes sparkled, as their owner impulsively responded to that revelation. “I sincerely hope that your society comes to appreciate your astonishing ability, Marvin, even though I know how hard it is to find such a niche. I’d have thought your world, of the two, would have been more prone to smooth the path of a talented person willing to immerse himself in pure research, and more willing to create a place in each ministry for such. Your people are descended in part from the technological elite that teamed with Johann and his mercenaries.” “The autocratic mentality overshadowed the inquisitive one, I guess…at least at this point in our history.” Marvin smiled, and the bitter overtone that had crept into his voice vanished. “Cleo, I’ve enjoyed my break no end, but if I keep Michael waiting, he’ll flay a section of my hide off me, using no more complicated a technology than sound waves.” That sally sparked new laughter. “Marvin, don’t risk it! And don’t think Nigel wouldn’t follow suit, if he caught Leonard or me wandering back late! Let’s beat a strategic retreat.” Marvin had risen to his feet. Holding out his hand, he assisted his companion to rise. His heart beat a bit faster, when she smiled radiantly at him. The pressure of her hand on his sent pleasurable impulses coursing through him. The desolate thoughts that had impaired his appetite at breakfast dropped out of his short-term memory. For a considerable time after his corporeal self returned to the Captain’s presence, he found it hard to focus his mind on Michael’s concise outline of his technical problems. Arriving in a body in the recreation hall promptly at 1500 to find that Michael had preceded them, six people sprawled on sofas and chairs, glad of the chance to relax. In a voice that breathed not the slightest hint of any lingering strong feeling resulting from the events of the previous day, the Captain inquired

casually, “Nigel, do you care to join Conrad and myself in a round of poker?” “Only if Cleo refuses to take me on in a game of checkers,” the inveterate poker player unexpectedly declared. Hiding her surprise, the lone woman turned a smiling face on the man whose comrades strove to conceal outright shock. “I’d enjoy that, Nigel,” she replied warmly. Outflanked, Leonard refused to concede defeat. “How about if I play the winner?” he proposed smoothly. Nigel chuckled. “Hardly a vote of confidence in my skill, that offer,” he observed slyly. “I’ll have to struggle to fend off what I see you hope will happen.” Michael chimed in, “I’ll take on the loser.” Cleo’s smile deepened. “Michael’s offer hardly seems a vote of confidence in my prowess,” she remarked mischievously. “We’ll just see.” Speculating as to the cause of Nigel’s spectacular change in manner, Conrad stared quizzically at the second officer. The black anger generated in Conrad by the man whose calculatedly cruel remark had so nearly precipitated a tragedy—anger that had simmered in Conrad’s mind throughout the previous afternoon and evening—had finally succumbed to the tactful manner in which Justin related to his cabinmate the news that Nigel had gone to apologize to Cleo. Conrad knew Justin to be incapable of uttering a lie. The blonde spacer’s ire had been tempered not only by that astonishing revelation, but by the sight of Cleo’s radiant face at breakfast: sure proof that Nigel’s apology must have been a handsome one. That conclusion sufficed to extinguish the embers of his wrath. No more jealous than Marvin had been, Conrad had experienced profound relief, and a warm, unselfish hope that the reconciliation would alleviate her distress. Now, Conrad eyed Cleo reflectively. “Michael, I’ll wager you my bottle

against yours that Cleo beats Nigel,” he declared. “And I’ll stipulate that the loser shares his, today.” “You’re on.” Michael shot his fellow gambler a grin. “Trying to make a double loser out of me?” “The odds are stacked against you, chief. Our champion at cards might not even remember how to play checkers.” Fixing an ironic glance on the speaker, Nigel drawled, “And then again, he might. You’re theorizing ahead of your data.” “Well, show us some hard proof.” The two opponents set up the board, and eyed each other across it. Reaching into a pocket, Nigel produced a die, which he tossed onto the table. “Roll to see who goes first.” Cleo rolled a five. Nigel threw a three, and raised an eyebrow. “Luck follows beauty, hm? But skill’s not so easily swayed.” Inclining her head in acknowledgment of the compliment, Cleo moved a checker out, aware that although Justin and Marvin initially intended to continue the game of chess still set up from a previous session, and that Michael had dealt Conrad and Leonard each a hand of cards, five pairs of eyes nonetheless strayed regularly in the direction of herself and her partner. Marshaling her mental forces, she ignored the glances, and concentrated. She had played regularly with Leonard, and had never known Nigel to engage in the game, but she reflected wryly that everybody knows how to play checkers, and Nigel excelled at remembering what cards had been played. Nigel made his move. After cogitating, Cleo moved again. Absorbed to the hilt in the ancient game, the players took time to determine the consequences of each move. Nigel slid a piece out. Making a double jump, his adversary took two of his, her eyes dancing. In response, Nigel muttered something undoubtedly regrettable, softly

enough that no one could hear. His own eyes glittered. Watching his chance, the challenger took a checker of his opponent’s. Both players settled down to concentrate harder. Nigel engineered a trap. Cleo avoided it, only to fall into another. Studying the layout, the Gaean left a piece rendering one of her opponent’s immobile. Watching her chance, she gained a king. Nigel did the same. Maneuvering his king, Nigel freed his trapped piece. Each player achieved another king. For a time, the game stayed even. Thinking over each move, neither indulged in idle conversation. Spying an opening, Cleo took one of Nigel’s kings. “Damn!” he exclaimed audibly. Cleo giggled. Conrad flashed Michael a look of smug satisfaction. Michael grimaced. Leonard smiled knowingly. Nigel frowned, and then laughed derisively as he immobilized one of Cleo’s kings. Undeterred, she shepherded a single checker to the back row. Nigel laid a trap. Avoiding it, Cleo captured a piece. Having emitted a grunt of disgust, Nigel took one of hers. Reduced to two kings, Nigel eyed his adversary’s three. Cleo moved one, prompting her opponent to retreat. Pursuing, she forced his king into a spot from which he could only move back and forth between two squares. Abandoning that doomed monarch, Nigel moved his second. In a series of planned moves, Cleo cannily used her two to trap his one. Sitting back, the loser laughed in wry self-mockery. “Beauty allied to skill. Formidable combination,” he declared gallantly. “Michael, I’m spaced. The drinks are on you.” That admission evoked a chuckle. “It’s almost worth losing a bet to see you go down to defeat in a game of skill, Nigel. Maybe that’ll shake your confidence enough that I’ll wipe you, as well.” “A drink out of your bottle will settle my nerves, chief. Cleo, one of

these days you’ll dare to face us over a hand of cards, hm?” Cocking her head, the recipient of that challenge qualified her acceptance. “Provided that the stakes are low enough.” “We can arrange that.” “Right now, she’s engaged to hole my fragile self-esteem for the seventeenth time in a row,” Leonard asserted firmly. “She stays three moves ahead of me, no matter how much I think I’ve improved.” Michael departed, returning with glasses, ice and his bottle. Fortified with liquid refreshment, the company returned to the games. Nigel narrowly beat Michael at checkers, and Cleo roundly trounced Leonard. “Undefeated checker-champion, you are, Cleo,” the boy exclaimed, smiling, no whit perturbed by his defeat. As Cleo surveyed the company, inspiration struck. “Marvin, would you consider puncturing my bloated ego?” the winner inquired, causing the programmer’s heart to fibrillate wildly. “I’ll try my hand at avoiding Nigel’s fate,” he agreed eagerly. “If Justin doesn’t mind a delay.” “My self-esteem could use a healing spell, as well, Marvin,” the technician hastened to affirm, punctuating his remark with his pleasant chuckle. Marvin took his place opposite Cleo. At this juncture, no one pretended interest in his own pursuit. Five pairs of eyes converged on the pair. Never in these men’s memories had the humble game of checkers generated such suspense. Eyeing Conrad speculatively, Michael spoke. “My silver-inlaid folding knife against your bottle, that Marvin comes out on top,” he challenged. “Winner gets to keep both.” “You’re on. I’ll stick by my champion, even against Marvin.” Having glanced from one inveterate gambler to the other, Cleo

beamed at her adversary. “My backer seems to respect my opponent, Marvin,” she declared. Handing him Nigel’s die, she invited, “Roll to see who starts.” The newest player threw a four. The previous winner tossed a five. “Luck still follows beauty,” Marvin observed graciously, to the astonishment of his comrades. Having flashed him an appreciative smile, Cleo moved a checker out. For three or four moves, the Gaean’s cautious, concentrated play kept her out of trouble. Marvin seemed to move his men with no prior thought. Frowning, his adversary discovered that she had no choice but to lose a piece, whichever way she jumped. Assessing where either loss would leave her, she sacrificed a checker. Marvin’s eyes sparkled as he moved one of his with no hesitation. Pondering, Cleo spied an opening. Her brow wrinkling, she made a move. Marvin countered. After again studying the board, his wary opponent positioned a man in hopes of making a jump. Marvin double-jumped the two men of hers he had set up to become vulnerable two moves ago. The audible gasp escaping the Gaean produced a knowing grin on granite features. “Sneaky, isn’t he, Cleo?” Michael remarked blandly. “I don’t doubt but that he has the rest of his moves planned already,” Cleo admitted, regarding her opponent with wonder. Marvin’s vivid smile revealed no smug satisfaction, only a lively interest. Cleo concentrated, and made a move. Two moves later, she realized that she had come upon disaster. Marvin took two of her checkers in quick succession, and gained a king. Having doggedly studied thinning ranks, Cleo managed to take one of her opponent’s pieces. Marvin’s eyes danced. “Not bad,” he conceded. Startled, the Gaean realized that this adversary expected to win without losing any men. That notion fatally undermined what confidence

remained to her. Marvin has every possible combination of moves figured! she admitted in astonishment. Tentatively, she moved a man. The genius sitting opposite unhesitatingly moved his, and achieved a king. Having weighed her options, his opponent found herself in another trap. After some thought, she made her move, accepting what she hoped was the lesser of two evils. Marvin jumped one of her pieces, and ended by restricting another of hers to two moves back and forth between two squares. Cleo gained a king. Marvin positioned one of his so hers could not move out. With his remaining forces, he methodically jumped or trapped the remnant of her checkers to win the game. “Bravo!” Cleo congratulated the winner. Turning, she smiled apologetically at her backer. “Your bottle never stood a chance,” she exclaimed, shaking her head in rueful amazement. Laughing, Conrad observed, “You did all right, woman. You took a man off Marvin. Seeing you manage that feat consoled me for my loss.” Cleo regarded the winner with awe. “You don’t just plan a move ahead,” she marveled. “You plan four or five possible combinations of moves, and place your men to make one of those combinations inevitable!” Nigel offered a most uncharacteristic, handsome admission. “He makes both of us look like amateurs, Cleo.” “Nigel, compared to him, we are! Justin, how do you ever muster nerve enough to play chess with him? I suddenly realize that you must be a phenomenal chess player yourself, just to last as long against him as you do!” “My self-esteem’s fast becoming as fragile as Leonard’s,” Justin joked, smiling. “Your self-esteem must be pretty robust, to match wits with Marvin as often as you do!” Cleo shot back. The open admiration in the loser’s face and voice thrilled the recipient

of the rash of compliments. “Cleo, do you play chess?” he inquired. “I made a start at learning, during the six weeks our team worked here. Our medic taught me enough to enable me to lose to him,” she replied, wincing as the old pain momentarily lanced her heart. “I’d enjoy taking up where he left off,” Marvin volunteered. The piquant face of the loser lit with delight. “Marvin, what a generous offer! But playing against me would bore you stiff. No challenge. Just instant annihilation!” “He’ll teach you, Cleo, the same as he did me,” Justin assured her. “And then you and I could play each other, and actually have the outcome be in doubt!” Laughing heartily, the Gaean replied, “Marvin, if you’ll do that, you’ve a taker.” Turning to Nigel, she added, “And if you can keep your stakes low enough, I’ll let you three clean me periodically while I try poker.” “We’ll hold you to that promise, Cleo.” Bold eyes gleamed as the poker champion made that assertion. “It looks as if we need a supply of gambling stakes,” Michael stated, stroking his chin with his hand. “Perhaps you could unearth a few more magic bottles,” Cleo suggested, smiling on the Captain. “Justin, what are the chances of your concocting a few?” Michael asked. Frowning, the chemist considered that appeal. “Wine I could make fairly easily, but whisky’s something else again. I’d need a distillation apparatus larger and more complicated than any we’ve got available.” “Would a long, coiled glass worm in a condenser jacket work, Justin?” Nigel inquired. “I expect we could fashion a more complicated variation on that design

that would, but it’d need a continuous flow of cold water. More than we could spare.” Chagrin plainly registered on the ill-favored face of the engineer. “So easy to say, ‘If I had time,’ hm? But I’ll say it anyway. This isn’t the first innovation I’ve wished I had time to design into the system we’re building. I could make our water lines double as condenser jackets, and utilize the heat of the condensing alcohol to augment that of our water heater, but that sort of tinkering takes more time than Michael would want to spare.” As he voiced that conclusion, Nigel eyed the Captain regretfully, and a shade combatively. Frowning, the recipient of that oblique appeal pondered the ramifications. “Are you talking days or weeks, Nigel?” “Days. Three, perhaps. Such changes would be easier to make now, than they would be if we were farther along towards hooking up our accumulator tank. Possibly less than two, if I had Justin available for half a day to design the still with me, and Conrad the other half to help me build in an electric coil to heat the brew. And, of course, my crew to assist. Did you ever research the production of ethanol, Cleo?” “As a matter of fact, I’ve produced ethanol,” the Gaean declared, astonishing her hearers. “Not to drink,” she hastened to explain, “but nonetheless free of the poisonous amyl alcohols and ethers that co-distill with it. We’d need activated carbon to absorb those toxic substances.” Justin eagerly pounced on that admission. “You’ve made pure ethanol from sucrose fermented by yeast?” “From sucrose we crystallized out of a concentrated extract of sweet potatoes. I have to confess that we sneaked a taste, and none of us got sick.” Inspiration crashed with stunning force into the Captain’s consciousness. Not at the idea of producing whisky, given that alcohol

ranked in his thinking as a luxury he could do without more easily than he could coffee. Rather, at his noting that a serendipitous coincidence—the fact that three people’s experience and knowledge overlapped to suggest to each their collaborating on a project which obviously intrigued them—presented a far more striking possibility than merely giving morale a temporary boost. A corollary to the wild idea that had maintained a stubborn presence in his cogitations ever since it flashed into his mind in the form of a Eureka insight a week earlier, now clicked into place. A key block dropped suddenly and smoothly into its allotted slot, firming up the whole edifice. Damned if that wouldn’t work! the Captain ruminated excitedly. This expanded idea is worth reviewing. Good chance to test an intriguing hypothesis, this idea of Nigel’s. Consider your brainstorm in more detail, later! No trace of his inner exultation showed on the rugged face seeming merely to mirror a consciousness that acceding would be good for morale. Crisply, the Captain rendered a judgment. “Two days seems a pretty modest price for raising our spirits, Nigel— no pun intended. Work your idea into your overall design. On the day you need the cooks, we’ll eat standard meals. That’ll serve as my contribution to the cause.” Thrilled by that unexpected concession, the engineer replied with more visible excitement than he normally let show, “Damned if I won’t enjoy this part of the chore! Cleo, dredge up out of your memory all the details you can recall. Justin, set me a time tomorrow when we can schedule a day to work together on this, hm?” “How about 0900?” “I’ll be there.” As his subordinates beamed on each other, Michael allowed the ensuing burst of excited conversation to flow around him. Without seeming

to stare, he watched Cleo’s mobile face radiate intense interest, as she willingly let Justin pick her brain. Shifting focus, he observed the readiness with which the electrical engineer discussed the power such a venture might require with the offender of yesterday who had roused Conrad to black wrath. No trace of lingering anger showed on the blonde spacer’s lean face. The shrewd observer noticed the way Marvin’s glance strayed to Cleo, even as Leonard engaged the programmer in friendly discussion. He likewise caught the unwonted contentment infusing the liquid eyes of the man no longer as socially inept as he once was. The storm did more than clear the air, Michael conceded in wonder. It forged some wholly new paths, allowing current to flow. Lightning struck Nigel, I’d judge! Family. I wonder whether Leonard revealed more wisdom by what he said than even Justin realized! Waiting until his fellows vanished out the door of the recreation hall, still passing joking remarks among themselves as the sleep-shift commenced, Michael strode purposefully to the nearest bathcabin: one in which the water had been turned off. In that private lavatory the Captain kept his personal wash water, rather than further crowding the cramped space in the bathcabin that connected the two sets of sleeping quarters he shared with four of his five crewmen on every night except Sunday and Monday. Shedding his tunic, he washed sparingly with the last of his previous week’s water ration, and sprayed deodorant under each arm. I could definitely use a shower, he reflected ruefully, staring at his reflection in the narrow mirror. I’d reek, if it weren’t for this stuff. What in hell must Cleo use? She had no duffel, but she must have concocted some preventative, because she never offends in that way. I can’t muster the gall to ask her. When this container runs out, I’ll see if Justin can produce an

acceptable substitute. Opening the shaving cabinet, Michael pressed his face into the contoured hollow, and touched the switch. Ignoring the brief, sharp sting that only partially registered on his mind as the shadow of a beard burned away, he mused thankfully, It’s a good thing shaving doesn’t require water. I’d hate to be forced to let a stubble grow all week. Imagine sporting a beard while wearing the helmet of a pressure suit! Ugh. I wonder how men could stand to grow long hair on their faces, on Old Earth? It bothers me when the hair on my head needs a trim. I simply can’t visualize myself in long hair and a beard. Or any of us. Nigel would look like the mythical gorilla! That graphic observation refocused the Captain’s thoughts on the inspiration striking out of the black during recreation. As he proceeded to the infirmary, he resolved to dwell on the notion. He entered that facility, resigned to spending an uncomfortable night, given that on Sunday none of his four subordinates left to share Cleo’s bed. He had tried the sofas, which were softer, but too short. That discovery prompted him to sleep on the narrow examining table. Having forced his decision on everyone, he considered it only fair that he take the weekly discomfort on himself. He had debated moving a bunk from the disabled ship, once it became plain that no one was about to bed down anywhere but with Cleo on his allotted night, but being chronically short of time, he had not bothered. Sleep normally experienced no trouble in claiming a man of his iron constitution, even if it discovered him sprawled on a metal deck. Stretched out flat on his back on the hard accommodation, the Captain stared with unseeing eyes at the inner plates of the hull curving above him, and gave himself up to intense contemplation of his problems, his options, his personal ambitions, and his immediate goals. The idea that had stubbornly refused to fade into oblivion grew in scope as he pondered.

Damned if that doesn’t look more like a viable solution all the time! he marveled. Implementing your solution will pose grave risks, spacer-captain. You’ll be bucking long odds, even by the standards of an inveterate gambler who has cast his future on a roll of the dice damned often, lately. You’ve been fortunate, so far, but you can’t trust blind luck to favor you forever. So. Run a test. This fortuitous collaboration will give you an idea as to whether your wild notion would really work. You don’t have to make an irrevocable decision yet, but you’ll need to alter some of the specifications of Eleven, just in case you decide later on to go for it. Those changes won’t pose any big difficulty. As he stared unseeing at the plates overhead, he studied the layout of Eleven’s main deck, which spread itself across the screen of his mind. For a considerable time, he calculated in his head, achieving a state of concentration that kept sleep firmly at bay. Methodically, Michael subjected the ideas crowding into his inner vision to a rigid review, discarding some and elaborating on those striking him as workable. Several passed whole into the capacious files of his memory, to become part of that repository of information on which he periodically drew. Having sorted a variety of alterations and several vivid projections of a future course to his satisfaction, he relaxed, mentally, and let ideas drift out of the stream of his consciousness to compete for his attention. One prevailed. He savored that one, dwelling on it until sleep stole over him unawares. Undefeated by the conscious mind’s descent into oblivion, that pleasant notion colored the dreams he could not remember upon waking. A short distance away, peaceful sleep overtook the lone woman: a petite, noncombatant Gaean survivor who, over the past four weeks, had managed to defuse hatred and turn away wrath. On this night, all of the participants in a novel social experiment slept soundly. No insidious fears

troubled their dreams. Time flowed on, into a future which seven hardy adventurers could see but darkly at this point in their existence.

WEEK FIVE: MONDAY The raucous sound of her alarm galvanized Cleo into leaping out of bed at 0345, unsure for a brief few seconds what the hideous noise portended. My frazzled nerves, she exulted while fumbling for the switch, I actually managed to achieve eight hours of unbroken sleep! How gratifying! Did freakish chance produce the change, or might the vast relief produced by Nigel’s amazing change of heart let me sleep more soundly henceforth? What a comfort, knowing I can face a day certain that jealousy won’t drive him to issue Michael a challenge! Oh, Marvin. How much I owe you! Fully as much as I do the brother I told you about. Shuddering as the blurred visualization of her lapse into a murderous red rage rose on the screen of her inner vision, she thanked the Powers for the socially inept spacer’s presence of mind, while marveling at his incredible courage. Turning her thoughts away from the bitter memory of Nigel’s deeply wounding words and her own so nearly tragic act, Cleo dwelt again, as she dressed, on the repentant offender’s astounding admission. A second cause for rejoicing occurred to her. I owe Justin as well, she acknowledged as shame scalded her. For persuading me to listen to Nigel on Saturday night. Did Justin somehow convince him that I’d been telling the truth, even after I’d failed utterly to reach him? Something phenomenal happened, to bring about such a fundamental

change, especially after I called Nigel a bastard to his face, in front of everyone! That alone should have made him hate me permanently…although he called me a liar to mine, and I’ve forgiven him. Both of us succumbed to blind rage, on Saturday! Brr. It’s a wonder he didn’t throttle me, down there in front of the primary tank! Jealousy must hurt worse than taking thirty centimeters of a Fennessy-forged swordblade through one’s guts. Oh, Nigel. I’m unutterably glad that the deep, unselfish love I can still scarcely believe you’ve come to feel for an enemy you initially hated proved stronger than your jealousy. Powerful emotions drive you, under that inscrutable exterior! Opening the drawer, Cleo unwrapped Nigel’s peace offering. What care and skill went into the making of this! she reflected in wonder. No gift Nigel could have purchased would ever have meant to me what this marvelous sculpture always will. Feasting her eyes on the brilliant color, she stood for a time lost in contemplation of the uncannily lifelike, blood-red rose so cunningly crafted of glass. Grown cognizant of the time, the Gaean carefully wrapped the fragile gift. Hastily, she repaired to the dining hall. Having greeted the others, all of whom had begun their meal, she attacked a heaping bowl of rhubarb cobbler with gusto. Michael saw with relief the rosy bloom once again tinting Cleo’s cheeks, and the vivid charm of the unforced, radiant smile that singled out no one of them in particular. She’s back to normal, he concluded contentedly. What you mistakenly judged to be motion sickness, last week, must have been strain: dire fear of Nigel’s taking out of her hide her inability to promise that she’d choose him over the rest of us. He came damned close to breaking her arm, that first night he took her to bed. Hell of a risk you ran, letting each of them sleep in turn with a

woman who so courageously refused to spill under neurostimulation what we so desperately sought to learn. The degree of risk rose tenfold with Nigel, cruel as he can be. You nonetheless gambled that he wouldn’t be able to resist Cleo’s feminine appeal for long. You assumed that if she didn’t try to fight him, he’d succumb to the temptation to use whatever it is women can’t resist, on her. Cost you a night’s sleep, that long shot did, spacer-captain, but your highly dangerous course worked out perfectly. Too damned well! She not only fell hard for him. He’s head-over-heels in love with her! A stab of pain shot though Michael’s gut without a hint of its existence showing on his face. At the conclusion of a meal during which no unsettling undercurrents troubled the diners, Nigel led his team to the lower deck of Eleven. On Saturday afternoon, Michael had enlisted Conrad’s help to drain the melted ice, and restore Eleven’s deck to order. Aware that Justin and Leonard must have kept an eye on the second officer so savagely reprimanded in the hearing of his subordinates, the issuer of the reprimand had assumed that his medical technician’s prolonged absence undoubtedly bespoke a pressing professional need. He rested equally certain that Leonard would never take advantage of a crisis to shirk work. The black anger Michael knew Conrad harbored had prompted him to keep his electrical engineer occupied. The two men had dismantled the platform and temporary supports, cleaned the apparatus, and stored it. On beholding that empty stretch of deck, Cleo shivered. Her sense that the conflict of Saturday took place in a phantasmagoric, dream-like suspension of real time grew even stronger. Facing his crew, the team leader announced, “Today we’ll begin the chore of making Eleven’s water system independent of the station’s. We need a larger accumulator tank, a sizeable water heater, and a different condenser. To save time, I left part of the line from the old system we

dismantled, in place. It’s the one that formerly carried the outflow from the photosynthetic exchanger back to the pump in the waste-management system. “That non-metallic pipe’s the right size. It’s already installed overhead where it’ll be easy to utilize, but it requires cleaning with something really potent. We’ll worry about that tomorrow, and we’ll leave the existing accumulator tank in place until last. “Today we’ll steal the condenser from Twenty-four. Unfortunately, that section’s one hell of a long distance from Eleven. We’ll connect this unit into Twenty-four’s system. We’ll leave that section’s tertiary tank still functioning, hm, Cleo? No sense causing needless damage. Bad enough leaving Thirteen without a photosynthetic exchanger. We’ll appropriate Twenty-four’s larger accumulator tank, too, but leave the pipe there to connect the new outfits. We can reduce its ends to accommodate a smaller tank and condenser, but we couldn’t have gotten by in here with this smaller pipe, which we’ll dismantle.” Warmed by Nigel’s willingness to do extra work to avoid causing damage to the station, the Gaean smiled warmly as she expressed her appreciation. “Thriving greenery exists in Twenty-four’s tank,” he replied serenely, “and we’ll leave it that way. Well. That refrigerating-condensing unit’s heavy. I’ll fetch that wheeled frame we used to move the photosynthetic exchanger, and rig a platform across it while you two detach the unit. We’ll be forced to do without a condenser for a day or two, so fog will form in the tertiary tank. Rain might even fall, and treat us to a new experience. No longer than it’ll last, the dampness won’t cause irreparable damage. We’ll restore the balance after we switch tanks.” Wasting no time, Cleo and Leonard set to work detaching the unit that lowered the temperature of the humid air leaving the vicinity of the three

specialized tanks forming the photosynthetic exchanger, thereby condensing and recovering its moisture, which collected in the accumulator tank. Both team members knew that the dehumidified, oxygen-rich air circulated through the intake vents to both decks, replacing the carbon dioxide-laden air which also contained the moisture exhaled by the human inhabitants: air which flowed through the output vents back to the photosynthetic exchanger. “This unit’s heavy enough,” Leonard muttered. “I’d hate to have to wrestle an even bigger one back in here!” Breathless from having helped her comrade slide the ponderous load thirty centimeters forward, Cleo nodded in assent. “Rain,” she remarked musingly. “Imagine that—water drops materializing right out of the air! A shower in our tertiary tank would give us an idea of what that phenomenon must’ve been like on Old Earth.” “A partial idea, likely. The real thing got driven by wind: fast-moving air, or so I’ve gathered, from reading about storms. Sometimes lightning flashed down through the atmosphere. Those stupendous electrical discharges heated the air, which expanded rapidly and caused a deafening shock wave. Thunder, men called the sound. I’ll bet if some poor bastard got caught on the planet’s surface far from any habitat when all that was happening, the cumulative effect would scare him spitless, even if the lightning missed him.” “That sort of weather must have been downright terrifying!” Neither descendant of colonists native to a life-rich, lavishly waterendowed planet—one that quite possibly ranked as unique in the galaxy— could visualize experiencing such effects, any more than they could imagine gazing upwards from its surface into blue sky. At length, Nigel returned, pushing the heavy frame, on which reposed a sturdy hand truck. Having passed that latter item down through the hatch

to Leonard, the lithe athlete nimbly descended the ladder. “Damned if I didn’t finally find what I looked hard for, earlier, and never located,” he grumbled. “Moving those lockers out of Thirteen would have been a whole lot easier with this outfit. You and I can switch units without additional help, now, Leonard.” Having wheeled the truck, with which he scooped up the bulky condenser, to the foot of the hatch, Nigel left the load standing upright, strapped to the laddered back of the conveyance. “I’ll rig a block and tackle, and Leonard and I’ll lift this outfit out,” Nigel instructed. “Cleo, we two can switch the condenser units. Unfasten the lines leading from the condenser in Twenty-four, and then hunt up what reducers and fittings we’ll need to make the switch.” Striding briskly along, the woman freed of an intolerable emotional burden proceeded to Fifteen, where she emptied a locker of her hoard of fittings, her buoyant mental state proving a bulwark against depression as she viewed the work-area devoted to the fascinating research project now postponed indefinitely, and perhaps forever. Slinging the bulging bag over her shoulder, she proceeded to Twenty-four. A considerable time later, Nigel and Leonard arrived. Both men pushed the cumbersome frame on which rested the condenser, which the viewer saw to be still strapped to the hand truck. Having rigged a block, they lowered the heavy unit through the hatch, and set it back out of the way. After detaching and removing the comparable unit, which Cleo had disconnected from the lines, they conveyed the replacement to Twenty-four. Glancing at his watch, Nigel observed in a studiously noncommittal tone, “It’s time for your break, Cleo.” Keeping his sibilant voice devoid of any autocratic tone of command, he asked, “Would you care to wait until we install this outfit, so that we three can take one together, here in Twentyfour’s tertiary tank?”

“I’d enjoy that, Nigel,” the inwardly elated woman responded heartily, flashing him her vivid smile. What a change! she reflected again. How marvelous, having no knot in my gut. I can relax on my break! Maybe I’ll manage another night of unbroken sleep, and put some meat back on my bones! Seated within the rising spiral housing a jungle fully as wild as that now installed in Eleven, three teammates dropped to sit on the deck. Lounging against the tank holding the plants, Nigel remarked, “I’m seeing Justin at 0900, to determine when we build our distillation apparatus. The end of this week will work best for us. I’ll arrange for you to consult with him regarding the plants he’d like to see cultivated in Eleven’s tertiary tank, Cleo. I’ll leave those choices to the two of you, and give you time in which to make the changes.” “I’ll enjoy doing that!” the Gaean exclaimed eagerly. “And in a few days, you can all try asparagus!” “I hope I can stick with the novelty until I train myself to like it,” Leonard declared dubiously. “You’d better hope the cooks like it,” the confirmed meat-lover drawled sardonically. “You might not see it again, otherwise.” “Justin will persevere, even if Conrad grumbles,” the youth affirmed stoutly. “Having just spent four days doing Conrad’s job, I can see why he gets grouchy.” “Don’t tell us about it, Leonard. What we don’t know won’t impair our appetites,” Cleo begged. “You don’t really think I want to bring what I did back to mind, do you?” The remainder of the morning passed uneventfully. Nigel departed to consult with Justin. Cleo and Leonard disconnected Twenty-four’s water heater. Nigel reappeared, and left Cleo hunting for fittings they could use

when they switched accumulator tanks, while he and Leonard moved the larger condensing unit from Twenty-four to Eleven, and switched water heaters. Returning to Twenty-four with the smaller unit, Nigel found his fellow engineer finishing the changes needed to accommodate that item. Having installed it, the trio left Twenty-four’s water system operative, and went to lunch. On their return to Eleven, the team fastened the condenser in place, leaving it detached from the pipe requiring cleaning. They next installed the water heater without connecting it to the water lines. Surveying the unconnected condensing unit, Nigel frowned. “We’ll need to make some changes in the intake vents, before we can direct the fresh air to the upper deck,” he commented. “It’ll be damp above. I told Marvin to set up dehumidifiers on the bridge, but he’s taking no chances. He’s erecting the tent again, as well.” “It’ll be all right down here. We’ve got all the oxygen-rich air,” his fellow engineer reminded him. “Leonard and I’ll get the air circulating again, above,” the team leader decided. “Cleo, Justin said today would be as good a time as any for the two of you to discuss the requirements of the tertiary tank. Spend as much time as you need, and take the rest of the afternoon to begin implementing the changes. Gather some of the plants you plan to collect from other tanks in the station. “The air will get damp down here, and stuffy above. Leonard and I will enlist Michael’s help to show us how we can pump the water in Eleven’s accumulator tank out into the station-wide system, and block it from returning, until we install the new tank. Michael has familiarized himself with the way the water’s routed station-wide. We won’t do that till last, but we’ll learn how.

“Afterwards, we’ll disconnect the compressor I’ve got spotted in Thirty, and build mounts we’ll use when we install it in here. We’ll need a compressor to aerate the tanks, when we shift from the station-wide system. By the time we do that, and you return with your plants, the air will be fit to breathe again, above.” Striding down the rim towards Central, Cleo reviewed what she intended to discuss with the head cook. Upon arriving at the food-chemistry laboratory, she found him seated at his terminal, studying her research records. A datapad filled with his scrawling, deeply slanted script lay on the counter. Smiling warmly at the entrant, Justin pulled up a second chair for the woman glancing around without spying Conrad. “My partner’s out harvesting vegetables,” he explained. Meeting the eyes of the medical technician, Cleo spoke, her voice husky with emotion. “Justin, I want to thank you for talking me into listening to Nigel, Saturday night. I owe you—for that, and for so much else.” Shrewdly guessing that Nigel must not only have apologized, but must also have offered the traumatized Gaean a profoundly welcome assurance as to his future behavior, Justin regarded her with open affection. “I’m glad your problem worked out the way it did, Cleo. I didn’t realize how dangerously close you’d come to the limit of your endurance. We all have a breaking point, but your admirable self-control, and your unfailing courage, masked your near approach to yours.” “Justin, I’m so ashamed of what I tried to do!” “No need to be, girl. Put the memory behind you. You should gain mass, now that your level of stress just dropped dramatically. If you don’t, I’ll tailor you a supplement, but I’d rather see a gain without that.” “I got a glorious eight hours of deep, sound sleep last night. Your

guess was right on the mark. I hadn’t been sleeping well. I kept waking far too early.” “I thought so. You drop by the infirmary a week from this Friday, and we’ll check your mass. Be very firm about getting enough sleep each night, hear?” Flushing despite the obliqueness of the inference, Cleo nodded. “I’ll do that, Justin,” she promised. “Now, as to the plants—Nigel left it up to me, to transplant what you’d like to see growing in our tank.” “I use a considerable quantity of soybeans, and I’ve harvested all I found growing—more than I’ve used—but I need to be sure the supply of those remains ample.” “I just planted more, last week, after disposing of the bulk of that alfalfa. What else could I get rid of, that you don’t use much? Greens?” “We can dispose of some of each kind. I pad those with duckweed. It exhibits a phenomenal growth yield, and we can’t do without its presence in the primary tank.” “You just confirmed a strong suspicion,” his colleague admitted ruefully. “Don’t tell me where else you sneak it in, and don’t say whether it comes accompanied by a little excess protein. I’m training that Basella to climb a trellis. It grows fast. What else do you require?” Reaching for the datapad, the chemist shared his estimate of the amounts and varieties of vegetables he used in a fourweek. Having borrowed a second electronic device, Cleo made copious notes. After listing his weekly requirements of white potatoes, sweet potatoes, soybeans, and other legumes, the cook confided, “Chicory worries me. We’ve no excess of the roots. You needn’t let on, but I’ve stretched the extract with one I make from soybeans soaked in salt water, and then roasted. I don’t think anyone has noticed. Coffee’s a luxury, although I enrich it with vitamins and minerals, and a few other additives, including

flavorings. At least, considered as food, it’s a luxury. The brew offers definite value with respect to morale, though.” A peal of laughter greeted that masterpiece of understatement. “I’m quite sure that Michael considers it a basic staple. Justin, I can interplant certain species, thereby raising the overall yield we’ve been getting from the tank. It was an awful jungle, but I’ve made a start at taming it. I can make far better use of every bit of vertical space, by training vines to grow up supports, and plant other species in between them. “I can also clone certain plants: take slips off, and start those, so as to grow mature plants more quickly than one can from seed. I can further shorten the rooting time by using plant hormones when I start the cuttings. Even so, I heartily wish that I had time to regenerate scores of new plants from single somatic cells or protoplasts! That method’s much more efficient. But I guess I should be glad I’ve been allowed any time whatsoever.” A sigh escaped the highly qualified researcher, but she added briskly, “Let’s talk about what we can plant that you haven’t used, but which would lend new flavor. Herbs, and such.” Putting their heads together, the pair did some intensive calculating of space, yields, and preferences displayed by the crew. Having achieved a detailed plan, the head cook asserted worriedly, “Cleo, you face endless work, if you do it all.” “Nigel said he’d give me time, Justin, even though I’d be willing to do some of it on my own.” “No way, girl. You work a long enough day! I’ll discuss the time element with him. Now, tell me how long I need to cook asparagus.” “Gladly! And I know how artichokes were prepared.” As the enthusiast explained, Justin added to his notes. Smiling at him at the conclusion of their conference, Cleo remarked, “Justin, I’ve got the rest of today free to begin on this, so I’ll get a good

start.” “I’ve got the fish for tonight cooked. Conrad can manage the rest. I’ll help you, and learn to recognize those herbs you mentioned. Let’s take an early break together, before we attack the chore jointly. Enjoy a cup of the luxury.” “Let’s do that! I think we’re all becoming caffeine-addicts.” Smiling on the head cook over a steaming cup, Cleo savored the fragrance. “I’d never guess you’d sneaked extract of soybeans into your brew, Justin,” she assured him, smiling. “I’ve been noticing your flavoring accomplishments. You remember a lot more of your food-chemistry courses than I do.” “I wouldn’t have remembered much either, except that I got slung into the breach the time our supply ship was lost, and we ran out of standard meals on O’Neill. I racked my brain, but went largely on imagination, during that crisis. When we finally got back to Columbia, I spent a whole day of leave copying formulas and syntheses out of the world’s bank. I’ve slipped that data into the memory of every ship Michael has captained. I had it stored on macrodisc, in my duffel, on the mission that ended in our being stranded here. I’ve added it to this station’s bank, as well, although I discovered that quite a trove of food-chemistry data already existed in this bank.” “In the beginning, some person—or persons—must have utilized that food-chemistry lab in Ten, but as far back as Wallace could remember, the teams brought along standard meals. Perhaps in the early Earthyears, more people came, so that they couldn’t carry as much food.” “That’s very likely. This station could accommodate a goodly number of researchers. I did find starting materials I could utilize, though, and the lavish supply of basic inorganic chemicals helped.” “Wallace’s teams restocked that store on each trip.”

As Justin poured them both a refill, regret overspread his seamed brown face. “You know, Cleo, when Michael first laid the job of head cook on me, I thought of it as an onerous if necessary chore, but now that I’ve built up a large file of recipes without detecting a big slump in morale, I wish I could finagle some time in which to attempt a few syntheses I think I could make work: new routes to the proteins, fats, collagen and other components making up animal muscle fibers, that are routinely produced on our world from starting materials unavailable here. Intriguing ideas I’ll never have the time to pursue keep taking root in my mind.” “I know what you mean,” the Gaean engineer replied wistfully. “I’d gotten a start on a fascinating line of research. Some day...” Her voice trailed off as she suppressed an onslaught of the fear fast becoming chronic, regarding what might happen to her at the conclusion of this adventure. Reaching across the table, Justin closed his hand over hers. “Some day you’ll get back to your research, Cleo. And who knows, perhaps I’ll manage time for what I have in mind. I realize that right now, things look chancy to you, girl, but when we arrive in Columbia, you’ll find that six people exert themselves to the utmost to see you through whatever happens. Don’t let the thought of our journey’s end depress you. Time enough to worry when we do get back.” A flood of warmth suffused the prisoner of war. Justin, you’re such a comfort, she commended him gratefully, if silently. I know you’re trying to head off a new source of stress, and I have to admit, that thought does worry me. I know right well that all six of you will strive valiantly to help me, but you’re all part of a rigidly structured military system over which you’ll have no control, and little influence. Nonetheless, I appreciate your kindly concern. “Justin,” the Gaean assured her solicitous comrade with adamant force, “I don’t intend to fret. Our return’s an eon away. Now, let’s see what

new taste-tickling treats we can find already synthesized by nature itself.” Admiration blended with affection in the man returning the pressure exerted by the Gaean on his hand, as she flashed him a vivid smile that effectively hid her still-potent anxiety. Having thoroughly enjoyed his break, the more so as his day normally allowed him little chance to visit, even during meals, with the woman whose company meant so much to him, Justin departed with his colleague to spend a pleasant three hours working with her among the plants. Returning to Eleven thirty minutes before supper pushing a pair of wheeled bins loaded with wrapped rootstocks, seeds, cuttings in containers of water, and other booty, the pair found Nigel and Leonard staring spellbound into the tertiary tank. “Cleo, look! We never thought of this effect, this morning!” Leonard exclaimed, his classic face alight with wonder. “There’s a rainbow!” Hastening to observe the rarity, Cleo and Justin gazed into the conical enclosure. A misty, drizzling rain fell steadily, to glisten on the metal deck, and collect in small rivulets that trickled slowly into the emergency drains. An array of small rainbows shimmered among the lighted spirals, the play of brilliant hues evoking gasps from the two new beholders. “Oh, how gorgeous!” Cleo breathed. “All that color, in the midst of all that wetness! Beautiful!” “Leonard and I haven’t been able to tear our eyes from it,” Nigel confided. “We’re imprinting the novel phenomenon in memory. Marvelous, hm?” “What a sight!” Justin breathed. “I ought to tell the others, and give them a chance to look!” Clapping the head cook on the back, Leonard volunteered, “I’ll go. You two feast your eyes awhile. I’ve been standing here as if I’d taken root.” Turning, the youthful athlete swung nimbly up the ladder to the deck

above, and raced effortlessly down the rim. Standing between Justin and Nigel, the Gaean gazed in fascination. A light, pattering sound fell soothingly on her ear, as the drops condensing against the peak of the translucent cone fell to strike the surfaces of leaves. “It’s fortunate that the design of the light fixtures renders them impervious to moisture, or we’d have witnessed a massive shorting of wiring, plus explosions of bulbs and tubes that otherwise last for many Earthyears,” Nigel observed. “The designers took no chances.” “Marvel of engineering, this station,” Justin declared, smiling at Cleo. “A tribute to your people’s dedication to the pursuit of pure research.” “A dedication that peaked during that era when the builders placed this facility in orbit,” Cleo admitted glumly. “Our golden age. It’s long past.” Laying a hand in a purely comradely gesture on the captive’s shoulder, Nigel demurred, “Not past, Cleo. As long as your world keeps on producing specialists of your caliber, that tradition will continue, to one degree or another, regardless of present setbacks, hm?” Flashing a fellow engineer a grateful smile, the Gaean acknowledged, “I hope so.” A tramp of boots on the deck above announced the arrival of Michael, Marvin, Conrad, and Leonard. As three spectators satiated on color stood back, the newcomers surveyed the marvel. “This lighting’s built for rain!” Conrad exclaimed. “The designers figured this could happen, so they installed a safety feature!” Marvin breathed softly, “Lovely! A once-in-a-lifetime sight!” “Amazing, the impact on the mind of an effect of dispersion, reflection, and refraction of polychromatic light through droplets of water,” Michael mused. “Our brains must have evolved a mechanism for appreciating a common phenomenon of Earth’s atmosphere.” Turning an impish grin on the Captain, Leonard observed, “Technical

way of saying we find the spread of colors pretty.” “Physicist’s point of view, that, as opposed to the artist’s, or the physiologist’s,” Nigel contributed in a lazy drawl. “That color’s really a dance of molecules on the retina of the human eye—molecules induced to vibrate when struck by light of a specific wavelength. The totality of that information is processed and rendered meaningful in the visual cortex of the brain.” “Whatever’s going on in my eye and brain, I like the effect,” Leonard declared emphatically. “So do I,” agreed Marvin. “And I’m not about to insist that my brain’s just another computer. That sight plays on emotions no computer can feel.” “It does for me, too, Marvin. Color-starved, I get, at times,” Cleo admitted. “Just imagine, the absolute riot of colors Earthmen took for granted! Flowers, green grass, sunlight on huge bodies of open, liquid water, rainbows arching across a brilliant blue sky…” “Earthmen took that precious endowment for granted, and abused that fragile equilibrium,” Nigel reminded her bleakly. “Eventually, nuclear war initiated by small groups of barbaric, scientifically ignorant, tribally organized, non-state-based fanatics produced irreversible environmental damage accompanied by catastrophic human death tolls and terrible human suffering. Only after the institution of a world government willing and able ruthlessly to police the entire surface of the globe, did those leaders striving to keep Earth livable render impossible the acquisition of such weapons by any group but the world government’s military force. But in the aftermath of that final terrestrial war, the surviving Earthmen paid a stiff price for their failure to preserve a splendid inheritance. “Ironic, isn’t it? A flawed image of that old, lush beauty lives on as ghostly imaginings in the minds of people who’ve never seen the original…offspring of men driven out among the stars by the ultimate failure

of that ravaged planet to offer all of its spawn a free, full, rewarding life. I wonder where our kind will manage to flee, if we repeat that dire error here?” None of six hearers could remotely imagine an answer to that unsettling rhetorical question. “Hard to tell, but we face all the challenges we seven can handle, right here and right now,” the Captain declared bluntly. “Let’s tear our dancing molecules from the dispersed light, and feed our faces.” That eminently practical suggestion prompted seven people to head for Central, and dinner. Replete with baked stuffed fish, potato cakes, and steamed greens that she eyed warily, mentally assessing the percentage of duckweed while bravely suppressing an urge to examine her portion minutely for evidence of cooked worms, Cleo walked back to her cabin. Washing sparingly, she recalled the pleasant afternoon. I wish I saw more of Justin in a day, she repined wistfully. He’s so companionable. I’ll have to see if he can join me again to scrounge in the tanks. Stripping off her uniform, she tossed it in the adjuster, and patted her bare stomach appraisingly. That meal tonight simply had to do something towards filling me out, duckweed notwithstanding, she decided. Sitting up as the door slid open, she greeted Michael, who strode through the door to seat himself on the edge of the bed. Taking each of her hands in his, he reminded her bleakly, “Cleo, last Monday, for the first time, I neglected to ask you for the same word you’ve been giving me all along. Not that it would have made any difference, given your mental state on Saturday, but I want your word for another week.” A crimson flush mantled the cheeks of the woman shamed by her egregious lapse into blind rage. The man issuing that urgent request heard the tremor in her voice as she confided, “Michael, I haven’t lost control of

myself like that in fifteen Earthyears. I’d grown utterly certain that I’d never give way so completely again, but I did. I’m so ashamed…” The grip on her hands tightened. “Don’t be, Cleo. We demanded far too much of you. No—I did. But I want your word, even so.” “You have it. From now until we reach Columbia.” Divining that her vehement declaration vastly reassured the man demanding it, Cleo added in a low tone, “Some good came out of our conflict. What lay behind Nigel’s words—and my behavior—we’ve resolved.” “So I noticed.” The irony infusing that statement forcefully impacted the sensitive hearer’s consciousness. Gamely meeting the agate eyes riveted to hers, she realized in a burst of clarity that Michael’s jealousy of Nigel equaled that of Nigel’s for himself, even though the Captain habitually kept that emotion under rigorous control. Her heart went out to this autocratic leader who so sternly subordinated his own fierce desire to his struggle to maintain the well-being of those under the authority he stubbornly refused to relinquish. Or at least, his perception of what constituted their well-being, the Gaean amended. Newly restored serenity evaporated as the increasingly familiar worry over the tangled state of her emotions rose once again to trouble her peace. “Michael,” she pleaded softly, “because Nigel and I reached an understanding, don’t think that I love you the least bit less than I did.” Hearing the undertone of pain, the man striving to rise above his own conditioning shook his head. “I don’t think that, Cleo,” he assured her. “You’ve never been anything but honest when you’ve described your feelings to me.” The thought again crossed the visionary’s mind that a formidable barrier to the plan he regarded as a possible solution to his major dilemma had fallen flat on Saturday. Forcing the ramifications of that notion to the

back of his mind for the time being, he rose, undressed, and engaged in the act that constituted a mode of communicating the depth of his emotion, even while affording heady sensual pleasure. Lying spent, sensually satisfied, in the clasp of her virile lover, Cleo rejoiced as happiness flowed back in the wake of her realization of what this man just wordlessly conveyed. Marvin’s words of Thursday night echoed in her mind, their undeniable logic providing a measure of comfort. The smile that suddenly lit her face warmed the recipient to the core, and spurred him into an effort to couch inchoate thoughts in words. “You know, Cleo, this proved to be quite a week. Having escaped dying by microns myself, I almost lost you…and Nigel. Close shaves force a man to reorder his priorities.” Thoughts intruded, which Michael carefully avoided verbalizing. His eyes for a space went remote. Suppressing all but the idea clamoring most insistently for expression, he confided softly, “I’ve known for quite a while that I love you, but until this last seven days, I didn’t realize how deeply. I do now.” The stark honesty freighting that assertion went straight to the heart of the woman exquisitely conscious of loving six men at once. That brush with death a week ago subtly changed this inveterate risk-runner! she concluded. Tell him how you feel! “Michael, I almost lost you. That narrow escape taught me what you mean to me, and I know now…what Nigel means to me. I thought resolving my problems with him would smooth my life to where I’d experience no stress, but fear of the emotional price all of us will eventually pay for my loving all of you took its place.” Drawing her closer, Michael chided bluntly, “Cleo, you talk as if the blame for the fact that all of us will suffer emotional pain in the end rests solely on you. It doesn’t. I’m to blame. I didn’t foresee that we’d all grow to care so deeply for you, or you for us. Don’t think I haven’t agonized over

what the consequences will be to all of us! But I want you to understand one undeniable fact. Whatever happens—whatever pain I’ll end by enduring—I’ll never regret having known you. I’ll treasure the memory of every minute I’ve spent in your company, in your bed, in your arms. I’ll never love any woman, ever again, the way I love you. I can’t speak for the others, but I entertain a strong suspicion that they feel the same way. So don’t wear yourself into another crisis worrying about the effect on us of what we brought on ourselves. You’ll develop stress enough worrying about its effect on you!” Tears brimmed in the captive’s eyes—tears that she failed to control. Laying her cheek against Michael’s chest, she tightened her arms around him, unable to speak. Moist drops slid down onto his skin: silent witnesses to the depth to which his words stirred this woman he loved. His heart turned over. “Cleo, don’t cry. Don’t,” he pleaded. “It isn’t emotional pain that’s making me cry. What you just said… I love you, Michael. Believe me…” Divining that she spoke the stark truth, her partner gently stroked her hair, marveling at the fierce strength of her embrace. At length, the tears ceased. Relaxing her grip, Cleo idly traced patterns on a muscular chest with the fingers of one hand, her head resting on her lover’s shoulder. The two lay silently, savoring their consciousness of the enhanced understanding produced by their exchange. Michael feels the same way Marvin does, the Gaean marveled. You can’t prevent the pain that will come, but you can make the memories sweeter. Don’t let your own mental agony show. Make these moments happy ones! Raising herself, Cleo lay across a brawny chest, and closed her mouth over that of the man whose arms tightened around her. Her kiss, tender, intimate, aroused him again. “Michael,” she murmured, “make love to me

the way you did last week.” That invitation sent passion surging through him. Freed of his fear of offending her, he realized that she had put behind her certain deeply ingrained reservations as to what constituted overindulgence. Comfortable himself with certain pleasurable actions, Michael sensed that the deepening of their mutual love had overturned barriers in the Gaean’s mind against the full physical expression of that feeling. That knowledge infused the act of raising her to ecstasy with a burst of joyous exhilaration that paralleled and deepened his intense sensual pleasure. Having achieved a new height of emotional satisfaction, the pair slipped effortlessly into sleep, entwined in each other’s arms.

WEEK FIVE: TUESDAY A gentle touch of a hand on her shoulder woke the woman who opened her eyes to find Michael propped on an elbow, smiling down at her. “I figured you needed the rest,” he informed her regretfully. A glance at the clock set the Gaean marveling. It’s 0355! Shades of the ancients, I did it again! “Michael, you should have waked me in time to…” The Captain’s mouth closed over hers in a lingering, passionate kiss that set her heart fibrillating. When he reluctantly freed her lips, she sighed wistfully. “Wouldn’t it be nice just to lie here another hour?” she murmured. “Woman, it took my entire store of willpower to let you sleep in. Don’t tempt me like that! Hit the deck. I’ll fetch your clothes.” Pulling on her freshly adjusted uniform, Cleo rejoiced at feeling rested. That pleasant, easy afternoon yesterday must have done wonders for my nerves, she mused. How thoughtful of Michael to do without what I damned well know he needed! Preceding her escort through the line, the Gaean sniffed. Directing a quizzical glance at Conrad, she elicited an explanation. “Justin used some new herb in the fishcakes,” the assistant cook confided. “I haven’t tasted it yet, but it drowns out the fishy smell.” “Thyme! And onion. Marvelous!” “You’ve included this—thyme?—in what you’re adding to our tank, I

hope?” Nigel inquired. “I intend to. Hides the fishy taste, doesn’t it?” “Beautifully!” the diners chorused. After sampling her generous portion of the spicy fishcakes, Cleo sampled her roll, wondering what Justin used for flour. I’m not sure I really want to know, she decided. He must obtain flour from potatoes or soybeans: his chief staples. Eyeing the pair awaiting him in the corridor outside the dining hall, Nigel addressed his crew. “This morning, we’re going to pump the water from Eleven’s accumulator tank into the main line serving the station,” he announced. “That’ll run an overflow into the reservoir, but the station will adjust itself. Then we’ll do the same for Twenty-four’s. We can’t leave Twenty-four’s tank disconnected very long, or water will back up in the line from the condenser. So we’ll detach all but a few bolts from its base, and make a hurried switch. We’ll have Eleven’s tank handy, before we pump out Twenty-four’s. We’ll then run the proper amount back in. “Michael said he’d help us. He’s sending Marvin to man Central’s board, and open the intercom lines so we can talk back and forth. Leonard, you and Cleo get Eleven’s tank ready to switch. It’ll be damp in there, but that can’t be helped. I’ll do what opening and closing of valves proves necessary in Eleven, and Michael will do what’s needed in Central. Our switch will take a while—complicated system, this—but you’ll find my plan easier than draining the tanks into buckets, hm?” “Right!” Having chorused that assent, Leonard and Cleo set off to perform their allotted task. Kneeling on the damp lower deck of Eleven, loosening bolts, the woman sensed the unusual humidity affecting the exposed skin of her face and hands. Am I glad I adjusted my uniform last night! she reflected. If it has to

repel this amount of moisture all day, it’ll likely be out of adjustment by suppertime. Strange, how damp air feels so chilly. I’ll be relieved when the tertiary tank’s back to normal. The plants won’t know what to make of the prolonged wet weather. I surely hope we don’t encounter an infestation of slimeballs! Having done all they could to ready Eleven’s tank for the switch, the workers stretched cramped limbs. Growing aware of intense scrutiny by her youthful teammate, Cleo wondered whether a seam in her uniform might have opened. Observing her uneasy glance down at herself, Leonard laughed. “It’s your hair, woman. The waves have changed into curls. You look even prettier than usual!” “Well, thank you!” Raising a hand to short, damp locks, their owner investigated the unwonted curliness. “That’s due to the dampness. My hair does this for a while after I shower.” “Strange, that. You’d think dampness would straighten hair out.” “A strand of human hair consists of long protein molecules: keratin. Most of them are dead, because they only grow at the end near the scalp. Straight hair is round in cross-section, but wavy hair’s round in some places, and oval in others. Moisture makes the round kind straighter, and the varying kind curlier. Yours is curling a bit, too.” Passing a hand over his own short, crisp, dark hair, Leonard exclaimed, “Damned if it isn’t! The effect’s more striking on you, though.” “What gallantry!” “You bring it out in me.” Nigel arrived, and opened certain valves. As Marvin relayed information and instructions between Michael and Nigel, the tank slowly emptied. Cleo and Leonard detached the cumbersome unit. While the two men

wrestled the bulky item onto the hand truck, and raised it through the hatch with the block, Cleo snatched up a tool kit, and hurried to Twenty-four, where she set about removing all but a few bolts from that tank. By the time the movers arrived with the replacement, the components lay ready for the change. As Marvin again coordinated the pumping via the intercommunication system, the tank slowly emptied. Three pairs of hands deftly made the switch, and bolted the new tank in place. Tightening a union over her head, Cleo made use of the extension she habitually slipped over the handle of a pipe wrench. Kneeling on the deck wielding a power ratchet and socket, Nigel noticed, and flashed her a wry smile. “I wondered that first day how you managed to undo the connections of that waste line in Three,” he confessed. “Used to applying extra leverage thus, hm?” “I’d have a dreadful time without my cheater’s bar.” Cleo smiled back, even as she recalled the virulent anger provoked on that occasion by this man: fury that had provided an adrenaline assist to her muscles. “Well, this about does it. Marvin, I’m opening the valves. Tell Michael to pump away,” Nigel called out over his shoulder. Three people rested from their exertions, listening to the gurgle of water re-entering lines, the echoing splash of water falling into the tank, and the slight hiss of air escaping from the float-valve on the side of the unit. Once the water reached the proper level, Nigel and Cleo spent considerable time observing the readings on the monitoring equipment in the photosynthetic exchanger, making sure that no damage had occurred. As he stood with legs apart and hands clasped behind his back, the team leader nodded in satisfaction. “It’ll do. We won’t stop work before Eleven’s back to normal, but we’ll take a double break this afternoon. We’ll go to Central, and enjoy a cup of coffee. Let’s move this blasted tank.” Uneasy in her own mind about the protracted rainy spell in Eleven’s

tertiary tank, Cleo nodded in hearty agreement. The three teammates moved the large, ungainly accumulator tank to the main deck, wrestled it onto the frame, and pushed the heavy vehicle with its cumbersome load back to Eleven. Once the tank reposed on the lower deck, they swiftly connected it, and then listened contentedly to the welcome sound issuing from it as it slowly filled. Glancing quizzically at his fellow engineer, Nigel asked, “What did you use on those glass caps from the monitor that cleaned them so well, so fast? We need to scour, clean and disinfect that section of the old waste line, this afternoon.” “Chromic acid cleaning solution. We could add abrasive scouring particles…thicken the liquid to a slurry, so that it fills the pipe all the way full, and scours as it cleans.” “Nasty brew, that. We’d need to take exceeding care, hm?” “The line’s non-metallic composite pipe, so that cleaner would work well. The pipe hangs on enough of a slant that a thick slurry would scour the walls quite well.” “So it would. Well, since we’ve bypassed the waste tank in the line, it won’t matter especially if we leave things as they are, over lunch. When we return, we’ll clean the condenser, since it’s free. Then we’ll replace the connection between the accumulator tank and the waste tank, and try your idea for cleaning the pipe. By tonight, we’ll see the tertiary tank returning to normal.” “I hope slimeballs aren’t taking over!” “Don’t so much as think a disaster of that magnitude possible!” Lunch proved to be the potato soup Justin had served the night of the change in angular velocity. “Not bad,” Michael remarked with a grin, eyeing the lone woman. “I didn’t down enough of this stuff to get a good idea of how it tasted, the first time it appeared on the menu.”

Laughing, Cleo confessed, “I can’t really say I remember any more than the blessed fact that it didn’t make an embarrassing reappearance. It tastes as if it’s got milk in it. I know it doesn’t, but I’m not going to speculate.” “Canny woman.” After lunch, Nigel’s team spent a tedious span of time cleaning the condensing unit in Eleven, and hooking up the connections between the waste tank and the accumulator tank. “We’ll leave that part shut off, until the whole water line is in place,” the leader muttered. “The fish are still utilizing the nutrients from the station’s main nutrient line. We won’t put the waste we’ve deposited in our waste tank into the cycle with the exchanger for a while yet. We’ll let the fish settle down after the disruption of the last few days. I’ll be vastly relieved when everything’s functioning normally again.” When the workers finished reconnecting the condenser into the line from the tertiary tank, Nigel addressed the originator of the suggestion. “Prepare your acid slurry,” he directed. “Leonard, take the truck, and help Cleo transport it. I’ll build a wide-mouthed, funnel-shaped intake on the end of the pipe towards the condenser, and a collector to catch what emerges on the other end. This pipe extends damned nearly the whole length of the deck. We’ll require a considerable amount of cleaner.” Having surveyed the overhead pipe, estimated the length, and noted the diameter, Cleo led the way to Ten, making rapid mental calculations as to how much of the slurry to prepare. Having located an unbreakable vessel that would load easily on the hand truck, the engineer opened the top. “This outfit’s glass-lined, and has a spigot close to the bottom,” she pointed out. “We’ll fasten it on the truck. We’ll leave it there as we draw portions out, and pour a liter at a time into the funnel Nigel’s fixing. We’ll need to exercise care, Leonard. This solution’s frightfully corrosive.”

Opening the chemical locker, the Gaean engineer gingerly removed a large bottle of the cleaner, and carefully poured the requisite amount into the vessel on the truck. To that, she added a can of abrasive particles, and stirred the orange-red liquid with a long, thick, composite rod. Alternately adding cleaner and particles, she mixed enough to match her approximated volume. “That should do it,” she declared as she tightened the cover on the vessel, and rinsed the rod in a special sink that drained into a reserve for chemical waste: a repository that did not connect to the main drain-lines serving the station. “We’ll save what cleaner emerges from the pipe,” she explained to Leonard. “We can use it over, for other tough jobs. You can’t run chromic acid down a sink. It would zap the organisms engineered to biodegrade the soap and dead skin cells. And we don’t want to overload the special receptacle for chemical waste into which this sink drains.” “Evil looking stuff, that.” “It most definitely is!” Leonard pushed the truck back to Eleven, where Nigel helped him lower it through the hatch, and move it next to the condenser. “I’ll pour the cleaner,” he asserted. “Leonard, wait by the tank, and keep an eye on the outflow vessel. Cleo, hand me liter amounts.” Mounting a stepstool, Nigel positioned himself next to the condenser, by the funnel-shaped intake. Cleo drained a liter of the cleaner into one of two heavy glass vessels brought from Ten, and handed it to the man who poured the contents into the pipe, and watched it ooze away. Having set the empty container aside, she handed him a full one. As Leonard stationed himself around the back of the waste tank, where the output vessel rested, the Gaean engineer continued filling and handing vessels to Nigel, each of them taking elaborate pains not to spill so much as a drop on themselves.

At length, the last liter of acid vanished into the pipe. Nigel remained on the stepstool, gazing narrowly down the length of the pipe he could see, but Cleo advanced to the point where the line made a forty-five degree bend, so as to inspect it for leaks. Spotting a trace of orange-red liquid seeping from a union, she concluded that the connection must be loose. Hastily, the woman returned to the accumulator tank, picked up a large pipe wrench, and grabbed her cheater’s bar. Positioning herself beneath the leak in the downward-sloping line, she slipped the pipe over the handle of the wrench, so as to increase the leverage, and set about tightening the union. Arms lifted overhead, one knee bent, the other leg extended, the petite woman exerted all the strength of her wiry body on the cheater’s bar, exerting considerable force until she saw the tiny ooze of red liquid cease. Suddenly, she felt a jerk on her arm. Aghast, she saw the pipe joining the union twist and split, sending the acid solution flowing down the length of her tilted body. Time ceased to flow, for the woman paralyzed with horror. “Nigel!” she screamed, even as panic froze her limbs into immobility. “Help me!” Galvanized into violent activity by that shrill outcry, the team leader leaped off the stepstool. Less than a second elapsed between his realization of Cleo’s predicament, and his swift response. Taking one long stride forward, he opened a valve on the main water line, letting a torrential stream arch to the deck. Two strides allowed him to grasp Cleo’s arms in a grip the imprints of which would last a week. Thrusting her bodily into the icy jet of water, he held her so that the stream washed down her front, sluicing away the dark red slurry now intermingled with the dissolved remains of fabric. A long expanse of the accident-victim’s flesh lay bared to his view: flesh now an angry scarlet in hue. The sound of the cascading water brought Leonard tearing around the

waste tank, to stop short, aghast at the sight. “Get Justin! Fast!” The urgency in the Lieutenant’s voice as he barked that command sent the youth dashing away at a dead run. Having let the main force of the water play on the burned flesh, Nigel thrust Cleo’s head under the stream. Turning her, he allowed the icy deluge to play over her entire body, washing away any stray drops of corrosive ooze that might have lit elsewhere. Soaked himself, he positioned her so that the forceful stream again rushed down her injured side, and held her firmly in that position. At long last, a clatter of boots on the deck apprised him that help just arrived. His heart in his eyes, Justin dropped to his knees on the deck, and opened his medical kit. “Michael, turn it off,” he ordered. As the icy shower ceased flowing, the technician pulled off Cleo’s boots, and stripped off her pants. Even as Justin bared her legs, Nigel gripped her with one hand, and pulled down one soaked sleeve of her tunic with the other. Justin peeled the water-soaked garment off her upper body, urging, “Hold her, Nigel.” Staring intently at the long burn extending from just below the victim’s right breast to just above where the top of her right boot reached, the caregiver let a long exhalation of breath escape him. “The damage isn’t as bad as I’d figured it would be, Cleo,” he declared in patent relief. “Thanks to Nigel.” Reaching into the kit, he removed a soft, sterile, absorbent pad, and gently patted the burn dry, before foaming medicated gel over the injury. As Justin waited for the gel to finish sealing the blistered skin so as to hold in any weeping fluid, Leonard and Michael each stripped off his tunic. The younger man wrapped his around Cleo’s hips. Michael draped his more commodious garment around her shoulders, fastening it over arms as well. Uncontrollable shivers coursed through the woman chilled to the bone from the frigid shower. Goose bumps rose on her skin. Noting her

response, Justin lifted her in both arms. “Michael, fetch me a hot-air gun, and a cup of hot coffee,” he directed. “Bring both to Cleo’s cabin.” Turning, he bore the injured woman to the ladder. Shifting his hold on her, he nimbly climbed to the upper deck, and vanished. His gut still knotted, Michael regarded his second officer with grim approval. “Your quick thinking kept that from being a severe burn,” he acknowledged in patent relief. Laying a hand on the shoulder of the man soaked to the skin, he added, “I’m damned glad you were close by!” “Ditto for me.” His iron nerve visibly shaken, Nigel wiped the back of a hand across a brow to which wet, dark hair lay plastered. “Change your clothes, before you get a chill!” “I’m all right. I need to chase down this water, and re-route it from the traps below the drains, chief, before the whole system gets out of balance. Damn! It’s contaminated with acid! I can’t spare the time to change! Leonard, come along.” Michael let them go. Sweeping up the remains of Cleo’s uniform, he hurried after the technician. Justin stood the patient still suffering from shock on the deck in her cabin, and let both tunics drop. Holding her with one arm, he threw back the cover, swept her up, laid her in the bed, and covered her shivering, naked body to the chin, doubling the bedcover over her. Frowning, he whisked the spare out of her locker, to lay that, doubled, atop the other. Through chattering teeth, the sufferer protested stoutly, “I’m all right, Justin.” “You’re going to be,” he assured her as he seated himself on the bed, and rubbed her dripping hair with a spare pillowslip. On seeing Michael enter, burdened with coffee and the blow-dryer, Justin lifted Cleo’s shoulders with one arm, and supported her as she thrust one shivering arm out of the

cocoon of bedcovers to grasp the cup. While she sipped, he aimed a stream of hot air on her hair, holding her propped against his shoulder. As Michael spread out her dripping clothes, the stricken viewer beheld the gap left when a piece of the band at the waist of the pants dissolved. A fourth of one side, down the length of the leg, she saw to be missing. The tunic lacked a wedge-shaped section of one front panel. Discouragement verging on despair tightened her throat. “That’s the only suit I have to my name,” she whispered. Sensing the depth of her distress, Justin countered vehemently, “Better your clothes than your skin, girl, or your flesh. Be glad you didn’t suffer a ghastly third degree burn! We’ll fix you something to wear.” Michael loomed over them. “Damned right we will!” he barked. “Leonard nearly gave both of us heart failure!” The emphatic voice softened. “Does it hurt badly, Cleo?” “I’m all right.” “That’s not what I asked.” “It’s bearable.” “You’d say that if you lost a leg.” Gathering up the ruined garments, Michael strode into the bathcabin, and tossed them into the adjuster. Justin’s arm tightened around hunched shoulders. “Chin up, girl,” he whispered as he ran a hand through fluffed-up hair to assure himself of its dryness. Withdrawing a spring capsule from his kit, he warned, “This will sting.” No sound issued from the woman as he injected the contents into her arm. “Now, stay in bed, and keep warm.” Rebelliously, his patient retorted, “I’ve got no choice, unless I want to appear among you naked as an eel!” Chuckling, the technician retorted, “At least I rest certain that you’ll follow orders!” Turning to Michael, whose rugged face creased into a broad grin as he

heard that exchange, the technician issued an ultimatum. “She’s to stay in bed until suppertime, so as to get over the chill and the shock. Conrad will bring her dinner. I’d better help him, now.” Michael sat down on the edge of the bed. Leaning down, he kissed the occupant gently on the cheek. “Rest up,” he urged. “After supper, we’ll convene a meeting right here, and entertain suggestions for finding you something to wear. I’m just relieved that you’re no worse off than you are! I’ll help Nigel…fill in for you. Don’t worry about a thing.” Rising, he smiled down into the bleak face of the still-shivering Gaean, and departed. Suffering the aftereffects of fright, chill, pain and shock, the woman thus adjured tried valiantly not to fret. At length, she drifted into a light, troubled sleep, waking only when Conrad strode in, bearing a tray. Clutching the quadruple layer of bedding against her bare chest, she reared up to regard with no great eagerness the offering the blonde spacer laid on her lap. Smiling down at her, he confided, “The main course tonight was slimeball stew. I figured you needed something to cheer you up, so I heated some frozen leftovers: baked stuffed eel, and baked sweet potato. That’s other’s a salad with lemon dressing I made myself. Here, try a jolt of hot coffee.” Taken aback by his initial statement, Cleo gasped, “What was that you said I’m missing?” A grin overspread the lean, tough face. “That sort of slipped out. It’s the cooks’ private jargon. Slimeball stew’s not as bad as primal ooze, which we’re having for breakfast, but it’s a close second, so I’m pampering the invalid.” Having glanced with new interest at the neatly arranged tray, Cleo raised her eyes to that of the comrade regarding her anxiously. The first smile that had crossed her face since her accident warmed him to the core.

“How thoughtful of you, Conrad,” she responded gratefully. Gingerly, the gratified assistant cook lowered himself to the edge of the bed. “Cleo,” he declared in a hurried whisper, “I hope you realize I won’t bother you any tonight. In fact, if you’d rather, I’ll bed down on the couch in the recreation hall.” “Which is half a meter too short. Conrad, you’re a perfect gentleman, but you’ll bed down right here, and keep me warm. For a while after my shower, I didn’t think I’d ever get over the chill!” “If you’re sure.” “Absolutely.” Leaning down, the blonde spacer planted a kiss on the same spot Michael targeted earlier. “Am I glad you didn’t dissolve into primal ooze, woman! Eat up. Food will warm you from within.” Rising, he flashed her a vivid smile, and left. Gazing after him, Cleo chuckled to herself. I’d better dig in, she surmised. The sight of breakfast in the morning will likely unnerve me. I’m an invalid who’s naked as a blasted worm, but pampered. What a friendly gesture! The door opened, and Nigel glided in on cat-like feet, followed by Leonard. The lithe swordsman’s elegantly tailored uniform, its adjustment overloaded, clung damply to his tall frame. Splashes of rusty sludge streaked both tunic and pants. Thick dark hair hung limply over his forehead. Grime stained his hands. Again rearing bolt upright, Cleo exclaimed in dismay, “Nigel! You worked all this time soaking wet? Aren’t you chilled to the bone?” Glancing ruefully down at his still-damp self, the rescuer shook his head. “I got enough exercise chasing waste water through drainpipes to keep me warm, Cleo. How do you feel?” “Not bad at all, thanks solely to you. If you hadn’t done what you

did…as fast as you did…I hate to imagine what I’d feel like now. Damn, Nigel…I think I panicked.” Shame sent color flooding into hitherto pale cheeks. “Not noticeably. You exhibited sense enough to refrain from thrusting your bare hands into that damned acid! I’m just glad I was close to you.” “So am I! Leonard, your tunic, and Michael’s, are there on the chair. Thank you!” “I’ll bring you my spare uniform after supper, Cleo,” Leonard promised. Conscious of being late for their meal, the two men departed. Forty minutes later, Cleo’s six comrades crowded into the cramped space of her cabin. Three of them bore spare uniforms. Dropping his onto the bed, Leonard asserted forcefully, “Mine will come closest to fitting.” Snorting in derision, Conrad drawled, “The pants, maybe, but Cleo’s got a lot more up front than you have, skinny.” Glaring at the speaker, Leonard retorted, “I should hope so, you lanky excuse for a cook!” As a rippling laugh fell on his ears, Conrad dropped his spare clothing on top of Leonard’s. “My tunic and his pants will likely work, Cleo,” he observed. Nigel laid a neatly folded bundle on top of the pile. “I’ve got two spares, Cleo,” he informed her. “While I realize that two women your size could fit in a suit of mine, I thought perhaps you could separate your old uniform into pieces for a pattern, and cut out a new one from my spare, if we could find some cloth-weld that you could use to piece the outfit together.” “Nigel, how superbly generous of you,” Cleo breathed, “but I wouldn’t want to run so daunting a risk! I’d likely ruin yours without achieving more than a mess!” A sharply indrawn breath focused all eyes on Marvin. “Cleo!” he

exclaimed. “Nigel’s right! You could make your old suit into a pattern. But why couldn’t we use that black cloth you found me for the tent? There’s probably enough left over for two uniforms your size! Of course, it’s not designed for clothing, but it’s adjustable, and thick…” “Marvin, that would work! At least, I could try. Is there weld left?” “Lots! The tent took such large pieces, I didn’t use but a third of the weld you found. Cleo...I’d help you, if you’d let me. My mother was a tailor. I know a little about the craft.” “Oh, Marvin, I’d welcome help! In fact, having watched you weld part of the tent, I’ll let you join the pieces. I’ve never so much as watched a tailor work.” Glancing from the relieved, hopeful face of the accident-victim to the volunteer’s flushed but eager countenance, Michael hastened to agree. “Marvin, start first thing in the morning. You can work in the conference cabin. It sports the largest table. Damned good idea, that!” Flushing even more deeply on hearing that direct praise, Marvin nonetheless managed to look the speaker straight in the eye. “Thank you, Michael,” he replied with no hint of a stutter. That response tested the Captain’s control of his face, but no surprise showed as he responded graciously, “You’re welcome.” Smiling at the manifestly hopeful recipient of Marvin’s offer, he reminded her smugly, “I told you, Cleo—Justin and I both—that we’d fix you up. Blue sky of Earth, woman, I’m beginning to think that there isn’t any disaster we seven people can’t find a way to fix!” Cleo’s peal of laughter warmed them all. “Speaking as a body in dire need, I’m surely glad of that! Marvin, I’ll leave the styling up to you. I’ll just watch, and model the suit my tailor delivers.” Smiling affectionately into the flushed face of the painfully shy spacer, she put his resolve to the most severe test of the evening.

Rising magnificently to the occasion, her socially inept comrade vouchsafed with never a stammer, “I’ll be at your service, Cleo.” As he spoke, he bowed with a graceful flourish, drawing astounded stares from his comrades. What in the sifted stars of our spiral galaxy has come over him lately? the Captain asked himself in shock. Unless—but of course! Cleo has reprogrammed him! Gazing on the smiling face of the woman whose narrow escape that afternoon had contracted his gut into a knot that had yet to relax, Michael bleakly if silently made an admission only slightly grudging. Damned if right from the start, she hasn’t given Marvin as much affection, as much warmth, as she has you, or any of us. She plays absolutely no favorites. No way did she have to struggle to hide her feelings. There’s as much room in that heart of hers for Marvin as for you, spacer-captain. Who knows…maybe more! Pain lanced through the knot in Michael’s gut without quivering one muscle of his face. At 2000, Conrad slipped quietly through the door of Cleo’s cabin to stand looking down at the face resting against the pillow. Dark lashes curled down onto pale cheeks. Tangled, fluffy brown hair fell in disorder over a high, unlined forehead. One slim hand held the doubled bedcovers bunched under its owner’s chin. The sleeper’s chest rose and fell with slow, regular movements. The man scheduled to share her bed watched for a time, savoring his relief that her injury proved no life-threatening one. Extensive, deep, first-degree burn, Justin insisted, he reminded himself in relief. All the same, her injury hurts worse than a second-degree burn, in which the nerve endings get destroyed, does initially. She’s lucky Nigel was so close by.

Having silently shed his clothes, he walked around the bed. Gingerly, he slid beneath the two bedcovers, taking pains not to disturb the sleeping convalescent. Wakened despite his taking care, Cleo stirred, and turned her head. “Conrad, slide over here and put your back against mine,” she urged. “Damned if I’m not still cold!” Swiftly, the man thus adjured complied. Settling against him, the Gaean closed her eyes, conscious of acute pain down most of her body. Conrad’s warmth penetrated, and her chill passed. Coming more fully awake, she reviewed the events of the day. A sense of having been pampered by all six of the men whose relief at her narrow escape had been so evident produced comfort that vanquished her worry over the loss of her uniform, and took her mind off the pain. Relaxing, she sank once more into oblivion.

WEEK FIVE: WEDNESDAY Cleo awoke to find Conrad sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed. “Stay in bed,” he urged. “I’ll bring you breakfast.” Smiling at the man patently unperturbed at being denied sexual satisfaction, Cleo sat up. “You’ve pampered me enough, Conrad,” she declared firmly. “Nice as that was, I need to heave my blistered carcass out, and help Marvin.” Frowning, the spacer demanded to view the injury. Curious herself, Cleo turned back the covers. As he scanned the long, angry red stripe disfiguring the Gaean’s smooth, white flesh, Conrad winced visibly. “Damned if that doesn’t look sore!” he exclaimed. “You’d better stay in bed.” “It looks worse than it feels. Let’s see what I look like in my borrowed outfit.” Climbing stiffly out of bed, Cleo donned Conrad’s tunic, which she knew would be the wrong shape, and Leonard’s pants, which she discovered to be too long. Rolling back the cuffs that hung to her fingertips, she declared ruefully, “This looks far better on you.” Having surveyed the effect, the donor shot her a grin. Impulsively, Cleo slipped her arms around him. “I’ll make up to you for your doing without, next week,” she promised. “Make that the least of your worries, woman. Let’s slurp up a bowl of primal ooze.” Laughing, the pair departed for breakfast.

Ladling a helping of the bland imitation cereal no one especially liked into the bowl the convalescent held out, Justin observed that a rosy glow again tinted her cheeks. Relief at her narrow escape suffused him. If that damned acid had run down her face…into her eyes! Shuddering, he sought to banish the ghastly vision from mind. Having mentally put her close call behind her, Cleo surveyed her breakfast. Conrad’s nickname fits this glop far better than his tunic fits me, she concluded. Flashing Justin a vivid smile that she hoped hid her disdain for his offering, she took her seat, conscious of four pairs of eyes minutely observing her ill-fitting garments. Watching her face mirror renewed discouragement, Marvin guessed at her thoughts. Do your best for her, he adjured himself. She didn’t need this trauma on top of what happened last Saturday! Thirty minutes later, Cleo watched in fascination as her tailor wielded the specialized tool to heat the seams of her Gaean suit, to part the welds. “You make that look easy, Marvin,” she marveled. “And I know it isn’t.” “The secret’s moving the cloth-welder at exactly the same speed down the length of each seam. Too fast, and the pieces won’t bond. Too slow, and you shrivel the weld.” Under the wielder’s steady hand, two sections of fabric separated neatly. “Marvin, you amaze me. The things you know!” No more than a faint flush rose to tint the man’s sallow cheeks as he freed the necessary panels from the damaged garments. Sliding his hand under a length of the black cloth, he warned a trifle dubiously, “This cloth differs from fabric designed for clothing, which varies from one side of the width to the other in stiffness. Clothes are stiff where you need support, and more flexible where you don’t, but this fabric’s the same everywhere.” Pulling at the material with both hands, he added, “And it stretches

more than clothing does. If I cut it exactly the same as the pattern, it’ll likely…sag…on you.” Marvin did flush, now. “Uh…Cleo…I think I’ll make it more snug, so it’ll provide support.” Nervously, Cleo eyed her tailor. “It’s fairly thick cloth, Marvin,” she countered, as a new worry surfaced. “That’s why it’ll work, but I think we want to use that stretchiness, not have it constitute a problem.” “Well, you certainly know more than I about what you’re doing. Do whatever you think is best,” the Gaean programmed to display a strict modesty declared bravely. “We’ll finish one suit and try it on before we cut out a second.” That decision greatly reassured the woman finding her present garments direly uncomfortable. Having doubled the black fabric along its length, Marvin carefully placed pieces on the dual thickness. Cleo noted how the halves served as patterns along the fold, so that the unfolded cut pieces would form a whole. Intrigued, she observed how he fit sleeves, waistband, collar, and facings into the space remaining, thereby conserving fabric. Admiration grew as she observed the care and skill he brought to the task. “You must have learned a lot, watching your mother,” she remarked. “I did. I used to help her, at times.” Placing her hands flat on the piece Marvin began to cut, Cleo sought to hold the pattern in place. “I hate having to do this while lacking high-static strips,” he complained with a trace of his old querulousness. Grown conscious of his lapse, he hastened to add, “But what you’re doing helps.” Exerting painstaking care, he cut out the pieces. The observer watched in fascination as the amateur tailor welded the front panels to the back of the tunic, and then joined the seam of each sleeve. Marveling at the deftness with which he set each sleeve into the

body of the garment, she passed a complimentary remark that produced a soft, “Thank you.” The amateur tailor next welded the two pieces of the collar. Having placed the open edge over the neck of the tunic, he double-welded the collar in place, and attached the facing of the cuffs. Under Cleo’s admiring eyes, a tunic took shape. Perceiving a hitch, the improviser scratched his head in perplexity. “I’ll have to use the interlocking bands off your old tunic,” he grumbled. “And that’ll leave no bands for the next one we fashion.” Frowning, he pondered that problem. Mastering incipient regret, Cleo smiled gamely at the man exerting himself to help her. “I only had one outfit before, so I’ll be no worse off if I end with only one now.” Pulling at his chin, Marvin confided, “I just got an idea. We’ll get you into a suit that fits, and then I’ll try a new approach. If it turns out to be a failure, you’ll still have one new suit.” “Marvin, you’re being so kind! I owe you,” the beneficiary of his efforts exclaimed, awash in grateful warmth. A wry smile greeted that commendation. “Better not say that till you see how my creation looks.” Tailor and client took a mid-morning break together, joking over cups of chicory coffee about the Gaean’s forthcoming appearance in Columbian military black. “I never thought I’d see the day when I’d appear in that,” she admitted wryly. “Better than sludge brown, Cleo. Like that stuff Nigel reeked of, last night.” “The color of primal ooze!” “Where have you ever seen that?”

“At breakfast this morning!” Thirty minutes before the break for the midday meal, the suit lay ready. “Slip into the bathcabin, Cleo, and try it on,” Marvin directed. “If it doesn’t fit, don’t panic. I can use the bands on the next one, and cut it differently, if I have to.” Nodding, Cleo obeyed. Pulling on the pants with elaborate care, so as not to rub the gel-coated surface of the burn, she fastened the bands. The soft black material clung to her skin, but felt eminently comfortable. Why, this fits, she assured herself in relief. Even though he did cut it that tiny bit smaller. Drawing on the tunic, she fastened the bands, and gave the garment a tug. It doesn’t feel the same, she ruminated. The old one supported my breasts more firmly, but I see what he meant. If this didn’t fit snugly, I’d have no support up front, at all, even though he faced it, there. It feels comfortable. Actually, more so than the old one, given that this one stretches more, as I move. I wish I could see myself. I’ll have to find a bathcabin with a long mirror. Well, let’s model this outfit for the tailor. Cleo stepped out to behold Marvin standing with his back to her, unfolding more cloth. “How do I look?” she inquired. Her companion turned, and instantly stiffened in shock. Indescribable amazement mingled on his narrow, expressive face with admiration, and something else. A gleam appeared in the eyes riveted to her person: emotion their owner failed utterly to hide. Oh, my soul! Consternation surged through the wearer. Is it that tight? Finding his voice, Marvin blurted out exactly what he thought. “Cleo, there’s only one way you’d look better!” “What way?” “With no clothes on at all!” Having succumbed to an irresistible

impulse, he flushed the color of her burned leg. “My perishing soul! Does it show my shape to that extent?” Managing to order his face, the man battling incipient lust struggled valiantly to keep his voice level. “Cleo, it looks worlds better than the old one. It…it…fits really well…but it doesn’t…hide…what the other did. I mean…it shows your shape, all right, but I’d much prefer to see you in this one.” Oh, my blistered soul! the sorely tried woman expostulated to her alter ego. If it produces this effect on Marvin, how will I ever face Michael and Nigel? “Marvin,” she exclaimed, “I’ve got to look in a mirror! And I’ll have to walk down the corridor to do that…” Disappointment clouded the face so unable to hide what its owner felt. “Cleo, I’ve gone and spoiled your pleasure in something that looks great on you. I’ve let my big mouth and lack of tact run out of control. Please, don’t you go all embarrassed on me!” The shy spacer’s earnest appeal pierced some deep reservoir of humor in the depths of Cleo’s mind, sending her into a paroxysm of helpless laughter. Oh, my heart, if that isn’t an answer that follows logically out of everything I’ve had the gall to tell him! she chided herself. Don’t pay his kindness back with an excess of modesty ridiculous in a woman who’s slept with every man who’ll view her in his creation! “Marvin,” she gasped, wiping her eyes, “I’ll take your word for it. It feels great. If it’s more revealing than the other, you’ll all just have to get used to that. And so will I.” The laughter disconcerted the hypersensitive introvert, but the sunny smile accompanying those words banished the hurt he had begun to feel. “Are you brave enough to wear it to lunch?” he asked anxiously. “Marvin, I’m feeling absolutely fearless. Let’s go.”

Arriving somewhat late, Cleo preceded her escort through the entry, to behold five pairs of eyes suddenly converge on her person. Michael, facing the door, glanced up at a sight that breached his normally perfect composure. Nigel, opposite, reading the emotion mirrored on Michael’s features, swiveled around in his chair, his habitual impenetrability breached. Leonard’s open face broke into a grin of pure delight. Cleo came to an abrupt halt, her vaunted fearlessness draining out at her toes. Simultaneously, Michael rose to his feet. “By the teeming life of Earth, Marvin, you’re a genius! If that outfit isn’t the epitome of sartorial perfection, I’ll eat the tent. Cleo, that suit’s a vast improvement over the old one!” Bold, dark eyes roved slowly down the shapely, black-clad entrant. Slowly, they traveled back up to impact wide brown eyes. Flashing the wearer of the creation a wicked grin, Nigel drawled, “A marvelous improvement, Cleo. Gaean tailors aren’t a patch on Marvin, hm?” “Woman, you look great!” Leonard asserted vigorously. “Damned if each and every curve doesn’t show!” Grasping at her scattered wits, the flustered Gaean preceded Marvin down the counter. Conrad helped her to baked fish, smiling in unabashed admiration. “You’re a sight to cheer even a cook!” he assured her. “Damned right!” his partner affirmed vigorously. Blushing scarlet, Cleo sat down. Gallantly, she credited the tailor dismayed by her blush. “Marvin worked so hard! See what a wonderful job he did, with cloth not meant for clothes? Michael, he says he can make a spare suit, even though we have no more interlocking bands. Would you mind if we finished the job this afternoon?” “Go right ahead,” the Captain asserted enthusiastically. “It’d be hard to top what he just accomplished, but I’ll wager he equals his initial

triumph!” Cleo survived lunch. They’ll get used to it, she sought to convince herself. If only I can! Having accompanied the tailor back to the conference cabin, she watched as he folded the cloth lengthwise, and once again laid out the patterns. This time, he placed the front panel on a fold. “We’ll tailor the tunic so it doesn’t open in the front, Cleo,” he explained. “To get it on, you’ll have to pull it over your head. I think that approach will work, if we change the collar somewhat. This fabric stretches enough, it’ll let your head go through, the way I’ll design it. It’ll be inconvenient having to put it on in that fashion, but it’ll work well, once it’s on, I really think. I’ll cut the waistband of the pants on the bias, so the fabric will stretch more. I don’t imagine the pants will fall down.” “I should hope not!” the startled woman spluttered, as apprehension burgeoned. Undaunted, Marvin cut out the pieces. Having fashioned a facing for the inside of the front, he welded that to the outer part. After joining the front and back, he attached the sleeves as before. Several unsuccessful attempts later, he pondered how to fashion a collar that met his approval. “It has to be so wide, it’ll wrinkle and look too big, if I don’t arrange it differently,” he grumbled, discarding his third attempt. Staring at the finished creation adorning the model, he pondered. Brightening, he breathed, “We’ll just try something different.” The new effort the worried viewer saw to be twice as tall as he had his earlier creations. Taken aback, she objected, “Marvin, it’ll reach up to my nose!” “No, it won’t. You’ll fold it down, after you get it on. Doubled over, it’ll contract around your neck right snugly.” His patently dubious client offered no further objection. After a painstaking stretch of work in which he finished the tunic,

Marvin suggested that they take a break. Relegating her doubts regarding the outcome firmly to the back of her mind, Cleo ruefully remarked over orange juice that judging by the fit of the uniforms worn by himself and his shipmates, Columbian tailors held the edge over those of Gaea. Smiling, Marvin replied that while she would look attractive in a glasscloth liner for a recycling container with holes serving as sleeves, he would studiously avoid patronizing the tailor who had fashioned her uniform. Laughing, the Gaean professed herself relieved at not having been driven to that extremity, having found a tailor who suited her. The twenty minutes flew by on mythical wings. Upon their return, Marvin attacked the problem of the waistband. Having carefully cut a long strip of cloth on the bias, he folded it, and stretched it around the woman’s waist. “Is that too tight?” he inquired anxiously. “No, it’s fine. And better too tight, than falling down.” Several abortive attempts to attach the waistband to the pants followed in quick succession. Finally, the exasperated tailor ordered his assistant to stretch the band while he welded it. “It’ll contract, to wrinkle the fabric, Cleo, but it’ll stretch again when it’s on you,” he assured her. Eyeing the improvisation dubiously, the prospective wearer begged, “Just so it stays up!” When the completed outfit lay ready, Marvin glanced anxiously at his companion, recalling her scarlet blush at lunch. “Cleo, I really think you’ll get used to the different cut of these suits,” he declared, striving to encourage her. “This one will feel even less like the old one, on account of the unusual collar, but I hope you don’t mind wearing it.” Reflecting that this kindly soul just uncomplainingly spent an entire day engaged in a tedious, frustrating chore, Cleo succumbed to an onslaught

of shame. “Marvin,” she declared emphatically, “I’ll be proud to wear a gift fashioned by the hand of a friend who has worked as hard as you have to help me. I’ve dreaded damaging my clothes ever since I got stranded here with only one suit to my name. Now, if your new creation’s ready, let me try it on.” Throwing her arms around the tailor, she drew his head down, and kissed him squarely on the mouth, provoking an enthusiastic if astonished response. When he reluctantly released her, she grabbed the suit and vanished into the bathcabin. Recalling his social gaffe earlier, Marvin determined not to let his mouth overload his brain, but the sight of her in the new creation strained his resolve to the limit. The tunic molded itself to the wearer’s shapely body like a second skin. The soft collar, folded down around her neck, swept inwards, and then flared gracefully outwards. The dusky black flow of the fabric over her curvaceous figure revealed every curve of hip and breast. Reservations that her admirer’s entranced glance reinforced smote the Gaean anew, but she smiled gamely. “Marvin, I fully intend to wear this suit to supper,” she assured him. “But tell me the truth, so I can prepare myself. It’s more…revealing…even than the other, isn’t it?” Taking care not to alarm her, Marvin stammered a reply. “Cleo, it…it does…show your shape. But I think…I…I’ve never seen you look lovelier. You…you are, you know…lovely! That old uniform…hid your shapeliness. This one doesn’t.” “Why, Marvin, what a compliment!” she replied bemusedly. “Thank you!” Accurately interpreting the gleam again animating the man’s eyes, Cleo winced mentally, but the shy spacer’s obviously sincere declaration touched her deeply.

Marvin’s mastering his tendency to succumb to embarrassment, she marveled. Better imitate your protégé, woman. Brace yourself. Supper’s going to be an ordeal! Having taken a deep breath, Cleo straightened her shoulders, and walked, head high, into the dining hall. Once inside, she held that breath. Five pairs of eyes registered amazement eclipsing even that which they had revealed earlier. For five endless seconds, no one spoke. Finally Leonard expressed the sentiment common to all five manifestly horny viewers. “Wow!” he breathed. “Oh, Leonard!” Cleo gasped, mirth overcoming embarrassment. “You’re as bad as those two accomplished rakes!” Sweeping one black-clad arm from Michael to Nigel, she slipped the other through Marvin’s, and gave out with a peal of hearty laughter. Cocking his head, Nigel drawled, “Cleo, there’s only one thing wrong with that suit. It isn’t deep rose-pink.” “There’s not a hell of a lot else wrong with it!” Michael observed. “Or with what’s inside it!” came Leonard’s assessment. Justin’s chuckle fell on the wearer’s ears, as he exclaimed, “Your tailor fixed you up in elegant style, girl!” Striding around the counter, Conrad clapped the tailor resoundingly on the back. “Marvin, that outfit’s a work of art,” he declared with gruff vehemence. “If I had a drop to my name, I’d offer you a drink. You put in a day’s work, spacer, damned if you didn’t!” “Thank you!” burst from the surprised but deeply pleased creator of the marvel. Still gripping Marvin’s arm, Cleo surveyed five faces wreathed in grins. “If I had a drop to my name, Marvin, I’d double that offer,” she informed him. “Then I’d down a drink stout enough to render me completely oblivious to my being the center of all those staring eyes!”

Smiling mischievously, Michael declared, “Well, Cleo, it just so happens that I’ve got the means to oblige you. After we eat, I’ll dig out my bottle, and make you a present of it, if you’ll promise to give the rest of us a taste.” “I’ll take you up on that offer!” Sitting ensconced in the midst of six convivial companions in the recreation hall, sipping a stout drink from the bottle Conrad had lost to Michael on the prior Sunday, Cleo thrust embarrassment firmly behind her. Merrily, she joked with her comrades throughout the impromptu celebration. The soft black fabric felt exceedingly good against her skin. The sense of having been further pampered by Michael’s offering her the gift, cheered her immensely. Marvin’s compliment echoed pleasantly in her thoughts. The pain of the burn, slowly lessening, receded to the back of her mind. By the time 2000 arrived, she accompanied Leonard to her cabin with a spring in her step, having thoroughly enjoyed the evening. As she lifted a laughing face to her youngest lover, he took her firmly by the shoulders. Holding her at arm’s length, he let his eyes trace her every curve. “I like that outfit, Cleo,” he enthused. “It doesn’t hide a thing!” “I’ve been acutely aware of that, ever since supper!” Laughing, her admirer queried, “How do I peel it off you? Over your head?” At her nod, he drew the new garment upwards, and pulled it over her lifted arms. Catching sight of the burned skin, still protected by the gel, but nonetheless an angry dark red, he winced. “Cleo, I can’t make love to you tonight,” he protested in dismay. “If I rub against that burned skin, I’ll mess up the gel, and worsen the injury. The damned stripe looks bad enough as it is!” Smiling out of a face illumined by a rosy blush, his partner whispered,

“I’ll show you a way you won’t.” As she spoke, she slid her hands around him under his clothing, drawing him against her bare chest. Unable to resist the invitation attesting to a desire that matched his own, Leonard shrugged out of his tunic. “You’d better peel off your pants,” he urged softly. “I’m half afraid to look at that burned leg.” Having shed his own clothing while the convalescent gingerly removed the pants, he shivered as he studied the broad crimson streak running from below a firm breast to a point halfway between knee and ankle. “Are you sure…?” “Sit down here next to me,” Cleo breathed, her blush deepening. When Leonard did as she asked, taking care to sit on the side away from the burn, she moved close, to be promptly encircled by his arm. Flushing rosily, she whispered in his ear, “I’ll lie with my legs over the edge of the bed, and you’ll stand between my thighs. You won’t touch the burn.” No whit backwards at accommodating himself to novelty, her youngest lover rose swiftly. Kneeling on the deck facing his partner, he caressed her, taking care to avoid the injured place. Leaning forward, he kissed each breast in turn, thankful that none of the acid had disfigured that tender flesh. Cleo’s fingers sifted through crisp, dark hair, and traced the contours of hard-muscled shoulders. Leonard’s gentle but assured touch deepened her desire. Lying back with her arms flung over her head, she abandoned herself to his practiced ministrations. His fingers continued to caress her even as his thrusts brought her to fulfillment. His own pleasure intensified by his awareness of the bliss his partner took no pains to disguise, the youth achieved a most satisfying climax. Lifting her legs carefully, he turned her so that she lay lengthwise in the bed, and reclined next to her. “That was a perfect end to a day I’d have dreaded, if it hadn’t been for Marvin’s kindness,” Cleo murmured. “You can’t know how badly losing my one set of clothes discouraged me!”

Raising himself, Leonard gazed speculatively down at his companion. Thoughts impinged which he refrained from expressing at this particular moment. Smiling, he observed, “How do you think we’d have felt if you lost a strip of your hide—literally? I go all shivery when I think of how bad it could have been. I thought it was that bad, when I first saw it.” The youthful spacer’s voice vibrated with emotion he nowise tried to hide. Slipping an arm under the convalescent, he kissed her passionately, though he took care to stay off the burn. When he finally withdrew his lips from hers, Cleo snuggled against him, her head on his shoulder, feeling cherished. “Leonard…I love you,” she whispered, enjoying the touch of his hand sifting through her hair. Her partner lay silently for a time, his hand idly toying with a lock of wavy brown hair. At length he murmured, “I’m not sure that word’s adequate to get across what I want to express. I’m no hand with words, but I feel as though you’re a part of me, Cleo—that you always will be. Whatever happens, for the rest of my life, I’ll treasure the memory of every moment we’ve spent together.” Touched to the core, the prisoner of war experienced a return of the familiar, nagging foreboding fast becoming a fixture in mind and heart. The arm she had rested across his chest tightened convulsively around him. Oh, Leonard, she silently mourned, I hope your future life offers you more than just memories! You didn’t deserve the miserable trick fate played on you. Don’t think you won’t be a part of me, forever! Full of bittersweet, deep longing for a resolution to this new problem which had settled onto shoulders only just freed of the last, the woman clung to the knowledge that the limbo in which all their lives currently hung held no pain equaling that which any conceivable resolution of her dilemma would inevitably cause. Having thus put off any thought of that final agony, Cleo fell asleep, comforted by the warmth and closeness she shared with this

youthful lover at this moment of their dual experience.

WEEK FIVE: THURSDAY Cleo floated up out of a vague world of neutral dreams, aware of warmth, but conscious of moderate pain. Lying curled against Leonard’s side as he sprawled on his back, still asleep, she glanced at the clock. Only 0315, she mused. I’m awake early again, but I feel rested. I didn’t do anything tiring yesterday, and I thoroughly enjoyed Michael’s midweek party. Certain that the unplanned celebration represented a spontaneous outpouring of affection for a comrade whose narrow escape had left her six companions’ collective nerves on edge, the Gaean savored happiness. And I now possess clothes that fit, she rejoiced, smiling wryly to herself. Do they ever! Those suits leave nothing to the imagination, but they’re comfortable. Surely the effect will wear off when everyone gets used to the sight. Oh, Marvin, I owe you more than ever, you man of amazing accomplishments! Sensing her closeness, Leonard pressed his chest against her back. “Mmmmm,” she murmured. “Still having trouble sleeping? Or did the pain wake you?” “The pain’s not severe, and I’ve been sleeping late, every morning until today. I must be caught up, after my easy day yesterday. Oh…” Cleo’s shoulders arched back against her lover, as his hands cupped her breasts, and both thumbs rubbed her nipples. “Up to a repeat of last night?”

“Most definitely!” Laying her flat, her youthful lover rearranged her body in the bed, roused to hot desire as he beheld her ecstatic expression. Standing, he controlled his own urgent need, as with both hands he brought his partner to a state of quivering, arching readiness. His thrusts raised her to a peak that evoked a cry of delight: a sound that provided the final stimulation lifting him to fulfillment. Awash in masculine pride, he gazed down at his partner’s limp, still form, his breath coming in gasps, his dark blue eyes brimful of triumph. A thought impinged. Keeping to himself the notion that had first crossed his mind on the previous evening, he straightened Cleo’s unresisting form in the bed, and reclined beside her. Turning, she nestled against him. “Is it time…?” “We can wait five minutes.” As he ruffled her hair with a hand, Leonard kept a wary eye on the clock. Reflectively, he sorted through a succession of ideas that flowed in a certain logical order across his consciousness, before rising, and fetching the two new suits from the adjuster. Sitting up, Cleo pulled on the tunic that opened down the front. Pain lanced down her leg as she slipped the pants cautiously over the burn. The discomfort increased, as she flexed the injured knee. She noticed that the injury, originally an angry scarlet, now appeared a deep reddish tan. I’ll sport a stripe for quite some time, but the damned thing feels better, she consoled herself as she vanished into the bathcabin. Emerging to face Leonard’s frank perusal of her black-clad person, the Gaean flushed a deep rose-pink. “No help for it, Cleo,” he asserted with a grin. “I enjoy the view, recent satisfying effort notwithstanding. You’ll just have to get used to admiring stares. Mine and five others!”

“Until the novelty wears off.” “Won’t, for me. Big distraction, I’ll find it.” “Leonard!” His classic face wreathed in an impish grin, her companion opened the door, and bowed her through it. “Let’s liven up breakfast…take everyone’s mind off fish,” he teased. My blistered body, surely they’ll grow used to the sight! the woman conscious of her tight ensemble fretted. They’ve got more to think about than my shape, I hope! Preceding Leonard through the breakfast line, she began to entertain doubts. Justin’s eyes lit with unconcealed admiration as he helped her to baked fish cooked in the skin. Conrad ventured a low whistle as he laid two banana muffins on her plate. Michael’s eyes scorched a path down her figure while she walked towards the table. Striving to retain her selfpossession, she deliberately avoided observing Nigel’s reaction. Smiling brightly at Marvin, she managed a flustered, “Good morning.” From beside her, Nigel’s drawling, sibilant voice declaimed, “‘Whenas in silks, my Cleo goes, Then, then methinks, how sweetly flows, That liquefaction of her clothes. Next, when I cast mine eyes and see, That brave vibration each way free, O how that glittering taketh me!’” The Gaean’s startled gasp went masked by three delighted shouts of approval. “That describes the effect, all right!” Leonard chortled. “Whang on the mark!” the Captain conceded. “Nigel, what an apt quotation!” Marvin exclaimed appreciatively. Red as the rose fashioned by Nigel, Cleo stared with unconcealed astonishment into dancing dark eyes. “Her name was Julia,” she protested,

“and she wore a long dress!” That reproach produced an ironic elevation of an eyebrow. “Shapeliness allied to familiarity with ancient literary gems! More than Julia could boast, I’m sure. No doubt Marvin could fashion a long skirt, given his notable accomplishments of yesterday, hm?” “Nigel!” Chuckling, Michael observed accurately, “Cleo, pink cheeks add to the entrancing effect. You’d look stunning in a skirt, I’ll wager. Maybe when Marvin’s finished once and for all with the tent…” Rising to the bait, the tailor enthusiastically opined, “Now, that would be a fascinating challenge!” Glancing reproachfully from face to face, Cleo shook her head. Of a sudden, she gave way to an onslaught of irrepressible mirth. Oh, my soul, what next? she asked herself, even as laughter overcame her. Nigel— reciting poetry at breakfast! Ancient lyric verse! Frank and free in expression, those old cavaliers. And if those last three lines mean what I think they do… Mercifully, no one commented on the fact that her flush at this juncture deepened to scarlet. Applying herself to her meal, she succeeded in recovering a semblance of poise. After managing to put away a sizeable portion of banana muffins and baked fish, the sveltely clad engineer turned her mind to the work awaiting Nigel’s crew in Eleven. Two acutely disturbing thoughts arose to smite her. Following her team leader into the corridor, she caught him by an arm. “Nigel, with all that happened, I never gave another thought to the failure of that pipe…but all that water flowing into the drains was contaminated with dichromate ions!” The man thus accosted halted, and smiled reassuringly into wide, troubled eyes. “I chased that water down, and Michael and I isolated it,

Cleo. Justin neutralized it, by precipitating out an insoluble chromate salt. Michael routed the neutral liquid into one of the reservoirs where he’s hoarding fuel. None of the acid contaminated the drinking water or the nutrient streams.” The relief produced by that assurance showed nakedly on the engineer’s face. “And the cuttings and root material…” “Await you in the tertiary tank, which is back to normal. Leonard watered the cuttings, moistened the roots, and tucked the seeds into the locker. While Leonard and I install the compressor, this morning, plant your material.” Beholding evidence of shame, Nigel hastened to assure the originator of the idea to employ the acid. “Your method worked perfectly, Cleo. The pipe is squeaky clean. The section that gave, I judge to have been critically weakened at some earlier point in time. I’d hate to have missed the flaw, and had it give after, or during, launch. Your close shave pinpointed the problem for us. Not due to any carelessness on your part, that accident, so put it behind you. “At 0700, Justin’s planning to meet with us, and we’re going to design a still. We’ll need you as a consultant, and we’ll let the discussion double as a chemistry lesson for Leonard. Michael wants to listen in. He says he’s curious, and that he’s willing to lend a hand. So turn your mind to the production of ethanol, hm?” Smiling gratefully at the second officer whose prompt action had rendered the injury far less severe that it otherwise would have been, Cleo exclaimed, “I’ll do that.” Seeing Leonard stride up, Nigel led his teammates to Eleven. Standing on the ladder in the tertiary tank, replacing greens with herbs, and planting soybeans, the still-embarrassed Gaean blushed once again, as Nigel’s recital at breakfast recurred to her mind.

He’s well read, to have remembered that poem. Marvin recognized it, too. I wouldn’t have thought men with their backgrounds would have studied ancient literature, but perhaps they didn’t. Maybe they read poetry purely out of enjoyment, as I do. Silk. Costly Earth-made cloth, woven of fibers produced by worms: larval forms. Ugh, what a thought! But the thread the worms exuded formed a fabric finer even than glass-silk. A skirt would rustle, made of that. So did real silk, I’ll bet. The weavers dyed their creation. Lovely colors, people sported in those days. They didn’t worry about repelling moisture or dust. They wore their clothes dirty and damp with perspiration. Could it be that our utilitarian sense has gotten out of hand, given that it drives us to sacrifice color for hygienic perfection? Just imagine yourself garbed in deep rosepink. My word, what sort of comments would that sight provoke? It’s probably a blessing that I can’t begin to guess! At 0700, Michael arrived on the lower deck of Eleven, accompanied by Justin and Conrad. Under his arm, he bore a stack of datapads. On beholding the team leader rise from where he sat fashioning a connection between the aerating lines serving the station and the one from the compressor he and Leonard had just installed, his superior informed him crisply, “Justin’s going to heat standard meals today, Nigel, so both cooks are available for as long as you need them. When you plan your layout, you might as well have all your consultants handy.” Gratified by the concession, the engineer nodded. Crisply, he ordered Leonard to fetch Cleo from the tertiary tank. When she arrived, Michael handed each person a blank datapad and a stylus. His unprepossessing face plainly projecting satisfaction, Nigel strode over to the space between the disconnected water heater and the accumulator tank, and settled with fluid grace onto the deck. “Well, Justin,

the first necessity will be the vessel in which you heat the starting material,” he declared. “What design do you envision?” Fixing a ruminative glance on Cleo, the chemist remarked, “You crystallized out fairly pure sucrose, dissolved that in water, and added yeast, but I don’t think I want to take that extra step, given that I’ll be experimenting with various starting materials like the dark, thick, syrupy extract of sweet potatoes fermenting right now. I’d like an outfit to which I can add that material directly. Unfortunately, it’ll burn easily, and when it boils, it’ll foam. We’ll need to take those propensities into consideration.” “We need a round-bottomed vessel, with a stirrer, and a thermometer,” Nigel interjected before the Gaean could reply. “I could design a wrap-around heating coil,” Conrad volunteered. “Spread the heat out over the round part of the vessel so as to minimize the risk of burning.” “There’s a problem with that,” Justin objected. “We want the whole system fixed firmly in place, so it’ll have to be easy to add the starting material and clean out the cooker. I envisioned a spout at the bottom through which we could drain the spent extract and flush out the rinses, but that might create problems.” “I could fashion a one-piece glass vessel featuring a drain, but it’ll emerge right through the heater.” “Wrapping the heating coil around a vessel fitted with a drain wouldn’t pose a problem, but wouldn’t strains occur in the glass where you attached the drain?” Conrad asked, eyeing Nigel dubiously. “I could fashion a drain that would take the heat, but the boiling would be drastically irregular. There’d be periodic eruptions of steam.” “Like heating liquid in a boiling flask without a boiling chip,” Cleo threw in. “Exactly. Solid particles will splatter into the condenser, and plug up

the works.” “The liquid would splatter anyway,” the Gaean engineer predicted. “You’d need a second vessel, having an input and two outputs, through one of which the solids and splashes of non-distilled syrup could flow back into the cooker. Like this.” Swiftly, she drew a sketch on the screen of her datapad. “That would work well, if we’re not getting overly complicated,” Justin agreed, glancing apologetically at the glass blower. “If we’re going to do it, we need to do it right,” Nigel declared vehemently. “I don’t mind taking extra pains while working the glass. I’d hate like hell to have the thing explode, and spew alcoholic condensate everywhere.” “Especially as the vapors could ignite!” Cleo exclaimed. “We definitely need a safe apparatus!” the man destined to employ the creation spluttered. “All right, we build that. Nigel, you’re not going to like my next suggestion, which will test your mastery. Perhaps I’m being overly demanding.” “Say on. I can’t decide till I hear it, hm?” “If we simply run the vapors into a glass worm, what will emerge will require re-distillation. I’ve been toying with the idea of a fractionating column.” Raising an eyebrow, his colleague drawled ironically, “Justin, your faith in my skill touches me deeply!” Shrugging, the cook shot back, “You were the one who said we ought to do it right!” “And let my mouth overload my brain. How many plates?” “At least three. Four would work better.” Used to these men’s tutelage, as well as to the informal atmosphere unique in a Columbian military team—an atmosphere Michael habitually

fostered, so that professional equality and courtesy replaced military protocol during the hours his team spent collaborating on a project—Leonard entertained no compunction at interrupting to ask, “I’ve got a vague idea of what a fractionating column does, but what’s a plate?” “The steps—collectors—through which the vapors successively rise, to condense against the bubble caps,” Justin explained. “The condensate collects on the plate. Each layer of liquid on the plates corresponds to the boiling liquid in an ordinary distilling flask, and the liquid on the plate above it is equivalent to a condenser. The column makes a much more efficient separation of two miscible liquids than does an ordinary distillation setup.” Leaned forward, Cleo displayed the drawing sketched on her datapad, remarking, “It looks like this.” Frowning in concentration, the only spacer lacking a higher degree among the specialists making up Michael’s scientific team studied the diagram, nodding as he grasped the function of the plates. Cupping his chin in his hand, the glass blower ruminated for a brief time. “I could make an attempt,” he ventured at length. “Even though I’ve never undertaken so challenging a project. We’d need a second heating coil, Conrad, at the bottom of the column. Let’s see your drawing, Cleo. Yes— there. It could be internal, given that there’s no syrup there, just alcohol and water.” “And methanol, higher alcohols, and ethers. We’ll need to run the product through activated carbon,” Cleo cautioned. “We’ll do that at the end,” Nigel concurred. Nodding, Justin affirmed, “Our product will be pure ethanol. Tasteless, so I’ll have to flavor it, and of course cut it. “I’ve been reading up on whisky. Early Earthmen making an illegal spirit used ground corn and sprouted corn. They didn’t add either yeast or sugar. The sprouted corn provided the fermenting agent: naturally

occurring enzymes, I suspect. Their whisky boasted a distinctive flavor. Sometimes they added rye flavoring. I can synthesize that. I’ll see what it does to individualize our product.” “How did they get the poisonous stuff out?” Leonard inquired. “They strained the yield through charcoal: wood burned in a limited supply of oxygen, which constituted a crude form of activated carbon.” “Nigel, you won’t be able to make three or four separate vessels— cooker, column, condenser, and that overflow thing—all in one piece. How will you join them?” Conrad inquired. “Ground glass connectors, I expect. I’ll need stopcocks in places, and a back-flow from the condenser to the top plate, coming out of a small reservoir, through a Y-connection, so we can shut the refluxing off when we route the final condensate into the filter containing the activated carbon.” “Space will be at a premium, if we set all of it up right here, won’t it?” Cleo observed, surveying the cramped environs. “We’ll spread the still out a bit. The condenser will be located in the line that carries the cold water from the accumulator tank to the hot water heater. We’ll preheat that, by utilizing the heat from the condensing vapors.” “That line will hardly be long enough to provide cold water constantly, will it, Nigel?” Justin asked. “No, it won’t. We normally utilize a considerable amount of hot water during the daytime hours, though. We’ll build a pre-heater line leading to an insulated reservoir situated ahead of the heater, install the condenser between that reservoir and the accumulator tank, and draw new water out of the accumulator tank, if necessary. The water heater won’t use as much power, when it’s got preheated water.” That observation prompted Conrad to run stiff fingers through his hair: a gesture Michael knew to indicate exasperation. “You know, heat’s as much

of a problem as it is a necessity,” he growled. “We install heating equipment, and provide power for it. We then stupidly radiate away into space excess heat that we can’t readily convert back into electrical energy. That arrangement has always seemed damned inefficient to me. “I’ve thought about that lately, while scrubbing an array of blasted pots. If I had time, I’ll wager that I could convert that waste heat back into a useable form. If ships ever begin to travel routes that take them on extended voyages above or below the plane of the gas giant’s current disc, so that they can’t periodically tap that source of power, they’d go short, depending only on photoelectric generation. That’s because the intensity of the light is drastically low, this far out. Or they’d have to be equipped with increased storage capacity, and that would pose the problem of increasing the shielding. Time! I’ll probably never find enough of that luxury to do more than day-dream about my notions,” the engineer groused openly, completely forgetting that his Captain sat silently listening. “You and me both, Conrad,” Justin chimed in, equally oblivious that his superior officer might construe his remarks as a complaint. “I never thought I’d see the day when I’d toy with the idea of investigating new syntheses of food, but I find myself yearning to do so.” The chemist spoke as impulsively as the partner to whom he directed that observation. “I’m going to enjoy this still-building,” Nigel declared with savage vehemence. “It constitutes a challenge, especially when I’m teamed with a cohort who orders up fractionating columns as though they were twentymilliliter round-bottomed flasks. Time’s a luxury we can’t afford, I’ll agree. I could make that thrice-damned urine-treatment unit automatic. I carry the plan in my head!” Leonard vouchsafed wistfully, “I’d be grateful for time enough to read up on things like plates in a column. I’ll bet there’d be some fancy calculations connected with those.”

Chuckling, the chemist/cook/medical technician nodded. “I could set you a few, calculating the partial pressure of each vapor in an ideal binary solution, or the relative weights of two immiscible liquids condensed out in distillation.” An unconscious but audible sigh escaped the Gaean reminded of the project on which she had made so promising a beginning, but no complaint passed her lips. I’m lucky that I’m out here helping to design a still, and replanting a tertiary tank, she conceded. I could be locked in a cabin, serving as a collective possession for lustful enemy spacers, all the while plotting how to space myself. Fate may never grant me time for pure research again. I’ll likely be spending all of mine in a penal work detail, doing rough construction on habitats, once we arrive in Columbia! Sitting with his back against the base of the accumulator tank, Michael sat motionless, choosing to remain a silent observer of the whole conference. Every delicate sense, every subtle receptor, sifted and weighed the nuances of each participant’s remarks. Conrad’s statement forcefully impacted his consciousness, producing excitement that the man grimly resolved to maintain autocratic command of this crew of castaways totally hid. As he listened intently to the resulting chorus of impulsive remarks, another corollary to his wild notion fell neatly into place. As Cleo’s sigh impinged on his ear, he accurately divined her thoughts. His brows knitting, Michael recalled Marvin’s response to his tactful invitation to join the still-builders. The socially inept programmer had shyly thanked his superior for being willing to include him, but had urged, “Michael, what I could contribute towards building an apparatus for distilling whisky wouldn’t make a blister on what Justin knows, or Nigel, or Cleo. But if you don’t have any specific chore for me today, and you’d be willing to let me remove the remote device I’ve located in Twelve…give me the day to

tinker with two of those…” As he made that plea, the programmer’s whole gangly body had radiated eagerness. Michael had concealed his profound satisfaction with that request, bestowing his permission as though granting a favor. Damned if your crazy notion doesn’t look more and more like a valid option! the visionary exulted. You’ve racked your brain for weeks, and haven’t come up with an alternative solution. Make your crazy notion work! Implementing that decision would pose a rigorous challenge, no doubt about that. There’d be no possibility of turning back, once you embarked on such a course. You’d better be absolutely certain your ability to lead can stand so rigorous a test, before you take the plunge. You’ve made some glaring mistakes, during our exile here. No fatal ones. Not yet, anyway. But you’ve pushed your luck, spacer-captain. Gambler, you are! A faint sigh now escaped the leader lost, now, in reverie. I’ve bucked long odds at times, and came out on top, but I’d purely hate to cast my future on a single roll of the dice at this crucial juncture, and blast these six shipmates’ chances as well as my own! The flow of remarks having dwindled, Nigel declared decisively, “Well, we’ve got a design. It’ll take me the rest of today and all day tomorrow, likely, to build the outfit. I’ll need you to fashion an internal heater, Conrad, for the bottom of the fractionating column. Leonard, you’ll help us, in Nine. Cleo, you may as well spend that time doing what you and Justin decided upon, in the tertiary tank, hm? Justin, will your brew be ready for a trial run on Saturday, if we complete the apparatus built by then?” “It should be, Nigel.” “It smells as if it’s potent enough now to grow hair on your chest,” Conrad sardonically informed the glass blower. Rising, Michael pointed out, “Justin, Nigel needs Conrad, and I gave Marvin permission to work on a project of his. You’ll help Cleo today and

tomorrow, and serve standard meals. I’ll even heat them for you, today, so as to give Marvin another day in which to tinker. Next week, Nigel, I’ll commandeer your whole crew to raise the remaining walls in Eleven and build in part of the furniture. You’ve about finished Eleven’s life-support system, haven’t you?” “After we set up the still, complete the water line, and add a preheater reservoir—Leonard can do part of that, tomorrow—we’ll have done all we can until we put the seven of us into the photosynthetic system, and make Eleven function independently of the station. We’ll need to test the system for a time, with all of us living inside, before we leap off, chief.” “I figured you’d want to do that. The biggest challenge facing us will be rigging a tether. I’ll consult with all of you regarding that project, fairly soon. Well. When you make this first batch of whisky, I’d like to watch.” “We’ll collect you. All of us will watch. It’s a team effort,” the Lieutenant emphasized. Justin had heard Michael’s order with delight. Keeping his face for the most part under control—an attempt which fooled the Captain no whit—the older man likened his glee to that of a boy let out of school for the major celebration held every Earthyear on both worlds to commemorate Johann’s landfall in the star-system. The woman seeking to conceal her joy achieved no better success. The familiar pain jabbing the spacer-captain observing the delight produced by his order nonetheless paralleled a deepening satisfaction. Striding down the rim behind Nigel and Conrad, who discussed heating coils animatedly as Leonard listened, all ears, the visionary reviewed certain new additions to the plan he determined to keep strictly to himself. Chemist and engineer, standing in the tertiary tank, regarded each other with smiling faces. “Justin, I’m so glad of this chance!” Cleo exclaimed. “While I planted

what we collected, this morning, a number of new thoughts occurred to me. Here’s a pair of gloves. Let’s inspect Twenty-four, where I discovered a small, overgrown clump of something I think must be perennial bush strawberry, although I’ve never seen them growing anywhere, until now. That lone crown, cultivated, might be coaxed to bear berries. And in Twenty-eight, I think I’ve identified a grapevine!” “Cleo, just lead on, and point me at whatever you think would be worth trying.” “I’m so glad to have your company, collecting!” “No more glad than I am!” Justin’s pleasant chuckle warmed his companion. Elated by the prospect of investigating the ideas crowding into her mind, the engineer pulled on her gloves, yanked out the wheeled bins tucked into an odd space outside the tank, and headed for the rim. A new thought surfaced. “Justin, while someone’s available who can give me a hand, there’s a small refrigerator in Fifteen I’d like to install under our spiral. It contains material that I plan to take along, when we leave. We could move it on our break, if you wouldn’t mind.” “We’re due a break, girl. Let’s get it right now.” Thirty minutes later, Cleo surveyed with intense satisfaction the small unit set in place under the rising spiral. “It fits just fine,” she exulted. “I’m spared the need to hunt up a narrower outfit. Justin, thank you!” “My pleasure. What’s in it?” “Suspensions and solutions I’d made for a research project I’d started. I still hope to get back to it…eventually…” “Chin up, girl. You’ll get back to it. Now, aim me at what you’d like dug out.” Determined not to let anxiety spoil her day, Cleo concentrated on strawberries. Tossing her tools in a bin, she headed for Twenty-four at a

near trot, stimulating her companion to inner mirth. Over the standard meal featuring baked chicken, which the two cooks ate with their comrades at midday, a lively conversation ensued, in the midst of which Leonard remarked in wonder, “You know, Justin, ministry issue meals seem kind of bland, after your spicy dishes. And damned if chicken tastes much different than eel!” Surprise registered on Marvin’s thin face. “Now that you mention it, I doubt if I could tell the difference!” Breaking off the explanation regarding the technique of enclosing a heating coil within a vessel of blown glass, with which he was enlightening Conrad, Nigel frowned. “You ought to submit a report to the bank, under the seal of one of the science journals, when we get back, Justin, and call your spicy innovations to the notice of the Ministry of Food Resources.” “Oh, sure, those smug bureaucrats would just love to alter their processes at a suggestion from a self-taught spacer,” Conrad growled sardonically. “You never can tell. They might decide that an improvement would boost their popularity, hm?” “Actually, they serve as captive a set of customers as do we, Nigel,” Justin reminded his hearers. “No, you’ll likely never get to eat cheese, onion and oregano-flavored fish again.” “I could do without the fish, but those spices would work just as well, or better, on beef and chicken.” “You just wait, Nigel, for what Justin comes up with next week. It’s the most potent flavor yet!” Cleo threw in, her eyes dancing. “Hm. We’ll sniff, every day, in anticipation.” “You won’t have to sniff hard, for this.” All his subtle sensors tingling, the Captain listened, concealing burgeoning elation.

Damned if they’re not growing so used to Justin’s creations that they’re holding up those as the norm! he chortled. Cleo’s doing, partly. What a thorough knowledge she’s got of terrestrial plants! A gift, that expertise. She scored a point, a while back. Columbian customs could damned well do with a shaking up. We waste the talents of our women. You’d find Myrna intolerably dull, at this point in your experience, spacer-captain, now that you’ve known a woman as well educated as any professional on your team. Bland and tasteless, you’d find your old love, now, like the standard meals for which you thought your spacers would never cease longing. You know all too well what you’ll miss, if things don’t work out. You’ll live with a loneliness worse than any you’ve ever yet endured, for the balance of your life, if you don’t find a viable solution to your dilemma. Damn! The afternoon flew by on mythical wings. Cleo began to feel in total control of the jungle. Given that her expanded collection of seeds overflowed the storage space in the locker beneath the spiral, the head cook had helped her install a larger unit, outside the tank. By suppertime, both engineer and cook, proud of a productive day’s work, harbored elaborate plans for the morrow. Elated by their accomplishment, Cleo rejoiced at feeling rested. I wish I saw more of Justin, she mused wistfully. Such a pleasant companion! He’s learning to enjoy working with the plants, though probably any new chore beats cooking. Upon arriving at her cabin, she experienced no compelling urge to collapse, and rest. Seating herself at her terminal, she accessed her research notes, the still-nagging pain of the burn relegated far to the back of her mind. When Marvin walked through the door, the Gaean leaped up from her chair, a glad smile wreathing her face.

“I didn’t undress,” she informed him, voicing what was obvious to his affectionate gaze. “I thought I’d let you peel off your creation that I’m liking more every day I wear it. It’s so comfortable that I’m getting robustly hardened to the gleam in everyone’s eyes.” A mischievous smile greeted that observation. “Think of the gleam as a tribute to your womanly charm, and let it give you a lift. The sight of you in that suit surely does give me one!” “Marvin!” Giggling like a girl, Cleo breathed, “What a compliment! You’re getting so that you toss them off with a flair!” Throwing her arms around the man not nearly as socially inept as he had once been, she hugged him, proud of his fledgling assurance. The kiss prompted by that gesture might have sparked renewed approbation, had the Gaean been able to speak just then. Breathless with astonishment, she returned his kiss with an ardor that sparked a surge of hot desire. Insistent hands found the bands of her tunic. Their owner slipped off the garment with care that belied the burgeoning urgency of his need. The sight of the still-red burn damped his passion. “Cleo, I can’t! That looks too sore, yet.” “No, it’s not. If you’ll let me show you…” Breathlessly, the convalescent whispered the same instructions to this lover that she had given Leonard. Marvin proved no more backwards at grasping the possibilities inherent in her solution than the younger man had been. Having reached his still-uncontrollable, imperative release, he took his time raising his partner to hers. His ever-deepening feeling of ease in this woman’s company, combined with the change in position that he considered deeply erotic, led to his raising them both to an unprecedented height of satisfaction. Holding Cleo’s shapely person securely against his lean body, Marvin

savored pride even more deeply satisfying than the physical glow suffusing him. In no way did his cognizance of having been tutored by his partner spoil his pleasure. Exquisitely aware that her injury offered a perfectly valid excuse for her to avoid tending his need that evening, he reveled in his consciousness that she had voluntarily circumvented the difficulty. Cleo wanted me to make love to her tonight! he reflected contentedly. She enjoyed what I did. Whatever new feeling she now harbors for Nigel hasn’t in the least affected how she regards me. To her, passion isn’t separate from affection. Right from the start, she cared enough to overlook my shooting my load prematurely—that damned physical failing I felt certain would turn away the most charitable woman. Cleo found a way round my dysfunction. Passion to her is the language her heart speaks! Brimming with happiness, amazed at his good fortune, Marvin resolutely forced out of his mind the temporary nature of his exuberant spirits. Enjoy this moment, he chided himself. Whatever happens on our return, you’ll have the memory of these nights to prove once and for all that a woman could love you. Cleo. What a woman you are! I love you, girl. I always will.

WEEK FIVE: FRIDAY Waking from a dream of such colorful clarity that it resembled a memory of a real-life happening, Cleo reviewed its contents, realizing to her astonishment that Michael had walked through that vivid if distorted reflection of the everyday world, and that its setting had been the station. My dreams have always played themselves out at our home on Davis Station, or at the Davis branch of the University, she recalled. Or on the main campus in the capital. Lying unmoving, her eyes closed, she marveled at the novel occurrence. Since I’ve been here, I’ve never dreamed of my present circumstances, but that surreal adventure proved an enjoyable creation of whatever part of our brain recasts everyday experiences into such strange juxtapositions. So real, that imagined happening! Drowsily, she turned her mind to the actual and substantial. Marvin’s night, last night, she reminded her alter ego, orienting herself. He must be still asleep—he isn’t stirring. Wouldn’t it be dreadful if I woke confused about who’s next to me, and said the wrong name? I’ve avoided making any such ghastly blunder thus far, but I’d better never say a name without opening my eyes first. I wonder if I might have spoken Michael’s name aloud, this morning? Do I talk in my sleep? I hope not! Marvin raised me to an amazing level of passion, last night, the pain down

my side notwithstanding. The pain’s not nearly so severe, today. Marvelous concoction, those gel capsules. Her bedmate took that moment to stir, and raise himself on an elbow to gaze down at his companion, who opened her eyes, confirming absolutely who it was that lay beside her. Having ascertained that twenty-five minutes remained before they needed to rise, Marvin rested a questioning, hopeful glance on the face of the woman he loved more deeply for every hour spent in her company. To his delight, Cleo held out both arms to him. “My red-striped carcass feels infinitely better this morning,” she assured him. “Up to anything.” Taking her word on that score, her gratified partner once again surprised her by the passionate intensity of his kiss. That potent gesture wrought its inevitable consequence on Marvin himself, who nonetheless proceeded to prove that his accomplishment of the preceding evening nowise constituted a non-reproducible chance occurrence. Lying breathlessly satisfied in his arms a considerable time later, Cleo whispered, “Marvin, you’re turning into a marvelous lover.” Her assertion flabbergasted the man constantly shamed by his uncontrollable, premature ejaculations, prompting him to gasp, “What a heartening compliment!” Gazing with wide-eyed astonishment on the woman who had earned so absolute a trust that no shadow of doubt rose to mar the pride those words produced, the shy spacer savored a new accession of happiness. “Cleo,” he breathed, “you’ve made not only my day, but my week!” Hugging him hard, the Gaean buried her face in his chest, hiding the affectionate smile she feared he might misinterpret. Marvin, you need to develop a self-image reflecting your new achievement in interpersonal relations, she chided him fondly, but silently. You’ve changed profoundly, but you still undervalue yourself. You need to

work on that. What I just told you is the truth! Walking down the corridor beside her escort, Cleo rejoiced in her cognizance that her work-shift would be spent in Justin’s company. Marvin started my day off right, and Justin will carry on from there, she mused contentedly. Following Nigel through the breakfast line to pick up a standard meal, she bestowed a smile of such vivid warmth on the head cook as to drive him to believe that the Earthyears just peeled in rapid succession off mind and body, magically restoring him to youthful vigor. His eyes sparkled, and his still-trim body unconsciously straightened. Michael noticed the change. Damned if you didn’t make Justin’s week, he admitted to himself, conscious of pain which the intense satisfaction engendered by recent developments eased. He’d go for your wild notion right now, without a trace of hesitation. Cleo has renewed his youth. Not that Justin’s old, but he seems to think fifty-eight’s the onset of senility, the way he talks at times. I guess it’s mental. Sixty likely seems a turning point, the same as forty did for you. The boundary between hot youth and middle age, forty seemed. Psychological barrier, that. Justin won’t develop any marked physical or mental deterioration before he turns ninety, and maybe not then, as meticulously as a spacer’s trained to keep himself in shape. Only the lines etched into his face attest to his being past middle age…lines graven by experience, sorrow, and the pain of living. Hurt him, his wife’s leaving him. Likely Myrna would have left you, for the same reason: intolerable loneliness. A spacer’s gone all the time. Worst drawback to the life, that. A man can’t do right by a marriage partner. Cleo looks radiant this morning. Damned if your wild notion won’t work! Or are you letting wishful thinking blind you, spacer-captain? Better hone your ability to make unprejudiced judgments, and act decisively. You need to be absolutely certain before you spring your crazy idea on them!

Seating herself, Cleo turned the vivid smile on Michael, causing his pulse-rate to leap. “I’m so glad to have the chance to accommodate the tertiary tank to the needs of the cooks, Michael,” she assured him eagerly. “Nigel, we’ll get a vast amount of work done, today.” Her former nemesis now took a turn under the radiant glance. “I never doubted that, Cleo.” A cordial smile illumined the ill-favored face of the second officer. Automatically weighing input to delicate sensors he had not especially geared to monitor morale on this day, Michael reflected that lively interest in a project that fascinated her touched Cleo’s always attractive face with beauty. Her mobile features glowed with buoyant warmth, which the eyes of her companions at the table mirrored. The autocratic leader experienced a lift to his own spirits. Family, he mused. Balm to old wounds, that notion of Leonard’s…to Justin’s pain, and my own. Cleo has healed Leonard’s hurt…erased the scars, even, I’d judge. I’m glad. Damned if I can muster the slightest jealousy—the least pain—over that realization. I wonder why? You know all too well how she did it—what he feels for her, and she for him. He has changed, since landing in this mess. Matured—gained assurance. Leonard has handled the stress as well or better than any of us. Hell of a reserve of courage, the lad sports, under that delicate-seeming exterior. Guts. Manliness. I’d have been proud of fathering a son like him. Family. Accosting the lone woman as she prepared to leave the hall, Michael issued a blunt order. “Cleo, you’re to see Justin in the infirmary, right now. How does the burn feel?” “It’s healed, Michael. It barely hurts. All I have to show for the accident is a prominent ugly stripe down my side.” “Be glad you still sport an intact hide, woman.” With a parting grin,

the Captain strode away. Having caught up to his patient in the corridor, Justin opened the door to the infirmary. “Take off your clothes, Cleo, and step on the balance,” he directed. “I thought it was my exotically ornamented hide you wanted to inspect!” “You heard me, girl.” Recognizing the finality in his voice, Cleo sighed, peeled off her suit, and stepped onto the balance. “You haven’t gained mass, but you haven’t lost any more,” the technician announced, frowning. “Are you getting enough sleep?” “I’m sleeping worlds better. You can’t expect me to put on in a week what I lost over four!” “Oh, yes, I can—a small increment, at least. There had better be an increase a week from today, or I’ll prescribe a nutritional supplement. You go on being firm about retiring early. And eat heartily! Now, let’s see the stripe.” Dropping to one knee, Justin studied the reddish-tan skin of the newly healed burn. No drying, wrinkling, scabbing, or peeling met his eye. The gel, now almost completely absorbed, he saw to have sealed the moisture within the injured tissue, and replaced what had been lost. The nutrients, hormones and medications in the gel rendered the skin as whole and supple as it had been prior to the accident. Only the color revealed where the healing had taken place. “It looks good,” he assured his patient. “Does the knee hurt when you flex it?” “Just a little, and it hurts where my leg bends at the hip, when I sit down.” “That won’t last long, now. There’s nothing more I can do, but I

wanted to make sure that no complications arose.” “I’m healing beautifully.” “You’ll sport that stripe for a time. You’re tanned, just as if you had undergone prolonged exposure to the ultraviolet light from Earth’s sun. Your skin produced melanin so as to protect itself. That effect’s caused by the gel. The color will fade, eventually, but it provides an interesting anatomical feature, in the meantime.” That last observation came accompanied by a mischievous grin. “One I’m tucking back out of sight,” the patient retorted, pulling on her clothes. “Bad enough that I spend half my time with my face that color!” “That suit may hide the stripe, but it doesn’t disguise a whole lot else,” Justin shot back. “Best improvement on the scenery anyone’s managed yet, those elegant outfits. They did wonders for morale. Mine in particular!” “Justin! Even you!” Braced to confide an embarrassing personal problem that had begun to worry her, the disconcerted patient gazed reproachfully at the smiling medical technician. “Just joking, girl,” he replied in a placatory tone. “Let’s get back to the business at hand. What other medical problem troubles your peace this morning?” He reads minds, Cleo marveled. Resolutely, she broached a delicate subject. “Justin, I got stranded here with no duffel. No…personal items. It’s been over four weeks, but I’ve gotten no period. I suppose the stress last week caused my cycle to go irregular. I’ve skipped periods before, when dreadful things happened, but normally, I’m quite regular. If it arrives unexpectedly…I’m totally unprepared.” A painful blush accompanied that admission. The clinical detachment with which the technician responded subtly acted to banish the embarrassment produced by cultural inhibitions peculiar

to Gaea. “I wondered whether you might not need what your Gaean medic left stashed away in abundant supply, here in the infirmary,” Justin assured her equably. “I figured you’d ask when the time came.” Rising, he took a wrapped package from a cabinet. “This’ll last you five or six cycles. I’ll stow the rest of the supply in the infirmary on Eleven, when Michael gets that area finished.” As he handed her the supplies, he cautioned, “Likely you’ll skip a whole fourweek, Cleo, after the strains of last week, but when the inevitable occurs, don’t hesitate to tell whomever you’re working with—firmly, mind you—that you need to be excused to tend to a personal matter, if you’re caught somewhere unprepared. Hear?” “I’ll do that, Justin. And thank you, for relieving me of a major worry.” What a comfortable, tactful professional soul you are, the Gaean still possessed of a deeply ingrained modesty commended him inwardly. Smiling, she rose, preceded him through the door to the corridor, and accompanied him to Eleven, for a thoroughly enjoyable morning of working among the plants. After parting from Cleo, Michael strode purposefully towards Two. Pausing at the door to the cabin Marvin used as his workplace, the Captain observed his crewman seated at a table, utterly engrossed in soldering a delicate connection on a complicated-looking piece of apparatus. Waiting until the expert laid aside the small electric soldering gun, Michael walked in to accost the man who had not heard him arrive. “If you’ve reached a point where you can stop for a time, I’d like to confer with you,” he declared crisply. “I…I can stop here.” Startled out of a state of intense concentration, the computer programmer exhibited a trace of his former nervous stammer. Drawing a chair to the worktable, Michael sat down to face his subordinate.

“By the end of next week, I hope to be well along with the work of building furnishings into Eleven,” the Captain asserted. “The day’s approaching when we’ll need to rig a tether. I’ve given that challenge considerable thought. I know what we’ll have to use. I see problems with regard to how we’ll attach it, and how we’ll launch the tethered bodies: Eleven and its countermass. Let me explain what I want to achieve, and then we two will attack the problem of how six men can do what’s necessary.” Icy blue eyes bored into Marvin’s with steely force, as the speaker warned, “The technical difficulties posed by my plan will prove formidable. Well. Here’s what I envision.” Resting his forearms on the table, Marvin propped his chin on his steepled fingers, admiration contending with apprehension. The programmer/spacer knew exceedingly well what technical difficulties loomed ahead. All along, he had marveled that a man planning an emergency transit to Columbia seemed so dead set on creating Earth-normal g. Undeterred by the doubts he sensed in the man he addressed, the Captain launched into his summary. “The men who built this station flew thirty-nine sections and an equal number of countermasses by remote control to the same area in space, and placed them into a long elliptical orbit around the gas giant. They manned Section Sixteen, which, with its countermass, doubled as their shuttlevehicle. Eight of the other sections towed eight rigid, 873-meter-long, openwork struts destined to span the distance from the rim to the axis. Each remote-controlled countermass towed a portion of the rim. “The remaining unmanned sections towed the numerous pieces destined to form the axis, the despin assembly that now occupies one end of the axis, the locks, the central cylinder, also in pieces, two gyroscopes, and the countermass assembly now attached to the opposite end of the axis

from the despin assembly. The builders no doubt employed remotecontrolled mobile assemblers to thermite-weld or laser-weld both the parts of the axis and those forming the rim, and used men in maneuvering units or small mobile vehicles to put the finishing touches to the work. “Each strut featured a coupling to which the high-strength, highmodulus, complex-hydrocarbon-fiber tow cable fastened. The other end of the cable attached—by an identical coupling—to the point on the bulbous hull of the section on the side destined to face the axis, when they moored that section to the rim. The countermasses sported identical couplings, as do each of the pieces of rim. The pieces of rim, when joined, formed a hollow ring. “Each upward-thrusting, bulbous section then got moored in its proper place: across the rim from its countermass, in between two other projections at nine-degree intervals. The sections alternate with the countermasses along the rim, except for Sections Twenty and Twenty-one, which adjoin each other, as do their countermasses, located between Section Forty and Section One, known as Central. That arrangement allows each section to be located opposite its countermass. “The tow cables stretch from the bulbous midsection of each oblate spheroid to the axis. The tow cable originally attached to the countermass stretches from the inner side of that body to the axis. Those cable risers give the station stability as it spins. The metal used to fabricate the whole I suspect to be some alloy—or group of alloys—new to me. The metal is light in density, yet incredibly strong, and most amazingly, magnetic. Boots will stick to it.” Pausing to study his subordinate’s pale, thin face, Michael beheld an expression betokening intense concentration. Nodding, the programmer agreed, “That alloy’s phenomenal. When I first saw this station on the screen of the ship, I said to myself, ‘That structure shouldn’t exist.’”

“My thought as well.” If dismay has taken hold in Marvin’s mind, it’s not uppermost, Michael decided, relieved by the discovery. “To sum up: extending from eight points on the rim below each of four sections and their four countermasses, a rigid openwork strut stretches to the axis. Eleven is one of those four sections. From the bulging middle of each of the forty sections, a tether stretches to the axis. From the rim below those sections not located above a strut, a second tether stretches to the axis. Between each countermass and the axis, two tethers provide stability. Those stretch from the rim to the axis, and from the middle of the countermass, to the axis. “We’ll utilize three tethers, one rigid strut, and Section Eleven plus its countermass, to fashion a ship we’ll launch spinning: a ship we’ll have to force to stop spinning, pitch ninety degrees, and then restart spinning. That feat I think we can manage without using any precious fuel.” Unconsciously jutting his chin, Michael stared narrowly at the colleague upon whose face comprehension—tinged with shock—immediately registered. When Marvin made no move to interrupt, Michael continued his summary. “We rate one lucky break: these sections exhibit an incredible fuel capacity. I think they were designed to haul far more water than the builders used for the transit to the point in space where they’d be set in orbit. I surmise that the builders deposited that excess water in the reservoir, to serve the station’s life-support needs. “The sections and the corridor through the rim utilize a layer of water to protect the inhabitants from cosmic radiation. The reservoir below that corridor through the rim I suspect to have been filled after the pieces of rim were joined. The design of the section I see as a gift, but after we pitch the ship, we’ll then have to accelerate it to its maximum velocity, with plenty of

fuel to spare, in case we need to correct an error, or meet some unforeseen condition. So. Comments?” For a full five seconds, Marvin stared speechless at the daring visionary. He then astounded the man sitting opposite, by bursting into laughter. That spontaneous hilarity the startled Captain instantly saw to convey admiration, rather than derision: admiration undiluted by fear, dismay, or chagrin. “To tell you the truth, Michael, what you’re proposing that six men tackle would have flabbergasted me a fourweek ago,” the normally fussy expert confided, his face still wreathed in a wide smile. “But at this juncture, an intriguing notion strikes me. The problems Galt routinely handed our team never fully tested the engineering ability of any of us. This task damned well will! To tell you the truth, I’m looking forward to tackling the chore. Scared, but game, I guess describes how I feel. Fascinated by the challenge!” With that astounding admission, Marvin turned his transfiguring smile on his flabbergasted superior. “Damned if that isn’t how I feel myself!” Agate eyes impaled those of liquid brown. Still smiling, Marvin met that piercing gaze squarely. Effectively concealing profound shock, Michael resumed his summary. “Evidently, the builders found it necessary to enter the sections from space, before they got the rim assembled. Since the sections contained air—and bore the photosynthetic exchangers that still form the life-support system—the designers placed locks at each end of the bulbous shapes. Why two, I don’t know. One would have been enough to allow the workers to enter a station orbiting in free-fall, and to allow egress onto the hull from inside the section, after the section was anchored to the rim. A simple hatch opening into the lock on the rim where they’d moor the section would have been adequate, but they built a second lock on each section, which joins to

the one on the rim. Those constituted a safety feature, perhaps—a precaution, in case a lock malfunctioned when men occupied the section. But having two could come in exceedingly handy.” Observing that words rose to Marvin’s lips—words he had to exert himself from blurting out—Michael asked, “You’ve an idea regarding that feature?” “I, too, wondered why they built two locks, so I studied the design. I think that lower lock functioned as a tank of compressed air. They carried the air there, which they later released into the airless rim. They’d have been forced to haul tanks of liquefied air, otherwise. That was an easier solution, and gave double protection to the rim, afterwards, in case one of the sections got breached.” “Damned if that doesn’t make perfect sense!” Michael nodded approvingly at his colleague, who flushed, but refrained from averting his glance. “Well, we’re going to employ one of the cable risers as half of our tether, and the openwork strut connecting the rim below Eleven to the axis, for the other half.” “And your interest in my synchronizing the two remote devices stems from your desire to move the strut with those.” “That’s right.” “A strut almost a kilometer in length: a rigid structure that would have to be raised out of the plane of the rim, and moved without hitting the sections, the elevator, or the other cable risers. I assume the strut will form the center portion of the tether?” “What are your thoughts regarding that?” “Whatever forms the center portion will slide up the length of the axis. The strut would withstand that contact better than would the cables, but we’ll have to attach thrusters to the strut, to assist in the lift. We’ll also need to coordinate those thrusters with the propulsion systems on section

and countermass, with excruciating exactitude. We’ll find it necessary also to compensate for the strut’s being a bit off-center from a straight line drawn between Eleven and its countermass, due to the fact that the strut will be bypassing the ten-meter width of the axis.” “I’ve been hoping that your expertise with computers will allow us to achieve such coordination.” Having considered that statement, Marvin nodded, finally. “I guess I figured you did. I think I can swing it. Design and integration of the additions most assuredly will pose a formidable challenge, but then so will the whole project, to all of us.” Damned if Marvin hasn’t got guts, Michael conceded as his respect for his easily irritated colleague took a quantum leap. I expected a flurry of agitated objections, he admitted in the privacy of his mind. I can’t believe how calmly he’s taking my proposal! “We’ll likely have to provide some sort of rolling motion—almost frictionless—to replace the rubbing friction on the strut. Rubbing won’t do that outfit a hell of a lot of good, either.” “I agree. And we’ll have to cut a cable in two—or shorten two cables— to make them the proper length.” “Have you considered how we pitch the tethered ship ninety degrees?” That loaded question evoked another outpouring of mirth. “I’d almost rather not,” the man stifling a burst of sardonic laughter replied. “The notion that occurs to me—and which I strongly suspect you also entertain—would challenge the engineering ability of six men to the utmost, but it would work. You’ve first of all toyed with the idea of reeling in the two masses right after launch, and attaching them firmly to the ends of the strut to form a single, rigid body, while conserving the spin, have you not?” “I have. We can’t afford to squander the fuel it would take to stop

that angular rotation, and then restart it to provide pseudogravity. We’ll have to use some fuel to decelerate—to stop the motion our launch gives us—as it’ll head us in the wrong direction, and be independent of any tipping we give the axis of rotation of the ship. Reeling in the two bodies would result, of course, in their conserving angular momentum by increasing their angular speed to a g 8.6 times Earth-normal. A spin-produced multiple g. Won’t be a pleasant sensation, that. Especially for the two men manning the board: you and me.” “Michael, the word springing to my mind beats unpleasant all to hell!” Grimacing, the programmer gamely met the eyes of the man proposing so gut-wrenching a solution. “Your idea would work, though,” Marvin admitted. “Once the bodies attach firmly to the strut, you figured on exerting the appropriate forces on the axis of spin of a far smaller gyroscope than the giant gyro our spinning vessel forms. You plan to mount the small gyroscope at the center of the strut, and to rotate it at far greater angular speed than the ship, in an opposite sense. By regulating its rate of rotation, and exerting forces on the axis of that small gyroscope, we’d accomplish two things: slow the now intolerable spin of the ship to an angular velocity generating Earth-normal gravity inside Eleven, and tip the plane of the ship the approximately ninety degrees it would take to allow us to accelerate along a flight path towards Columbia.” Michael nodded grimly. “Exactly. And since you’ve guessed what I envision, you undoubtedly realize what I intend to use to accomplish it.” “The gyroscope mounted inside the openwork of the station’s axis, which the designers used to tilt the axis properly, before they activated thrusters to set the station spinning. That gyroscope isn’t necessary now, because the attitude-control equipment making the occasional minuscule changes necessary to keep the station’s axis of spin perpendicular to the

plane of its orbit uses other means to accomplish that. So we wouldn’t be causing any irrevocable damage if we made off with that small gyroscope, the way we would if we stole the large one spinning within the countermass on the end of the station’s axis opposite the despin assembly. Assuming, of course, that we could detach that direly massive body, which we absolutely could not. “But mounting the smaller one, itself a daunting mass, and engineering the necessary alterations in its accessory equipment so as to be able to exert the necessary forces in two planes will challenge both our ingenuity and our resources to the utmost,” Michael stated flatly. “I’d judge what you just said a masterpiece of understatement.” That bold remark came accompanied by a wry but admiring smile. “How did you plan to reel in the two bodies?” “Heston included two electric winches among the supplies he brought aboard the ship when we set out for Halleck Station. Norman planned to refit Halleck to serve as a transfer point for stockpiling and moving metals appropriated from Gaea. I suppose he intended to use those winches in the loading of cargo ships. Whatever, they’re identical, and adequate for reeling in aramid-fiber cable the diameter of those forming the cable risers. I’ll freely admit that knowing we had access to those winches gave me the notion, originally, to rig a tether. We’d have to fashion a way to lock strut to mass. I envision something electromagnetic, to align it properly, and mechanical couplings locking into place.” “And to exert the forces on the axis of the gyroscope…?” “Hydraulic pressure. We’d use gear similar to that which exerts force on the large gyroscope so that the spin can be slowed. The axis of that wheel lies parallel to that of the station. Force can be exerted to rotate that axis through an arc sufficient to slow the spin. The axis of the smaller wheel, however, lies perpendicular to that of the station.

“To align the station’s axis before the station was set spinning, the builders simply started the small gyroscope rotating, causing the station’s axis to rotate slowly, to conserve angular momentum. When the station’s axis became properly oriented, the builders stopped the motion of the small wheel, and set the large one spinning in a sense opposite to that of the station, so the combined angular momentum equals zero. That provides a way to slow the spin, and augments the station’s intricate system for stabilizing against changes in mass occurring when masses moving within sections shift, or a ship docks, or the Gaeans’ space-worthy shuttle-vehicle and its countermass lifts or docks. “That large countermass, located on the opposite end of the station’s axis from the despun portion housing the ship lock, contains a reservoir of water, as well as that huge, massive, permanently spinning gyroscope. I envision our mounting the far smaller gyroscope we steal, within the strut, in the center. It’ll fit, but it’ll be a tight squeeze when we move it inside the strut. “Then, we’d mount the accessory equipment: the hydraulic lines and gear for exerting force in two directions at right angles to each other. The smaller gyro’s equipped with motors capable of giving it an astounding number of revolutions a minute, despite the magnitude of its mass. There’s an assortment of hydraulic gear—equipment designed for use on a hull— stored in Forty. I expect the builders employed that equipment when the sections of axis were joined. We’ll build our system from those components, and program it to be operated from the board. Be tricky, the construction.” “It’ll be a nightmare.” Gazing bemusedly at the Captain, Marvin visibly managed a renewed hold on himself. Smiling wryly, he declared with adamant force, “But we can do it. Conrad will need to design a power supply capable of keeping the hydraulic lines heated.” “So he will.”

Damned if Marvin hasn’t accepted this awesome challenge to our ability as engineers as fully as you have, spacer-captain! Marvin’s now hooked on the idea of mounting so chancy an effort, the same as you are. He hasn’t spluttered once today! Amazing development, that! “Well. Do you think you could use two remote devices like the ones you employed to fly the ice, to move our strut?” “I think so, Michael. I’ll use a combination of programmed motions and manually directed ones. That’ll be touchy. I won’t be able to practice moving so huge and unwieldy an object. You’ll have to bring in everyone outside, and clear Eleven of people. I’ll do it from Eleven’s board—we’ll need the same functions during launch, so I might as well build them in to Eleven for this prior maneuver. We’d have to use electromagnetic couplings to fasten the strut to the axis, while we’re rigging the winches, cables, and gyroscope. We’d also need to make sure that we remove any gear projecting from the axis, which the strut could hit during launch: scan platforms for remote sensing devices, and the like.” “I’d hoped to utilize those—attach them to our spinning ship at the pivot point, and use them, afterwards.” As he made that statement, the visionary’s rugged face fleetingly exhibited wariness. “So we could observe Whipple while it’s as close as it ever gets to the gas giant, at our leisure, once we’re launched? I’d love to be able to do that! Fascinating, I find that body.” He never tumbled, Michael exulted. He doesn’t suspect that I’m including items that we’ll need if I decide to spring my wild idea on them, eventually. “I’ll admit, so do I,” the Captain replied truthfully, if incompletely. “And adding that remote sensing equipment wouldn’t be a big chore. It would be a comparative cinch, after mounting and outfitting that massive wheel. And even that task doesn’t seem as daunting to me as does moving

the strut, and stringing the tethers. We’ll have to uncouple the ends of the tethers manually.” “Men couldn’t do that, Michael. Those tethers are undoubtedly under tension, and they’re almost a kilometer long. We couldn’t uncouple them.” “We’d have to cut them first.” “That’s so. Well…we could burn through them by remote control. I’d have to program other devices to hold the ends in place, and then fly the ends to the axis. Those tasks would be eminently tricky, but I could manage them.” “Once the tether’s cut, and the end on the section uncoupled, you’d have to use your devices to move the end to the coupling on the middle of the section, and the other end, to the winch. We’d have to fashion a relatively easy way to attach the cut end to the winch. That whole maneuver will have to be done twice, so we’d have to detach your devices, and reposition them on the second tether: the one stretching from the countermass.” “Repositioning them wouldn’t be hard, Michael, but I surely never have tried to fly a remote device attached to something pliable. I’d have to maintain tension between the two ends, each of which we’d previously equipped with one of two synchronized devices. I’ll see how flying the first tether so equipped, goes. If I lose that one—depressing notion, that—we’ll still retain two.” “We’ll still retain all the others, but I’d hate like hell to leave the station dangerously weakened. Removing a strut, even if we replace it with a tether, I consider bad enough, although based on the calculations I’ve made, I expect that the stabilizing system will compensate for that loss. War or no war, I won’t wantonly harm a magnificent facility devoted to pure research rather than military use.” “I’m glad you feel that way, Michael,” Marvin asserted vehemently. “I

admit to harboring the same wish to avoid causing irreparable damage. I think I can manage by practicing on the first of the three tethers I fly. I’ll need a considerable supply of tanks of compressed propane. It’s a good thing that so many of the sections, including Eleven, carry tanks of assorted liquefied gases on their hulls.” “I’ll collect all the portable tanks available.” “I’ll need time to program the devices so that they’re synchronized, and time to practice on a small scale, in here, the way I did on the frame. Could you spare me from the work of building in furniture, at least part of each day?” “Marvin, don’t think I underestimate the magnitude of the chore I’ve laid on you,” Michael declared in a voice husky with emotion he failed to hide. “Spend all of your working hours on this project. Nigel’s crew has reached a point where they’ve finished all they can do until just before launch. I’ll use them to install furniture. If you need Conrad, Leonard can fill in for him.” Staring intently at the formerly querulous subordinate meeting his eyes squarely, he added, “I’m profoundly encouraged by your willingness to work towards implementing my plan.” The man’s engaging smile, which the Captain saw far more often now than formerly, greeted that encomium. “I’m still game,” he asserted stoutly. “No less scared, but nonetheless determined to succeed. I assume that you’ve studied what the Gaeans didn’t wipe, of the specifications of the station. If you have time, right now—or soon—to go over with me the gritty details of what you envision our building, I’d find that infinitely helpful.” “I’d planned on our doing that. Now suits me. Let me bring up both the specs and my calculations on your screen.” Rising, Michael moved to the terminal. Marvin pulled his chair next to his superior’s, and the two men immersed themselves so deeply in the challenging proposal that lunch time arrived without either collaborator’s

having once so much as thought of taking a break. Passing through the line ahead of the subordinate who on this day had failed to grate on his superior’s nerves, Michael picked up the expected standard meal, but found the head cook beaming at him over a tub of green stalks. “Let me help you to your first taste of asparagus,” Justin invited. Eyeing the steaming offering dubiously, Michael allowed the server to deposit on the reusable container holding his meal what the recipient regarded as an overly generous helping. Preserving an impassive face, he bore his lunch to the table, where everyone sat eating, excepting Marvin, who had not yet arrived. His own face serene, Nigel urged, “Try the novelty, chief. It boasts a distinctly unique flavor.” “I notice that you didn’t specify that it tasted good.” Leonard declared emphatically, “Let me hasten to assure you that it’s delicious!” “Sure, take his word for it,” Conrad muttered. “He eats raw rhubarb.” A feminine giggle fell enticingly on the ears of the diners. “I told you, Conrad, you have to down enough to allow you to cultivate a taste for asparagus.” “Woman, it not only sounds like a disease, it tastes like something likely to give you one!” Bracing himself, Michael sampled a bite. Frowning, he assessed the effect on his taste buds. “Damned if I don’t like it!” he exclaimed, astonished. Cautiously, Marvin raised a morsel on his fork. Wrinkling his brow after gulping it down, he queried apologetically, “How long does it take to develop a liking for it, Cleo?” Conrad shot the Gaean a broad grin. “Another addition to the ranks of the non-gourmets,” he observed smugly. “I did make you a promise,

though, Cleo—that if you smiled at me, I’d slurp it up regardless. Better beam on me, straight through lunch.” “I’ll release you from your promise, and smile at you gratis.” Thoughtfully, Nigel chewed the tip of a green stalk. “Definitely a unique flavor. One that could grow on me, I begin to believe.” “Marvin, it sounds as if you and I’ll end up suffering through a periodic appearance of these dismal weeds on the table. I’d guess we had better hope that familiarity banishes contempt,” Conrad drawled. As Marvin laughed, Cleo beamed upon the head cook contentedly eating the novelty. “Let’s hope so. Next week, Justin will be serving artichokes,” she informed the company. Reflecting that he could look forward not only to Cleo’s company all afternoon, but also throughout the evening, Justin savored a glow of what he consciously recognized as happiness. Better make the most of it, he warned himself bluntly. It won’t last. No matter what Michael thinks, Cleo would hardly turn him down to choose me, when we arrive home. I’m lucky that she cares as much for me as she does, the way she does. Nothing filial about her feeling for a worn-out spacer well past his prime! I just hope… Surely Galt won’t… The Commander respects Michael…values him highly. But even so…I can’t help worrying. Whichever of us can keep her safest: that’s the man she’d better pick. Nigel might be her wisest choice, but knowing Cleo, I’m certain she won’t indulge in that sort of calculation. Right now, she truly can’t choose. She makes room in that big heart for all of us. Damned if I don’t wish… You’d better wish for what’s best for her, whatever it costs five of us in the end, or all six of us, if Galt… Don’t dwell on that ghastly possibility! Surely Michael’s aware of the danger! He knows we’ll back whatever move he makes. Enjoy today, spacer.

Rising to follow the object of his speculations, Justin washed his utensils, and accompanied his partner back to Eleven, with a spring in his step, and a smile on his seamed, brown face. The afternoon passed quickly for seven people. Marvin found and detached two more remote devices, and worked to synchronize them. Michael stalked through section after section, marking items he intended to install in Eleven. Conrad accompanied Nigel back to Ten, where the two men put the finishing touches to a magnificent fractionating column. Nigel built the last piece of the other apparatus, assisted by Leonard and Conrad. Cleo and Justin painstakingly collected the final batch of plants, and set them into cleared space in Eleven’s tertiary tank. At 1800, they pridefully surveyed the additions. “They look good,” Cleo declared exuberantly. “Once those take hold, and produce heavily, there won’t be anything on your present menus Eleven can’t supply. Of course, we’ll have to keep an eye out.” “I’m looking forward to serving strawberries.” “One small plant won’t produce many. If I only had time, Justin! I’d employ some sophisticated cloning techniques, and start dozens of new plants in test tubes.” “Well, that one plant will spread, won’t it?” “Slowly. I think that sort will put out runners, and start new crowns, in time.” “In time, we’ll have strawberries galore. Now, let’s slurp up a standard meal.” “Conrad has corrupted your Earth-Standard!” “His graphic expressions seem to be catching. I now find myself referring to tomato and cheese casserole as bloody whatsit.” “Justin! What does he call mushroom sauce?” “Mess of morbid morsels.”

Laughing, Cleo exclaimed, “Better I don’t hear the rest.” “Michael stalked in the other day just in time to hear Conrad offer to grease the deceased. He meant oil the eels, preparatory to breading and baking them. Michael shot him a withering look, which toned his mouth down for almost five minutes after the Captain left.” Giggling, Cleo preceded the head cook through the line in the dining hall, where Michael’s sensors detected a most satisfactory level of morale. Feeling buoyed rather than tired by her enjoyable day, Cleo surprised her six comrades by joining them in the recreation hall after supper. Nigel, Michael and Conrad smiled their greetings over hands of cards. Leonard swiftly uncoiled himself from the couch where he lay prone, feet in the air, reading the book scrolling down the screen, but Marvin upstaged all of them. “Cleo! How about a chess lesson?” he invited. “I’d love one!” Seating herself opposite the man making that welcome offer, at the table where he had been poring over a datapad containing an article from a Gaean journal that he had copied out of the bank, she waited while her instructor set up the board. “Better start from scratch,” she cautioned. “I’m a rank novice.” Nodding, Marvin commenced his lesson. The hour passed on mythical wings. Cleo grew fascinated by the ancient pastime, and by Marvin’s exposition of the strategic possibilities inherent in the contest. “I’m going to enjoy learning the game the way you approach it,” she declared enthusiastically, evoking a faint flush, along with a smile, from her tutor. Nigel drawled, “You made us a promise too, Cleo.” That reminder produced a firm qualification. “Once our joint endeavor provides us with gambling stakes, you’re on, but not before then. I’ll keep my tunic, thank you.” Amid general chuckles, Cleo arose, and smiled at Justin, newly returned from taking his shower. Serenely composed, she left with him.

Five pairs of eyes followed the pair as they vanished into the corridor. Justin looked as happy as I’ve ever seen him look, today, Michael reflected a shade bleakly, as a familiar pain jabbed him. Well…the way Marvin reacted to your proposal…the way everything’s been going…you just might pull off your wild plan, spacer-captain. You just might! When the door closed behind the two of them, Cleo turned to reach eagerly for the bands of Justin’s tunic, the meaning implicit in that gesture sending joy cascading through her partner. Breathlessly, the pair undressed each other. Feeling thirty Earthyears younger, the wiry spacer lifted Cleo bodily, and bore her to the bed, prompting her to display the same sort of abandon which Michael unfailingly evoked. Her response roused Justin to an effort he could not remember surpassing in any of the last thirty Earthyears. Spent, fulfilled, sensually satiated, two lovers lay slackly in each other’s arms, feeling utter oneness. Bemusedly, Justin strove to fix the memory of this magical night in his mind. He could not recall ever spending a happier day. I enjoy Cleo’s company fully as much as I delight in taking her to bed, he acknowledged wistfully. She’s comrade and lover—a partner who makes me feel as if I’m Leonard’s age. “I love you, girl,” he whispered. “Justin, I love you.” The shrewd judge of character entertained no doubt that his companion spoke the exact truth. His certainty that she had said those same words with the same sincerity to five other men in no way diluted his joy. On the contrary, that cognizance enhanced it. Caring deeply for all five of his comrades himself, Justin nursed no jealousy. The knowledge that he had competed with his comrades for Cleo’s affection, and deprived them of it by securing it to himself, would have lessened his happiness. This may be a tangled state of affairs, he reflected wryly. One bound

to hurt all of us in the end…but damned if I don’t feel at peace with the whole of it right now. Unconsciously, he tightened his arms around his partner, who promptly hugged him back. The twined lovers lay silently enjoying the warmth, the closeness, the peace. Justin spoke, finally. “Slip off to sleep, girl. Get a good rest.” “Justin, today was like a holiday. The change rested me. I’m not sleepy.” “You will be, tomorrow, if you short yourself tonight. You’ve just gotten caught up—Cleo!” “Like that?” “Cleo, I’m not made of… Now, you need to…mmmm. Damn it, girl…” “You don’t like that?” “Too damned well! Now quit staging a mutiny!” “Quit playing the heavy medic. Like that?” Cleo’s action flattened the protester’s defenses. His reservations evaporating under the force of her intimate caresses, Justin threw caution to the mythical winds, astonishing himself, and delighting the woman whose feeling for this man indeed lacked any resemblance to filial regard. At length, two utterly compatible partners slipped from their final mutual ecstasy straight into profound, restful, dreamless sleep.

WEEK FIVE: SATURDAY His inner time sense having roused him at the hour he normally awoke, Justin came sluggishly to his senses, all of which informed him that Cleo lay with her chest pressed against his back, and her arm around him. Her deep, regular breathing attested that she still slept. Casting a jaundiced eye on the clock, he relaxed. We’ve twenty minutes before we need to get up, he reassured himself. Don’t disturb Cleo until the last moment. I let her override my every good intention, last night. Moldering bones of my Earthly ancestors! What I managed was phenomenal. She has restored more than my youth. I don’t think I ever equaled that performance—at any age! Damn, but I hate the thought of rising. I need to cook ahead. Not many standard meals remain. It won’t be long before Michael rigs the tether. Frightful week, that’ll be. He’ll need all six of us. Surely he won’t send Cleo out in a suit! No way would he do that. He hasn’t time to train her. I’d better freeze a supply of dinners in the reusable containers the standard meals come in. Our recyclable cups, meal-containers and glasses show ominous signs of wear, from the constant washing. Perhaps Nigel could blow us some glass utensils. Remember to ask him, though he’ll likely plead lack of time. I’m glad I ransacked the rough-processors in the ship for all the containers awaiting recycling.

Pure luck, the fact that Heston’s bunch hadn’t run the cycle in most of the cabins. Saving on power, or just careless? Michael would have levied fines, if he’d discovered that we had let waste accumulate without compacting it. Nonetheless, those poor bastards bequeathed me a gift. Unfortunately, containers aren’t built to take constant washing. Good thing flatware’s metal. It’d be hard to improvise forks. Well. At least you’ll face the lab in a state of blissful afterglow, today. What a woman! Cleo stirred, and tightened her arm tightened around her bedfellow. “What frightful hour has it gotten to be?” she murmured. “The abominable one demanding that we hit the deck five minutes from now. Stay right where you are, and go on soothing my nerves, until then.” “Mmmm. I’m blissfully relaxed as a result of your superb effort of last night, which did me far more good than sleep would have. You’re your own best prescription, you know that?” “Girl, you’d inspire passion in a century-old husk of senility.” Turning his companion’s body suddenly, Justin kissed her, his salute a long, lingering, intimate gesture that conveyed more than any words he could have mustered. Reluctantly freeing her mouth, he sighed. “And that took us up to the mark. Time to roll out.” Five pairs of eyes watched the arrival of the last two diners to pass through the line. More eyes than Michael’s noticed the buoyancy in the oldest team-member’s stride, and the erect, purposeful set of his shoulders. Contentment wreathed his seamed brown face, and radiated from his trim form. Damned if Justin doesn’t look twenty Earthyears younger! the Captain conceded wryly. And Cleo looks radiant. Nigel, tonight. He’ll compound that glow, blast whatever he’s got that women can’t resist! It isn’t looks, that’s for damned sure!

Two more nights. Amazing. For Earthyears, you managed just fine, satisfying the urge on fourweekly leaves. Once a week seemed like the epitome of bliss, when you chanced to land an assignment where you could indulge whenever you wanted. Now you think about intercourse every damned night but one. You can’t even resort to a cold shower! Well, one night with Cleo’s worth ten with the courtesans you used to hire. You’d have a hell of a time contenting yourself with that sort of satisfaction, if you lost what you’ve got at this juncture, spacer captain. Perish the thought! And now you’ve got this blasted tether business staring you in the face. That’ll provide you worry enough nightly to keep your mind off your gonads. Well. You’re never satisfied, are you? Cleo has done exactly what you wanted her to do, when you dreamed up your thrice-damned solution to the problem she posed. Not only has she kept us exquisitely civilized, she has rendered Nigel more so than he has ever been. She played no favorites—drew us together, instead of serving as a focus of rivalry. You’ve no grounds for complaint, but you’ve fallen head-over-heels in love with her. Can she really love six of us…equally? You, as deeply as Justin? As Nigel? As…Leonard? In the same way? She thinks she does, or she wouldn’t have said it. She’s as honest as the galaxy’s wide. Well, you made your bunk, and now you’ll have to lie in it. You’ve won a sixth part of the affection of someone who’s more woman than any who ever professed to love you. Until you lose Cleo to one of the others…or worse happens… Shades of the ancients, I hate both of those thoughts! Your wild notion simply has got to work. She complimented you on your ability to lead. Better hope that skill measures up to the challenge it faces now! At the start of the workday, Nigel enlisted Cleo’s and Leonard’s help to modify the water lines which would double as condenser jackets, install a pre-heating unit in the line leading into the water heater, hook up the heater, and finish running all the water lines that would be utilized after they

rendered Eleven independent of the rest of the station. Just before lunch, the team of three transported the components forming the still to Eleven’s lower deck, and attached them in place. By 1100, only a few chores remained, which would be finished just before launch, thereby completing the life-support system that ultimately would render Eleven self-sufficient. Calling a halt, Nigel strode over to inspect the tertiary tank, followed by his teammates. Gazing around in patent satisfaction, he declared, “You did a spectacular job, Cleo. Not a smidgeon of wasted space exists, and the variety of offerings speaks vehemently of your expert knowledge. I appreciate the effort you’ve put into this chore.” Flushing with pleasure, the Gaean protested, “Justin worked as hard as I did.” “I’m sure he did, but your expertise shows all over it.” Nigel’s smile, purely comradely, warmed his fellow engineer to the core. Having offered friendly praise in his turn, Leonard remarked, “You know, I’ve grown to enjoy things I once couldn’t have imagined eating…like mushrooms.” “Morbid morsels!” Cleo threw in, laughing. “You sound like Conrad.” “That was a direct quote.” Preceding the two men through the line in the dining hall, Cleo sniffed. “Aha,” she exclaimed. “Well, Leonard, prepare for a new sensation in the way of taste.” Smiling as he served the casserole, Conrad whispered, “For as tenacious a smell as this stuff gives off, even after cooking, I can’t believe how good it tastes!” Michael eyed the Gaean over his own bowl. “I have to admit this smelly ingredient livens up the dish,” he commented. “Good thing we’re all indulging. One could certainly tell if the person working next to him ate it

for lunch. What is it?” “Garlic: a relative of onions that blends well with tomato, cheese, oregano, and thyme. It surely does disguise the fish!” Marvin exclaimed, “Smelly or not, this tastes good, Cleo. If I find it so, can I claim to be a half-baked gourmet?” “I should think so, although as I remember, acquiring a taste for garlic depended on where on Old Earth you were raised. Some nationalities valued it more highly than others.” “The ones who boasted lots of personal space, no doubt.” Michael’s grin kept his words from seeming a criticism. “Well. Having titillated our palates, after lunch we’ll try our hand at making whisky, if you’re ready, Nigel.” “All set for the first run, chief.” While walking back in a group to Eleven, seven people exchanged joking remarks. Anticipation—not of consuming the beverage, especially, but of testing the success of an enjoyable team endeavor to produce a frill, rather than a grim necessity—lent a holiday air to the proceedings. Justin bore a ceramic-lined pail of a dark, reddish-brown, bubbling, frothy brew, covered with a lid. Upon arriving on the lower deck, the company gathered along the length of the apparatus spread out between the accumulator tank and the water heater. On seeing the layout for the first time, Marvin gazed appreciatively at Nigel’s painstakingly crafted apparatus for fractional distillation. Wrapped three-quarters of the way around with opaque insulation, the column rose vertically, held by specially fashioned supports. Its interior lay bare to view through a double-walled insulating window. “Nigel, that thing’s a work of art!” the newcomer exclaimed. “Damned if you’re not a master craftsman!” For once, the inscrutable ugly face allowed the pleasure Marvin’s

undeniably sincere praise generated to show. “Better hold off on the congratulations until we see whether the outfit lasts through a run,” Nigel cautioned, two deep v-shaped creases framing an ironic smile. As the Lieutenant spoke, Conrad removed the cover from the cooker, into which Justin poured the syrup, releasing a potent cloud of sickly-sweet, alcoholic fragrance into the ambient air. “Whew! Ripe, that,” observed Michael, staring dubiously at the yeasty brew. “I’ve worked bathed in that smell for a week. I must say, I hope it doesn’t linger in the product,” Conrad observed wryly. “The product will be tasteless, until I flavor it,” Justin reminded his assistant. “Well, here goes.” Touching the switch on the panel installed by Conrad, he kept a wary eye on the cooker. “The starting material will take a while to heat.” Seven pairs of eyes dared the watched pot not to boil. Seven people lowered themselves to comfortable positions on the deck, to await developments. A thought crossed Leonard’s mind, born of his four-day initiation into the mysteries of Justin’s processes for the synthesis and preparation of food. “What you don’t want to think about, Conrad, is where that spent mash will end up.” Poking his replacement playfully in the ribs, Conrad admitted, “I’ve already developed awful suspicions, but I’m resisting dwelling on them.” “I’d think you’d be inured by now to any conversion I might dream up,” the cook chided his assistant. “Familiarity doesn’t breed placidity, Justin,” Conrad retorted. “Look, your slop’s starting to boil.” “Watch your mouth, or I’ll short your ration,” Michael joked. “You know, early Earthmen made whisky in illegal stills. They fed the

spent mash to pigs, and the pigs loved it,” Cleo observed brightly. “Pigs were marvels at converting all sorts of disgusting garbage to protein, judging by what I’ve read,” Leonard contributed. “Imagine, butchering one of those, and cutting off pork steaks. Fat, pigs were—rolling in what Earthmen called lard.” “Leonard, we just got up from the table!” Cleo protested. The syrupy brew took that moment to eject a violently bursting bubble of superheated steam, which carried a large splash of dark liquid into the safety chamber, prompting Conrad to exclaim, “Look at that!” With more accuracy than suavity, he added, “Your invention catches what gets puked up, beautifully, Cleo.” “Puke trap. Apt name for that part of the works,” Nigel agreed, casting a mocking glance upon the lone woman. “You crude comedians don’t bother me a bit,” she informed them serenely. “The column’s boiler’s filling now,” Justin noted. “Beautiful! Your window’s a marvel, Nigel.” “We could have gone solely on measurements of temperature, but I wanted to make sure that nothing cracked, inside.” “I think I can start the heater in the column,” the head cook opined. “You managed four plates, Nigel,” Leonard declared admiringly. “Not much more difficult than three, I discovered, once I figured out how to build the first one.” “Once I’m sure this basic process works, I’m going to try fermenting fructose—fruit sugar—and make brandy.” “That constitutes the difference?” Michael inquired, raising an eyebrow. “Partly. I’ll find it harder to flavor that, and achieve even what our food-chemists manage. Their expensive product’s a far cry from what Earthmen enjoyed, I suspect.”

“We’ll have to go easy on imbibing that,” Michael averred. “I’d hate to have us all get tipsy.” “A little of that will go a long way,” Justin agreed placidly. Outwardly relaxed, lounging against the newly installed compressor, Michael listened to the continuing flow of comments and jokes that accompanied watchful glances fixed on column, condenser, and reservoir, which had begun to fill with clear product. Inwardly, a heady excitement churned the visionary’s mind. My wild notion could work! he surmised optimistically. Damned if I don’t feel confident that I could keep it working. I’d be bucking long odds, but still… Musingly, Michael mulled over certain additions and ramifications to the ever more polished plan simmering in his brain. I’ll keep refining my crazy notion, he decided. I need to concentrate on launch, now…on engineering the tether. Marvin’s willingness to work with me—to accept the daunting challenge—makes that project seem more feasible than ever. Damned fine mind, his. He seems changed, lately. Mellowed. Right now, he looks happier than I’ve ever seen him look. Easy to figure what brought that about. Transparent as the glass in this still, his feeling for Cleo. He has done a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn, since he skipped breakfast that first morning. I wonder what embarrassed him so acutely, back then? Didn’t seem to bother her, whatever it was. Nervous type, Marvin, but I’ve found him far less irritating to my nerves, lately. I enjoyed working with him yesterday, come to think about it. Amazing development, that, damned if it isn’t! Pondering that insight, Michael reviewed the possibilities his crewman’s genius opened, until the time came when Justin allowed the refluxing product to flow through the activated carbon, and into the last vessel.

“No explosion,” Nigel breathed, his ugly face expressing profound relief. “And no cracking, evidently.” “No fire!” Cleo exclaimed, equally relieved. Justin chuckled, a pleasant sound. Drawing off a frugal sample of the clear distillate into a flask, he withdrew a tiny butane torch from a pocket. Pouring a small puddle into the center of the metal lid of the pail, he ignited the liquid, which burned lustily. “Ninety-five percent ethanol by weight,” he declared. “The last five percent of water can’t be separated by distillation alone.” “It’s damned surely not all water!” Nigel exulted. The holiday air having diminished no whit, seven people returned to their prosaic, utilitarian pursuits buoyed by the success of the joint effort. Nigel’s team put the finishing touches to the independent aeration system, wrapped insulation around the preheated water line, and tidied up a few loose ends. Twenty minutes before suppertime, three teammates stood surveying the lower deck. Hands on hips, legs apart, the Columbian silently studied the finished layout. Cleo spoke softly, but with manifest sincerity. “You can take pride in it, Nigel.” “Damned right you can!” Leonard chimed in. Pleasure looked plainly out of the dark eyes. “Team effort,” the engineer asserted. “Joint accomplishment. Let’s hope it keeps us breathing and eating.” “It will!” his teammates chorused vigorously. Gazing at the system so painstakingly constructed to suit the need, Cleo experienced mixed emotions. I’m almost sorry that this task’s finished, she admitted in wonder. I’ve come to enjoy working with Nigel. I hate to have our collaboration end, just when he has come fully to accept my

expertise. He keeps his jealousy of Michael buried…makes me feel like a colleague. It won’t be long before the whole job’s finished…and then… A stab of fear marred the prideful feeling of accomplishment. A subtle shift in the Gaean engineer’s stance—an unconscious but revealing play of body language—registered on both men’s awareness, prompting Nigel to encircle the woman’s shoulders with his arm. His sibilant voice fell on her ear with unwonted gentleness as he declared, “Not an ending, this, Cleo. A transition. There’s a new job ahead for a highly integrated team. Your qualifications will be as useful in that endeavor as will mine. As far as the end of this adventure goes, there’s no sense worrying ahead of the need. When the crunch comes, we’ll meet that challenge together. Seven of us.” “We’ll be practiced hands at demolishing obstacles by then, Cleo,” Leonard added stoutly. Profoundly touched, the prisoner of war developed a tightening at her throat, and a sudden contraction of her heart. Tears gathered in back of her eyes: an upwelling she mastered. “Mind-readers, the two of you,” she exclaimed in a husky whisper. “Champions at bolstering my morale!” “You’re no slouch at raising my morale, woman,” Leonard asserted, flashing her an impish grin. “The vision of you arrayed in that second skin definitely sets a new standard by which morale’s measured,” Nigel drawled, ruminatively. “And here I thought you were all finally getting used to seeing me dressed this way!” “We are. Permanent state of ecstatic delight in the sight!” “Nigel!” Succumbing to helpless laughter even as she blushed, Cleo felt her spirits rise. Walking between them down the rim towards Central, and dinner, she savored a welcome sense of belonging to a tightly knit, well

integrated, highly skilled, seven-membered team. After a dinner marked by still-evident conviviality, Cleo again showed up in the recreation hall—despite her suspicion that resting up for Nigel would be a wiser course—and delighted Marvin by requesting another lesson. Her action prompted Leonard to regroup. “It looks as if I’m going to have to take up chess, or risk losing my partner,” the youth declared ruefully. “Marvin, could I talk you into teaching me?” he inquired, a bit hesitantly. Beaming on his youngest comrade, the chess champion exclaimed, “Why, I’d enjoy that, Leonard! You and Cleo could play each other, while I coached you both. That would make teaching easier for me.” “Well, you’ve now got a class, Marvin,” Leonard assured him, relieved by his discovery that the shy spacer seemed genuinely willing to relinquish his new-found chance to monopolize Cleo’s company. “Pull up a chair, and what I go over with you will form a review for Cleo,” Marvin directed. Nigel returned from his shower to find his partner for the evening engrossed in an exposition of strategy. Glancing up, the novice beamed on the new arrival. “You’re turn’s coming, Nigel, seeing as the still worked. I’ve braced myself mentally to lose my first ration to my instructors in the ancient game of poker.” Elated to hear that assurance, Michael inquired, “Justin, how long will it be?” “I could finish tomorrow morning, with time to spare.” “Well, Nigel, figure that on Sunday afternoon, three of us will offer Cleo a joint lesson.” “About time.” As Nigel made that reply, his eyes roved down the woman’s shapely figure, and his sibilant voice managed to convey a double

meaning. Flushing a deep rose-pink, the Gaean accompanied her escort out the door. My blistered soul! she spluttered inwardly. Nigel’s apologetic restraint of last Saturday has fled. He’s his old self again! Unsure whether she ought to be glad or sorry, she preceded her unfathomable lover into her cabin. Before she could turn to face the man who entered in her wake, his arms encircled her. Bending his head, he kissed her on the neck. His tongue found her right ear, and inquisitively explored that orifice, while strong arms held her immobilized. “Nigel, that tickles!” she protested, giggling even as she tried unsuccessfully to turn her head aside. Hands found their way inside her tunic. Curling his fingers under her breasts, the adept at erotic art stimulated both nipples with his thumbs. Cleo arched back against him, her soft sigh of pleasure producing a knowing smile on the unprepossessing face of her partner. Grasping the fabric of her tunic, Nigel deftly slid the garment back over her shoulders, and pulled it off. His arms once again encircled her body from behind, before dropping to unfasten the band of her pants. Pulling that garment down, he turned to face her, kneeling on one knee. His lips brushed provocatively over the soft skin of her stomach. His tongue tickled her nodule. Lifting her foot, he pulled off her boot. Quivering with the raw lust generated by his bold actions, the Gaean steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder as he divested her of her pants. Rising with fluid grace, he held her while she slipped her hands between the bands of his tunic, and pressed her face against his chest. Smiling down at her, his eyes dancing with amusement, he drawled, “Well, don’t stop now, Cleo. Undress me.” Blushing, the woman still inhibited by her rigid social conditioning unfastened the bands of his pants, and did as he had done. Having pulled

off his boots, she rose. Grasping her arms, Nigel held her away, and let his bold gaze travel with deliberate thoroughness down her shapely body. “Does the burn still hurt?” he asked, more conscious of her rosy cheeks and flustered face than of the still-prominent stripe. “No, it’s healed. Nigel…” His eyes brimming with mischief, the Columbian raked her nude body with a final, impudent, speculative glance, before lifting his companion in muscular arms. As Cleo buried her scarlet face in his chest, Nigel bore her to the bed, laid her thereon, and exerted all his superb skill to raise her, and himself, to ecstasy. Lying presently with her upper body across Nigel’s lap, her head pillowed on his encircling arm, the woman still astonished by the intensity of the passion this man unfailingly aroused in her opened her eyes to meet a quizzical glance behind which mockery once more lurked. “Cleo,” her lover demanded in a tone evincing genuine curiosity, “explain to me why you find it so much more disconcerting to walk around naked under my admiring eye, than to lie naked in my arms in this bed.” Frowning thoughtfully, the product of a sexually repressive culture replied, “I don’t know why, Nigel, but I do.” “Hm.” Having pondered her admission, for a time, he inquired in a tone of unusual gentleness, “Did your upbringing produce the belief that the act in which we just engaged is somehow shameful?” Cleo met his glance squarely. “No…it didn’t…but I was raised to believe that the act of intercourse should take place within the framework of a marriage…and that it ought to have as its purpose the procreation of children.” Raking with a quizzical glance the flushed face of the woman making that admission, Nigel asked, patently curious, “How do Gaean men attain

relief, if they pursue a dangerous career, or work on an outpost so remote that marriage ceases to form a viable option?” “They do without sexual satisfaction. They exercise rigorous selfcontrol. Single Gaeans of any age channel their energy into their work. If their carnal need grows intolerable, they ask their family-head to arrange them a marriage with a woman willing to share the danger, and the isolation. Women, no less than men, frequently choose to live hard, dangerous lives, in our society.” “If you’re typical of Gaean women, I expect that’s a common occurrence.” Having gazed thoughtfully at a woman wholly unlike any he had ever known, the unabashed sensualist asked softly, “You aren’t able simply to enjoy sexual pleasure for its own sake, are you?” “I didn’t used to be, Nigel. Lately, though…I’ve learned to do so.” That confession emerged in a husky whisper. Shifting her body so that she lay cradled within arms of iron, the interrogator admitted meditatively, “You’re the most refreshingly honest woman it’s ever been my privilege to know.” Idly, he stroked wavy brown hair, weighing the situation. “Logically, then,” he drawled, “eating three meals a day should also be an activity governed by rigorous self-control, but you’ve gone to a deal of trouble to locate herbs that give spice to our food, and widen our choice of vegetables. You’ve also rung gourmet delights like asparagus on our uncultured palates. You enjoy tasty food for its own sake, with no guilty feelings, hm?” Warily, Cleo pondered that argument, and smiled as a counterargument offered itself. “Now that you mention it, I realize that I do, except that here, we face an unusually limited choice of menus. My upbringing with regard to eating demanded self-restraint only in the quantity of food one consumed, the content having been fairly standard.” “Hm. How does that concession differ, philosophically, from one

allowing you to appreciate a bit of spiciness or variety in your sexual life?” Rueful laughter greeted that shrewd thrust. “Nigel, there’s got to be a flaw in your logic somewhere, but I can’t spot it right off.” “Perhaps you don’t want to spot any flaw.” His hand moved, evoking a gasp. “Does that feel good?” “You know it does!” As a sibilant laugh fell provocatively on the woman’s ear, the hand returned to stroking her hair. “Quite a distinguishing adornment, that stripe. The skin seems whole, though. No soreness from bearing my weight?” “No.” “You wouldn’t admit to being sore.” Regarding his inhibited partner with dancing eyes, he issued a blunt command. “Stand up, Cleo.” Startled, the Gaean looked askance at him. Hearing him command, “Go on, stand up, and face me,” she got to her feet, patently flustered. Nigel rose nimbly, to stand fronting her. Smiling, he slipped an arm around her, and guided her to a low counter. Turning her towards it, he whispered, “Lean forward, and fold your arms on the surface. Rest your head on them.” Mystified, the inexperienced Gaean did as he asked. His hands slid round her upper body, caressing her sides, her breasts, her stomach. At length, his muscular torso pressed against her from behind. His hands slid down between her legs, and his fingers expertly caressed her now stiffly erect center of pleasure, evoking a stifled gasp. Having penetrated her womanly depth from behind, he thrust vigorously, forward and upwards. His partner grew instantly conscious that the seemingly awkward position generated exquisite pleasure: a sensation subtly different from that experienced in the more usual attitude. Holding her hips, pressing against her backside, thrusting with deep, powerful strokes, Nigel again raised the astonished Gaean to a new and

breathtakingly satisfying peak, without once touching the burn. Leaning back against him, amazed, her breathing labored, Cleo went limp as he lifted her in tireless, strong arms, and laid her satiated self once again in the bed. Slipping an arm under her, he kissed her, as possessively and passionately as he had ever done. In some unexplainable way, her certainty that he had buried his jealousy transformed that possessiveness into a new source of pleasure. Lying back while once again acutely conscious of her helplessness against this lithe athlete’s strength, she gave herself up to enjoyment of his deeply erotic gesture. Returning his kiss with intimate warmth, she abandoned herself to a final, lingering rush of sensual satisfaction. Again, Nigel’s salute changed, growing gentle, tender. As always, he settled the body of his companion into the hollow of his arm, and pulled up the bedcover. His lips brushed her ear, as he spoke with his usual assurance. “Your conditioning simply can’t keep pace with your daring,” he asserted evenly. “You might as well accept yourself for what you are: a deeply passionate woman. I love you, Cleo, but not for that circumstance alone. For all that you are.” “Nigel, I love you!” Lying in the embrace her fierce response rendered crushing, Cleo sensed the truth of this unfathomable lover’s words. Whatever force Nigel radiates—whatever subtle influence he exerts— he’s right, she conceded in dawning wonder. I can’t help myself—can’t resist what he does. Whether I love him despite that circumstance, or because of it, I don’t know. All I know is that I do love him. I love all six of them! I love each the more deeply for what Nigel has made me realize about myself! My blistered soul, whatever will be the end of this novel experiment in human relationships? Divorced from shame, unable to muster a trace of guilt, the satiated

sensualist fell asleep locked in the embrace of the man who had inspired every strong emotion at one time or another in her breast, but one: indifference.

WEEK FIVE: SUNDAY Galvanized into awareness by Nigel’s mouth closing over her own, and Nigel’s inquisitive tongue intimately caressing hers, Cleo instinctively tried to move, only to find her body held immobile under him. Yielding once again to his overmastering strength, she relaxed, and returned his kiss passionately, that being the only response his all-enveloping embrace allowed. At length, he rose off her, amusement blending with hot need. “You look just as seductive asleep as awake, Cleo. I find you as hard to resist at this abysmal time of day as I do the prior evening.” “What frightful hour is it?” “0305.” “My blistered soul, Nigel, you don’t need sleep, do you?” “Not nearly so badly as I need what only you can give me.” Cleo sensed the depth of the man’s desire, and yet realized that he seemed to be asking, rather than taking: a response she could not physically prevent. Touched, she conceded, He isn’t quite his old self. Reaching up, she encircled him with both arms, and drew him back down. Nigel’s mouth again closed over hers. As her hands traced the contours of his muscular shoulders, she returned his kiss with passionate abandon. When he freed her lips, his mouth traveled to her throat, to her breasts. With hands, and lips, and the warm pressure of his lithe body, he

took his time raising his newly awakened but now deeply aroused partner to ecstasy. Lying blissfully fulfilled beside him, her head resting on his shoulder, Cleo relaxed in his embrace, feeling unaccountably cherished. His final words of the evening before rose to her mind, warming her to the core. I’ll wager I’m the first woman Nigel has ever said he loved, she judged with perfect accuracy. Why does he love me? A fourweek ago, he hated me. I don’t possess any skill at lovemaking to match his. I came within a micron of deliberately killing him in a most ghastly fashion. I’m no ravishing beauty. He shares me with five other men, one of whom drives him to develop an all but uncontrollable jealousy. Is it simply because I’m the only woman here? Not likely. Michael’s arrangement allows Nigel to take what physical pleasure he pleases—even if only once a week—but that’s far oftener than these scientist/spacers got to visit courtesans in Columbia, I’ll wager. Obviously, Michael’s grudging willingness to share me didn’t extend to tolerating their injuring me. Michael’s anger when he saw the bruises Nigel caused that first night I spent with him leads me to suspect that a deadly showdown would have occurred, had Nigel broken my arm. But if Michael had issued a challenge, right then, Nigel would have killed Michael. Fear of sparking such a confrontation wasn’t what stopped Nigel from injuring me. Have I made a deeper cultural impact than I realized? I couldn’t love someone I didn’t respect…someone I couldn’t regard as a comrade…someone for whom I felt only physical attraction. But if Columbian men pick wives solely with physical attractiveness and sexual satisfaction in mind, perhaps they marry never knowing that what they call love, really isn’t. Perhaps Nigel has always made the distinction, and so he never used

that word to mean what he felt for the women who taught him what he knows…whoever they were. And now he feels comradeship for me—the first woman he has ever known whose professional ability approaches his own— and he calls the emotion I engender in him, love. If that’s so, then he does love me the way I love him. Not solely for the pleasure he so frankly enjoys, but for…what he said last night…for all that I am! A rush of affection for the man whose propensity for violence she still feared, deep down, overcame the woman convinced by her own impeccable logic. Opening her eyes to find him regarding her thoughtfully, she raised herself, and impulsively kissed him. Nigel’s arms tightened around her. When she released him, breathless, her eyes mirroring the emotion driving her response, he murmured, “Whatever train of logic led to that gesture, I hope it stays part of your mental processes.” “If you tried harder, you’d grow to be a mind-reader.” “I think that at this moment in time, I can read yours. Let me assure you that I do love you, Cleo, in the sense in which you use that tarnished, overused word, and I believe that you love me.” “You did read my mind!” Strong arms tightened around the Gaean with crushing force. “You’re as transparently honest a woman as I’ve ever known. It took me a while to realize how totally lacking in the usual feminine wiles you are. Amazing, I find that, but admirable. Kiss me again, Cleo, before you practice walking to the adjuster serenely naked, under my admiring eye.” “Nigel!” Gazing reproachfully into the suddenly expressive face in which brimming mischief detracted no whit from the sincerity of that initial declaration, Cleo gave in, and kissed him again. Sitting up, pink-cheeked, she summoned her courage, rose to her feet, and walked, outwardly serene, to the bathcabin, returning clad in her spare suit to find her unpredictable

lover dressed, and stripping the bed. Bold dark eyes roved down her black-clad person. “The time will come when no trace of that unaccountable embarrassment lingers. As shapely a body as you boast, why not let me admire its unclothed loveliness in any position?” Drawing her close, Nigel gave her a hard squeeze as he smiled down at her. “Your daring didn’t fail you this morning, either. Fetch the adjusted sheets, and I’ll help you make the bed.” Preceding her companion out the door he opened with his accustomed courtliness, Cleo accompanied him to breakfast, dimly conscious of a residual glow, due as much to his words as his actions. Observing the entrance of the pair, Michael noticed the glow. You’re a glutton for punishment, he castigated himself sardonically. You knew what you’d see! Shifting his glance to Nigel, he studied the debonair sensualist. Damned if he doesn’t still radiate happiness! the shrewd observer admitted in amazement. Nigel in love! Hard to believe. I never suspected that he possessed the capacity, but that astounding development leads me to believe that I’ll pull off what I contemplate. Better build accordingly, in Eleven. Pull chilly rank on anyone who ventures to question the layout. Start this morning. Nigel will find that he’s sharing Cleo’s company with me, now. We’ll just see how deeply he has buried that jealousy that I know right well still claws at his vitals. Push him, spacer-captain. If any thin spots weaken the armor that sardonic self-possession constitutes, you need to expose them before you make an irrevocable decision. Having tucked away a generous serving of fishcakes and rhubarb muffins, Michael rose, and gathered all eyes. “Before I outline what we’ll be doing next, let me congratulate Nigel and his life-support team on the superb system they’ve built into Eleven. I’ve no doubt whatsoever that it’ll

keep us eating and breathing, not to mention imbibing the occasional alcoholic refresher.” Pausing briefly, the Captain noted the gleam of pleasure that his second officer deliberately let show. “I’ve laid on Marvin the technically delicate chore of designing a remote system which we’ll use when we tether Eleven to its countermass. He’ll need Conrad’s help, at times. When he does, Leonard will fill in for Conrad in the food-chemistry lab, seeing as he’s fast becoming as expert in that line as his predecessor.” Leonard flashed a rueful grin at the Captain keeping a straight face. “The task immediately facing us is that of erecting walls and building at least a part of the furniture into Eleven’s upper deck. I’ve developed detailed plans for that layout, and I’ll oversee that work myself, enlisting Nigel, Cleo, and Leonard, when he’s available, as my crew. We’ll begin this morning, and work until 1500. At that time, I’ll distribute the half-liter ration of whisky Justin prepared, to each of you. I expect he’ll be able to produce enough to make that ration a fourweekly standard, and leave a few magic bottles extra, which I’ll save for special celebrations. “We’ll meet in the recreation hall at 1500. Leonard, Justin intends to cook double quantities this week, and freeze packaged meals to replenish our dwindling supply of standard ones. Assist both cooks in that chore, today and Monday, until Justin finishes what he plans.” Detecting no trace of emotion on the ill-favored face maintaining its habitual inscrutability, Michael shifted his glance to Cleo, and glimpsed a momentary flash of anxiety. Is she wondering the same thing I am? he wondered. Likely she is. We’ll see. Given that she controls her face admirably, she kept you from deducing how closely she veered towards breakdown, a week ago. She fooled Justin, too. Better keep a wary eye on her, as well, but test Nigel’s

seeming willingness to accept, now, what the others have accepted all along, spacer-captain. You’ve got to know whether his uncharacteristic forbearance will last! Having risen and left when the Captain did, Nigel and Cleo listened as he outlined his plans. “I’ve chosen certain items of furniture we’ll be building in,” Michael stated. “We’ll detach some of those, today, and haul them to Eleven. We’ll find it easier to lug the components to where they’ll be installed, before we erect the walls. Well. We’ll start in the old food-chemistry lab, in Ten.” Upon arriving at his destination, the team leader gestured with a hand. “Nigel, that freezer will take some doing to move. We’ll leave it, for a bit. I’ve collected three wheeled bins, and your hand truck. Cleo, empty the contents of this locker into a bin, and then detach it. Use these two tool kits. When you finish, detach this long, freestanding counter. Nigel, you and I’ll move this refrigerator.” As Cleo commenced her chore, Michael and Nigel loosened the bolts holding the unit. “Massive outfit, this,” the Captain remarked conversationally. “Justin gave me a detailed plan for the layout he prefers in the food-chemistry lab. We agreed not to touch any of the equipment in Central—even what furniture we rearranged to set up the lab he’s working in now—but this facility hasn’t been utilized for its original purpose for Earthyears, and he claims this equipment will serve our purpose even better than what he’s using.” “Justin has rummaged through here enough times that he likely knows the specifications by heart,” the second officer observed equably. “He ranks as a premier food-chemist, at this juncture.” Noting that Nigel’s tone matched his own in nonchalance, Michael queried, “Any suggestions as to what the three of us can use to move that

freezer?” “It’s too massive for the truck. Let’s rig a block and tackle, and shift it onto that wheeled outfit we used to transport the secondary tanks. It’d help if we removed a wall, hm?” “Right. So I listed one of these panels with those I intend to steal here and there, to form dividers for the cabins in Eleven. That wheeled outfit lacks a deck.” “I built it a detachable platform.” Listening intently to the exchange, all her nerve endings straining to detect signs of friction, Cleo sensed none. This week will put Nigel’s resolve to the acid test, she opined nervously. I profoundly hope that his willpower proves adequate to the challenge! Michael could just as easily have assigned me to help Justin, and used Leonard for all this lifting. The Captain’s still bent on taking every opportunity to secure my company! My blistered soul, just when I thought my troubles in this regard were over. Nigel, please, hang on to your determination. I trusted your assurance! As two premier athletes together pulled the massive refrigeration unit into the open space of the area, loaded it onto the hand truck, and maneuvered the item out the door, Cleo freed the locker and began on the counter, which she finished detaching just as they returned. After directing that she take down certain delicate chemical apparatus, Michael and Nigel attacked a built-in cabinet featuring a large sink. To Cleo’s relief, Nigel’s aplomb suffered no visible damage. Promptly at 0800, Michael sat back, surveyed his crew, and suggested, “Let’s take a break together. Shall we leg it for the dining hall, or just rest, and talk?” “I’ll vote for the latter notion,” his rival replied in a lazy drawl. “That’ll be fine with me,” Cleo declared, as a familiar knot tightened in

her gut. Leaning back against the freezer, Michael smiled at his fellow gambler. “How do we go about teaching Cleo to play poker? List the rank of hands for her, explain the betting rules, and cast her adrift on her own?” “Hm. Her stake wouldn’t last long, in that case. How about the three of us dicing to see which of us gets to help her play her first hand, and then take turns doing that? Set a limit of, say, two chips?” “Suits me if it suits her.” “I must say, that suggestion relieves my mind considerably!” the neophyte declared. “I thought it might. We’ll let you play your hand. We’ll merely act as advisors. You won’t learn how, otherwise,” Nigel declared. “I’ll need that list of what beats what.” “I already fixed you a datapad,” Michael assured her. “It won’t take you long to learn.” “It’ll be a nice change, betting against an opponent whose ability to bluff we haven’t plumbed,” his fellow gambler remarked. “I can’t claim that I can always tell when you’re bluffing, Nigel, as many Earthyears as I’ve played against you,” Michael declared in a burst of candor. “Hm. Compliment, that. I’ll return you one. You find it hard to bluff at cards because you habitually refrain from running a bluff in your everyday interactions with your associates. If you issue an ultimatum, you mean every word.” That blunt and wholly true statement nearly breached Michael’s superb control of his face. The sibilant voice, perfectly conversational in tone, bore no overtone of ironic mockery. “I value that compliment, Nigel,” Michael responded, his eyes intent on those of the subordinate to whom he had unhesitatingly issued several

highly dangerous ultimatums, despite his knowing that if he accepted a challenge issued in consequence, the ensuing duel would almost certainly end with his dying impaled on this master swordsman’s blade. My blistered soul, Cleo marveled. Nigel just outdid himself! He’s keeping his resolve with a vengeance! Turning the full force of her suddenly radiant smile from Nigel to Michael, she exclaimed, “Well, I’ll wager that as a bluffer, I’m my world’s worst. Perhaps you’d better go over the rank of hands, right now, so I can raise my nose from my datapad occasionally, this afternoon.” Breaking into simultaneous laughter, each seasoned card-player took turns explaining the various combinations that formed winning hands. Cleo listened avidly, storing the information in her capacious memory. When they finished, she frowned in concentration. “Let me review. Royal flush, straight flush, four of a kind, flush, straight, three of a kind, two pairs, one pair.” “You don’t need my datapad!” exclaimed Michael. “Oh, yes, I will. You three professional gamblers will rattle me. I’ll need to reorient myself periodically.” “You won’t stay rattled long. Well, Nigel, let’s see if we can get this outfit loose.” Rising as one person, three teammates returned to their tasks. By the time the lunch hour arrived, various cumbersome items reposed in the center of the deck. Michael viewed the progress with satisfaction, and the team departed for lunch. Upon their return, the movers took down a short wall adjoining the entry, and then detached the doorframe itself. “We’ll be leaving Ten without a door,” Michael observed, frowning. “But it wouldn’t be hard for anyone planning to work in here in the future to steal one from Thirteen.” Touched, the Gaean spoke her thought. “Don’t think I don’t

appreciate your willingness to leave the station functioning, Michael. If our worlds’ leaders ever achieve a peace both sides can accept with honor, I’d strive to convince Wallace to arrange for a joint Gaean-Columbian team to spend time here, so as to improve interworld relations. Assuming…” Breaking off in confusion, the woman racked by fears that deepened daily dropped her eyes. “Don’t think I wouldn’t work for such a breakthrough, Cleo,” Michael asserted smoothly, even as his chest constricted. “As for our arrival in Columbia, there’s no sense in worrying before the need.” Clapping a comradely hand on the prisoner’s shoulder, Michael saw with satisfaction that she managed a wan smile. “It’d be a refreshing change to engage in pure research, instead of acting as general handymen, hm?” The sibilant voice expressed unconcealed yearning. “Wouldn’t it, though?” All six of us would agree with that notion, in theory at least, Michael silently admitted. But team with the Gaean who got away with their spaceworthy section at the price of leaving Cleo here to die? Nigel’s feelings must be undergoing more fundamental change than I suspected. Damned if he hasn’t buried his jealousy! If only he manages to go on exhibiting this easy companionability! Hope surged up to hearten the man whose iron nerves were beginning to fray under the strains imposed by his having retained and continually exerted autocratic decision-making power. By 1500, the components appropriated by the Captain reposed on the deck of Ten, beside two wall-panels. “We’ll stop here,” the leader informed his crew. “Let’s introduce Cleo to the art of playing poker.” Fifteen minutes later, the novice sat between Michael and Nigel, across from Conrad, at the round table in the recreation hall, watching Nigel deal

the cards that would designate the dealer. Michael picked up a jack. “I’ll choose five-card draw,” he announced. “If you two agree, it might be easier on Cleo if we stuck to that, today, instead of ringing something like Spit in Space, or Seven-card Stud with ninespots wild, on her.” As Conrad nodded, Nigel drawled as he produced a pair of dice, “I’ll agree. Conrad, roll once. Highest throw designates who gets to coach her first.” Having complied, Conrad rolled a two. On seeing that Michael threw a total of four, and Nigel achieved a nine, the man with the lowest score handed back the dice, growling, “My luck’s about usual.” Pocketing the cubes, Nigel favored the complainer with his mocking smile. “So I get to begin. What do you say we go on letting a bolt equal twenty-five milliliters of whisky, but set a two-bolt limit? Cleo’s stake will last longer.” “Suits me,” his fellow gamblers chorused, prompting Conrad to parcel out twenty bolts to each person: that being the value of each newly issued ration. As each player anted one chip, Michael proceeded to deal three hands, omitting to deal one to the tutor. The novice picked up her cards, thrilled to discover a pair of kings and a pair of fives. Observing with approval that her face remained as impassive as did his, Nigel instructed casually, “Open for one, Cleo.” Her face serene, his charge obeyed. Michael, holding a pair of aces, put in a bolt, his own face expressionless. Frowning, Conrad, shoved a bolt across the table. Without consulting her mentor, the neophyte requested one card. Bad sign, Michael concluded. Her every sense alert, Cleo noted that Conrad asked for three, and

Michael took three. Her discovery that she had drawn a third five altered her face no more than it did Nigel’s. Conrad, whose turn to bet it was, threw down his cards. “I fold, having encountered my usual luck,” he grumbled. Michael, holding a pair of aces and a pair of fours, debated with himself. In reality, I’m playing Nigel, he decided. He bluffs more often than not. Cleo’s face hasn’t changed a muscle. She kept four. Odds are she started with two pairs. Well. “I’ll bet one,” he announced, putting in a chip. Cleo glanced at Nigel, who suggested casually, “Raise it one.” Obediently, his charge did so, her face as serene as ever. “Raise you one,” Michael asserted, thrusting two more bolts towards the pile. I’ll just see how good a poker face Cleo’s blessed with, he decided. “Raise you another,” the novice declared with no prompting from Nigel. Michael eyed her dubiously. “Call you,” he responded, sliding a bolt across the table. Smiling now, Cleo laid down a pair of kings, and three fives. Laughing, Michael admitted wryly, “Cost me, finding out that you boast a poker face to equal that of your tutor. You just lifted one hundred fifty milliliters off me.” Chuckling, Conrad affirmed knowingly, “Beginner’s luck. You drew a third five, Cleo.” Smiling his wicked smile, Nigel observed, “I switch to being your opponent with the distinct advantage of knowing that your face hides all.” Leonard, engaged in a chess lesson with Marvin, swiveled about in his chair. “She’s no mean opponent at checkers,” he reminded the card players. “There must be some carry-over.” “Conrad’s right. Beginner’s luck, that was,” the neophyte averred selfdeprecatingly.

“Your deal. Shuffle, and let Nigel cut,” Michael directed. Having obeyed, Cleo anted with the others, and dealt each player five cards. Picking up her own, she studied her hand: an eight of spades, nine of hearts, ten of diamonds, and a pair of jacks. Conrad announced, “I’ll bet one.” “Raise you one,” Nigel promptly countered. Michael knitted his brow. “Likely you ought to fold,” he advised the neophyte, “but you lucked out last time. Take a chance, and stay in. This hand will provide good experience. Nigel quite often runs a bluff.” Nodding, Cleo put in two chips. Conrad stayed in, pushing out another bolt. Frowning, the novice pointed to one jack. “Should I discard that?” she asked her mentor. Michael shook his head. “Poor odds. I’ll explain afterwards. Discard those three,” he advised, pointing to the eight, nine and ten. Having done as her mentor suggested, Cleo studied Conrad, who laid down three. Her face serene, she dealt him three. Smiling smugly, Nigel informed the company, “I’ll stand pat.” Leaning back, Conrad shot a grin at the beginner. “I’m not your tutor, Cleo, but I’ll sum up where we’re at.” Glancing at his hand, he remarked, “Nigel could have anything from a royal flush to two pairs. If that last’s what he’s got, he likely wouldn’t draw the fifth card, because he regards as damned poor the chance that it would do him any good. He’s a wily bluffer. He’s been known to raise with less, to scare the others into folding. You’ve likely got a pair. See what you draw.” Having weighed that assessment, Cleo dealt herself three cards, picking up a jack, a three, and a seven. Her expression changed no whit, prompting Conrad to admit wryly, “Well, I guess your face won’t tell me anything. I’ll go out on a strut, and stay in.” Nigel drawled, “Bet two.”

Smiling at Cleo, Michael averred, “Conrad’s assessment’s about right. He himself picked up three, so he likely had a pair. I wouldn’t worry about Conrad, especially. He quite often goes out on a strut. You need to decide whether Nigel’s bluffing with two pairs, or preserving a poker face over a royal flush.” Giggling, his pupil acknowledged, “I figured I’d lose my stake, anyway, so I’ll just test Conrad’s notion. Raise you one, Nigel.” Cleo put in three bolts. Nigel’s eyes gleamed, but his face mirrored neither chagrin nor elation. Having pondered, Conrad drawled, “I guess I’ll gamble that Nigel’s bluffing, and you’ve got less than what I have, and call.” With that, he added three more bolts to the pot. “Hm. I’ll call.” Nigel put in one more. Cleo laid down three jacks. Ruefully, Conrad laid down three tens. Nigel laughed without a trace of chagrin, as he laid down a pair of aces and a pair of queens. “You’re as tough to bluff as you are to read, Cleo,” he commended the lone woman gallantly. “I thank you! Well, Conrad, you get to shepherd me through the game that’ll likely puncture my badly bloated ego,” the winner exclaimed, smiling at her new advisor. Turning to Michael, she asked, “Why did you discourage me from drawing one card, when I had four-fifths of a straight?” “That looks tempting, but the chances of your filling it are half as good as improving the hand with the pair,” her mentor explained. “And less than a quarter as good, had it been the middle card missing. That’s called an inside straight. But actually, the odds against your doing what you did are even worse than filling a double-ended straight. Beginner’s luck for you, and better than average luck for Conrad. He discarded three, the same as you did.” About that time, Justin, who had sat down to finish a game of chess

with Marvin when the programmer concluded giving Leonard a chess lesson, rose smiling to announce, “Well, Marvin just trounced me again. We never had a bet going, but I could use a drink. I’ll play host, and share out my ration. I think I’d be wise to ascertain how well my flavoring job goes over, before I brew up any more whisky.” As the head cook returned with ice and glasses, the poker players took a break. Nigel sipped his drink appreciatively. “Not bad at all, Justin,” he commented. “One of your best efforts yet.” “That’s what we should name the product,” Marvin exclaimed in a burst of inspiration. “Justin’s Best!” That suggestion produced grins and nods. “I’ll log it as such,” Michael assured the smiling chemist. “Nigel, take your turn as dealer,” Michael invited, changing seats with Conrad. Nodding, the man thus adjured shuffled while three players anted. “Cleo, your turn to open,” he reminded her, having dealt the cards. The beginner studied her hand, which consisted of three nines, a three of hearts, and a jack of diamonds. “You know what to do with that,” Conrad averred. “I’ll bet one,” the novice announced serenely. Michael put in a chip. Nigel did the same. Cleo asked for two cards, and Michael requested four. Nigel again stood pat, turning an ironic eye on the woman stunned by the discovery that she just picked up a fourth nine. Exerting heroic effort, she retained control of her face. Conrad, who stood looking over her shoulder, did better. He shrugged slightly. Michael slid out a chip. “Bet one.” “Raise you two,” Nigel countered softly, eyeing Cleo.

Staring warily at her unpredictable opponent, the neophyte weighed the situation. He stood pat, she reflected. He’ll no doubt have more than two pairs, having been caught bluffing last time. What I’ve got will beat anything but four higher cards, or a straight flush. Is it likely both of us would draw a super hand in one deal? I don’t know enough about chances to be able to judge. Michael asked for four cards, so I’ll bet he doesn’t have much. I’ve increased my stake. I need the practice, so I guess I’ll go for it. Those thoughts having passed through her mind with lightning swiftness, the apprentice declared briskly, evincing no apparent hesitation, “Raise you two.” Serenely, she added five chips to the pot. Dark eyes glittered. Nigel eyed Conrad, who managed to look bored. Michael sat back, and studied all three faces. Damned if Cleo won’t make a welcome addition to the ranks of the gamblers, he silently chortled. She hast Nigel worried. His own rugged visage remained impassive, as he stated blandly, “Call you.” As he spoke, he anted four more chips. A beautifully shaped hand stroked a cleft chin, but Nigel’s unprepossessing countenance remained inscrutable. He eyed Cleo, who glanced casually, expectantly, back at him. “Raise you one,” he asserted levelly, sliding three chips into the pot. Unhesitatingly, the novice declared, “Raise you two.” Having thrust three chips towards the pot, she urged, “Do raise again, Nigel. I need to win all I can, while my beginner’s luck holds.” On hearing that, Michael shrugged. Smiling wryly, he confessed, “I think I’d better fold.” With that, he laid down his hand. Nigel surveyed his chips, his opponent’s chips, and the pot. Having made some lightning calculations, he studied Cleo’s sparkling eyes, and suddenly eager face, and laughed in his turn. “I’ll call you,” he drawled, sliding two chips into the pot.

Cleo laid down four nines. Nigel laid down the three, four, five, six and seven of clubs. “Oh, my perishing soul!” the loser exclaimed, crestfallen. “You not only punctured my ego. You annihilated it!” Laughing, she glanced apologetically at Conrad. “I should have asked the advice of my tutor!” His face wreathed in a broad grin, the blonde spacer acknowledged candidly, “I’d have said go for it.” Leaning back in his chair, Nigel regarded the novice thoughtfully as he analyzed her mindset. “You assessed your chances, figured they were pretty good, and forged on despite the risk,” he drawled. “You’d have run the pot up to any total, lost, laughed, and chalked up the outcome to experience. You’re not a bluffer. You’re a damned daring risk-taker! I’ll remember that, Cleo.” “Nigel has you figured, woman,” Michael conceded, smiling. “I suspected as much. You won’t need much more tutoring, except in the variations dealers call for.” Cleo glanced from Nigel’s face, on which admiration showed plainly, to Michael, who shot her a grin. Twisting, she saw that Conrad regarded her affectionately, as he stood with a hand on her shoulder. “What gallantry,” she exclaimed, beaming on all three men. “All the same, it’ll be a far day when I contemplate wagering my tunic!” Laughing heartily, the company of gamblers accepted refills from Justin, and totaled their chips. “I’m ten chips over what I had to start with, despite that last hand,” Cleo rejoiced. “It’s almost supper time. After supper—and the sybaritic luxury of a shower—I’m going to coax Marvin into giving me another chess lesson, so I can keep up with Leonard.” Swiveling in his seat, the chess champion affirmed eagerly, “You’ve only to ask, girl!” Having tucked away two thick sandwiches redolent of onion and

mustard—this combination’s almost as hard as garlic on one’s associates, she mused—Cleo concentrated on chess until 0800, and retired to her cabin elated at having made considerable progress in two games of skill. Amazing, Marvin’s memory, she marveled, lying blissfully clean and relaxed in bed. Or…is that all of it? He effortlessly visualizes arrangements in his head—placement of pieces—and then moves them mentally, in various ways, several times, until he works out a strategy. He must excel in problems involving spatial relations of any sort: problems requiring that the solver think in three dimensions. I used to pride myself on having that ability, until I glimpsed his. He’s purely a random abstract thinker, I’ll wager. And he’s so delighted to have two pupils! Poker and chess divide us into two groups that don’t mix much, in the ordinary course of recreation. Michael looked tired, this afternoon. He drives himself fully as hard as he pushes us, or perhaps harder. Once we get the furniture and walls built into Eleven, he’ll start on the tether. They’ll all be outside, constantly. Frightfully dangerous, that’ll be, I’m sure. My blistered soul, this station’s nearly two kilometers in diameter, and Michael has no mobile assemblers. He must intend to use something similar to what Marvin rigged to move the ice. I’ll be on edge the whole time. We all could use a day off. I suppose Michael figures that if he gave us one, we’d brood. Would we, now? Not if we rated a diversion: something unusual, to take our minds off the chanciness of what he’s about to attack. Something we could all do together. If I came up with an idea, would Michael go for it? Let it relax him? He might. He’s extremely sensitive to factors affecting morale. Let’s see. What could we celebrate? Johann’s Landfall’s five fourweeks away. No lesser holidays common to both cultures loom ahead. Birthdays? Mine’s nine fourweeks from now. One can’t suggest celebrating

one’s own, in any case. I must ask Justin to give me a list of everyone’s birthday. Maybe someone’s is close. That would serve as an excuse. Go to sleep, woman. Rest up for when we move those blasted panels for the walls. Resolutely banishing all worry regarding her future from her mind, Cleo fell asleep idly ranking hands of cards.

WEEK SIX: MONDAY Rudely awakened by the raucous sound of her alarm, Cleo leaned out of bed, and fumbled for the switch. My word, I got my full eight hours! she rejoiced. Sitting up, she stretched luxuriously. The burn doesn’t hurt, I’m blissfully clean, and I feel rested. Well, enjoy that feeling while you can, woman. It won’t last. Arriving early to breakfast, the Gaean held out her bowl to Leonard, who ladled it full. “Go easy on the primal ooze,” she murmured. “Conrad must have slipped up, at some point,” the temporary cook whispered back, flashing the diner his impish grin. Seating herself opposite Michael, who sat absorbing his eye-opener, the newcomer bade him a cheery good-morning, prompting him to inquire, “Eleven will be self-sufficient in chicory, I trust?” while smiling at her over his steaming, outsized cup. “I’m quite sure Justin won’t at any point run short of his substitute for coffee,” the engineer responded promptly, indulging in a bit of sophistry. “I hope not, now that I’ve come to take it for granted,” Michael admitted. “Both Justin and I know with exactitude where coffee ranks on your list of priorities, Michael.” Cleo’s rippling laugh warmed the spacer-captain to the core. Watching as she dug into the universally disdained cereal, he basked in the glow

produced by its being Monday. Damned if I don’t need a boost to my spirits, he groused. Though why I woke with them down, I don’t know. Everything’s going well—or at least smoothly—but the harmony won’t last. And eventually… Cleo’s worrying about our return. Better keep off that touchy subject tonight. Time’s getting shorter. She’ll focus her mind on it more, from here on. Keep your wits about you, this evening. Avoid any topic that might spark a question. Exerting herself to keep up with Nigel’s and Michael’s long strides as the three movers headed for Ten, Cleo extended delicate feelers, but sensed no tension. Arriving at the destination, she wrapped the fragile chemical glassware deftly in glass-wool, packed the items gingerly into a wheeled bin, and set off for Eleven, swiftly outdistancing Michael and Nigel, who strode off each bearing the end of the free-standing counter. Passing the two men just arriving, Cleo retraced her steps, and surveyed the array of components needing to be transported. Resolutely, she pushed the truck under one bottom edge of the tall locker, and fastened the straps around the bulky item. Grasping the handles, the fine-boned woman gingerly tipped the truck back. I can move this, she decided. It’s ungainly, but not more massive than I can handle. Meeting the two brawny athletes in the corridor, she breezed by them, leaving them staring after her. Bestowing a wry grin on a fellow swordsman, Michael remarked, “If a Gaean woman her size and mass so readily tackles what she does, can you imagine what feats that tall, swordwielding, female rebel commander might eventually undertake?” Cocking his head, the duelist replied in a ruminative tone. “Signe has gained quite a reputation as a swordsman, but I simply can’t imagine a woman’s besting either of us. And of course, if one of us ever encounters

her in some skirmish, he’ll have to think of her as he would any foe, and fight to kill, so as to preserve his own life. Even so, I’m not sure whether I’d care to have my reputation expand to include the feat of cutting Signe down. Not if she’s anything like the woman Cleo is.” Suffering shades of strangled spacers, Nigel’s definitely in love! Michael marveled. A vivid picture evoked by Cleo’s words—an image filed away in his memory—rose on the screen of the Captain’s inner vision, prompting him to muse aloud, “Damned if I wouldn’t like to meet that woman. Not across swords. Over coffee. Cleo says Signe exhibits all of Sigurd’s charisma, and fights like ten demons. She pointed out that Signe is their chief strategist. Conor accepts her as commander.” “Amazes me, that. Warrior, that scarred veteran.” “Gaeans aren’t motivated by a desire to rise in rank, so they aren’t driven by personal ambition. Signe’s a rallying point, no doubt—a symbolic figurehead—but still… That reputation…the burgeoning legend…must have some basis in fact.” “Signe has survived Earthyears of engaging in bloody hand-to-hand fighting in corridors blocked by barricades. Veteran Third Corpsmen admit to that, even though they hate her guts. That feat says something about her skill!” “It does indeed. Well, do you want on the front or back end of this outfit with the sink?” “Front doesn’t bother me.” Lowering himself with fluid grace by flexing both knees, Nigel took a corner of the bulky cabinet in each hand, and rose as easily as did Michael. The two men strode off, bearing the ungainly burden. On again passing the Gaean, the Captain called out, “Take the truck, Cleo, and fetch the table I marked in Fourteen. It’s not heavy.” That qualification set Nigel laughing anew. “It wouldn’t surprise me to find her loading the freezer on the truck!”

“Nor me either.” Coming upon her fellow movers in Eleven, on her return from Fourteen, Cleo inquired, “How about chairs, Michael? There were none with the table.” “There’s a dozen that stack, in that section where you got the cloth. Bring the whole stack on the truck, while Nigel and I detach this set of ovens.” The Gaean returned from the distant section to find Michael and Nigel pulling the bank of ovens free. “Let’s take a break,” the Captain directed, seating himself on the deck with his back to the freezer. Cleo dropped to sit cross-legged, facing the two men, her face alight with eagerness. “I think I can remember the rank of hands, now,” she declared, “and I suppose I’ll have to learn the differences between Spit in Space and the other variations as I go along, but judging by what you told me about the chance of drawing a fifth card to a straight, Michael, the odds of filling a hand during a draw have to be common knowledge—to everyone but me, that is. Would the two of you be willing to enlighten me?” Michael shot the novice a grin. “When you tackle a project, you go all the way, don’t you?” “If it’s worth doing at all, it’s worth doing right.” “As I’m also fond of saying,” Nigel remarked, smiling into lively brown eyes. “Michael can quote you all the odds, Cleo, mathematician that he is. I couldn’t do it with exactitude. I play more intuitively—by feel, I guess you’d say. I know which course is the better, but not why.” “Nigel’s intuition’s uncannily exact, usually,” Michael admitted with a grin. “Well, let me expound on what I know.” Fifteen minutes later, Cleo sat frowning intently. “So when I drew two

cards and got a fourth nine, I beat odds of more than twenty to one?” “That you did. Beginner’s luck, perhaps, or maybe you’re just lucky at cards.” Chuckling, he added, “Conrad remains convinced that he’s unlucky.” “He remembers his unlucky moments far more vividly than he does his lucky ones,” Nigel snorted. “Our fellow gambler sports a decidedly distorted view of reality.” “Unlucky at cards, lucky at love,” Michael quoted, mischievously. Cleo’s rippling laugh warmed both men. “It’s Conrad you should be regaling with that observation!” “You and I had better convince ourselves that we owe our successes at poker to skill, not luck, chief, if the reverse is true,” Nigel drawled, his eyes suddenly as full of mischief as Michael’s. “It never occurred to me to doubt it,” the Captain declared briskly. “Well, let’s see if we can move that blasted oven without disrupting its undoubtedly delicate innards. Cleo, collect all the chemical apparatus remaining in these cabinets along the wall, and leave the lot with that other glassware, in Eleven. Wait for us there.” Dutifully, the Gaean pulled out drawers, and loaded apparatus. My thumping heart, she rejoiced, when Nigel makes a resolve, he keeps it. Or is he just buoyed up, still, from Saturday? But tonight’s Michael’s night, and that should be making his rival edgy again—or at least, my joking with Michael should. I enjoyed that break. Can this heartening accord last? I fervently hope so! The notion conceived on the prior evening rose to mind. Damn! Remember to ask Justin about birthdays! Rising from the table after lunch earlier than did her teammates, Cleo slipped into the food-chemistry laboratory, where the head cook presided alone. “Justin,” she breathed conspiratorially, “do me a favor, would you please? Make me a list of everyone’s birthday, when you find time.” “I’ll have a datapad ready for you by suppertime.”

Having thanked the smiling cook, Cleo sped away to join Michael and Nigel. Justin’s such a comfortable soul, she mused. He never demanded to know why I wanted that information. He just said he’d oblige. Well! Perhaps a celebration’s imminent. Striding into a small cabin in Fourteen that had evidently formed a workspace for only one or two people, Michael informed his crew, “This section seems to have been used originally for medical research. Evidently this cabin served as the head physician-researcher’s private facility. I’m going to steal it blind. I’ll use the furniture for an infirmary that doubles as my office, on Eleven. We’ll take the terminal, too. Conrad can disconnect that unit, later in the week. Everything else, we’ll detach and move. Lockers, sink, desk, cabinets, worktable, the works. Cleo, start on the lockers, and Nigel and I’ll attack the unit with the sink.” The trio spent the remainder of the day unfastening highly specialized, compactly constructed, intricately fastened modules. Escaping to the relatively open space of the rim for a break, they sprawled at ease against the wall. Prompted by his cognizance of the former function of Section Fourteen, Nigel mused, “Nice to reflect that in this modern age, an abundance of medical technicians serves to free physicians to indulge in medical research when they’re not doing delicate surgery. Maintenance of health forms one area in which both worlds have made notable advances over the last Earthcentury.” “Just before we left Gaea, Leroy told me of an entry in a medical journal announcing a breakthrough in the battle to control lung-burn fever,” Cleo remarked. “Elvin reported some success in a preliminary trial of a recombinant vaccine: a lab-engineered copy of the virus that lacks the genes that would allow the virus to force the host cells to produce copies of itself.

In people actually infected, his vaccine stimulated production of new antibodies.” “Hm. A vaccine that helps those already infected constitutes a rarity,” Nigel observed. “The fact that lung-burn fever kills its victims in a relatively short time would work against that sort of vaccine’s proving an effective cure, I’d think.” “So did Leroy, although if such a vaccine could slow the progress of the disease, a combination of that and some other approach might work, such as culturing the patient’s bone marrow stem cells, and altering them to differentiate into T-lymphocytes that recognize and kill virus-infected cells when the engineered lymphocytes are transplanted back into the patient. That method has worked successfully against other sorts of invading organisms.” “Hm. He’d have to start immediately after the victim got infected, culture and treat his cells, and re-inject them. Given the rapidity with which that disease progresses once symptoms appear, that approach would constitute a close race to an acceptable finish.” “Nasty way to go out, that. It seems as if the fewer diseases that remain, the tougher the invading organisms,” Michael interjected. His remark prompted Cleo to expand on the problem posed by the universally feared scourge. “The lung-burn fever virus is a genetic recombinant organism,” she pointed out. “It exchanged bits of DNA with another influenza-type virus, to produce a potent, lethal variant. It hasn’t adapted well to its host, yet, or it would do far less damage.” “No, it isn’t in a virus’s best interests to exterminate the species it infects,” Nigel agreed, raising an ironic eyebrow. “Probably after such a breakthrough, vaccines will be developed that target other proteins besides the one Elvin’s vaccine does,” the Gaean predicted hopefully.

“Earthyears ago, Arlen submitted a report to the bank under the seal of the University’s medical department, detailing a study that convinced him that a vaccine including core proteins of the virus would be more effective than those that only stimulate production of antibodies against the envelope proteins studding the viral surface, which was the approach Dewar took. Arlen figured that the core proteins would stimulate the immune system to kill infected cells,” Nigel remarked ruminatively. “No doubt exists in my mind that the man presently the Commander of Fifth Corps could have excelled as a physician-researcher, though he’s equally renowned as a physicist. Arlen seems to have abandoned any thought of making a name for himself as a researcher, nonetheless. Too bad. It’s far easier to produce competent military leaders than talented physician-inventors.” “I never have figured out what drives Arlen,” Michael admitted. “Ambition, no doubt, but I’d have thought that given his private wealth and family connections, not to mention his persuasive eloquence, he’d have pursued a career in a ministry, and aimed at displacing Leon as First Minister. Arlen most assuredly would exert a firm grip on the state.” “Perhaps he felt that he needed to rise to the rank of commander, to be able to keep a firm grip on all our key figures—civil and military,” Nigel conjectured. “He’s younger than the other four commanders. There’s no telling where his considerable talent might take him, eventually. It wasn’t purely fighting ability that put him where he is. He’d be no match for Norman in a duel, or Dexter. Galt might think twice before taking him on, but I’d wager that Galt would best him, or that Courtney would.” “For sheer, cold-blooded nerve, Arlen beats all four of his peers, nonetheless,” the Captain swiftly asserted. “Ever hear that story of how he walked alone and unarmed into the cabin where that psychotic renegade held three Fifth Corpsmen hostage? He then talked the crazed brute into laying down the electronic handweapon he’d kept aimed at Arlen’s chest,

and surrendering!” “I heard about that. Actually, none of the five commanders lacks nerve.” Fixing a ruminative glance on Cleo, who had been listening avidly, and now sat committing the names of the last of Columbia’s five military commanders to memory, Nigel remarked, “Nor, from what I can gather, does Gaea’s rebel commander.” Cleo met the Lieutenant’s glance squarely. “Signe’s a warrior, a strategist, and a charismatic leader. Men twice her age accept her as commander. Sigurd trained her to think, and Eric, who learned swordsmanship in Columbia, taught her to fight. Long before the war started, she began honing those skills, and now she excels at being a military leader. She has killed four men in duels, and cut down untold numbers of Third Corpsmen fighting hand-to-hand in corridors. “Signe has fought her way into bank after bank of the web of habitats, until her forces control a sizeable chunk of territory. I entertain no doubt whatsoever that she’ll end by driving Norman out, or killing him. And I don’t think I’m simply indulging in wishful thinking.” Mindful of the manner in which Nigel had stuck by his resolve, Cleo spoke dispassionately, her face calm, seeming only to enlarge on his observation. “Likely you’re not,” the limber swordsman admitted equably. “Your commander would prove as unique to my experience as are you. That circumstance leads me to hope that if I ever encounter Signe, it won’t be across swords in a corridor. I’d genuinely like to make the acquaintance of a woman possessing so profoundly original a persona!” Recalling a fear that recurred periodically, Cleo mustered a wan smile. “I confess to hoping that the two of you never meet across swords anywhere, Nigel.” “That’s not likely to happen in the near future, at least. Well, let’s get back to work,” Michael directed, ending the exchange.

On her knees under the built-in desk, unfastening bolts holding two units to each other, Cleo’s thoughts turned from Signe to Max. Guilt assaulted her, as she realized how long it had been since she had communed with her late husband. Oh, Max, she apologized mentally. You’re always in the back of my mind, but the front has been full of new adjustments lately. I’m growing used to this life. I’m coming to care deeply for my six comrades. I’ll worry constantly about their safety during the work ahead. I’m finding out things about myself I never knew. I still love you. Nothing will ever change that, but my affection has expanded to fill a most urgent need. My life has gone on. I find that I can’t stay permanently, desolately sad. How you’ll react, if we ever meet…wherever you are…I can’t imagine. But…surely where you are, there’s no more sadness? No pain? Perfect understanding of imperfect mortal people? If we all die together, will you welcome seven of us to your company? Do what that ancient poet said…give each of us “welcome high…Who had done his work and held his peace and had no fear to die?” Like the Strong Men in the poem? They’d have welcomed you. You were just like the one arriving: “E’en as he trod that day to God so walked he from his birth In simpleness and gentleness and honour and clean mirth.” That was you all over. I miss you, Max. I’m wrestling with something for which I wasn’t prepared. I’m surviving…coping…adjusting… Discovering an unexpected wealth of affection…of deepening understanding. I’m doing the best I can. Don’t hold what I’ve done against me when we meet! Down the wall from Cleo, Michael ceased unbolting a tall locker from the one adjoining, having grown acutely aware of her pensive face. Guessing the cause of her reaction, he wished he had sheered away from the topic of military commanders. She’s worrying about our return, he surmised as his gut knotted. I

hope to hell she doesn’t broach the subject tonight! You can’t lie to her, but neither can you offer hope that might prove illusory. Damn…the way things are shaping up…the way Nigel has changed…leads me to hope! Cleo has made a dent in Nigel’s thinking. He sees Signe differently than he would have, earlier, as a result. Female warrior. Shades of my mercenary-spacer ancestors! Female researcher, yes—feminine spacer, even—but warrior? Female duelist? Imagine a woman’s issuing you a challenge, spacer-captain! I’d refuse to fight a woman! My honor would suffer no stain if I did. I wonder what circumstances attended Signe’s duels. Better not ask. Keep Cleo’s mind focused on the here and now! Replete with baked eel, baked sweet potato, and steamed greens, the Gaean rose to wash her dish. She beamed on Justin as he slipped a slim electronic device under her arm. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I’ll return the datapad at recreation.” “I’ve got plenty of them. Keep it, if you can use it.” Bearing her prize to her cabin, Cleo studied the list. Oh, my heart, Leonard’s birthday falls a week from this Thursday! What a grand excuse for a party! Should I lay it on Michael tonight? No, tomorrow. Keep business and pleasure separate. You’ll need to talk to him privately. I could make an appointment for first thing in the morning, though, tonight—avoid Nigel’s hearing me ask for a private meeting—but how superbly he’s buried his jealousy! I can’t believe how greatly he has changed. Well. Time for a lesson in how to play chess. Upon arriving in the recreation hall clean, refreshed, and tingling with anticipation, Michael collected his partner for the night, and strode off to her cabin. Turning to face him, she found herself enveloped in a crushing hug. Pressed against his muscular chest, she again sensed the loneliness engendered by his rank and his dominance. Oh, Michael, how isolated you’d be, if you rose to the rank of

commander, or became First Minister of Columbia. I wonder whether you realize that. Perhaps you deem the prize worth the steep price you’d pay. Likely you’d marry, then, and hope that strategy assuaged your pain. As those thoughts flashed through her mind, her arms tightened convulsively around her autocratic partner. Holding the woman he loved away, Michael basked in the warmth radiating from her eyes. Slipping her hands into the bands of his tunic, Cleo thrust the garment back over his shoulders, and pulled it off. Before he could reach for hers, she went to work on the bands of his pants, filling him with delight. When she knelt to pull off his boots, and straightened, flushed with the effort, to let his eager hands return the gesture, potent desire rose to possess him utterly. In a single, fluid movement, he swept her up in strong arms, and bore her to the bed. Controlling his urgent need, he used all he knew to raise her to rapture, sensing that the reservations she once harbored regarding his erotic techniques, she had cast forever into the void. Lying in the hollow of a brawny arm, her hand idly caressing her lover’s muscular chest, her body suffused with sensual warmth, Cleo reveled in her cognizance that everything this man just did clearly shouted that he loved her. Oh, Michael, she marveled, you’ve changed, fully as much as Nigel has! You’re as tough as ever, as firmly in charge as ever, as fearless as ever, but you’re lonely. Do I fill the empty place in your heart? I’ll wager you carry a scar or two on that heart. Do you forget your thorny problems, for a while, in my arms? I hope so. I love you, spacer-captain, and I trust that you’ll somehow keep me safe. Now, if only you can keep yourself safe… As pain stabbed her vulnerable heart, Cleo unconsciously tightened her arm around her bedfellow. Michael turned her to face him. “Your conditioning’s wearing off, bit

by bit. Do you realize that?” “With exquisite clarity. The six of you are re-conditioning me. I must admit that I’ve learned some things about myself I didn’t know. Some of them shock me, rather.” That candid admission provoked a grin. “I suspect that the ones that shock you the worst are the ones that most delight me.” “No doubt. Michael, how dangerous will stringing that tether be, for the six of you?” Intuitively, the Captain sensed the anxiety prompting that question couched in a voice kept studiously bland. Admiration blended with surprise, and a twinge of guilt. She’s worrying more about us than about herself, he reflected bleakly as he replied, “That depends, Cleo. On how well Marvin’s remote devices perform, for one thing. On how thoroughly I’ve anticipated the difficulties, and engineered solutions. On how structurally sound the components we’ll be altering turn out to be. Judging by its interior arrangements, every part of this station is extraordinarily well engineered, so I hardly expect that we’ll run into problems of structural weakness. “And of course, on luck. There’s always the chance of an accident, but all six of us are seasoned spacers: highly experienced hands. Even Leonard, no older than he is, has been part of this team for quite a while. Training and experience combine to minimize the danger of accidents. We’re also used to working with each other. What I contemplate achieving poses a challenge, there’s no denying that, but don’t overdose on anxiety. If I didn’t think our chances of succeeding looked good, I wouldn’t attempt what we’ll tackle.” “Will you all be out there at one time?” “Never all six of us at once. I won’t risk that. All I hope ever to have to deploy outside at one time will be two to four of us. Marvin will be

working his devices from Eleven, rather than Central, seeing as he’ll be building functions into Eleven’s board we’ll need again during launch. I expect he won’t be out often. I’ll rotate the others at working inside.” “But you’ll be out, more than anyone else.” “That goes with the job of leading, Cleo.” Touched by the concern he could detect behind the woman’s calm face and emotionless voice, the Captain drew the Gaean closer. “You’re not to worry yourself into another crisis, hear?” he adjured her forcefully. “I know what I’m doing. Marvin’s brimming with confidence, and he’s highly skilled at flying remotes. So relax, woman.” Michael’s mouth closed once more over hers, and one thing led to another. By the time he raised her once more to a rapturous fulfillment, Cleo’s fears again resided below her consciousness, and she drifted peacefully off to sleep in her partner’s encircling arms. Michael lay awake longer, mulling over aspects of the project on which he remained so irrevocably determined. Methodically, he reviewed the technical problems, the shortage of manpower, and the dangers that loomed. The summary given Cleo he regarded as scrupulously truthful, but he knew the magnitude of the risks with exactitude. Chancy business, he reflected bleakly. I’ve got to swing it. Morale wouldn’t survive my reversing my decision now. I’ve simply got to achieve artificial gravity! With painstaking care, the visionary reviewed calculations, specifications, devices needing to be built, and techniques that would have to be employed. Grimly, he concentrated, conscious all the while of Cleo’s warm body pressed against his own. The loneliness so ingrained that it seldom impinged directly on his consciousness—dwelling instead in a back compartment of the mind he kept sternly focused on his goals and ambitions—lessened, under his acute awareness of the woman’s affectionate

concern, and her ever more openly demonstrative physical expression of the love she had again assured him she bore him. If she doesn’t love six of us equally, she has come closer to doing so than I could ever have believed any woman could, he conceded in wonder. I enjoyed our breaks today. Cleo shows Nigel no preference. She treats both of us purely as comrades, during the work-shift. There’s not a shade of coquetry in her makeup. Is she unique in that respect? Or do our women develop those habits due to the way we treat them? As…what Cleo so rabidly hates to be considered…possessions? Is that how you thought of Myrna? Intrigued, Michael debated with his alter self. I guess I would have, if I had married her, he admitted wryly to himself. I sure as hell would have holed any man she favored with the seductive advances she made to me, that first night I took her to bed. I can’t imagine Myrna’s sitting on a deck, talking and joking with Nigel and me with absolutely no sexual nuances coloring what she said, the way Cleo does. Myrna’s every subtle gesture, every glance, every inflection, would have kept us exquisitely aware either that she weighed which of us to favor, or that she already had made that choice. She’d have gone on sending those signals to other men in social gatherings, hopefully that her husband ranked now as her final choice, but the topic of conversation wouldn’t have been what engrossed her. Not that she’d have rated a chance to engage in the kind of discussions Cleo joins with no hesitation. Once the initial conversational pleasantries of an evening spent in mixed company ended, the men invariably would converge to form a separate grouping, so as to talk of their concerns, leaving the women to chat of theirs. You know something, spacer-captain? Myrna’s concerns would bore Cleo numb! Damn! That notion never crossed my mind until now! Cleo would

have a hell of a time fitting into the society of the capital, even if they’d accept a Gaean, which they wouldn’t! And if she walked over forthrightly to join a group of your male guests to discuss politics, or technology, or medicine—as she did today—the men would interpret her action as a subtle sexual overture, and figure you were losing your hold on your possession. Suffering shades of lost spacers! Talk about cultural differences! A woman whose team leader chose her for her ability…took her as an integral part of a mixed team…saw no problem with that whatsoever…and met with none either, I see now…Cleo would die of loneliness in Columbia, if she existed there as the possession of a man like yourself! Stunned by the implications suddenly unfolding before his inner vision—offshoots of his logical analysis of a question he had not consciously set out to examine—Michael suddenly felt as if the deck just dissolved beneath his boots. Ideas never before questioned suddenly underwent drastic, irrevocable, profound alteration, as his mind churned in a violent upheaval. At a white heat of concentration, he reviewed his problems, his goals, his options, and his emotions, in the context of an incandescent burst of revelation. Blue sky of a lost paradise, you’ve been a blind fool! he raged at his alter ego. Reorient yourself, spacer-captain. Fight your own damned conditioning! String that blasted tether, and go for your wild notion. It’s all you’ll ever need. Go for it! Struggling to compose the turmoil unleashed by his flash of insight in a mind already overwrought by prolonged stress, Michael finally dropped off into a troubled sleep, clinging to Cleo as if she were the one stable point in a chaotic system.

WEEK SIX: TUESDAY Cleo opened her eyes an hour early. Coming swiftly to full awareness, she rose on an elbow cautiously, taking care to avoid startling the man she now knew to be capable of a reflexive, dangerous, defensive martial maneuver. Michael lay sprawled on his back, deep in sleep. Cocking her head, the Gaean studied her bedmate’s rugged face. The strain of our isolation has left visible traces on him, she reflected, moved to pity. The burden of command shows on him, even when he’s relaxed in sleep. He needs a day off—needs a change! See what you can arrange, woman. Lying back down, Cleo sought to drift back into unconsciousness. I never set the alarm, she fretted. Michael always wakes early, but he might not, today, given that he’s exhausted. Mentally more than physically, I’ll wager, but if we overslept, he’d be furious—at himself, as well as at me. If I don’t wake him until the last minute, will he take that as proof that I didn’t want to give him what he seems to need so badly, to start off his week? I’d gladly make love to him, if I thought that would do him more good than sleep would, right now. What should I do? Better watch how you rouse him. If he’s tired, he can likely doze off again. I’ll offer him the choice. “Michael,” the wary observer urged in a low tone, having retreated to a safe distance. “Michael, wake up.”

Instantly fully alert, the spacer-fighter abruptly rose to a sitting position, and swept his eyes around the cabin. As consciousness of where he was flooded back, a grin overspread his face. “Took no chances, did you, woman? What foul hour is it? Shades of the ancients, it’s only 0318. I was out like a spaced swindler. Do I take your shout in my ear as an invitation?” Cleo met her companion’s suddenly mischievous glance squarely. “I figured you’d doze off again if you didn’t want to accept.” “You knew damned good and well what I normally wake up wanting, and you figured that I’d be royally pissed—I mean, put out—if I didn’t get it. Well, I’d have been disappointed, to say the least. So what are you waiting for, woman? Slide over here and kiss me!” Michael’s grin went straight to Cleo’s heart. Having slid over, she dropped on his now recumbent chest, and exuberantly obeyed his order. Her partner’s hands stroked her back, before sliding around to caress her breasts, as she finally raised her mouth from his. Her fingers kneaded his shoulders. “Back up, and get astride of me,” he urged, his eyes dark with passion. His bedmate did as he asked. His body arched to meet hers. Strong hands caressed her intimately, and then drew her forward. Bending the knees planted on either side of her supine partner, she moved in time with his upward thrusts. As he kissed each breast in turn, provoking a stifled sigh of pleasure, his hands slid to the small of her back. Straightening her legs, Cleo lay on him, discovering that she could subtly alter the direction of his thrusts. Intrigued, she experimented, moving in such wise as to evoke gasps of pleasure from her lover, and new satisfying sensations within herself. His lust intensifying, Michael thrust harder, and pressed the woman he

loved closer. Enraptured, she welcomed the intensifying approach of culmination, achieving a climax that wrenched a cry of delight from her. That utterance drove her partner into his final, explosive burst of ecstatic release. Spent, Cleo lay on a muscular torso, unmoving, awash in slowly ebbing euphoria while hands stroked her back in languorous, slow movements. Finally, she rolled off to lie in the curve of Michael’s arm, drawn against his side. “If I knew I’d missed that, I damned well would have been pissed,” he murmured, speaking his thought aloud. Mirth found expression in a smothered giggle. Moving with feline swiftness, Michael closed his mouth over that of the Gaean, cutting her expression of hilarity short. His tongue played with hers, before his kiss grew tender. Freeing her lips, he whispered, “I love you, Cleo. You’re more woman than I’ve ever met up with, and all the woman I’d ever need to keep me blissfully content. I love you!” Touched to the core, the prisoner of war fought back the tears that brimmed. Don’t, she chided herself. “Michael, I love you. I do! I’m so glad I woke you!” As she spoke, she tightened her arms convulsively around him. As an iron hand sifted through soft, wavy hair, the man hypersensitive to nonverbal communications divined his partner’s nearness to tears. “Don’t, Cleo,” he murmured. “Things are going to work out. Believe me! It’s far too early to worry. Don’t! About anything. Not yet. Hear?” “I hear you, Michael. I’ll try not to. I need to talk to you this morning. Would you just announce that I’m to see you after breakfast?” Rearing up abruptly, his eyes intent, the Captain rasped, “You’ve run up against a problem?” Rising to confront him, Cleo protested, “No, Michael, not at all! Truly!

I guess you could say I see a solution to a problem. An idea, is all. Will you have time?” “Certainly I’ll have time.” Relieved, the man in charge impaled his captive with a piercing glance, his curiosity fully aroused. “You can’t tell me now?” “Now is not your business day,” his bedmate asserted firmly. “Time enough after breakfast. We have eight more minutes, and I’m going to spend it practicing to be a masseuse. Lie face down, and let’s see how I do.” Astonishment melted into delight, and prompted a swift rolling-over. Straddling the man now lying prone, Cleo sat on his hips, and did her level best to imitate Nigel’s expert probing movements on Michael’s hardmuscled shoulders. Her fingers, strong for a woman’s, and accustomed to manual work, kneaded, massaged and otherwise stimulated her partner’s broad back, from his neck to his waist. The effort tired her badly. My blistered body, Nigel must have hands of steel! she acknowledged ruefully. Mine are giving out. Well, don’t let them! You haven’t made a dent yet. Michael’s got harder muscles than I have, so Nigel would develop more fatigue doing Michael’s than mine. A vivid mental picture of that unlikely circumstance moved the Gaean to inner hilarity. The recipient of her attentions lay utterly relaxed, feeling every touch of her slim fingers as pure pleasure. The amateur masseuse persevered, jabbing at her memory to force it to disgorge all that Nigel had done. Her arms ached. A glance at the clock finally warned her that she had better desist. Ceasing her efforts, she lay forward on the man lying prone, and kissed him under his ear. “Mmmm.” A long-drawn-out sigh of pleasure escaped the relaxed occupant of the bed. He made no move to rise. We’re going to be late for breakfast, Cleo fretted.

At long last, Michael twisted out from under her, and his mouth found hers. He took his time, unmindful of the hour. When he released her, leaving her breathless, smiling, he exclaimed, “Woman, after that sendoff, I wouldn’t hesitate to tackle that tether by myself. Time to hit the deck. Let’s go.” Bearing her plate of round, flat cakes topped with dark, sweet syrup—I wonder what Conrad calls this, she mused—Cleo seated herself at the table, conscious of three speculative glances. Michael sat down opposite her, his rugged face serene as he offered his subordinates a placid greeting. Cleo’s “Good morning” betrayed no hint of agitation. Leonard tactfully passed a pleasant remark, to which Marvin replied with unwonted loquaciousness. Nigel delivered a comment, his sibilant voice utterly nonchalant. Michael added another idle observation, sipping his coffee with evident relish. Having assessed the evidence, Cleo relaxed, and the knot in her gut loosened. At the end of the meal, the Captain rose. “Cleo, I’ll see you in my office,” he announced blandly. “Nigel, on your way to Fourteen, stop in Ten, and each of you carry a divider to Eleven.” Nodding, the Lieutenant turned on his heel, and left, accompanied by the younger man. Not a trace of emotion surfaced on his unprepossessing face, as Cleo followed Michael into the small cabin in Central he called his office. Having pulled the chair to a position opposite his desk, the Captain gestured her into it, and seated himself. “Well, my business day’s well under way, woman. What’s on your mind?” Her body language revealed the intensity of her eagerness, as Cleo launched into her plea. “Michael, you’ve driven both your crew and yourself really hard, for weeks now. I realize that you were trying to keep us too

busy and tired to brood, but we’ve surmounted quite a bit of trauma. We need a holiday, and I know just what we could celebrate. Leonard’s birthday’s a week from this Thursday. That would be a perfect excuse for a celebration, especially as we could repeat it six more times in identical fashion. “Would you be willing to give us Sunday afternoon off, and help me figure out some activity in which we could all participate? Not just games. Much as I’m coming to enjoy those, they tend to split us into two separate groups that don’t interact. I’d prefer something unusual: a special, memorable, enjoyable activity that would relax us prior to stringing the tether. Something that would draw all of us together.” Eagerness replaced surprise in eyes normally hard as blue agate, as Michael weighed his visitor’s words. Damned if that wouldn’t draw us together! “I’ll go along with your idea, Cleo,” he responded warmly. “We could use a diversion. But why Sunday, if his birthday’s on Thursday?” A blush rose in creamy cheeks, but the originator of the idea answered levelly, “Because I intend to give him a birthday present. I won’t be playing favorites, because I’ll do the same for each of you when your birthdays fall due. Thursday’s Marvin’s night. Sunday’s my own.” A rueful smile lit the rugged face. “Lucky beggar, Leonard. Wouldn’t you know that my birthday’s seven fourweeks away?” The blush deepened. “I expect I’m developing into quite a hussy, by assuming that my gift will please.” “You know damned good and well it’ll please!” Laughing, the leader so used to weighing subtle evidence acknowledged, “You sport as keen a sense of what’ll keep morale up as I do. What sort of activity did you have in mind?” “I hoped you could suggest something. You know better what they’d enjoy.”

Frowning, Michael pondered that appeal. Inspiration struck out of the black, prompting him to beam on the woman awaiting his assessment. “One time, when Galt unexpectedly issued a formal commendation and hefty bonuses to our team, we celebrated with a party. Conrad and Jensen—he was a member of my crew then—put on a skit. Broad comedy— nothing fancy—but it turned out to be hilarious. Maybe Conrad could do something on his own, or ask someone to act with him. Leonard, perhaps.” “Leonard’s the guest of honor. How about Marvin?” “Marvin!” Michael exclaimed in shock. Bristling, the defender of the social misfit challenged, “Why not? He’s extremely bright. He boasts a fantastic memory, so he wouldn’t have any trouble remembering his lines. His somewhat fragile ego would receive a boost from his being asked to take an active part in the fun. Would Conrad go along, do you suppose?” Dubiously, Michael eyed the woman tossing off so improbable a suggestion. Well, Marvin has changed some, he reflected. Cleo likely could cajole him into agreeing. “We’ll ask Conrad. What else did you plan?” “Food. A treat, if Justin could manage it.” “I’ll tell him that now’s the time to serve the steaks he’s been hoarding, and I’ll hint that we could use a couple of magic bottles.” “Steaks! That would be super. Nigel has been sighing at every mention of those almost mythical delights.” “Well, woman, there’s no time like the present for commencing the preparations. We’ll lay your suggestion on Conrad.” Switching on the intercommunication system, Michael summoned the blonde spacer from the food-chemistry laboratory. That mystified subordinate presented himself promptly, wariness reflecting from his lean, tough face until he saw Cleo smile beguilingly at him. Wasting no time on preliminaries, Michael informed the assistant cook,

“Conrad, Cleo just suggested that we plan an activity, and throw a party, so as to celebrate Leonard’s birthday, next Sunday. She asked my advice, and I told her about that skit you and Jensen put on that time. We hope you’ll oblige again.” Surprised, but flattered, the amateur entertainer replied unhesitatingly, “Sure, Michael, I’d be willing, but I’ve got no partner. It’d be hard to put on an act alone. Whom do you figure I could ask?” Cleo inquired brightly, “How about Marvin?” “Marvin!” Conrad’s inflection as he all but shouted the name duplicated that of Michael’s earlier exclamation exactly. On beholding the woman’s crestfallen expression, and Michael’s black frown, he amended hastily, “If you think he’d agree, I’ll try and talk him into it. It’s just in fun. He doesn’t have to match Willard for talent,” he added, referring to a legendary Columbian actor. “I’d appreciate your doing that.” To Conrad’s relief, the creases smoothed out of Michael’s brow. In an urgent appeal, the originator of the idea begged, “Conrad, when you ask him, don’t let on it that I made the suggestion. If he can’t bring himself to do it, I’d rather that he didn’t feel he had disappointed more than one of us. It’s not something everyone can do.” His lean face plainly conveying agreement with that last statement, the spacer nonetheless declared gamely, “I’ll make a rousing pitch, Cleo, and talk him into it.” “Thank you!” Smiling appreciatively on the man with whom he secretly sympathized, Michael urged, “Take all the time you need to practice, during the balance of this week, Conrad. If Marvin agrees, you’d better not delay. He might lose his nerve. Arrange the scheduling with Justin. He can borrow Leonard again, if he feels the need.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Again alone with the Gaean, Michael eyed her narrowly. “Turning devious, are you?” Face serene, she replied, “Just cautious.” “If you put your mind to it, I’ll wager you could wrap all six of us around your little finger.” That perfectly honest assessment came couched in a wry tone. Cleo laughed even as she recalled what this autocratic military leader once declared he would have done had she employed certain unsavory feminine wiles after her capture. He surely has mellowed, she acknowledged. He knows me far better now, and he’s far less desperate, having stayed firmly in control, but he’s tough as ever, underneath. The chill induced by that memory failed to banish her admiration. “Thank you for your help, Michael.” “If Conrad pulls this off, the suspense of awaiting what that team comes up with will most definitely enliven my week,” the Captain declared with perfect truth. “Well. Let’s get back to the joys of moving furniture. I’ll make it clear to Nigel and Leonard that your interview resulted in my approving a party.” Relieved by that statement, Cleo divined that Michael remained as wary of Nigel’s reactions as did she, but a new worry overrode that familiar one. Oh, Marvin, take a chance! she urged as if sending an extrasensory message. Be a sport, spacer. You can do it! Even as that wordless appeal flashed across the space of the station, Conrad strode down the rim, frowning blackly. Now what in hell possessed Cleo to lay this burden on me? Marvin, of all people! he railed in disgust. I can’t back out now. Not when she wangled my consent right in front of the Captain! Well, shit—I’ll make the pitch. Marvin seems changed, lately. Her doing, I’ll wager. What the hell! Cleo

has been good to me, and she’s more woman than any of the others I’ve taken to bed. It won’t kill me to humor her. Anyway, Marvin will no doubt flatly refuse, and that’ll let me off the hook. Having flushed his comrade out from under the table in Two, where the programmer groped on the deck for a myriad tiny screws he had just brushed off the surface of his workspace with an elbow, Conrad came straight to the point. “Marvin, Cleo’s organizing a party on Sunday, to celebrate Leonard’s birthday. She asked Michael to suggest an activity, and he told her how Jensen and I entertained at our celebration. I agreed to do something similar. Would you be willing to act as my partner?” His lean body taut, the reluctant pitchman watched liquid dark eyes instantly light with intense, profound excitement. “I’d love to! No lie! Conrad, how thoughtful of you to ask me!” Astounded, the petitioner let his mouth fall open. Expecting at the most a grudging acquiescence, he would have entertained no surprise on hearing a surly refusal. Marvin’s obvious delight shocked him speechless. When he finally did reply, he almost stammered: an ironic reversal of roles, had he actually done so. “Marvin, that’s great! I appreciate it. Michael said for us to take what time off work we need to practice. How about an hour from now, to start? In the recreation hall? I’ll clear the time with Justin.” “Suits me!” “We’ll have to change the script…clean it up. Mixed company, this time. Think up some new ideas, if you can.” “I’ll surely try.” Totally bemused, the shaken amateur actor set out for his workplace. Suffering shades of skewered spacers, he marveled, whatever has come over Marvin?

Having worked out a set of practice times with Justin, who assured his colleague that Leonard’s assistance would not prove necessary, the assistant cook exerted himself to finish a few chores that he knew his overworked partner would appreciate his completing. Arriving in the recreation hall to find his fellow thespian already there, Conrad saw instantly that Marvin’s astonishing eagerness had in no way abated during the interval. Having seated himself at a table beside the spacer whose awkward shyness in social situations rendered his present enthusiasm incomprehensible, Conrad handed him a datapad. “We can use the same basic idea, probably. Dumb recruit and exasperated officer. You think?” Having reflected on that suggestion, his new partner suddenly nodded, as inspiration struck. His face alight, he replied, “I’ll agree, if you’ll do me one favor, Conrad. Let me act the part of the officer.” Blue eyes widened in bemusement. “Sure, Marvin,” Conrad agreed, hoping he was actor enough to hide the stupefaction gripping him. “I played the dumb recruit last time, anyway. Let’s see what we can come up with.” During the ensuing forty minutes, the pair achieved a scribbled scenario of a sequence of actions each character would perform, a list of props they would need, and notes regarding dialogue. As was his wont, Conrad improvised dialogue as he went along, starting with a mere outline of ideas. Discovering that Marvin fell easily into his freewheeling method, he asked, “Shall we try the opening?” more amazed than ever at his partner’s whole-hearted zeal. “Let’s.” Having rearranged some of the furniture, the blonde spacer performed the actions that preceded any dialogue. When Marvin made his entrance, and uttered his first line, Conrad’s mouth not only fell open, his jaw threatened to become unhinged. Forcibly controlling potent shock, he went

on with his part. Ten minutes later he collapsed on the deck in utter, stunned, delirious, abandoned mirth, hugging himself in delight. “Marvin, where did you learn to do that?” he asked in bemusement. “By all the wealth of Earth, you’re incredible!” That query caused the social misfit’s thin face to crease into the transforming grin he so seldom employed. His eyes lit with pride as he confided, “I was one of the University Players, during the whole time I was an undergraduate.” Staring in awe, Conrad spluttered, “All these Earthyears, and you’ve never said one word to any of us! Why, Marvin? Why? Why didn’t you tell us you could act?” “No one ever asked me.” “No one… Howling hordes of hell, some things you don’t wait to be asked!” Flushing, the recipient of that blast shrugged, as he valiantly resisted the urge to avert his eyes. Instead, he smiled apologetically at the comrade now scratching his head as he perceived a potential problem. “Have you got guts enough to repeat that performance Sunday? To his face?” “Why not? It’s in fun.” “He might take offense. He’s makes a bad enemy, Marvin.” “And do what? Challenge a man who has never learned swordsmanship?” “He’d think of something.” Marvin frowned. “I’m not making a jest of him. He’d have to be a rotten sport, not to take our skit in fun.” Eyeing the partner for whom his respect just took a quantum leap, Conrad replied, “I’m game, if you are.” The frown faded, and Marvin laughed. “I’m game. I’ll play it by ear.

If he looks as if the opening pissed him off, I’ll change in mid-act. I’ve got other models I can use.” “You boast more guts than I do, spacer, and several hundred percent more talent!” “You’ve got a natural flair for acting, Conrad—believe me. With training, you’d be a premier performer!” Warmed to the core, the still-bemused amateur clapped the exUniversity Player on the back. “Well, let’s polish the act. I mean, let me polish my part. We’ll do it your way, and let the shit hit where it lands. Four of them at least will likely split a gut.” Having cast caution to the mythical winds, the two associates honed their brief act to a high degree of perfection. Michael and Cleo arrived in Fourteen to find that Nigel and Leonard had made considerable progress at detaching more furniture. Conscious of Nigel’s utterly expressionless face, Michael clapped Leonard on the back, and announced “Lad, you’re in luck. Cleo just talked me into giving us Sunday afternoon off to celebrate your forthcoming birthday with food, drink, and a party. Nigel, I intend to pry loose from the cook the steaks he’s been hoarding. Cleo thought that promise would cheer your week.” Surprise, followed by pleasure, wreathed the youthful spacer’s classic face. “Why, Cleo, how did you know when my birthday falls due?” “I asked Justin for a list of everyone’s birthday, so we could add seven holidays to our calendar.” “Steaks,” Nigel purred as his own face lost its stony impassivity. “My salivary glands activate at the mere thought. No matter how delicately flavored, fish simply can’t compete. Leonard, my congratulations.” “Congratulations on adding an Earthyear to one’s age might be in order, for someone with as few to his credit as Leonard. I confess that I don’t look forward to my annual increase with unqualified joy,” Michael

asserted wryly. “You sound like Justin,” Leonard chuckled. “Well, thank you for the kind thought, Cleo.” Damned if it isn’t, Michael mused. This party gives us something we can look forward to, all week. I hope to hell Conrad’s pitch convinces Marvin. Cleo laid a tough chore on the poor bastard, all right. Good sport, Conrad—damned dependable hand. He obviously cares deeply for Cleo now. His initial anger didn’t last long. He habitually keeps a firm handle on that temper. Not the risk the other was, his first night with her, but she won him over completely. Well! Things are going smoothly. This harmony won’t last, but it’s nice while it prevails. Working with buoyed spirits, Michael’s team finished detaching the furniture in Fourteen, and set about moving the aggregation to Eleven’s mostly open upper deck. Their break they took together in the corridor, talking and joking ebulliently. Afterwards, Michael paired with Nigel to lift the heavy pieces, leaving Cleo and Leonard the easier tasks. Having studied the emerging layout, the Gaean noted that Michael’s office undoubtedly would adjoin the food-chemistry laboratory, situated opposite the dining hall/sleeping quarters. The infirmary only takes up part of the space opposite the bridge, she observed, surveying the placement of the items. He must intend to locate a second cabin next to the infirmary. I wonder what purpose that will serve? Or the empty space on either end of the section? Shaking her head, she owned to bafflement. Arriving at the dining hall, Cleo held out her bowl to Conrad, who ladled it full of stew. No strong emotion of any sort showed on his lean face as she smiled hopefully at him. Michael seated himself as she took her place, followed by Nigel and Leonard.

To the nervous woman’s vast relief, Marvin walked through the door. She had half expected him to stay away, in an excess of embarrassment at having refused so daunting an invitation. His demeanor astonishingly placid, the programmer picked up a bowl, and held it out to the assistant cook, who exclaimed, “Eat hearty, partner! You’ll need all your energy on Sunday!” Four faces turned to stare at the duo. Conrad’s inflection gave Cleo no clue as to whether his words signified a grim warning or a friendly remark. As Conrad vanished into the inner sanctum, the introvert seated himself, his face composed. Unable to master his curiosity, Michael probed delicately. “Conrad talked you into helping out, Marvin?” A sparkle lurked in the socially handicapped spacer’s eyes. “He made a pitch I couldn’t refuse, so we’re collaborating on a skit,” he acknowledged blandly. “I appreciate your willingness to take on that chore,” Michael commended him, his sincerity patent to the normally querulous expert. “It’s just in fun—something to take our minds off what’s ahead.” That qualification produced no flustered, self-deprecatory response. “I’m happy to oblige,” the former misfit affirmed calmly. Moldering bones of my long-dead forebears! Conrad must have outdone himself in eloquence! Michael conjectured, mastering his own face. He managed a miracle! He just saved Cleo any need to coax her choice into obliging. Damned if I can imagine Marvin as an actor! Unwilling to let the volunteer know that Conrad’s request originated with her, Cleo applied herself to her stew, after smiling a greeting as she would at any meal. Nigel’s face registered no curiosity, although his eyes rested reflectively on the programmer generating such shock among his associates. Leonard’s open countenance expressed mild interest, but he asked no question.

By the end of the afternoon, all the modules reposed in Eleven, except for the terminal. Surveying the clutter of furniture reposing on the deck, Michael announced, “Tomorrow, first thing, we’ll attack the freezer, Nigel, while we’ve got Leonard. We’ll unload it where it’ll go. Chore, that’ll be.” “We’ll manage.” “Well, let’s eat.” Over her plate of thyme-flavored tomato and cheese casserole—don’t think of that awful name, she commanded herself sternly—Cleo joined in the discussion of the power the freezer and the refrigerator would require, and what percent of the total draw on Eleven’s power supply that need would represent. “You know, Michael,” she remarked, “most of the appliances in this station—especially the big ones, like that freezer—are over an Earthcentury old. Gaean engineering has made giant strides since then. I’ll wager our modern insulation’s a vast improvement over what’s here. Perhaps if we could scrounge up some highly efficient, thin insulation, we could glue it or tape it around the freezer and refrigerator to save on power.” “That would help, damned if it wouldn’t. Problem is, finding something big enough. The freezer totals quite a bit of surface area.” “We’ll bear that thought in mind, and keep an eye out for what would serve,” Nigel assured Michael. Seated opposite Marvin, engrossed in a lesson in chess, Cleo debated whether to bring up the issue of the skit. Better not, she decided. Let the two of them tell us. Focusing her mind on strategy, she concentrated on the game, until Conrad showed up, glowing with cleanliness. Rising, she departed with him, awash in trepidation. Immediately after closing the door, the blunt-spoken spacer fronted the inwardly quivering woman, frowning as he raked her with eyes blue as

the fabled sky of Earth. Her heart sinking, she concluded, Oh, my soul, Marvin’s a flop, and Conrad’s royally pissed! “What made you suggest Marvin?” he demanded. Gulping so as to lubricate a throat gone dry as dust, the woman acutely conscious of having compromised her plan, perhaps fatally, blurted out the bare truth. “He has such a fantastic memory, that I thought he’d remember his lines…and he’s bright…” “No other reason?” “No…except I sort of hoped that it’d work out. I gather it hasn’t.” To her astonishment, the lean face of the challenger split into a wide grin. “Work out! That’s an understatement. Cleo, you must read minds, or boast an uncanny ability to sense things no one else can. You’ve got double the usual share of women’s intuition!” Digging her fingers into both of Conrad’s arms, the stunned woman queried, “It worked? And you’re not royally pissed?” Laughing, the spacer pulled her against his chest, and planted an enthusiastic kiss full on her mouth. “I braced myself so as not to get pissed, but I got the shock of my life, Cleo. Don’t expect details. You’ll have to possess your soul in patience just like everybody else, but you can bet that Sunday will stand as a landmark day in our saga of space adventure!” My thumping heart, it worked. “Conrad, since I can go back to breathing, let me peel your suit off you. I’m going to make you ever so glad you took a chance on a crazy woman’s hunch!” His mind racing ahead of hers, Conrad busily stripped off Cleo’s tunic. With equal fervor, she returned the gesture. Not stopping there, she finished undressing him. Roused to raw lust, he slid her pants down, pulled off her boots, and swept her into his arms. Burying her face in his chest, encircling his neck with both arms, she felt him lower her into the bed, to fall on her with passionate intensity. Buoyed by the elation suffusing him, the

spacer/thespian/cook outdid his prior efforts. Lying limply in his embrace a considerable time later, Cleo giggled like a girl. “You should have something drop into your day to take your mind off duckweed and eels more often, Conrad.” “Damned right!” Propping himself on his elbow, the triumphant lover looked down at his partner’s laughing face, and grew suddenly serious. “Cleo,” he confided softly, “I never took a woman to bed in my life who wasn’t a courtesan, before I met you. I never expected to acquire a wife. Marriage doesn’t mix with this life. Justin found that out. But now, I know what I’d have missed.” His voice husky with feeling, he drew her closer. “I love you, Cleo. You’re more wife to me now than anything else, even with the way we’re living in this damned mess. You’re not crazy. This life is! I love you, woman. I never really knew what that word meant, before.” The Gaean’s heart turned over. The last one, she reminded herself. Her arms tightened around the man offering that welcome explanation of his feelings. “Conrad, can you believe me when I tell you that crazy life or not, six partners or not, I love you?” A sigh floated out on the ambient air. “I believe you. You’ve got warmth enough, and kindness enough, to love an army. I know I’m not the only one to whom you’ve said that, but I also know that you’d never lie to me. Cleo…what love you can spare me is more than I’ll ever likely find again.” Pressed close to the man’s lean, hard body, Cleo mused, He’s so decent…so comfortable. Conrad harbors no jealousy…merely resignation. He accepts what life hands him, even if he grumbles. A surge of deep feeling, of more than comradely friendship, rose to envelop her.

“Conrad,” she exclaimed earnestly, “I’m not offering you something left over from what I feel for others. I love all of you. I won’t say equally. Differently. You’re all different people. Let me assure you of two things. I’ve never ranked the six of you in any order of how much I love you, and if we ever get out of this mess…and any of you wanted a wife…I couldn’t choose among you. I’d draw names out of a bowl, and you’d rate the same chance as any of the others who wanted to put his name in. One in six, if they all did, and whatever name came up, I’d have no regrets. I know that’s crazy, but that’s what I’d do.” The clear voice trembled as its owner added, “But Conrad…I don’t want…ever…to have to make such a choice! It’s a dreadful muddle, what has happened, but when I say I love you, I mean it.” Gripping her shoulders, the hard-bitten spacer-fighter stared at her in wonder. Intent scrutiny brought him utter certainty that those words had been the exact truth. Drawing her close once more, he replied softly, “Cleo, all I can say is, you’ve made me happier tonight than I’ve ever been. I feel married, damned if I don’t. I’m not going to rack my brain with it. I’ll just enjoy the feeling. You do the same. You’re one hell of a fine woman.” Having fiercely hugged her partner for the night, the focus of the muddle blissfully settled herself against him. What irony, she reflected bleakly. Six husbands: that’s what I’ve got. I’m a polygamist. No…what’s that other word? Polyandrist? That doesn’t sound right. Oh, Conrad. I love you, you decent, ordinary, friendly, lovable man!

WEEK SIX: WEDNESDAY Coming drowsily awake to find Conrad propped on an elbow, his cornyellow hair in disarray as he regarded her quizzically, Cleo held out her arms to him. His kiss, long and lingering, left her breathless. “We’ve got fifteen minutes, woman. Care to risk a late entrance to breakfast?” “I confess to hoping you’d ask. But after this, wake me!” His passion tempered by tender warmth arising out of the understanding they had reached on the previous night, Conrad took his time raising Cleo to bliss. Lying limply in his arms afterwards, hating the thought of getting out of bed, the Gaean realized that they would indeed arrive tardily to breakfast. My shattered nerves, I’m turning into a voluptuary! she reflected in dismay. A hedonist! What must they think of me? But they don’t worry when it’s their morning! Even Michael, who has never been late to anything in his life before breakfast yesterday, I’d be willing to wager. Well, brace yourself, woman, and heave out. Walking serenely through the line, Cleo smiled warmly at Justin, who helped her to a man-sized portion of rhubarb cobbler. He beamed back at her, no hint of speculation in his glance. Justin, you’re a gentleman, she commended him fondly, if silently. Seating herself, she bestowed a general greeting on her four comrades. Michael smiled at her over his coffee cup. No critical look from him, she

noted. He’s conscious of his own tardiness yesterday, no doubt. Marvin and Leonard are hiding the fact that they noticed. I’d better not glance at Nigel. “Conrad tells me that the pair of you intend to entertain us on Sunday, Marvin,” Leonard remarked, smiling at the man across from him. “We’re working on it.” “I can’t remember ever looking forward to a birthday celebration that generated as much suspense,” the youthful spacer admitted, flashing the programmer his impish grin. “I hope our effort measures up,” Marvin replied, smiling back. Damned if their first practice session left the rank amateur a bundle of quivering nerves, the Captain reflected bemusedly. Maybe Cleo scored a point. His ego’s fragile, but he surely does boast a phenomenal memory. She surely has bolstered his ego, lately. Damned if she isn’t radiant again this morning, and Conrad looks utterly content. A twinge of pain briefly impacted the visionary’s consciousness, before satisfaction smothered it. Your conditioning resists change, the same as does Cleo’s, he chided himself. You need to work on that, spacer-captain. While Nigel and Leonard fetched the wheeled vehicle, and Michael made careful measurements before marking the space the freezer would occupy on the deck of Eleven, Cleo stole a peek into Eleven’s tertiary tank to see how the plants she and Justin had moved were withstanding transplant shock. Not bad, she decided. And our lone strawberry crown’s doing fine. If I just had some free time! A thought impinged. Don’t complain! she berated herself. Things have gone really well lately. Even as those words echoed in her mind, a premonitory fear gripped her. Luck changes, she reminded herself as chills ran down her spine. Things never go smoothly for long. Please, no awful accident next week. No ghastly disaster!

Having hurried back to Ten, Cleo watched as Nigel rigged a block, and Michael and Leonard arranged the tackle around the bulky freezer, straining to lift an end so that she could slip the chain underneath. After repeating that process on the other end, she stood ready to help swing the massive load onto the platform. The freezer rose slowly, as Nigel pulled chain through the block. Three people shoved the ungainly mass into position. Reversing the direction of his pull, the chain-puller lowered the item onto the platform, and took down the block. Four movers nudged the unwieldy vehicle out into the rim, and pushed it slowly but steadily towards Eleven. When the appliance rested precisely on the spot Michael had marked, the four laborers breathed a collective sigh of relief. “Well, that nasty chore’s behind us,” the team leader grunted, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “Next stop’s Twelve. We’ll need the two empty bins, and the truck. Won’t take long, moving what we’ll take.” Striding at a brisk pace, Michael led the way to Twelve’s upper deck, where reposed the discarded items: exercise equipment, panels from the former shower area, and various components from the life-support system. “We’ll take those six mats,” the leader directed, “and this pile of exercise equipment I’ve set aside. Also, this small table that folds down from a wall, these chains, this small locker, and these three long, narrow lockers designed to store exercise sets. Hauling this gear ought to take the four of us only two trips. Then we’ll come back for these three dividers.” Leaving the two older men to the most strenuous task, Leonard strapped the smaller locker onto the truck, while Cleo filled a wheeled bin with chains, rolled mats, and the folding table. “Leave the gear in the corner on the far side of the bridge from the dining hall,” Michael directed.

Nodding, the duo pushed their burdens rapidly away. Returning for the remainder of the mats, and the third locker, which Leonard strapped to the truck, the pair passed Michael and Nigel, who strode by carrying a loaded locker. “Those two sport muscles of spring-steel,” Cleo declared wryly. “Either one of them could snap me in two.” “Swordsmen, they are,” Leonard reminded her wistfully. “Earthyears of constant practice gives them that grace. A fencer develops calves and arms of iron, and a wrist of steel. Michael’s a martial expert as well. Spacer training helps, but even that regimen doesn’t give a man the strength and agility the two of them boast.” Cleo caught the wistfulness. Fear that she might have hurt Leonard’s feelings smote her. “Well, I lack even that training,” she reminded him. “You do fine, Leonard. You lift things I’d never try to move!” Smiling, the youthful spacer clapped her on the back. “What you lack in size, you make up for in sheer guts. Let’s get rid of these, so we can pit our own muscles against those blasted panels.” Squeezing his arm, Cleo smiled back, and the two resumed their task. If I injured his feelings, he hid his pain, she reflected bleakly. Oh, Leonard, you’re as manly a spacer as either Michael or Nigel, for all that you’re slim and young, and boast a face of classic beauty. I wish I knew how to make you believe that! Dumping their burdens in the space designated, the pair hurried back for a divider. “Not much choice, Cleo. Want to attack a long one, or the one with the door?” “The door. Not so awkward.” Grasping one end, Cleo flexed her legs, rising to take the weight on her calves, sparing her back. Leonard walked off with the front end. “Sing out if you need to rest,” he urged. Halfway to Eleven, Cleo gasped, “Leonard, let it down.” Standing with

a hand steadying the heavy panel resting perpendicular to the deck, the petite woman ached from the strain on arms and legs. This week’s going to test my muscular development, she groused. Why don’t we use the wheeled outfit? Too slow and unwieldy, I guess. Carrying them is faster, and nobody else develops the discomfort afflicting me. Brace up, woman. “I’m ready, Leonard,” she declared forcefully. Michael and Nigel passed them, bearing the longest panel. As she let her end of the load down on the deck of Eleven, Cleo secretly rejoiced to hear Michael call for a break. Dropping onto a pile of folded mats lying against a wall, she stretched, and leaned back gratefully in the surprisingly comfortable seat. “These make a lovely couch,” she exclaimed. “They’ll double as a couch, folded,” Michael admitted. “You’ve planned the layout so a good bit of it does double duty, evidently,” Leonard remarked. “I had to. I couldn’t afford any wasted space.” Frowning speculatively, the Captain glanced at Nigel. “You’ve studied what’s available. We need a card table, big enough to fit all seven of us around it. I’ve spotted lots of rectangular types, but none that are round. I’d hate to steal Central’s. Besides, I’d like a larger one. Any ideas?” “Hm. Let me think. There ought to be something less massive than a deck from which we could cut out a round top.” “There’s a round tank in Thirty-one: an outfit made of clear laminate,” Cleo chimed in. “That section’s a physics lab. A ripple tank, I think the outfit must be. You’d have to cut out the bottom with a laser. Anything mechanical would crack the laminate.” “I’ll check it out.” “What did you figure on rigging with the chains, Michael?” Leonard

asked. “A couch that folds up against the inner wall. I’ll use the table we brought from the ship, and the extra mattress.” “Recreation hall doubles as exercise area, hm?” “That’s right.” Better abort their questioning the layout, Michael decided. Suavely, he drew Nigel and Cleo into a technical discussion concerning the routing of wastewater from the sinks that would be installed on the main deck. Rejuvenated by the break, each pair of movers hauled a panel from Twelve. Michael left those items lying on the deck, opposite the bridge, declaring, “The walls that will enclose the food-chemistry lab and infirmary, I’m not stealing all from a single section. We’ll take the wheeled outfit, start with the most distant section, and pile the panels on as we work our way back. The job will take awhile, so let’s attack it.” A long, tiring afternoon followed that directive. Michael paired Leonard with Nigel when they lifted massive wall-panels, and took Cleo as his partner, for no other reason than to spare her the heaviest lifting. I won’t be up to chess tonight, the woman stressed by the labor surmised wryly. Leonard, tonight. He’ll be tired too, but not as exhausted as I’ll be! Walking into the dining hall with aching arms and calves afflicted with spasms, Cleo smiled wanly at Conrad, who heaped her plate with baked stuffed eel, baked white potato, a salad boasting a spicy dressing, and a roll. Bearing her plate and a steaming cup of coffee that she hoped would counteract the tiredness, she sat down. Sipping the fragrant brew, she silently marveled, This tastes so good! It can’t be all chicory. We don’t have enough roots. Salted soybeans, or something new? Michael, Nigel and Leonard seated themselves. Spying Marvin, the last

to arrive, as he walked through the line, Conrad flashed the newcomer a broad grin. “I spent an hour today fixing you-know-what,” he confided conspiratorially. “It worked like a charm!” “Both effects?” his colleague queried hopefully. “Right! Spectacular!” “When can I watch?” “As soon as I get out of here!” “I’ll give you a hand, if Justin won’t mind.” “Hell, no, he won’t mind!” Seating himself opposite Leonard, the volunteer thespian glanced apologetically at his female pupil. “I won’t be able to offer either of you a chess lesson tonight,” he declared. “Marvin, that’s fine,” the tired woman instantly assured him. “I was going to beg off anyway, having carried walls all afternoon. I need to wash my hair.” “You look fresh as a newly picked flower, girl.” “Well, thank you!” Beaming on the author of the compliment, Cleo noticed his elation, and guessed the main cause. My thumping heart, Marvin has gained a friend! she rejoiced. I hope the bond lasts past this one mutual endeavor. “I admit to awaiting your debut with eager anticipation, Marvin,” Nigel remarked in a lazy drawl. “No more than I am myself,” the second thespian responded pleasantly. Michael’s utter amazement found no expression on his rugged face. Damned if Cleo’s crazy notion isn’t working out! he marveled. I hope to hell the poor bastard doesn’t succumb to an attack of stage fright on Sunday. He’ll find performing in front of an audience a lot more nerve-racking than rehearsals. Shy as he is…or was…

Still is, damn it! He blushes like a girl, and he stammered when I startled him last week. This strain might undo what other good Cleo has done him, but she doesn’t seem worried. The suspense this skit’s generating damned well counteracts the worry produced by the monumental chore facing us, all right! Upon retiring to her cabin, Cleo washed her hair with a frugal amount of water, and dried it in the jets of warm air issuing from the walls of the shower-cylinder. Having tossed both of her suits into the adjuster, she dropped into bed, feeling revived. Clean hair does wonders towards restoring my sense of well-being, she reflected contentedly. Relaxing, she fought the drowsiness stealing over her. I’d better not fall asleep, she warned herself. I hurt Leonard’s feelings once already today, I’m afraid. The door slid open to admit her partner for the night, who seated himself on the edge of the bed, and gazed thoughtfully down at her. Cleo sensed immediately that he searched for words in which to express some problem. Smiling warmly, she took both his hands in hers, and waited, giving him time to organize his thoughts. At length, his voice husky with emotion, the youth unburdened himself of the matter weighing on his mind. “Cleo, ever since that first night we spent together, you’ve taught me so much…been so good to me…you’ve made a different person out of me. Even so, I strongly suspect that you haven’t taught me all you know about making love. You’ve been afraid to do that, because of what I confided to you.” Pausing, his eyes riveted to those of the woman he loved, his slim body tense, he groped for words. “Cleo, let me try to explain what has happened to me. Since that night…when I got off my chest what had festered inside…the secret I’d never told anyone but Michael, when he shot me full of truth compeller…my mind has been completely full of you. So much so, that the old trauma now

seems like a barely remembered, evil dream. I’ve done a lot of thinking, lately. I’ve come to realize that nothing you and I could possibly do together in bed would ever seem wrong, or…unnatural…or uncomfortable.” The depth of emotion mirrored in long-lashed eyes of iridescent bluegreen paralleled that radiating through the husky voice. “Cleo, I love you, but not because of the way you helped me, or because of what you’ve taught me to enjoy, physically. I’d have loved you if we had never enjoyed physical intimacy. I care for you because you’re the person you are. In the weeks we have left…believe what I’m telling you, Cleo. Teach me everything you know. Not all in one night, necessarily,”—a trace of the impish grin momentarily illumined the classic features—”but start with what makes you feel the absolute best. It’s because I love you as much as I do, that I want to do more than I’ve done, to give you pleasure.” The intense voice trailed off, but Leonard’s eyes spoke volumes. Cleo’s heart expanded. That eloquent appeal produced nearly total certainty that his assessment of his readiness would prove accurate. Leonard’s a deeply passionate man, she realized with sudden clarity. He’s capable of deep, unselfish love. When he generates affection, that emotion finds better expression in the act of copulation than it does in words, despite his having endured forcible rape right after he enlisted. I’m coming to see that I respond on some primitive level to the passion of the men I love…that I need that expression, myself. Not just with Leonard…with all of them. I know so much more about the physical aspect of love now, than I did! Was I repressed? Or am I becoming an utter sensualist? Surely Leonard isn’t, or he couldn’t have said what he just did. Dare I show him all I’ve learned? Breathlessly, Cleo sat up, and slipped her hands into the bands of his tunic. “Leonard, I’ll do what you ask, but if anything bothers you…stirs painful memories…please, say so.”

“I’m over that old trauma, Cleo.” That firm assertion banished the amateur therapist’s last trace of doubt. Taking no pains to conceal mounting desire, she helped her partner out of his tunic. Rising, he shed pants and boots, and slid in to fold her into eager arms. “Leonard,” she whispered, “caress my breasts, the way you always do. Make me feel good…and then I’ll tell you…” Leonard did as she asked. No less gentle, no less careful of his partner for experiencing an aching, throbbing arousal brought on by the vivid mental fantasies entertained during the past week, the youth caressed firm, full breasts, and then let his hands slide over Cleo’s whole upper body, as his tongue circled first one hard, erect nipple, and then the other. Her breath coming in gasps, his mentor finally reached for his hand, and guided it to her stiffly erect organ of pleasure. “Leonard…kiss me…there…” The urgency in that whispered request stirred the youthful spacer to the core. Closing her eyes, Cleo moaned as his mouth enfolded the sensitive center of her feminine self. His tongue moved, targeting nerves that radiated intense delight. Hands caressed her. The gentleness this lover never lost, even at the height of passion, roused deeper emotion than mere physical bliss. Floating in a state of ecstasy, Cleo cried out softly. The sound acted on her partner’s mind like aged brandy. Gauging her nearness to a climax, he rose. Cleo arched to meet his hard manhood, as his thrusts lifted her to rapture. Sensing the uncontrollable contractions within his partner’s womanly depth, Leonard achieved an unprecedented rush of pleasure himself, simultaneously with her: a draining, fulfilling, shattering culmination that blurred the boundary between mind and sensually aware flesh. When the youthful spacer lay unmoving, limp, lost in trance, atop his

partner, she perceived the warm pressure of his slim body down the length of her own as a final source of satisfaction. Slowly, her euphoria ebbed. Happiness permeated her consciousness. Coming out of her own rapturous state, she admitted musingly to herself, Whatever I’ve become…sensualist…uninhibited enthusiast frankly reveling in the act of love…I can’t change back, now. Leonard…all your youthful vigor…all your deep, unselfish first love…you’ve given to me: a woman Earthyears older than yourself…a woman you share with five other men. That dismal circumstance seems not in any way to have lessened the depth of your affection, or impaired your peace of mind. You deserved better from life than what you got! Eventually, her lover stirred. Slipping sideways to lie closely against her, propped on one elbow, he looked down and whispered, “Cleo, for a little while there…we weren’t two separate people.” Her arms enfolded him. Stirred to her depths by that simple statement of how he perceived their union, she failed to phrase a reply, but he expected none. His hand found a lock of wavy brown hair, and played with the soft tendril absently, while he assessed his sensations. His other arm encircled the partner savoring happiness she allowed no guilty pang to mar. His face wreathed of a sudden in his most impish grin, Leonard whispered in her ear, “Woman, I’m going to enjoy the advanced course!” A trace of the sunny smile provoked by that observation lingered as the prisoner of war fell asleep in her gentle lover’s arms.

WEEK SIX: THURSDAY Nagging soreness pervaded stiff limbs. That stimulus impinging on her consciousness as she turned over in bed jarred Cleo awake. Warmth radiated from Leonard’s back, which she discovered to be pressed against her own. Opening her eyes, she gasped. My battered, blistered body, it’s 0410! “Leonard! Wake up!” Stabbed by pain issuing from protesting muscles as she reared bolt upright , Cleo shook his shoulder, bringing him rudely to sudden awareness. “What time is it… Oh, shit!” Rising abruptly, her bedmate heaved himself to a sitting position. Pulling on his pants, he urged, “Strip the bed, Cleo. I’ll get your clothes. We’d better hustle.” Nobody will believe we overslept! the Gaean groaned inwardly, rolling the bedding into a ball. Having caught the suit Leonard threw her, she donned it while he tossed the clean bedding onto the mattress, and wriggled into his tunic. “Leave the bed. I’ll make it after supper,” Cleo gasped. “No way! If Michael chanced to pull an inspection, you’d catch hell.” While his partner hastily pulled on her clothes, Leonard made the bed. Combing her hair without bothering to look in the mirror, Cleo hurled the used bedding into the adjuster, stole a brief glimpse of her reflection,

and hurried through the door her companion held open. “We’ll only be eight minutes late,” she assured him. “Michael and I did worse than that.” “The Captain’s doing it and my doing it are two entirely different things,” came the grim reminder. Opening the door, Leonard cast an unrepentant smile at his fellow laggard, and whispered, “The memory of last night will get me through anything, today, woman.” That fervent declaration produced a smile that lingered as Cleo preceded her companion into the dining hall. Composing her face, she bid Justin a cheery good-morning, and collected her breakfast. By the time she took her seat, conscious of one guarded and two bold stares, she had regained her serenity. Calmly, she bade everyone a pleasant good-morning. Michael shot her a knowing grin. Damned if she hasn’t gotten a workout, this week! he reflected, generating profound admiration of her stamina. After what she lifted yesterday! She’s a stayer, by all the Powers. Cleo’s doing better at shedding her conditioning than you are, spacercaptain. And Leonard gets an extra shot at keeping his morale up, Sunday night. Lucky beggar. It doesn’t look to me as if his morale’s suffering any, this morning! A professional reminder wrested Michael’s mind back to the mundane world of work. “Michael, I’ll need Conrad, today, to work on electromagnetic couplings, and some other problems.” “Fine by me, Marvin. Leonard, you rise to the rank of cook.” Smiling gamely, the apprentice nodded. Oh, my soul, only three of us to carry the rest of those panels, Cleo griped to her alter ego as the Captain asked the petitioner, “Will you need Conrad more than one day?” “I doubt it, Michael, unless we hit an unforeseen problem.” “If you do, let me know.”

Changing his plans in the light of his reduced manpower, Michael led his team to Eleven. “We’ve got the panels with which to wall off the infirmary,” he reminded them. “We’ll erect those, and start building in furniture. We’ll wait until we get Leonard back before collecting the remaining panels. Nigel and I’ll team to lift them, and you bolt them in, Cleo.” That order filled the tired, sore woman with gratitude. I’ll have an easy day, if a tedious one, she rejoiced. Michael didn’t seem upset by our tardiness. I wonder how often he has inspected my cabin, during the day. I never once suspected that he might. I’m glad I’ve always made the bed, and thrown all the used bedding in the adjuster. Well…I boast no possessions to clutter the place. Except…one spare suit, and one precious glass rose. It’s a good thing well-made boots last nearly a lifetime. I can’t imagine improvising footwear! By 0800, the wall stretching from the bridge to the outer wall of Eleven stood half completed. Radiating satisfaction, the three workers repaired to the corner where lay the equipment for exercise and recreation. As the Gaean again relaxed on the piled mats, Nigel seated himself on the small locker. Hooking the heel of his boot into the middle shelf of the open front, he clasped his bent knee with both arms, leaned back, and inquired, “How are the transplants coming along, Cleo?” “I checked yesterday. I spied a few signs of transplant shock, but nothing that looked fatal. Our lone strawberry crown’s doing fine. One plant won’t produce many berries. If I had time, I’d regenerate a series of new plants from protoplasts of the leaf cells, and grow a bed in short order. As things stand, we might each get to taste a berry or so.” His curiosity aroused, the Captain sitting astride a long, narrow locker full of exercise sets inquired, “How do you do that?”

“You remove small terminal leaves, dissolve their cell walls with enzymes, and transfer the isolated protoplasts to a culture medium where they synthesize new cell walls. They divide, giving rise to a group of cells called a microcallus. You change the culture medium, and the microcallus grows into a full-sized callus. The cells begin to differentiate. They grow a shoot, which develops into a full-sized plant in a third culture medium. You plant that in the tank. If you start quite a few, in less than a fourweek you can plant a bed. For one plant to increase to that extent requires far more time. Of course, some of the cloned plants may turn out to be aberrant, but usually most of them retain the characteristics of the parent plant.” “Some of the variants tend to show increased resistance to plant diseases caused by fungi,” Nigel remarked. “Tertiary tanks occasionally suffer infestations of fungi that cause various forms of blight or wilt. Have you noticed any infected plants in the tanks on this station, Cleo?” “No, I haven’t. Amazing, that, seeing as soil has evolved, but I expect the researchers always took pains to plant highly resistant forms.” “Can you regenerate any variety you wish?” Michael directed that question to Cleo, as two creases furrowed his brow. “Theoretically, yes. Actually, some are harder than others to clone. Soybeans gave early researchers fits, but yielded to persistent efforts to find the right conditions.” “Corn never has given satisfactory results,” her counterpart interjected. “Not that corn’s a plant anyone grows in a tertiary tank. It needs too much human coddling. Corn’s genetic material’s more an historic curiosity than anything useful for either starting material for the synthesis of food, or photosynthetic reduction of the level of carbon dioxide in the air, given the conditions on our worlds.” “I don’t know about your world, but our Ministry of Life-Support Maintenance fell long ago into a rigid mold,” Cleo responded sardonically.

“That moribund bureaucracy surely could stand fresh new ideas and approaches!” A sibilant chuckle greeted that complaint. “A new minister might help, hm?” “It wouldn’t hurt, although the man in charge before the invasion wasn’t nearly as unimaginative as was our Minister of Food Resources.” “You’d make an innovative Minister of Food Resources, Cleo.” Warmed by the grin accompanying a remark she recognized as bantering, Cleo smiled ruefully, and shrugged. “Too many interruptions to my career occurred, to allow me a shot at a position high in a ministry. You have to rise steadily, continually increasing your rating, with no interruptions for things like raising a son…” Her voice trailed off, and her smile grew strained, as painful memories impinged. “It’s actually possible for a woman to rise to the rank of minister in Gaea?” Michael kept his voice neutral, but the creases furrowing his brow deepened. Resisting the temptation to reply tartly, the Gaean nodded. “We’ve had a quite a few female ministers in the last hundred forty Earthyears, and we’ve got two at present.” “Likely that tradition made it easier for your countrymen to accept a female commander, hm?” Nigel observed noncommittally. “I expect it did, although Signe had what the crisis demanded. It seems as if a strong leader always arises at a time of desperate need, in any society. If that weren’t the case, men would have died out by now.” “There’s something to that notion, all right,” Michael agreed thoughtfully, studying the pensive face of the Gaean intellectual. “Well, let’s mount a new attack on the wall.”

Rising, he led the way back to the

infirmary. Seemingly tireless, Michael and Nigel heaved panels into place, holding

them until Cleo finished tightening the recessed nuts on six or eight bolts to hold the panels securely. Three pairs of hands then completed the work of bolting the massive object in position. Slowly but surely, the divider advanced to meet the outside wall of Eleven. The two men bearing the brunt of the lifting set the door assembly into place. This door opens into the dining hall, Cleo mused. So will the door to the food-chemistry lab. That other cabin—the one sporting not a shred of furniture as yet—opens onto the bridge. What else do we need in a vessel cobbled together for an escape from a trap, besides bridge, barrack/dining hall, bathcabin, food-chemistry lab, infirmary/captain’s office, recreation hall, and exercise area? I can’t imagine, but there’ll be quite a bit of space left, on both ends—opposite my cabin, and opposite the hall that does double duty for recreation and exercise. Well, I can see why Michael’s waiting on those areas on both ends. That space fronts the pressure-proof doors of the locks. They’ll be passing in and out of the far lock, by the recreation hall, but not the other, which opens onto the rim. Perhaps launch will necessitate leaving open space in front of that one. I don’t know enough about what launching a section off the rim entails, besides undoing all the umbilical connections linking Eleven’s life-support system—air, fresh water, nutrient stream, waste water, electrical connections, communications system, heating system, and whatever else— with all the others, and with Central’s monitoring system. Well, Michael knows what he’s doing. He must surely have calculated the risks, and made an informed decision. I only hope that no unforeseen danger lurks out there…that he keeps his crewmembers safe. When the time arrived for lunch, the infirmary lacked only the divider separating it from the food-chemistry laboratory. Feeling a drain on his store of energy from lifting panels, Michael led his team towards the dining

hall, glad himself to take the break. By chance, Michael’s crew encountered Marvin and Conrad as that pair emerged from Marvin’s workplace, laughing and joking in comradely fashion. “Better watch your mouth tonight, spacer,” Conrad warned, giving his partner a playful poke in the ribs. “Don’t give anything away to Cleo. I told her she’ll need to possess her soul in patience until Sunday, the same as everyone else will.” “I wouldn’t think of spoiling any surprise!” His eyes positively twinkling, Marvin declared stoutly, “She and I will have better things to do than talk about Sunday.” Oh, my frazzled nerves, Cleo gasped mentally. Marvin’s taking a screen out of Nigel’s scroll! Blushing, mute, she struggled to master her face. From beside her, a sibilant voice drawled, “Marvin, thou foster-child of silence and slow time, you amaze me! I confess to feeling the suspense mount.” With that, Nigel clapped his startled comrade on the back. The object of that encomium laughed his soft laugh. “Let’s hope I don’t find myself on Sunday night wishing to cease upon the midnight with no pain.” Raising an eyebrow, Nigel gave out with a peal of delighted laughter. “Three in one crew who appreciate ancient literary gems! Cleo, behold, an ally!” “As many times as I’ve found myself blushing lately, Nigel, I just might grow to be half in love with easeful death myself.” “A touch!” Nigel exclaimed, his dark eyes dancing. “No lie!” Marvin, his face alight, enthusiastically clapped Cleo on the back. Suffering shades of mangled mortals, what in the breadth of the wheeling galaxy has come over Marvin? Damned if the suspense isn’t

getting to me! the Captain spluttered silently. And who in hell is that author they’re quoting? I don’t dare ask, and expose my ignorance. Better do some digging in the bank, spacer-captain. Not that this station’s bank will overflow with works of ancient literature, or feature the type of intricate cross-referencing that would pinpoint an author from a line or two, for an intelligent retrieval system. Damned if I can complain about morale, though. Cleo’s idea hit whang on the mark. I hope there’s a carryover into next week. Sensors tingling, the Captain followed his four crewmen through the line in the dining hall. Over a tasty lunch of stuffed fish baked with the skin intact, Cleo noticed with satisfaction the easy give-and-take developing between Conrad and his new partner. I surely do hope Marvin’s enthusiasm prevents his developing a dreadful attack of stage fright on Sunday, she mused, racked by dread. Though it’s just us. Conrad surely has succeeded in boosting his shy comrade’s self-confidence, though. I’m so glad! Betraying anxiety that Cleo soon divined to be work-related, Marvin addressed his superior. “Conrad’s building six electromagnetic couplers to my specs, Michael— two pairs for the ends of the strut, and one pair to hold center to axis temporarily—and we’ve located heavy mechanical couplers we think we can adapt, to hold section and countermass to the strut. Spares for the station’s elevator assembly, we figure those must be. Conrad will need to mount a power unit on the axis. That unit I’ll control by remote. I’m modifying a power unit that we took from the ship.” Before the Captain could comment, Conrad offered a reassurance. “It won’t be hard, physically, mounting that on the spinning portion of the axis, Michael, even in a suit, but I expect that I’d better plan to keep my eyes on

what I’m doing, and not watch the stars shifting. That sight will be almost as bad as the view from the hull of Eleven. My mind will tell me I should be getting dizzy.” That last observation bore overtones of disgust, rather than fear. “Strange, the tricks your mind can play on you,” Michael agreed equably. “We’re too used to seeing the stars shift on screens that are framed in a board that’s stationary relative to us, rather than having the whole vault of space shift around our un-housed selves.” “Not even when you fly a lifeboat?” Cleo asked, surprised. “I’d think the stars wheeling above me on the screen would scare me spitless.” His ugly face creasing into a grin, Nigel offered the novice an explanation. “The board’s still stationary relative to you, Cleo. Your dizziness and nausea in a boat arise from the manner in which your body responds to the actual motion. The fluid in your inner ear slops around. Conrad’s talking about the way what enters your eye affects your mind, giving rise to confusion in the eye-brain response to what you see…or don’t see.” “I saw a video clip once that reproduced a really ancient film, shot on Old Earth, of a man’s flying a crude, primitive airplane—one with an open cockpit. The film showed what the pilot actually saw, during a dive. Made me dizzy, just watching,” Leonard confessed. “Blue sky all around you…sun shining…Earth spread out below, in glorious color…flying a primitive airplane must have been the epitome of exhilaration, hm?” Nigel breathed. His sibilant voice for once betrayed awe. “Earthmen enjoyed the feeling Conrad’s dreading,” Marvin volunteered a shade diffidently. “They built toys called merry-go-rounds: spinning platforms mounted with life-sized statues of horses. Those moved up and down as the platform rotated. People delighted in riding on the crazy contraptions.” As he spoke, Marvin shook his head, mystified by the

behavior of his ancestors. Wouldn’t Rollin have loved that! I’ll bet dizziness wouldn’t have troubled him. The laughing, juvenile face rose again on the screen of the bereaved Gaean’s mind, evoking a bittersweet wash of nostalgia. The afternoon’s labor seemed endless to Cleo. The last divider slowly increased in length, and finally joined with the curved exterior wall. The work took even longer than she expected, due to Michael’s having included a door into the food-chemistry laboratory. Giving Justin easy access if he’s both cooking and tending an injured patient? the worry-prone woman wondered uneasily. Or simply building in a safety precaution? Having two entrances to each cabin, in case one door malfunctions? Every cabin that Michael has laid out features more than one entry, come to think about it. That must be it. Perfectionist, the Captain. Meticulous planner. He and Nigel make a good team. Strange, that notion, when they’re so jealous of each other, deep down! After supper, Cleo retired to her cabin, to bathe and rest. I’m stiff, tonight, and my arms ache, she complained to her alter self. Just don’t doze off, woman! You’ll hurt Marvin’s feelings. Her lover for the evening walked in, to seat himself on the side of the bed. “Tired, tonight, Cleo?” he asked solicitously. “Not tired, especially, Marvin. Just a bit stiff, from lifting. Peel off your suit, and make me forget my complaining muscles.” Obeying her invitation with alacrity, Marvin slid in, and gathered her into eager arms. Lying blissfully satisfied in his embrace after enjoying the vigorous effort that followed a characteristically inauspicious beginning, Cleo reflected that the increase she had noticed in the amateur actor’s selfconfidence seemed to extend to his performance in bed. Affectionately, she conceded, He keeps trying so hard to change himself. A minor miracle, what he has already accomplished! I hope the

strains of next week don’t cause a major setback! A chill crept down her spine. “Marvin, are you making progress with your remote devices?” she asked, yielding to the curiosity that paralleled a grim sense of foreboding. “I’ve managed to synchronize a number of pairs, and design mounts that will attach easily to aramid-fiber cable without fraying it, but I’ve never tried to fly anything pliable. I guess that wouldn’t matter, except that if I allow slack—a droop in the length—it could entangle in the other struts and risers. That worries me, but I’ll have ample space in which to maneuver the sections of cable.” “I take it you’ll be using a strut, too?” “A strut will form the central part of the tether.” “Won’t something that long prove a dreadful chore to move?” “It won’t be, once it’s uncoupled from rim and axis. That part will be touchy. If I let it ram either, I could cause considerable damage. I’ll have to lift it out of position slowly, while employing infinite care. Once it’s free, of course, its outer end will try to move on a path tangent to the rim, and its inner end will attempt to move on a path tangent to the circumference of the cylindrical axis. I’ll have to program it to act as if it were still attached, and then lift it with force independent of those programmed motions. Once I get it into the wider space available between Eleven’s double locks and the axis, I’ll have maneuvering-space enough to turn it, and center it against the axis.” “Not a comfortable excess, surely!” the listener protested in dismay. “And if you lift it too high, you’ll bash the bulbous side of Eleven!” “That’s true. Touchy, that maneuver will be. I’ve flown remotes in tricky maneuvers before now, though, Cleo. I’ll just have to use exquisite care. No one will remain in Eleven, while I perform the maneuvers.” Eyes wide, the Gaean raised up on an elbow, and fixed an admiring

gaze on her bedfellow. “Marvin, without your skill, Michael would never have dreamed of trying what he’s attempting!” “I’m not at all sure of that,” the expert demurred. “When the Captain makes up his mind, he goes for it, but moving that strut with a crew in maneuvering units, in the space between the plane of the struts and the tethers, he’d find a daunting chore. Likely he’d cut it into sections, in that extremity, and laser-weld it back together, after moving the pieces. Nightmarish solution, that would prove.” “Well, he’s fortunate that he has you.” That vehement declaration aroused pride, and the respect mirrored in the woman’s thrilled the man possessed of a fragile sense of self-esteem. Raising herself, Cleo dropped onto her lover’s chest, and kissed him in an excess of affectionate warmth. Marvin’s arms tightened around her, as he responded with passionate enthusiasm. Aroused anew, he lifted his partner, and then himself, once more to fulfillment. Lying with his dark head pillowed on Cleo’s breast, amazed at his achievement, suffused with happiness, Marvin thrust from mind the nervous dread inexorably ballooning as the hour neared when he must perform his ticklish specialty during the work of stringing the tether. Exquisitely conscious of just how fatal to their chances of launching successfully the least error on his part would prove, the man so prone to emotional stress felt all the more grateful to Conrad for providing a distraction. Cleo’s grasp of the dangers, added to her admiring solicitude, generated aching, tender yearning in the man’s mind and heart. How will I ever cope with losing her, once we get home? he asked himself for the hundredth time. Go back to finding physical release with women who find it hard to hide their contempt for a man who ejaculates almost as soon as they touch him, even as they congratulate themselves on not having to put out much effort to lift him to climax?

Painful memories obtruded on the spacer’s mind. Old wounds etched into the healing but still fragile surface of his self-image smarted anew. As those thoughts impinged, his arms tightened convulsively around the woman he loved with whole-hearted, uncritical, consuming devotion. Intuitively sensing her partner’s need for comfort, Cleo hugged him back. Her hands moved, caressing him, gentling him, as she whispered, “Marvin, next week’s an eon away. Don’t think of that, tonight. I’m simply bursting with pride at the way you’ve changed yourself. I love you!” Those murmured words spilled balm on the nagging old wounds. Don’t keep thinking of our arrival in Columbia, Marvin cautioned his alter ego. We may not survive launch! “Cleo, you fill me with pure joy,” he whispered earnestly. “You surely do. I love you. I always will.” Shifting his position, the chronically uptight expert settled her head onto his shoulder, and slipped off into deep, untroubled, dreamless, nerve-soothing sleep.

WEEK SIX: FRIDAY Opening her eyes to find her bedmate lying prone, regarding her wistfully, Cleo glanced at the clock. “Marvin, it’s 0345,” she exclaimed ruefully. “Why didn’t you wake me?” “You face a heavy day, Cleo. I didn’t have the heart.” Impulsively, the beneficiary of his restraint threw her arms around him. “Make love to me, Marvin, so that you go off to face your day feeling good,” she urged. A provocative tongue caressed the soft skin of the man’s shoulder, and hands slid down his back. Before he could protest, desire mastered him. Not much better able to hold off now than he had been initially, he did his best, even as the uncontrollable force of his passion carried him to its swift, urgent conclusion. He sensed that Cleo found the brief, intimate contact pleasurable simply as a caring act performed out of the affection he still marveled at having earned. Lying fulfilled above her, he whispered, “Want to risk being late?” “I want to, but I don’t think I’d better,” she murmured, her fingers sifting through lank black hair. “We’re going to be a bit late as it is. I enjoyed that, Marvin.” Drawing his head down to hers, she kissed him with passionate fervor. Reluctantly heaving himself out, the man indeed feeling good pulled on his pants and made the bed while Cleo vanished into the bathcabin.

Amazing, her urging me to shoot my load, he marveled affectionately. She must love me. I don’t feel the least bit embarrassed any more. She accepts my sexual dysfunction as readily as if it were an artificial limb, or a bad limp, and accommodates to it. What a woman! Assured of Leonard’s presence in his crew over the next two days, Michael decided to finish attaching the modules of furniture in the infirmary. Having stolen Conrad from Justin for an hour, he savored satisfaction as the electrical engineer rose to declare the job of installing the terminal finished. Painstakingly, the four regular team members lifted units into the positions Michael designated, and bolted them to the walls, and to the adjoining units. While fastening the seventh bunk into place with its head against the divider separating the infirmary from the food-chemistry laboratory, Cleo mused, Someone will sleep here. The dining hall’s equipped with only four bunks. One of the men will have to sleep on the couch on Sunday night. I still wonder how they work that now. They must take turns spending an uncomfortable night. I suppose that’s why Michael made a couch out of the mattress for a bunk. Or…of course! Silly of me, not to remember. They’ll stand watches aboard ship, and take turns sleeping. I wonder what’ll go in that space he has left between the terminal and the sink. After a break in which she stretched luxuriously on the couch of rolled mats in hopes of counteracting the effect of working squeezed under the sink, Cleo discovered what the empty space would hold, as Michael asked Nigel’s advice about moving the standard monitor and balance from Fourteen. Deciding on a means, the officers sent Cleo and Justin to fetch two carts, while they detached the cumbersome items possessed of delicate adjustment which rough handling would disrupt. Striding along to Central, glad of the chance to stretch cramped limbs, Cleo again suffered from unsatisfied curiosity. Michael’s outdoing himself to equip an infirmary in a ship he’ll only be

using for a single voyage—a vehicle in which he’ll likely spend no more than five fourweeks, given their combined skills. So why… A chilling thought struck the insatiably curious woman. Perhaps Michael’s assuming that someone…or more than one of them…will end up injured, next week. Maybe that’s why the door into the food-chemistry lab! Oh, my brittle heart, not that… A new thought impinged. But if an accident occurs on the hull, someone will end up dead, not injured. I’ll be a nervous wreck, next week! Pushing a cart into the large cabin that had formed the main area for medical research, Cleo discovered Michael and Nigel engaged in the task of unfastening the two pieces of equipment.

Half an hour later, the two

delicate components each rested in a cart padded with thick glass wool. Michael and Nigel moved the units to Eleven, lifted them out with meticulous care, and set them in place. “We’ll let Justin make the connections to the terminal,” Michael decided. “We’ll just fasten them to the deck. Leonard, you and Cleo secure these lockers.” Passing through the line in the dining hall, where the head cook helped her to a generous portion of breaded fish squares, potato cake, and steamed greens, Cleo noticed the fatigue evident on the man’s seamed face. Justin looks so tired, she commiserated silently. He put in a hard week. He cooked double portions. I hope Sunday does him good. The preparations for your party hit him on a week already hectic, damn the luck. The meals he’s served are as good as ever—no stinting there. Justin’s a perfectionist, too. Flashing the object of her concern a radiant smile, she lifted his spirits, which had indeed been drooping. By mid-afternoon, the crew congratulating themselves on having installed the bulk of the furniture in the infirmary took a break. Cleo

stretched luxuriously on the rolled mats. Nigel leaned back on the small locker, his arms encircling a bent knee. Leonard sat cross-legged on the mattress. Michael leaned back relaxed, in the lone chair. “I checked on that tank in Thirty-one, last night, Cleo,” he remarked. “The bottom of it will do fine. I appreciate your making the suggestion.” “It would have taken an extravagant amount of water to fill it to any appreciable depth,” the author of the suggestion replied musingly. “But since the water wouldn’t be contaminated with anything, I suppose they ran it back into the accumulator tank, or the reservoir.” “Likely so. I haven’t played with one of those tanks since I studied physics at the University. Before I cut the bottom out, Leonard, we’ll take time to fill the outfit, and I’ll give you a lesson in measuring the speed of propagation of periodic straight and circular pulses, and run some experiments in reflection, refraction, dispersion, and diffraction.” Eagerly, the youthful spacer exclaimed, “I’d enjoy that!” “I’d like to watch! The only ripple tanks I ever used were small and rectangular,” Cleo put in, glancing questioningly at the man making the offer. “The more, the merrier. A circular tank that big—one equipped with such a variety of wave generators and barriers—offers all sorts of possibilities. I feel a trifle guilty about absconding with the outfit, but the tank itself wouldn’t be hard for a researcher to replace.” “As many pains as you’ve all taken not to cause wanton, permanent damage, Michael, Gaea can afford to replace whatever equipment you take away with you,” Cleo declared emphatically. “After Leonard plays with interference in water waves, we’ll let him experiment with the same phenomenon in light, hm?” Nigel suggested. “That equipment’s far simpler. You can make your own.”

“That would be the logical next step, all right.” “I could set him up some demonstrations of polarization of light, using a microscope,” Cleo offered. “Show him how to measure the angle of rotation of optically active substances with a polarimeter.” The only crewmen lacking special expertise glanced eagerly from one to another professional. “I’ll look forward to taking a short course from each of you!” Rising at the end of the respite, the team leader observed, “If we exert ourselves, we ought to have the furniture installed by suppertime. Nigel, you and I will hook up the infernal pressure sensors, while Leonard and Cleo finish bolting the units.” Taking that statement to mean that they had better finish by the end of the day, the crew worked diligently to meet their leader’s expectation, achieving that goal at 1750. Legs spread, hands on hips, the Captain stood surveying the layout. “It looks good,” he commended the team. “Tomorrow, we’ll haul panels, and work on the food-chemistry lab. Let’s eat.” Tomorrow will test your muscular development, woman, Cleo reflected grimly. I’m surely glad we’ll have all Sunday afternoon in which to rest. Justin must have forgotten to check my mass today. Don’t remind him! This week burned off so many calories that I’ll be lucky to find that my mass stayed the same. After supper, Cleo acceded to Marvin’s offer to coach Leonard and her own self as they played chess. I should lie down, but I won’t risk hurting Marvin’s feelings, she mused, making a lightning decision after her mentor eagerly tendered the invitation. Excusing herself at 1955, she retired to her cabin, to strip off her suit, toss it into the adjuster, and wash with a frugal amount of water. Arriving fifteen minutes late to find Cleo lying under the bedcover, the

head cook smiled down at her as he stripped off his uniform. Justin looks exhausted tonight! she fretted, worried by the magnitude of his fatigue. Pity again suffused the beholder. Michael said Justin was cooking double this week, and your party laid the additional chore of making whisky on him. Leonard’s not as experienced, so he wouldn’t have been the excellent help on Thursday that Conrad is. Well, I can sympathize. I’m stressed too. Slipping in next to his partner, feeling tired to the bone, Justin gathered her into his arms. Cleo sensed more than fatigue in the man exerting himself to please her. He’s low in the mind, tonight, she concluded. Plagued by the blue devils. A surge of tender feeling blended with the passion never wholly separate in the totality of her feminine self from affection, stirring her to a fierce response, which her partner interpreted as need. Driving himself to redoubled effort, Justin strove to give her what he suddenly realized that he himself could not manage. Giving up, he lay on her, overcome by depression. “I can’t shoot,” he admitted in a husky, bitter voice. “I’m no damned good to you, tonight.” Cleo’s arms tightened around him, her embrace no less fierce than her earlier responses had been. “Don’t ever think that, Justin! You’re exhausted, and so am I. Likely I couldn’t have reached fulfillment myself. I don’t, when I’m tired, no matter what my partner does.” “I’m too damned old to be trying!” Cleo’s heart went out to him. “Justin, you’re a medic,” she chided scathingly. “You know better than that. A week ago you raised me to a pinnacle I still get a glow remembering, but we were both rested, after an easy, enjoyable day. You’ve cooked double rations, all week, made whisky, and you had inexperienced help, part of the time. You fed us royally, nonetheless.”

Refusing to be comforted, Cleo’s bedfellow slipped off her, to lie staring at the curving plates of the hull. Fear clawed at his bedmate. “Justin,” she whispered, “do for me what I need more than anything else, tonight, or any night. Hold me in your arms. While you do, I’ll tell you what I thought you’d figured out about me.” That urgent whisper prompted a positive response. Turning, the fatigued spacer settled his companion’s head onto his shoulder. “Justin,” his bedmate declared in a husky voice, “I won’t tell you that I don’t enjoy reaching a climax, because I do. When that happens, it’s a sort of bonus, but achieving that outcome isn’t the most pleasurable part, for me, of the actions you and I—or any of the six of you, and I—do in bed. A woman needs touching, caring, closeness, tenderness, caresses. Those form a tactile assurance that she’s cherished—that far from being just as a vessel providing her partner relief, she’s a person he cares for, and respects. “I suppose if I were living in a monogamous relationship, and my partner proved unable night after night to give me a climax, I’d suffer from frustration, but on the occasional night when a man’s exhausted, and feeling down, and I’m tired as well, his being temporarily unable to reach a peak isn’t a problem to me. On any night, it’s the closeness—the touching—I need. “Men don’t think that way, I know. Some habitually indulge in passion and never generate the least shred of affection. Those qualities tend to be separate, in men. Not in you, though, and most certainly not in me! Age has nothing to do with it. Now, let’s go to sleep. You always wake early. You wake me, hear? And we’ll make love while rested. You’ll see a major difference.” Sensing that Cleo’s urgent, husky explanation constituted perfect truth, Justin realized that it fitted his perception of her personality. His arms tightened around her, and their lips met. When his mouth freed hers, he

held her against his chest, and groped for words. “Cleo…” His voice trailed off, as words failed him. Exhaustion, deep, direly mixed emotions, an accession of affection that blended with the other tumultuous feelings: the combination of all those assaults on his psyche robbed the man of the ability to express what he felt. Gentle hands stroked his back, and rubbed his neck. “I know you love me, Justin,” Cleo whispered. “You don’t have to say it. I love you. I would have, if we had never engaged in intercourse. Now, go to sleep.” Solicitously, she continued to caress him. At length, she felt the tension drain out of his lean, trim, hard-muscled body. Her hands still moved over his flesh as he sank into a welcome oblivion.

WEEK SIX: SATURDAY Justin came drowsily awake at his usual hour. As he grew conscious of the warmth of Cleo’s body close to his own, the memory of the previous night rose to depress him. Rearing up to prop his upper body on an elbow, he stared down at the sleeping bedmate lying on her back, one arm thrown back over her head. Damn it, he groused, I did her no good, last nigh, or myself. I didn’t even get to talk to her! That observation reminded him of her determined, reasoned argument. Closeness, he repeated in an echo of her words. Touching. Women must need that more than release. Women’s pride isn’t so tied up with their achieving climax as is men’s. Lori used to pretend, once in a while. I could tell. That hurt me…made me feel as if I’d been lied to. I can’t imagine Cleo’s speaking or acting a lie. She meant what she said last night. She loves a worn-out, used-up spacer well past his prime! She said to wake her. Should I? She faces a physically taxing day today, lifting those damned panels. Why in hell doesn’t Michael send her to help me, and use Conrad? Exhausted, she’ll be, tonight. But if I let her sleep, I’ll likely hurt her feelings…drive her to assume that I spurned her invitation. I feel more rested this morning than I did last night, that’s for sure. If she seems sleepy, I’ll just hold her until it’s time. Blast this mess! I need a day off. I could use a magical youth potion,

too. I’m no more likely to get the first wish than I am the second. A bitter smile creased the seamed face before its owner slipped an arm under Cleo’s shoulders. Drawing her against him, he whispered, “Wake up, girl.” Opening her eyes, Cleo beheld Justin smiling down at her. The recollection of the previous night prompted her to slide her arms around his neck, and draw his head towards hers. His kiss, passionate, intimate, warmly tender, roused her swiftly to hot need. When he freed her lips, she got astride him. As her hands slid down his ribs, her tongue tickled his shoulder, his breast, his nipples. Squirming backwards, she caressed his now erect manhood with both hands, and watched his shaft grow harder under her touch. Her fingers rubbed its tip, generating wetness. Desire darkened the eyes riveted to those of the man she strove to rouse to primal lust. As Justin drank in the sight of the woman he loved, his depression fled. Reaching out, he thrust his hands under her arms, and pulled her forward. Rolling over on her, he kissed each hard nipple in turn, provoking muffled cries of pleasure that sent his pulse galloping. The hands caressing her womanly center encountered warmth, wetness. With expert, gentle fingertips, he lifted his panting lover to rapture. His own sensations renewed his confidence. As Cleo arched to meet his penetrating thrust, he saw the pleasure he gave her mirrored on her mobile features. Eyes closed, mouth parted slightly, breath coming in uneven gasps, she cried out again. Passion as deep as that he had generated a week earlier rose to energize him. As his partner’s womanly depth contracted around the essence of his maleness, he welcomed the rapturous imminence of climax. Satisfaction pervaded mind and body, as the intense white heat of release ebbed. The revitalized lover lay triumphantly on his partner, his

pride mended. He heard her sigh softly, a most pleasurable sound. Sliding off, he rested his head on her shoulder. “Mmmmm,” she murmured. “That was nice.” A chuckle erupted from her bedmate. Propping himself on an elbow, he smiled down at her. “Girl, you’re a master therapist, you know that? Savvy psychologist. Taught me something, last night, you did. Talk about caring! Your capacity for caring is limitless. I love you, Cleo. For your big heart.” “Justin, you’re as caring a man as I’ve ever known, and as understanding. I trusted you right from the start.” That’s exactly what Michael said! the Columbian recalled, as hope fleetingly burgeoned. Could it be that I’d stand a chance? Hardly, he concluded glumly. She cares for all of us, but when she has to choose… Don’t dream impossible dreams, spacer. Just hope she stays safe…and happy. Gathering her once more into his arms, he lay enjoying the touch of her hand as she idly traced patterns on his chest. “Did you get all your frozen meals finished, so you don’t have to drive yourself so hard, now?” Cleo asked solicitously. “I packaged up a plentiful supply. I also ran two batches of whisky, but I haven’t flavored it yet. Conrad collected a mountain of vegetables out of the tertiary tanks, and we froze double rations of those. I taught Leonard a few chemistry lessons as we synthesized several esters. He has the touch. He readily learns good technique. I wish to hell I had more time to spend instructing him. Make a fine chemist, he would.” “And you saw no reason why you should have been worn out last night! Justin, you work harder than any one of us, and we just slurp up the goodies you produce with such a flair, without ever giving you credit, or thanking you!” “I wouldn’t say that. I notice Conrad isn’t doing a thing for your Earth-

Standard, either.” “My perception of tomato and onion casserole has been forever altered.” “I’ll spare you the ones that wipe my appetite, but he refers to finished whisky as jolly juice. No quarrel with our end product, though what he calls the mash would curl your hair.” “He’s blessed with a gift for graphic imagery, that’s for sure! I can’t wait to see what those two come up with, on Sunday.” “Me, neither. Conrad acts smug as a supply clerk who has just unloaded a case of cracked glassware on an unwary chemist.” “You have that sort too?” “We do. I inspect the goods, before I’ll sign for them. Be a hell of a note, getting to a place like O’Neill, only to find that you’ve hauled along a box of elegantly packaged shards. I don’t know who mashes glass so ingeniously, the cargo spacers or the supply crew, but somebody does.” “Ours can’t seem to read the formulas. I once got mercuric chloride when I’d ordered the mercurous salt. I told the supply clerk that if he thought they were interchangeable, I’d use what I’d just unpacked, to dose him for what obviously ailed him, and demonstrate the difference.” “He wouldn’t have lasted long enough to profit by the lesson!” Justin chuckled. “Though the other wouldn’t have let him stray far from the head, for quite some time.” “One should retain better control of one’s mouth when dealing with minor bureaucrats, but mine used to run away with me, at times.” “You should hear Nigel’s occasional flow of ironic invective. Talk about imagery!” “I wouldn’t care to be on the receiving end! Nor of Michael’s, either. And Justin, if we don’t heave our beatifically limp carcasses out, I’ll likely rate a demonstration.”

“We’ve got five minutes. I know just how to spend it.” The rejuvenated spacer’s mouth closed once more over Cleo’s. Lying back happily in his embrace, she gave herself up to a final, pleasurable sensation. Arriving on time to breakfast, for once, the Gaean held out her plate to Conrad, who heaped it with the mushroom-flavored casserole. “More morbid morsels?” she whispered. Unabashed, he flashed her an appreciative grin. “Justin must trust you not to blab the cooks’ secrets in the wrong quarters,” he remarked in an undertone. Seating herself opposite the Captain, the Gaean dug into the uniquely flavored offering. Better stoke up on calories, she admonished herself. You’ll need them! Teamed with Michael, who flatly ordered her to tell him if she needed to rest, the petite woman helped to haul heavy panels out of the sections between Eighteen and Eleven, to the wheeled vehicle. The stocky athlete noted with satisfaction that she knew how to lift. She learned by watching us, he surmised. For her size, she’s strong. She seems not to have lost any more mass. She might even have gained a bit. Easy to tell, when she’s outlined in that form-fitting suit. Big improvement, that. Nice to watch. Nice to… Better keep your mind on where you’re planting your feet, spacer-captain. Thus sternly selfadmonished, he switched to reviewing the specifications of the foodchemistry laboratory. Calling for an early break once all the panels reposed in Eleven, the Captain led his crew to the recreation area. Cleo sank onto the piled mats, smiling gamely at her partner, who returned her an admiring grin. As Leonard dropped to lie full-length on the lone mattress, Nigel took his accustomed seat. Cleo noticed that his lithe body evinced no sign of fatigue, nor did

Michael’s. Lying with both hands under his head, Leonard remarked, “Owing to your offering to give me a lesson in interference of waves, yesterday, Michael, I accessed the records of the researchers who worked in that lab, last night. I learned quite a bit. I could follow the math, given that I’ve learned so much navigational math, but I wish I knew more calculus than I do.” “Basic tool, that, hm?” Nigel drawled. “Fundamental necessity,” Michael agreed. “The way chemistry is, for a life-support scientist,” Cleo interjected, strong conviction overcoming fatigue. “I never could figure out why so many ministry schools teach biology before chemistry. How can a student understand the workings of a cell, if she doesn’t know how ions behave in solution, or diffuse through membranes, for example?” “For the same illogical reason that they teach third-level physics before calculus,” Michael snorted. “They leave the students to struggle along with algebra, and approximations shown by geometry. The poor beggars don’t realize how much more easily the problems can be solved until they take calculus, and then advanced physics. Assuming, of course, that the beginning course didn’t discourage them from taking the advanced.” “That stupidity arises because the math departments and the science departments are usually staffed by different people, who aren’t given time to correlate their offerings, so as to reinforce each other. But you’re right, chief. They ought to teach the math basic to the science before teaching the science,” Nigel affirmed vehemently. “My mother taught in a first-level ministry school,” Cleo confided. “She specialized in Earth-Standard—reading, writing, and literature—but a close friend of hers gave up a position as a chemist to raise a family, and later got hired to teach science in the same school where my mother taught.

Raissa discovered that eight-year-old to ten-year-old children effortlessly soaked up physics and chemistry, doing the hands-on laboratory activities, and absorbing the demonstration-laced lectures she designed. Children of both sexes, randomly grouped by ability, loved her lessons. “Raissa figured that the average University-trained first-level teacher didn’t have the background in science necessary to teach even basic concepts, so children that age didn’t absorb physical science almost by osmosis, the way they do literature, composition, Earth-Standard grammar, oral expression, history, mathematics, art, and music, or the way they grow skilled in employing intelligent retrieval systems to access information from the world’s bank. The science ordinarily offered is too watered-down, and it lacks sufficient continuity in the concepts learned from Earthyear to Earthyear. If that could be changed, perhaps the math and science could be better integrated long before the students reach third level.” As she wound up her argument, Cleo shook her head. “Actually, arbitrarily teaching chemistry, physics, biology and astronomy as separate disciplines at the third level of ministry school’s an archaic holdover from Old Earth,” Nigel scoffed. “We ought to teach basic concepts in logical order, regardless of artificial boundaries. We also ought to let students begin to specialize at the university level. If they’d start them younger—set them doing original research with intelligent coaching at third level—you’d produce more and better researchers. Of course, teachers inspiring enough to give teenagers the start and the help they’d need constitute a rarity. That last item forms the main problem, hm?” The sibilant voice vibrated with what amounted to passion. “Right!” Finding that they chorused that whole-hearted agreement simultaneously, Captain and captive caught each other’s eye, and laughed. “Perennial problem,” Michael acknowledged glumly. “A scientist who could do the job won’t. He pursues a career as a researcher in private

industry, or in a ministry, or does what we do. Well. We can’t solve that age-old dilemma, so let’s build some walls.” Again taking the brunt of the lifting on his own self, Michael heaved up panel after panel, holding the heavy metal dividers steady while Cleo thrust bolts through to hold the section in place until two pairs of hands finished securing it. By 1100, the wall separating the food-chemistry laboratory from the dining hall stood complete, as did the first panel of that stretching from the dining hall to the exterior wall. Feeling strain in her calves, but especially in her arms, Cleo hoped that lunch would revive her. Wouldn’t it be Nigel’s night tonight? she groused. It seems as if it always is, when we do this kind of lifting. His luck plays out, when it comes to taking his turn in bed with a woman whose energy in the best of weeks got drained by her nights with five other men and her twelve hour stretches of hard labor. No chess lesson tonight, she admonished herself sternly. Drink lots of coffee. Lunch revived her. Stuffed to repletion with fried eel, vegetables in cheese sauce, baked potato, and buttered toast mildly flavored with garlic— This is new, and it’s good, she decided—Cleo sipped hot coffee, wishing the day were over. Rising when Michael did, she exerted herself to match the pace set by two premier athletes as they strode purposefully back to Eleven. I’ve one consolation, she admitted. Nigel has made good on the assurance he gave me. He truly has buried his jealousy. Reward his forbearance tonight, woman. No fatigue afflicts his iron frame! Obviously desirous of finishing, Michael vigorously attacked the chore awaiting them. Nigel kept pace, working Leonard unrelentingly. The last divider advanced to meet the curved exterior wall, to finish enclosing the food-chemistry laboratory. “Nigel, give me a hand to set this cabinet with the sink in place,” the

leader ordered. “You and Leonard will hook up the pressure sensors, while Cleo and I bolt in the furniture. These units won’t take as long as did those blasted modules we built into the infirmary.” Nodding, his second officer grabbed an end of the long cabinet, and helped the Captain shove the item into place, spanning the distance from the divider next to the dining hall to the door leading to the infirmary. Wriggling under the sink, Cleo began fastening the frame to the brackets along the wall. We’re lucky that all the cabinets in all the sections fit these standardized brackets, or we’d be forever doing this chore, she admitted, raising leaden arms to work on a level with her head. Michael took the worst job: reaching back to the rear over the supports for the drawers. I wish I boasted Signe’s muscular development! She’d match him, I’ll wager. Her muscles ripple the way his do, under the fabric of her uniform. Mark of the swordsman, that, yet she’s all woman. Not beautiful, really…though she flashed me such a glorious smile. Handsome, she is, despite that silvery hair. I can’t imagine where she got that. Sigurd’s was brown. I’ve never seen such hair, except on Great-Aunt Tabitha, who lived to be one hundred seven. Hers didn’t turn fully silver until she turned ninety-eight. Signe’s no albino, either. Not with those blue eyes that see so deeply into you. Mutation, that hair? I wonder. By mid-afternoon, the team finished installing the base unit. Michael held each of four sections of upper cabinets in place, standing on the counter, and Cleo bolted them to the brackets. Nigel and Leonard completed the onerous task of hooking up the sensors. “Leonard, test the doors,” the lieutenant directed. “I’ll start on these other cabinets, Michael, if you’ll show me where these go.” “Let’s take a break before lifting them into place. Cleo can fasten

them.” Exhausted, the Gaean sank down on the couch, noting that Leonard dropped onto the mattress. Neither essayed conversation. Letting their subordinates relax undisturbed, Michael and Nigel idly reminisced about a team project generated by imperfectly installed pressure sensors. The last three-hour stretch of hard labor seemed endless to Cleo, despite the twenty minutes of rest. Doggedly, she kept pace with Michael, fastening in cabinets. He left her to it, finally, while he and Nigel installed the bank of ovens and the massive refrigeration unit. Tired as she was, the Gaean engineer still mustered mental energy enough to wonder why the last third of the facility, on the end by the exterior wall, remained bare of furniture. The freezer occupies the center…acts as a divider, she mused. What will go in the empty space? I wouldn’t have thought that Michael would combine any other function with that of preparing food. Don’t ask, woman. He doesn’t welcome questions. Damn, but I’m beat! The endless workday drew to a close. Rising from the supper table as soon as she decently could, Cleo retired to her cabin to wash her hair. Nigel gets to make love to me at my grubbiest far too often, she groused dispiritedly. Oh, my stiff, sore system. Peeling off her suit, she tossed it into the adjuster, and fell heavily into bed, tired to the bone. It’s too much to hope that Nigel will be exhausted, she acknowledged. Stamina enough for ten men, he’s got. Coax him into massaging your back, so you can enjoy his lovemaking. Closing her eyes, she reviewed past Saturday nights. Moments later, sleep stole up on her as furtively and successfully as ever Nigel had.

WEEK SIX: SUNDAY Cleo woke to feel an arm across her. Groggily opening her eyes, she found herself lying with her head on Nigel’s shoulder. Rearing erect, she ascertained the time: 0253. Oh, my soul, I fell asleep before he came! she realized in rueful shock. What a slap in the face I unwittingly gave him! But he must not have grown angry, if he’s here, next to me. Reassured, she gazed down at the coppery features relaxed in sleep. Dark, thick, tousled hair tumbled forward over the lined forehead of an unabashed sensualist forty-seven Earthyears old. Dark lashes fringed closed lids above the high, flat cheekbones, hiding the mocking eyes. Without the vital force of an aware, assured glance, the ugly face seemed unwontedly peaceful. The v-shaped creases at the corners of the man’s mouth had subsided into mere lines. The thin lips the viewer saw to be parted slightly. The muscular chest rose and fell with deep, regular breaths. Leaning down, Cleo did what Nigel had so often done to her. Her mouth closed over his, and her tongue caressed his intimately, rousing him suddenly out of deep, sound sleep. The force of his start lifted her bodily. Almost instantly, strong arms clasped her, and their owner took control of the kiss. Not content to stop there, Nigel kept his partner on top of him with one arm, while his other hand found sensitive places to caress.

“Get astride me,” he urged. As Cleo sank over him, he pulled her forward, kissing each of her breasts in turn. His hands pressed down on the small of her back, and on the cheeks of her buttocks. She knew better, now, how to move in that position so as to give him exquisite sensations. His audible gasps of pleasure stirred her to even greater effort. She experimented anew, thrusting her pelvis against him while reveling in the aching delight of approaching climax. At length, his upward thrusts lifted her to fulfillment simultaneously with himself. Spent, she sprawled above him, her cheek pillowed on his chest. Regaining her breath, Cleo emerged from her euphoric state, to rise on her hands and look down at her lover. “Why didn’t you wake me?” she demanded. “I have to admit that I didn’t use any especial care not to do so, when I slid in and gathered you up. But you were snoring so loudly…” “Nigel! Not snoring!” the Gaean protested accusingly. “Breathing audibly, then. Whatever, you lay in my grasp like a wilted weed, and so I assumed that you needed the sleep. I’m happy to see that it rejuvenated you. I haven’t been so pleasantly awakened in a long time.” Rolling off, Cleo snuggled against him, savoring the touch of fingers sifting through her hair. I do feel the better for the unbroken sleep, she admitted. Caressing his chest with a hand, she murmured softly, “Nigel, I love you.” Raising himself on one elbow, her lover stared down at her contented face. “I believe you,” he responded in a tone bearing a hint of yearning most unusual for him. “But I can’t help wondering why. Simply because I’m capable of rousing you to a degree of passion your Gaean upbringing repressed in you until now?” Cleo caught the unwonted note of yearning, and her heart turned over.

“That’s part of it, but not all,” she admitted candidly. Gazing silently at her unfathomable lover, she collected her thoughts. When she finally spoke, her reasoned response came couched in a tone that carried conviction. “Why do I love you? For the originality of the mind behind that face that gives nothing away; for the complexity and vitality of the personality more individual than any I’ve known; for the courage and sense of humor that join to let you laugh at the troubles life hands you; for the comradeship you’ve shown a female member of your team; for the way you’ve kept the promise you made me, to bury your jealous feelings; for the kindness of which you are capable, even though you hate to have anyone suspect that you possess that virtue; for the kindness you’ve shown me more and more lately; for all the other indefinable things that combine to make you one of the most fascinating men I’ve ever known.” For once speechless, Nigel stared in shock at his bedmate. Her calm, reasoned assessment conveyed absolute certainty. Recognizing simple truth when he heard it, he gasped, “Cleo…” Words failed him. Reaching out, he pulled the woman he loved into an embrace that threatened to crush her. For a considerable time, he held her thus. At length, he spoke, his sibilant voice unwontedly charged with emotion. “What can I say to that, Cleo? Except that I’m learning from you what that much-abused word love means to the only woman who has ever stirred any deeper feeling in me than passion? And shaping my own feelings in that image? Cleo…I haven’t words…for what I’m coming to feel for you.” Arms tightened around him. “You don’t need words, Nigel. I know what you feel…now.” For what seemed an eon, the pair lay clasped in each other’s arms, savoring their new understanding, and dreading the arrival of the hour that would necessitate their arising.

Awash in wonder, Cleo marveled at the depth to which she had unwittingly twined herself into this self-possessed sensualist’s innermost being. Amazed at the degree of affection she bore a man she still failed to understand despite loving him ardently, she reminded herself bleakly, He’s only one of six men I love. What I told Michael was truer than I knew: love expands to fill the need. They all needed a wealth of love! Fear scourged her. What will happen to me, if Michael gets us back to Columbia, and does manage to keep me safe? How will I ever return to the life I led before? The solitude? How could I possibly choose among these six men now, assuming that one…or more…or all…might want to marry me? And if I could choose…or drew names…how would I ever bear the loneliness of his being gone all the time? Justin’s wife couldn’t, and surely she must have loved him. Any woman would love Justin! I’m beginning to think Michael will pull off so chancy an endeavor. Oh, my blistered soul. I go from one dreadful problem to the next. Maybe we won’t survive launch. Maybe we’ll all die, together in death as we’ve been in this strange life to which I’ve adapted…too well. Nigel’s hands caressed her. Too early to worry about that, she reprimanded herself. Enjoy one day at a time. We may not have many left. Having relaxed until the last possible minute, Nigel shifted his body. One arm slid under his companion. He kissed her as passionately and possessively as ever, and yet his partner sensed a difference. The change became more apparent. His salute turned gentle, tender, expressive of all that he found himself unable to put into words. Feeling unutterably cherished, Cleo lay beneath him, wishing she had asked Michael for the whole day off. At length Nigel rose, reluctantly, and reached for her hands. Drawing her to her feet facing him, he smiled down at her. “We’ll be late to breakfast. Can’t be helped. I’ll make the bed while you dress.”

Emerging from the bathcabin to find her companion still stark naked, putting the finishing touches to the bed, Cleo laughed at the incongruous sight. Lifting his uniform off the chair, she helped him into his tunic. “You’ve produced a disastrous effect on my Gaean modesty,” she informed him, “not to mention my conditioning. There. Now leap into your pants, and let’s present poker faces to everyone seated and eating.” “Good thing cards don’t provoke blushes, or you’d give your hand away.” “Nigel, I spend half my time red as the rose you made me! Now, hurry.” Her lover pulled on his boots, rose, opened the door with courtly grace, and bowed her through it. Taking her arm, he whispered, “I wouldn’t wish you one bit different.” Their combined laughter barely died away before they entered the dining hall. Michael observed the glow animating both tardy entrants. Damned if Sunday morning doesn’t strain my resolve! he admitted dourly. Nigel’s deeper in love than ever. His whole body positively shouts it. To me, anyway. I’m used to reading his body language. Damned if I don’t think he truly has buried his jealousy. It might surface unexpectedly, but still… Well. Enjoy today. Next week’s going to tax your every skill, and put your nerve to a severe test. Forcibly wrenching his mind from forebodings that sent cold fear washing through him, Michael greeted Cleo pleasantly, with no hint of his thoughts reflected on his rugged face. Towards the end of breakfast, the Captain rose, and gathered all eyes. “Well, spacers, we made long strides this past week. My compliments to all of you. Today we’ll let up a bit. We’ll spend the morning moving into Eleven. Marvin will be working his devices from Eleven’s board, and we’ll be using the lock, next week, to emerge onto Eleven’s hull.

“Nigel, I’ll enlist your help in making that table we talked of, and a few other structural items. You and I’ll set up the recreation area. Justin, we’ll eat our midday meal—the fancy one—in Central, but I’ll assign you Cleo and Leonard to help you move your stored food, and whatever other items you’ll be taking. Conrad, I’ll need you to install a pair of terminals. Marvin, I realize that you have things you need to prepare for, tomorrow, but you and Conrad quit in plenty of time to get ready for your skit. “I know you’re all curious regarding the empty space in Eleven. Stay that way. I prefer not to discuss what I plan to use that area for, yet. Right after this meal, we’ll strip the beds in Central, remake them in Eleven, and move our duffel.” Michael’s sensors detected suppressed excitement. They’ve worked until now never really thinking of launch as imminent, he judged accurately as he seated himself. They saw liftoff as an event in the distant future. The order to move just jolted them out of that complacency. Nigel’s undoubtedly royally pissed. I hate to keep my second officer in the dark—not my style, secrecy—but this situation’s unique. Well. Let’s set your plan in motion, spacer. After hurrying to her cabin, Cleo stripped the bed of the freshly adjusted sheet and bedcover Nigel had taken pains to arrange without a wrinkle, folded the bedding, and set the pile on the bed. A knock on her door startled her. She opened it to behold Michael, who held out a glasscloth duffel bag. “I thought you might need this,” he informed her. “Keep it. It’s an extra one.” “Why, how thoughtful of you!” the Gaean exclaimed. “Thank you!” That glow animating her when she arrived hasn’t lessened in the least, the Captain noted glumly as he departed. Finding the chore simplified, Cleo packed the bedding and the two

pillows into the bag, and retrieved the spare bedding from the adjuster. From a drawer, she removed the fragile glass rose. Wrapping that treasure first in its glass-wool sheath, and then in her spare suit, she inserted the bundle carefully into the bag. It doesn’t take me long to pack, she acknowledged wryly. Glancing around, she bid a mental farewell to the cramped space that held so many vivid memories. Head high, she strode out to face the future. Upon arriving in Eleven, Cleo slipped the rose into the drawer in her locker, set her folded suit on the top shelf, and arranged the folded spare bedding on the shelf below, on top of the bag. Having made the bed, she stood gazing about the cabin larger than the old one. I rather like the look of the curved corner wall, she decided. Pleasing shape…lots of open space. Does Michael intend to put my cabin to some dual use? I guess that wouldn’t bother me, come to think of it. What will he have me doing all day? Maybe I’ll get to help in the food-chemistry lab. Cheered by that supposition, she strode away towards Central. Arriving in Justin’s domain simultaneously with Leonard, Cleo beheld the proprietor, who engaged in washing the last of the pots and pans. “Let me do that,” Leonard exclaimed. “Move your gear, Justin. Shall we fetch our carts, and load the frozen food?” A ready assent led to the loading and moving of the contents of the freezer. The movers returned to find the cook rummaging through his cabinets, and setting out apparatus, utensils, and various implements. Having loaded those, they awaited instructions. “Just as soon as we haul all this gear to Eleven, I’ll think of something I forgot,” the technician muttered, even as he impaled Cleo with a stern eye. “Such as summoning you to the infirmary on Friday. Well, you’ll be the first person I see in my new quarters.”

A mock groan greeted that statement. “Justin, I moved walls all day Saturday!” “In that case, you ought to have gained mass, having built muscle. Let’s put this aggregation away.” Picking up a sizeable crock, he declared firmly, “I’ll carry this. You two bring those outfits.” Pushing an ungainly cart through the rim, Cleo fretted nervously, I’ll bet he’ll become dead set on feeding me some ghastly supplement. Might a steak dinner help? After ninety minutes spent handing a variety of items to the head cook as he arranged the food in the freezer, refrigerator, and lockers, and the equipment in his cabinets, Cleo and Leonard beheld order come out of chaos. Stroking his chin, Justin announced ruminatively, “We need to go back for the centrifuge Conrad and I modified for our needs. It’ll take two of us to lift that outfit into a cart. Cleo, load the supplies I’ve got boxed in the infirmary. Leonard, you and I can haul the centrifuge.” By 0830, all of Justin’s gear reposed in Eleven. “Nice, this,” he remarked, glancing around in satisfaction. “It’s better equipped than a lot of outposts where I treated serious injuries. I’m going to steal some equipment from Fourteen. If I’ve got exactly what I need, maybe I’ll never have to use it.” A chill again assaulted the woman now grown certain that Michael must anticipate trouble. Two hours before the time set for the main meal, Justin’s two workspaces in Eleven displayed perfect order. Justin, Cleo and Leonard sat around the worktable, sipping portions of the first batch of coffee brewed in Eleven. “Mmmm…your brew’s a treat, Justin. It long ago evolved away from chicory roots, didn’t it?” Cleo probed, smiling conspiratorially.

“It mutated drastically. You needn’t spread the word, though,” the chemist acknowledged with a chuckle. “No way! Besides, it’s better than ever.” “What are those strange-looking things that I suspect we’re having for lunch?” Leonard asked. “Birthday special, to go with the steaks. I guess it won’t hurt to tell you that those are artichokes.” “I can’t remember ever having a birthday so full of surprises!” There’s one yet to come, Cleo reflected fondly. I suppose I’ll have to announce that one…assure them I’ll repeat it on everyone’s birthday. My blistered soul, I am turning into a hussy. Or something for which my store of Earth-Standard lacks words. I’m sure words exist, though. A glance at Leonard’s open, smiling face banished the momentary twinge of guilt. “I appreciate the help both of you’ve given me, today,” the cook assured his assistants. Clapping him on the back, the youth replied, “Our pleasure. Now, can we help you in Central?” Before Justin could reply, the door slid open. Nigel backed through it, carrying one end of a terminal workstation. Michael came into view bearing the other. Behind them, his arms full of equipment, strode Conrad. When the unit had been set in place, and left for the electrical engineer to install, Michael gazed around in patent satisfaction. “Looks good, Justin,” he commended his subordinate. “Thank you. Can the three of you spare time for a cup of the first coffee ever brewed in Eleven?” Michael’s grin warmed the cook. “We can’t turn down a chance to make history,” he exclaimed. “Nigel, Conrad, pull up a chair, and let’s imbibe a cup.” Three movers dropped gratefully into seats, to sip steaming cups of

fragrant extract. “Justin, your brew’s better than ever,” the addict declared, savoring the flavor. “Are you finished moving in? Conrad will need to turn the power off temporarily.” “I was just leaving for Central, to set up for dinner.” “We timed our arrival just right. Cleo, before you go, take a look in the recreation hall. Leonard, I didn’t forget my promise. Nigel and I left the tank intact. We fashioned a reversible top for our creation, and an adjustable base. Upside down, the tank will serve as a poker table. Reversed, with the top lowered, it’s a ripple tank. Our birthday present to an aspiring physicist, the outfit.” “What a super idea! Thank you both!” Glancing from Michael’s smiling face to Nigel’s, the recipient of the gift urged, “Cleo, Justin, let’s look!” Three eager beholders gazed in admiration at the invention. The tank top rested in the inverted position, on four slim, strong, adjustable legs magnetically held to the metal deck. Removable gray glass-cloth resembling felt had been secured to the sleek composite bottom of the tank, for ease in dealing cards. Peering beneath, the three observers admired the ingenious support that held the top immobile, utilizing catches that unsnapped, allowing the tank to be inverted. Leonard and Justin flipped it, noting the craftsmanship of the design. Strapped within the tank lay a circular container, which they lifted out. That repository proved to hold the wave generators, barriers, light source, screen, stroboscope, and other apparatus. Around its exterior rim, flexible tubing lay coiled, evidently intended for siphoning out the water. “Well, if they didn’t take pains building this!” Leonard exclaimed, touched to the core by the officers’ thoughtfulness. “They’d have employed a single support for the table—that’d have been a hell of a lot easier to build—except that they had to leave the bottom of the tank unobstructed, to show the waves on the screen laid on the deck. Won’t I enjoy

experimenting with this outfit!” Turning, Leonard strode back into the laboratory. “Michael—Nigel—I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the pains you took with that thing!” he exclaimed. “Thank you!” Rising, the Captain laid a comradely hand on the shoulder of the man they had unconsciously ceased to regard as a boy. “Leonard, we enjoyed building it, and we’ll enjoy using it as a teaching tool. We’re delighted that you’re eager to learn.” “You and I will build some apparatus to study interference in light, as well, Leonard,” Nigel promised. “Exercise our ingenuity, hm?” “Yours, you mean! But you can bet that I’ll watch and learn, Nigel.” Flashing the youth a grin, Conrad added, “And once you’ve mastered the principles governing interference in water waves and visible light, I’ll introduce you to some similar effects in other sections of the electromagnetic spectrum,” he promised. “Like radio waves.” “One lesson will lead to another,” Michael affirmed. “Well, Nigel, let’s you and I retire to the bridge, and I’ll fill you in on what I plan for next week.” After the departure of the gift-givers, Conrad applied himself to installing the terminal. Leonard hastened back to the recreation hall, where Cleo and Justin stood admiring the layout. The table from the ship, fastened by one long edge to a folding bracket, hung suspended by chains stretching from points higher on the wall, to its outer corners. On top of that support lay the last mattress, upholstered with a fitted sheet. Pillows from the ship’s bunks provided cushioning for the occupants’ back. Between couch and exterior side wall, stood the small, low locker, stocked with cards, dice, checker and chess sets, and the can of bolts employed as poker chips. The rolled mats, piled against the curving corner

matching that in Cleo’s cabin, formed a comfortable couch. Between that feature and the pressure-proof door of the lock, stood a large terminal on a movable base, suitable for the viewing of recreational videos by seven people at once. Five of the stacking chairs the viewers saw to be distributed along the wall. The small table, which folded against the side exterior wall, projected outwards in the horizontal position, obviously intended for two people playing chess or checkers. Two more chairs reposed on either side of it. A small, collapsible, portable table lay folded, magnetically adhering to the side of the small locker. Against the exterior wall opposite the recreation hall, on the far side of the empty space remaining, the three long, low, narrow lockers containing the exercise sets had been fastened in place. The dividers that would separate the empty cabin from the space adjoining the recreation hall lay on the deck. No panels had been collected to separate the recreation hall from the rest of the space stretching the width of Eleven’s deck. Puzzled, Cleo studied the layout. If that down there is the exercise hall, why go to the trouble to build the couch so that it can be folded up against the wall? Why not mount it on top of storage lockers? And the table has flip-up magnetic attachments on the legs, and gliders, so it can be moved. Michael obviously intends that this space can be cleared. Suppress your curiosity, woman. You don’t dare ask him, after what he said. When the time arrived for the meal, the Gaean flanked Justin, behind the counter. Employing tongs, she set a cooked artichoke on every plate. “Dip the bases of the petals in the sauce,” she directed the diners, chuckling aloud at the expression that appeared on Nigel’s face when her fellow server handed him a steak dinner. The meat-lover’s habitual impenetrability went down to instant defeat at the sight of the luxury. “Much as I’ve come to enjoy your creations,

Justin, I have to admit to a fundamental fondness for bovine protein,” he confessed. Seating herself after serving the last diner, Cleo sought to assess their reaction to artichoke petals dipped in lemon sauce, discovering that the novelty of the manner of eating the bulky blossoms intrigued them. “Tasty little beggars, Cleo,” Conrad enthusiastically informed her. “They beat asparagus all to hell!” “You haven’t allowed yourself time to acquire a taste for the dismal weeds, Conrad,” Cleo joked. “Not hard for the uncultured palate to appreciate artichokes, hm?” Nigel drawled. “They’re delicious!” Leonard declared. “A man who’d eat raw rhubarb would eat anything,” Conrad retorted scathingly. Marvin laughed his soft laugh. “Filling in for you didn’t make the dent in Leonard’s appetite that helping Justin made in yours, a time or two.” “Watch your mouth, spacer, or I’ll slip it a surprise, one of these days!” Michael’s rugged face retained its usual composure, but curiosity devoured him. Marvin doesn’t exhibit the least sign of stage fright! Cleo doesn’t look the least bit worried. Does she know something I don’t? She didn’t seem to, when she made the suggestion. Talk about shots in the dark! Risk-taker, she is, all right. Well! Promptly at 1300, five people quivering in anticipation collected in Central’s recreation hall, to seat themselves before an open area framed by two curtains fashioned of doubled bedcovers suspended from the upper plates to form wings. Leonard, as guest of honor, found himself ushered by the smiling originator of the idea to the seat in the center. As Cleo settled herself into the place next to his, Nigel availed himself of the opportunity to

sit next to her. Michael took the chair next to Leonard’s. After pausing to set a tray on which reposed two bottles, a stack of glasses and an insulated container full of ice, Justin took the last seat. Having sucked in a deep breath, Conrad emerged from a wing, strode to center stage, and addressed the audience. “Lady and gentlemen,” he announced. “Welcome to the Far Out Theatre. The original comedy you are about to enjoy is entitled Food For Thought. The action takes place in the Captain’s office. The terminal and adjoining counter with drawers represent his desk.” Bowing with a flourish, he vanished behind a wing. Fifteen seconds later, he reappeared. His lean body slouched, and his tunic sagged open at the collar. In one hand, he bore a tool kit, which he let drop with a thud to the deck, next to a sizeable metal casing that appeared to be a compressor. Shoulders slumping, the amateur actor bent to open the kit, and extract a wrench. Projecting an undeniable lack of enthusiasm, he made a few listless turns on a nut located on top of the bulky item. Frowning in disgust, he stood up, stretched, and scratched his back with the wrench. Carelessly, he tossed the tool aside, and meditated for the space of a second. Inspiration struck. With exaggerated care, he tiptoed to the counter, to pull open the top drawer and grope inside while keeping a wary eye out. Exclaiming, “Aha!” he withdrew a bottle. Turning to the audience, he displayed a face on which flashed comically exaggerated delight. Several furtive glances over his shoulder having nerved him to take a chance, he tipped up the bottle, and took a long pull. “The damned slave-driver buys the best,” he observed gleefully, while crossing his eyes, smacking his lips, and rubbing his belly. “What else has he got stashed in here?” Shoving the bottle back in the drawer, he rummaged boldly. His eyebrows rose as he removed a large holographic print. Standing

fronting the audience, he held the print at arm’s length, his face contorted into a zany grin. Alternately gazing at the print and hugging it to his chest while eloquent changes of expression chased themselves across his unexpectedly mobile features, he flashed the print at the spectators just long enough for them to glimpse the bare breasts and curvaceous bare hips of a voluptuous blonde woman lounging on a plush couch. Chuckles arose from the male portion of the audience. A gasp evoked by shock escaped Cleo. Shoving the print back into the drawer, Conrad glanced about. Spying a sheathed sword hanging from a belt suspended over the back of a chair, he pounced on that. Drawing the blade with a theatrical flourish, he assumed a guard position, and made several grandiosely exaggerated lunges. Replacing the sword in the sheath, he shrugged glumly, settled into a crouch, and applied the wrench to the nut that had stymied him earlier. Enthusiastic applause rewarded his opening effort. From of the far wing, behind Conrad, Marvin made his entrance. On his collar, Michael’s insignia glittered. His tall, lean body displayed no faintest trace of gangliness. With limber, feline grace, instantly familiar, he strode soundlessly across the deck to stand over the blatantly oblivious recruit. Legs apart, hands clasped behind his back, dark eyes glittering, he hissed, “Laid your miserable carcass down for a nap while I was gone, hm?” The soft, sibilant voice was Nigel’s. No one present could have told it from the original. Marvin neither in face nor body remotely resembled the Lieutenant, although their heights matched, but with uncanny accuracy the talented actor copied Nigel’s stance, his fluid movements, his sinuous walk. Cleo’s heart thudded wildly, and then threatened to stop beating altogether. Oh, my blistered soul! she groaned inwardly. What have I done? Nigel will flay the hide off the poor soul I hoped would feel accepted! Not daring to glance at the man on her right, she sat suspended in shock for

five seconds that stretched like eternity. Stupefaction prevented the others from reacting during that endless five seconds. Nigel’s eyes widened in stark disbelief. Far from exploding in wrath as Cleo fully expected, he threw back his head, and roared. Peal after peal of genuine, hearty, unfeigned, spontaneous laughter fell on the woman’s ear like orchestral music. Heart hammering, she resumed breathing. The others joined in uproariously, hugging themselves in mirth exactly as Conrad had done. Marvin’s face changed no whit, but relief surged through him. While waiting in the wings, he had again weighed Conrad’s reservations, but the temptation to avail himself of such a prime target for mimicry had been too great for the premier actor he was, to resist. Now, casting all doubts into the void, galvanized by vehement applause, he threw himself into his role with abandon. Displaying sure stage presence, Conrad held off his reaction until the laughter died down. Leaping up to face his superior, falling awkwardly over his feet, he stuttered even as Marvin had been wont to do. “N…nosir! Not m…m…me, sir! The nuts are really tight, sir! But I’m getting it.” “I see very little evidence of that!” Convulsively turning the wrench, Conrad removed the nut. “See, sir? I’ve been alternately drenching it with penetrating oil and straining to work it loose, all this time.” “Hm. Took you long enough. Grease the damned thing, before you take the back off to fix whatever’s wrong.” As the Captain glowered, Conrad stuck over a zirc the metal end of the hose extending from the grease gun. Fumbling, he let hose and nozzle slip, and pumped a large gob of grease onto the front of Marvin’s tunic. Speechless with outrage, the Captain stared down at himself. “Oops!” Conrad blurted. Grabbing a cloth from the kit, he yelped, “Let

me assist, sir!” Rubbing the cloth on the spot, he spread viscous grease liberally over an area four times as large as before. Marvin’s body tensed. With a lightflash, fluid movement, he bunched the fabric of Conrad’s tunic in one hand, jerked him forward, and lifted the visibly quaking recruit forced to rise on his toes. The sibilant voice grew softer, and dripped with sarcastic menace. “You cipher,” the premier actor observed in a caressing tone. “You utter nonentity. You noisome, poisonous parasite inhabiting somebody’s gut. You uncouth, asinine, degenerate offspring of a slut and a slimeball. You pusillanimous, pulsating pustule on the broad backside of a bureaucrat. You get this blasted mass of metal apart and fix it properly, before I carve my signature on your worthless hide with a blade!” Two of the spectators had once heard the Lieutenant deliver a threat couched in those same colorful terms to a hapless, dithering supply clerk. Howls of laughter, Nigel’s as delighted as any, greeted that perfect rendition. Having dropped Conrad to the deck, where he crouched on his knees frantically wielding the wrench, Marvin seated himself negligently on a stool. Hooking the heel of his boot into the frame, he clasped both arms around his bent knee, and leaned back, glaring at his sweating subordinate. Conrad managed an altogether creditable job of projecting a fumbling, bumbling, frightened, inept fool, alternately attacking the nuts, and casting wildly apprehensive glances at his superior. Straightening, he lurched to his feet, and stuttered, “N…need a different k…k…kit, sir! Be right back, sir!” Turning, he took a hasty exit, followed by vociferous applause. Marvin’s body lazily uncoiled from the couch. Striding to the desk, he extracted the bottle, and tipped it back for a long, satisfying swallow. Having replaced the flask in the drawer, he reached for the print. Settling into the chair, half-profiled to the audience, he leaned back, his long legs outstretched, to study the portrait, stroking his chin reflectively with his

hand. “Nice,” the sibilant voice averred. “Definitely nice. Epitome of allure, this lady. Worth my attention. Tonight? No. Nancy’s night. Mustn’t disappoint Nancy. I might need her again, eventually. Tomorrow, then. Free? Not free. Eloise’s turn. Ah, Eloise. Full of witchery—a delight to the senses. Eyes like molten glass, and her shape! Totally entrancing. Tomorrow’s full. Friday…yes. I’m free Friday, I believe. Let’s check.” Reaching into the drawer, the man riveting all eyes abstracted a datapad covered with columns of names: female names. Shaking his head regretfully, he asserted, “Friday’s out. Amelia: beauteous and buxom. Hair of gold that falls to her waist. Good thing—it’s all she usually wears. Playful…utterly tantalizing, Amelia. Shades of the ancients, I’m booked solid for a fourweek. What to do? Ahh. Lunch hour tomorrow. Who needs to eat? It’s not as though I’m doing anything this week requiring energy, hm?” Oh, my aching, battered, blistered body, Cleo wailed to her alter ego, he just went too far! Marvin, you’re dead! You don’t know when to quit! The sexually repressed Gaean had never fathomed Nigel, and this day proved no exception. Around her, shouts of laughter arose. The confirmed sensualist’s eyes sparkled. Leaning back in his chair, he chortled in unrestrained glee. Unable to resist, the Gaean stole a look at the original so unerringly reproduced onstage. My frantic, frazzled nerves, Nigel’s laughing. Marvin, you’re a hero. I can’t believe this. What talent! And no one knew! No one! When the din abated, Conrad made a clattering entry. Hastily shoving the print into the drawer, Marvin rose to glower at him. Hissing sardonically, “Of course you’re now equipped to fix this minor problem, hm?” he stood, hands behind back, legs apart, his eyes glittering. “Yessir! You bet, sir! If this doesn’t do it, I’ll eat this tub of grease, sir!” Holding up a liter of viscous gray molybdenum lubricant, the slovenly

recruit nodded vigorously. “It had better do it.” The sibilant voice softly threatened. Applying himself vigorously to his task, Conrad succeeded in removing the rear half of the device. A jumble of miscellaneous electrical components and tangled coils of loose wire cascaded onto the deck. His lean face registering comical, exaggerated dismay, he rummaged among the items. Dismay gave way to acute puzzlement. Picking up two loose ends of wire, one in each hand, he stared from one to the other. Shrugging, he directed a raised-eyebrows, who-knows glance at the spectators, and touched the two ends together. From the center of the pile, a fountain of sparks shot upwards, followed by a cloud of thick black smoke. When that dissipated, Marvin rose, projecting chill menace. Lifting a spoon off the counter, he stuck it in the tub of grease, and thrust the receptacle into the hands of his dismayed subordinate. Reaching for the begrimed cloth with which the inept recruit had rubbed the misdirected blob, he tied the rag around Conrad’s neck after the manner of napkins so displayed in ancient films. “Well, worm,” the sibilant voice drawled. “I don’t believe that did it. Your mouth overloaded your brain, leech. You’ll abide by your word, hm? Dig in!” Lugubriously, Conrad eyed the contents of the can, before shifting his glance to his irate superior. Spooning up what appeared to be a large gob of grease, he remarked resignedly, “Oh, well, I’ve eaten worse. Ever meet a cook named Justin? This doesn’t look all that bad. Down the hatch.” Popping the gob into his mouth, he made gulping motions. His eyes crossed. His face worked. Rising, he carried the can offstage, spooning up a new helping as he made his exit. Glaring after the man making his exit, Marvin waited until the applause died down before commanding their attention. Surveying the mess on the

deck, he observed sardonically, “The recruiter who signed him on needs therapy. Psychological readjustment. No—a total brain overhaul, assuming the moronic sod’s got something between his ears besides solid bone. Look at this wreck!” Raising his foot, Marvin delivered a hefty kick to the pile on the floor. A deafening bang shattered the silence, and reverberated off the metal walls of the cabin. A spectacularly jagged streak of lightning-like blue light leaped from the pile to the toe of Marvin’s gleaming boot. Clutching his smoking extremity, the supposed Captain hopped in a circle. “Damn that brain-dead issue of a mutant mother!” he hissed, his sibilant voice breathing venom. With villainous, clear intent, he reached for the sword. Drawing the blade, he curled his lip back over clenched teeth, and strode offstage in the direction taken by Conrad. A yell broke the ensuing short silence. Another interval of quiet followed. Conrad backed onto the stage, to stand facing away from the audience. With both hands, he held the front panels of his tunic wide apart. Closing the bands with exaggerated care, he turned a rueful face to the spectators. “One consolation,” he exclaimed. “At least his name isn’t Alexandrovishinskieff!” Clutching his chest, he took a final exit. When the prolonged clapping died down, the two actors returned to take a bow. Both withdrew. Behind the bedcover, Conrad whispered, “Take a bow alone!” Marvin insisted, “No, you take one.” Stepping forth, Conrad fell over his feet, bobbed a bow, and lurched back out. “Your turn!” he urged. Settling his face, Marvin strode to center stage, to take a deep, sinuously graceful bow. On silent, cat-like feet, he once more withdrew. The applause grew thunderous. Both actors returned, to stand smiling, their

arms over each other’s shoulders. Grinning from ear to ear, Nigel rose from his seat, and grasped the imitator’s hand in a crushing grip. “I’ve never seen a more perfect image of myself in a mirror, Marvin,” he conceded handsomely. “What an actor you are! And why in hell have you waited this long to let us know it?” Breathless with emotion, the actor flushed: himself again. “You’re a good sport, Nigel, damned if you aren’t,” he vouchsafed, returning the pressure of his admirer’s forceful grip. As five comrades surrounded the two thespians, pummeling and thumping them, Conrad once more threw his arm around his partner’s shoulder. “Would you believe it? Marvin was a University Player! He never let on, until now!” Amid the babble of congratulatory remarks and infectious laughter, Cleo savored overwhelming relief fast melting into heady delight. What a serendipitous stroke of luck, that chance suggestion some benign Power tossed into my mind! she exulted. Oh, Marvin. You’re one of them now. For good! At length, the performers retreated behind the bedcovers to change out of their grease-stained tunics into their spares, before emerging to take down the wings. While Michael and Justin served drinks, the others settled into the new seats to talk animatedly. Marvin found himself fielding a barrage of questions about his stint as a University Player. Stunned as much by the revelation as by the social misfit’s stagepresence, Michael sat bemusedly listening. Suffering shades of strangled spacers, I can’t believe what I just saw! he marveled. How in hell could someone as shy as Marvin—as unable to fit in socially—have excelled as an actor? A University Player, no less! They’re the cream! I’ll never understand how his mind works. Did he tell Cleo that? Hell, no. She looked as astounded as anyone, today. Then what

made her think… She didn’t, beyond what she told you! She took a chance: became a risk-taker on his behalf. She gambled that his trying would help him fit in. It surely has. They’ll never think of him in the same way again! Why hasn’t he ever told us? Damned if I can figure out why he didn’t. But what a development! He has changed—profoundly. Her doing, mostly. He and Conrad seem to have taken to each other, suddenly. They never did before. Amazing! This lucky break opens up all sorts of possibilities. The more I think about it… Well, you were committed already, spacer-captain. This unsuspected talent is sauce…garnish…bonus. Now if we can just string that foul tether without any dire accident…or injury…or death… Resolutely, the visionary forced that dire possibility aside. All of us took up this life knowing the risks, he admonished himself sternly. Just be sure that if a multiple disaster occurs, there’s no way that Cleo could get left alone here. I hope to hell Marvin doesn’t ram Eleven. We could start over, but a wreck will kill him. He can’t work the board in a suit—not doing the delicate manipulations that chore will require. If he rams the axis, that’ll constitute an even worse disaster. Damn! Well, damn it, he won’t! Place a little more faith in the poor bastard! There’s a lot more to Marvin than you originally thought, and you always knew that his mental endowment borders on genius! Sipping his portion of Justin’s Best, Michael strove to bolster his own confidence. A long, relaxing, conversation-filled afternoon followed, which indeed served to draw the company, all exquisitely aware of the dangers the next step in the ongoing work presented, together. No one suggested games. No isolated conversational groupings developed. Seven people joked, related anecdotes, discussed a variety of topics with animated fervor, and made inroads on the two magic bottles. Justin announced that supper would

be sandwiches and coffee, and they could help themselves. Afterwards, Cleo rose to face them, blushing a deep rose-pink, but determined to carry out her resolve. “I’d like your attention,” she began. As silence fell, she spoke, her piquant face wreathed in a radiant smile. “First of all, I wish to express my profound appreciation to Conrad and Marvin for their birthday gift: that skit I still can’t think about without laughing. Also to Justin, for his delicious dinner, and his magic bottles. To Michael and Nigel, for their marvelous, dual-purpose table. The only person left now to give Leonard a birthday gift is I. I’m announcing it, because you all need to know that I’ll give each of the rest of you the identical one, on your birthday. Leonard, I’m enlisting your company for the evening, in my spacious new cabin, just as soon as I emerge from the shower.” Five lovers electrified by that news beamed at the woman they shared. The only man aware of her intent shot her a knowing grin. Flushing scarlet, the partner who slept by turns with all of them smiled bravely back. Bemusedly, Leonard declared, “Of all the birthdays I’ve ever celebrated, or ever will celebrate, I believe I’ll remember my twenty-fourth as the one I enjoyed the most! My thanks to all of you. I’m overwhelmed.” The huskiness of his voice, and the emotion displayed on his open face, left no doubt in any mind as to the sincerity of that statement. Smiling tremulously at the guest of honor, Cleo breathed, “Allow me half an hour to get ready.” Oh, shit, she gasped silently as she escaped through the door, flushing hotly, I never asked Michael whether I shower here or in Eleven. I’ll try here. If the water’s turned off, then I’ll know. My perishing soul, getting up and saying that took all the courage I possess, but no one seemed jealous. I mustn’t ever appear to play favorites. I don’t have a favorite! I love all six of them!

Equally? Not really. They’re so different. Differently? Does that describe it? I’m not sure. All I know is, I can’t choose…can’t bear the thought of having to draw a name, and then say goodbye to all the rest. What a muddle! It’ll end with all of us hurting frightfully. A new thought impinged. If we all die in a few weeks, Leonard’s whole experience of loving a woman will consist of what he feels for me. Make it as happy and full an experience as you can, for him. Fate hasn’t done right by him! Stepping out of the shower that functioned perfectly, Cleo walked swiftly to Eleven. Closing the door of her new cabin behind her, she stripped. I see why Nigel hunted up the biggest adjuster in the station, she mused as she tossed her suit inside. It’ll be perennially full of everybody’s bedding and clothing. There’ll be a scramble in here, in the mornings. Perhaps Michael will post times. What if we have to use the urinals, or the head? They can double up, but I’ll never be able to lose that bit of my conditioning. Never! Maybe I’d better stash a canister with a tight lid, in here, just in case. Having climbed into bed, Cleo awaited Leonard. Everything went so beautifully today, she exulted. I’m so glad. I thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon, and so did they. Super idea, whatever benevolent Power popped it into my head. At that juncture, Leonard strode in, and dropped to a sitting position on the side of the bed. Rearing up, the occupant wished him a happy birthday as she hugged him exuberantly. “Cleo, this whole day was your idea. I want you to know, I’ve never, ever, spent so enjoyable a birthday, and as for your present, no one’s ever given me one I value more.” “I’m glad.” Deft fingers found their way into the bands of Leonard’s

tunic. As their owner thrust the fabric back over his shoulders, he reveled in the touch of her tongue on his shoulder, and under his ear. Drawing her close, he kissed her, desire flooding his mind and his senses. Rising, he shed pants and boots, and slid in to gather her into eager arms. “Do I get a lesson, even on this special night?” he whispered, his classic face wreathed in his impish grin. “After a review!” Laughter greeted that qualification. The man’s hands moved. His mouth caressed his partner’s breasts. As before, he developed variations of his own. His gentleness, his superb control of his intense passion, again stirred his partner to more than desire. His mouth enfolded her small focus of sensation, sending her half into trance. When his thrusts raised her to final bliss, she lay spent, her mind detached, floating in a timeless now. Leonard slid off her, to lie limply with his cheek against her chest, his arm around her. Contentedly, he let his mind drift. A sense of otherworldly well-being buoyed him, though he found no phrases, no words, to describe his sensations. Happiness pervaded mind, body, senses. The only word swirling out of the stream of his consciousness was a name: Cleo. That single symbol said it all, for him. Fulfilled sensually, emotionally, philosophically, conscious of the warmth of soft bare skin against his own, he explored an island universe all his own. At length, the youth returned from his solo flight to the far reaches. “I love you,” he murmured. “I’m not a hand with words, but those say it all.” “I love you, Leonard.” Cleo moved, settling herself against him, her head on his shoulder. “You’re twenty-four, you said. Justin only gave me dates, not ages. You’ve been with Michael four Earthyears?” “Three and a half.” So little experience of his world, the Gaean mourned compassionately. So young to be landed by capricious Fate in such a mess…but so accepting

of reverses. No bitterness…not a shred of jealousy. “You’ve learned a great deal during that time, haven’t you?” “All I could. Unique set of circumstances, my service, for someone like me. While that other situation lasted, I worked at learning the navigational math, but I found the circumstances…difficult. Michael’s crewmen are all specialists, but they accepted me, taught me, and displayed a wealth of patience to their lone recruit. Nigel put me through spacer training over again. I was glad that I had managed to survive it earlier. My new lieutenant proved himself a terror, but I was so grateful for what Michael had done that I’d have taken anything. “Well…I took all he handed out. Nigel decided that I’d do, I guess. After he did, he taught me a lot. So did Michael. Every time I stood watch with them, they went out of their way to shore up my math. We didn’t spend a lot of time aboard ship, though. We spent far more time fixing problems on stations, or in damaged ships. They all taught me, in bits and snatches, as I helped each of them. Some day, I’d like to attend the University, and earn my degree, after I’ve saved up enough credit so that I can attend full-time, and not have to work.” “I hope you can do that, Leonard.” A nagging worry drove Cleo to what Michael would have termed deviousness. “Have you worked outside…in a suit…often?” “Fairly often. Far more frequently than do most recruits, or even second-tour spacers. Michael and Nigel trained me to work effectively in a suit. Conrad helped me, too. They all spend a lot more time outside than do spacers manning a military ship, due to the nature of the work. We’ve fixed all sorts of problems on the hulls of ships, and the outsides of breached stations.” Michael told the truth, Cleo admitted with relief. Come to think about it, he never has lied to me about anything, right from that first morning,

when he forced this life on me. He truly did think that his solution would work out best for me, as well as for himself. And now that I look back…I can see why he thought so. We have stayed civilized. We’re united: a team collaborating smoothly. But the end of it… Don’t think about that. Give Leonard all you can…just in case… Thrusting grim forebodings to the back of her mind, Cleo moved. Twisting to lie on top of her youthful lover, she caressed him with hands, and mouth, and the warm pressure of her slim body. Moving downwards, she got astride him, and guided his shaft. Instinctively, he thrust upwards. She moved with him, her hands gripping his shoulders. “Kiss my breasts,” she whispered, leaning forward over him. Passion mirrored in his eyes, he did as she asked. As he thrust harder, Cleo straightened, and lay forward on him. Her now practiced movements evoked gasps of pleasure from the partner enjoying a novel experience. Sensing the magnitude of his renewed need, she gave herself up to rapture. Sheer ecstasy wrenched a groan from the man as he achieved fulfillment. Having attained a giddy height of sensual satisfaction herself, Cleo collapsed limply above her companion. The two lay for a time unmoving, satiated. At length, the Gaean slid down to fit herself into the curve of a strong arm. Drawing the bedcover over them, Leonard whispered, “I liked that.” Cleo savored the touch of a hand stroking her hair. Full of peace, she drifted towards sleep. I liked that myself, she acknowledged, but I love you, you gentle, caring, courageous, comradely lover. I love you!

WEEK SEVEN: MONDAY Having opened her eyes thirty minutes before the time set for rising, Cleo debated whether or not to wake the man lying with his back pressed against hers. Even as she decided in the affirmative, he rolled over, and glanced at the clock, wishful of avoiding a repeat of the prior Thursday morning. Smiling at his bedmate, he coaxed, “Don’t you think I need a review of the new lesson?” “No lesson sinks in without a review!” Twenty minutes later, Cleo reluctantly extricated herself from her partner’s embrace, and sat up. “Leonard, we’d better roll out. And please…be careful. I’ll worry about all of you, all week.” “Don’t, Cleo. We’ll watch ourselves, and each other.” Preceding her escort through the line, the anxious Gaean glanced speculatively at the head cook. Justin looks rested, she decided. Hopefully, he won’t be making mistakes owing to exhaustion. I’ll worry, despite what Leonard said. Rising towards the end of the meal, the Captain gathered all eyes. “Right after breakfast, Justin will see Cleo in the infirmary. Justin, Leonard and Cleo will raise the walls for the cabin opposite the bridge. Nigel, Conrad and Marvin, meet with me in my office, and we’ll go over the work facing us.” Seating himself, Michael sipped the last of his coffee. Well, this is it,

spacer-captain. I hope your luck holds. While Leonard washed the breakfast utensils, Cleo presented herself in the new infirmary. Stepping onto the balance, she eyed the digital dial nervously. “You’ve gained a quarter of a kilogram,” the technician assured her. “Not a hell of a lot, but enough to warrant my holding off on prescribing a supplement. I’ll see you again in a week. You’re not to fret this slim gain off, worrying about our safety, hear? We know what we’re doing.” “Justin, I can’t just banish anxiety, but I’ll try not to dwell on it.” “Try hard, girl.” As she drew on her clothes, the petite woman reflected in satisfaction, That steak must have helped. And so must the four glasses of water I drank before coming in here! Having repairing to the exercise hall, Justin and Leonard lifted panels into place, while Cleo bolted them. This cabin sports a second door into the exercise hall, she noted, so two doors per cabin might well represent a safety feature. Perhaps I leaped to a wholly unwarranted conclusion, a while back. After preceding his three subordinates into his office, Michael detached three stackable chairs from positions overhead, where they resided until needed, held to the metal divider and the inner plates of the hull by their magnetic inserts. Lifting those down, he gestured the spacers into seats, and sat facing them. “I’ve acquainted Nigel with the general outline of what I intend to do, but at this time, we’ll make detailed plans,” he declared. “Marvin, you’ll give us a breakdown of what chores need done, and in what order. “Nigel, you’ll schedule the work-assignments. I prefer to have only two men out at a time, and never more than four. Use me in each crew going out. You and I will risk being out together, given that the majority of

disasters I can imagine occurring would render a launch impossible, no matter who ended up in command. Use the men you judge best qualified for each job. Marvin, carry on.” His gangly body taut, the programmer glanced squarely at the Captain as he launched into his summary. “The first chore will be attaching my remotes to the strut,” he announced. “I’d prefer to do that myself, given that an error of just a few centimeters would drastically amplify the error in my perception of the movement. I’ll position the mounts for the tanks on the strut, as well. I’ve designed those mounts specially, so that I can change the direction of the thrust. That function’s integrated into others I’ll use. “I won’t be able to pack the tanks along, so I’ll address that problem shortly. After I position the mounts, anyone can attach the tanks, or replace them with refills. We’ll need all the large, portable, propane tanks I set aside: tanks equipped to keep the gas liquefied in the cold of space. Someone will have to fill them periodically from the reserve tanks of liquefied propane on the hulls of various sections. I’ve listed the locations of those on this datapad.” Michael listened intently, frowning in concentration as he began committing the order of chores facing them to files in his capacious memory. As Marvin delivered his summary, Nigel made notes on a datapad in his bold, highly legible script. “The next or possibly simultaneous step will be for Conrad to attach his electromagnetic couplings to the axis. He’ll then install certain other equipment—power packs, and such—so that I can activate the electromagnets by remote. He and I have worked all that out. He has the components ready. “I’ll exit via the lower lock, float to where the strut joins the axis, and climb down the strut as if I were descending an 873-meter-tall ladder. As I

climb, I’ll attach my gear: components tethered to the rings on my suit. My boots will hold me to the cross-members. That high-strength, low-density Gaean alloy is as magnetic as the hull of a ship. I’ll keep my eyes on what my fingers are doing—not glance around, so that my mind plays tricks on me—but I’ll nonetheless wear a chest harness, and a sling that I’ll keep attaching to the strut. “I’ll also dose myself with motion sickness pills. The climb will take me quite some time. I’ll climb down, not up. The closer I get to the rim, the greater the centrifugal force will be, and the heavier what gear I’m still packing will get. “Since the linear velocity at the axis is only one meter a second, a man in a maneuvering unit can propel himself tangentially against the axis, and grab hold of the openwork. That’s what Conrad will do, but of course he couldn’t grab hold to the rim, or to Eleven’s hull, where the linear velocity of a point on the surface is ninety-three meters a second. He’d get whacked, and then hurled off into the void with that velocity. A maneuvering unit couldn’t accelerate to anything approaching that speed, or decelerate him. It could turn him, but it’s very doubtful that he could set himself on a course that would bring him exactly back to his starting point before he exhausted his propellant. He’d almost surely be lost in space. “So. We’re all going to be forced to take extraordinary care. If one of us somehow were to get detached from Eleven’s hull, he’d be launched away on a course tangent to the rim, at that same speed. Slowing the spin won’t help, especially. That only helps if you’re standing on the side of Eleven facing away from the rim: upside down, to your brain’s way of thinking. If a man got thrown off the hull at the slower rate of spin, he’d still be traveling thirty-one meters a second: far too fast for a maneuvering unit to do him any good.” Grim faces conveyed agreement with that statement.

“Well. We’ll not only need to traverse the strut to attach tanks, we’ll also have to traverse three tether-cables while hauling other gear. Conrad and I figured out a way to do that. We propose building an elevator platform: a metal plank joined to the open end of a U-shaped frame. We’ve found a suitable electric winch in the ship’s stores, and refitted the winch with a kilometer of thin but exceptionally strong line. We’ve charged the winch’s three power packs—two are extra—and built quick-change mounts so that one man can move the winch to different positions around the axis. However, we haven’t built the platform yet. “One man can run the winch, and lower two others in the platform down the strut to attach the tanks. By ‘down’ I mean the direction from axis to rim. We can then use the elevator to descend the cables.” Pausing, Marvin scanned the faces of the listeners hanging on his words. “You’ll need to equip the elevator with a railing with wire netting, and a gate,” Michael opined. “Otherwise it’ll be easy for riders or equipment to slide off.” “We fully intended to do so,” Marvin averred, “and we addressed one other problem. The platform will drift a bit, due to the Coriolis effect. Quite a while back, when we first discussed this venture, I programmed a remote that can be attached to the underside of the platform, to counteract that drift, even though the platform is ascending or descending. Tricky chore, that, but I think it’ll work, if the platform conforms to the specifications I designate. “The idea of using such a platform offers one drawback, though. The ship’s store of line suitable for climbing—sheathed line featuring an elastic core—includes none over sixty meters long. We found spools of other sorts of line, but none I’d want to try to climb using the usual gear, if the line supporting the platform snapped. While descending the cables, the men can

clip ascenders securing slings joining their harnesses to the cable itself, and keep sliding the ascenders down. We’ve got ascenders of a size that will fit that cable, which is slender for its formidable strength. We can clip slings to the strut with carabiners, but I’ll be pointing out a problem, later in this summary. I’ll return to the subject of safety then.” As Marvin again paused, Michael, his brow furrowed, stared speculatively at the emotionally fragile expert. His face expressionless, Nigel methodically jotted notes. Hearing no objections, Marvin continued his explanation. “So. One or two men, occupying the platform lowered by a third, will attach the tanks to the strut. That’ll be a good way to test the platform. They’ll snap a safety line to the openwork, and constantly reposition it. If the elevator line snaps, they’ll be jerked out to hang by their safety slings from the openwork, and they can climb the strut, the way I will.” That suggestion provoked nods of agreement. “The next step will be uncoupling the strut from the rim, and from the axis. We’ll do that just before I move it. I’ll have it programmed to stay exactly in position. I’ll move just as if it were still attached. The mechanical couplings feature latches. The strut isn’t welded in place. Detaching it would be easier if it were. “The Gaeans’ master section—the one used as a shuttle—commanded the latches to close, once the strut settled into position. I can’t program the latches to open on command, so a man on each end will have to do that manually. They’re massive, spring-loaded outfits. Prying them up to release them will be touchy. One of the two men performing that operation will stand on the hull of the rim, below Eleven. That person won’t encounter too much trouble, but the other will have to land on the axis, pry up the latch in an almost weightless state while clinging to the spinning openwork of strut and axis. I suggest that two men work that end.”

Glancing at Nigel, Marvin saw him nod. “The closer we come to achieving a simultaneous opening of the two latches, the less the likelihood of an accident. As soon as both latches are open, all the men will evacuate. I’ll then move the strut. “There’s another reason why we can’t slow the spin. If we do, my remote sensors would work just as well, but I wouldn’t. Every delicate move I make—each tiny force I exert—I’d have to guess at making nine times less vigorous. I couldn’t do that accurately, on maneuvers as delicate as these. What I do now will be far more dangerous than flying the frame with the ice. I’m too used to Earth-standard gravity. My muscles are. I wouldn’t want to attempt such a chore.” As the patently nervous expert made that declaration, his hearers detected an ominous echo of the old querulousness. Michael responded in a placatory tone, “I totally agree, Marvin! No problem.” That assurance seemed to relax the programmer’s tense frame a trifle. Nodding, he declared levelly, “So. When I move the strut, I’ll do it from Eleven’s board. I’ll want Eleven evacuated. I also want no one in the elevator, lock, or on the ship, and no one outside. My devices will result in a three-dimensional, graphic image’s being transmitted, via my modified terminal, into my helmet. My finger-tip-sensitive controls will allow me to move the strut manually through what I perceive as three-dimensional space. “That chore will be extraordinarily delicate. If I mess up and ram Eleven—if I breach its hull—anyone aboard the section will die spaced. If I ram the axis, ditto for anyone in the elevator. If all I install are my devices, you won’t know what’s happening outside, since Central’s board employs scanning screens rather than cameras. My devices will give me a graphic view of the strut’s surroundings, but I can’t transfer that image to anything

other than my helmet. “Conrad will therefore attach a circuit that runs off a power pack—a circuit that will contain a quantity of infrared-emitting diodes—to Eleven’s hull, and to the axis. Those will indicate position to a screen I’ve added to Central’s board. I’ll run a similar circuit on the strut, as I traverse its length. You’ll get the graphic image—unfortunately, not three-dimensional—on your screen. You won’t be able to move the strut, but you’ll see what’s going on.” Awash in relief at the news that some visual record of the maneuver would be available to him, Michael nodded. Marvin pointed out calmly, “If I breach Eleven, I’ll die spaced. The strut, uncontrolled, would then tend to move so as to sweep out a rhomboidshaped plane, moving outwards from the axis. Its motion would be modified by whatever thrusts I’d given it before the wreck. It would inflict heavy damage on the station. I’m therefore building in a safety feature: a failsequence, that’ll first tilt the strut, and then drive it parallel to the axis, past the countermass on the end of the axis opposite the despun portion, and away into the void. You’ll work that control from Central’s board. “But, Michael, I strongly urge you not to activate it prematurely. If I bump Eleven’s hull, but don’t breach it, I can still succeed. You’ll know if I breach it, because an alarm will sound on Central’s board, and seals will automatically slide into place in Eleven’s double locks. An alarm will also sound, and seals close, if I hit the axis, the elevator, or the other struts. If I hit any of the tethers, they’ll most likely snap at the couplings. That won’t constitute the disaster the other collisions would. Not that I expect to hit anything, mind you—I’m talking worst case scenario—but you need to stand prepared to act.” Marvin’s voice betrayed no agitation as he made that series of chilling statements, his eyes fixed on those of the Captain.

Nodding, Michael assured him, “We won’t do anything prematurely. I promise you that, but I’m glad to know that your fail-sequence will be in place.” That assurance produced a visible relaxation in the speaker’s taut, tall body. “If I move the strut successfully, I’ll give it a series of motions. The first, and most dangerous, will be that of lifting it straight up out of the plane of the other struts, above the rim, but below the widest part of Eleven’s bulbous hull. The strut will be programmed to move as if it were still attached. The motions I’ll then give it will be in addition to those programmed. “I’ll swing the strut in an arc, so that it will form a radius between Eleven’s tether and that of the countermass next to Eleven on the rim. Then, I’ll have to move it outwards, past the rim, along a radius between Eleven’s, and that of the countermass next to it on the rim. That will be tricky as well, but necessary, so as to give the end of the strut that’s nearest the axis clearance enough for its ten-meter width to pass safely through the plane of the spinning tethers. “I’ll then lift the strut, which I’ll think of as lying in a horizontal position, straight up, through the plane of the tethers, and then move it back inside the rim. I’ll next swing its extremities in arcs that reposition the strut above Eleven’s tether. I’ll then cause it to sweep out a rhomboidshaped plane, allowing for the width of the axis, and move it endwise, until it’s centered against the axis, just above the plane of the tethers. It’ll couple to the electromagnets Conrad rigged in the axis. That will hold it in place.” Marvin swept a glance over the men who sat, visibly tense, their set faces riveted to his. He watched those faces change, as the minds behind them strove to visualize his turning that monstrous metal whip loose within

the confines of the rim, and maneuvering it without causing irreparable disaster. The hair rose on the nape of Michael’s neck. Am I demanding the impossible of this high-strung genius whose nerves fray so easily? he wondered, suddenly consumed by dread. Is he direly overconfident in what he thinks he can do? Are you? You’re committed, now! Damn… Evincing no perturbation, Marvin continued his summary. “The next step will be attaching a winch to each end of the strut. We’ve designed a way to couple those. We’ll have to laser-weld part of it. Terrific stress will be exerted on those two areas during the maneuvers we’ll initiate after we launch. We’ve designed two pairs of electromagnetic couplers that’ll cause the bodies to join properly aligned. Once that alignment is achieved, I’ll snap the mechanical couplers closed. Those will hold each mass rigidly to the strut. “We’ll need several hours in my workspace to modify the winches, so that once the cables are cut, their ends can be attached to the winches. Conrad and I had better install the winches, and join them to the strut ourselves. They’re massive outfits. Getting them to the ends of the strut will pose a problem. We won’t be able to land on the strut’s extremities in a maneuvering unit. Those extremities will be halfway between axis and rim, and so will be rotating too fast. We’ll have to position the winch supporting the platform at one end of the imaginary line—a radius—that the tip of the strut intersects. “Somebody will have to run that small winch, to lower one of us and the huge winch we’ll attach to the strut, from the axis to the end of the strut, and then raise the platform to lower the other of us, the couplers, and the tools. It might not be a bad idea to give us an assistant: someone to hand us tools, and help hold things in place. We’ll be using a portable laserwelder.”

As he jotted a note, Nigel nodded. Marvin now warned gravely, “We’ll face a safety problem at this point. There won’t be any place to tether a sling from a harness, on that 415-meter descent. I suggest that the man descending join seven sixty-meter lines— we’ve got eight—and stack the line in the sack we use to float the line out there. He’ll then anchor one end of the line to the axis, and play the line out from the sack resting on the platform, as he descends, sliding his sling’s ascender down. He’ll leave the line floating freely from the axis, and the last men up will slide ascenders up, stacking the line back in the sack as they ascend. Then they’ll haul the sack around the axis to reposition the line above the other end of the strut.” Pausing, Marvin again beheld nods. “Once the components are attached to one end of the strut, we repeat that operation to install the second winch. We’ll leave the welding equipment clamped to the framework of the axis. After we’ve got the winches attached to the strut, the next step will be cutting the first tether: the one stretching from Eleven’s bulbous side to the axis. Those cables are all under tension. We can’t uncouple the tether until we cut it. “We’ll need first to attach my devices. The positioning of the devices won’t be nearly as crucial as the positioning of my gear will be on the strut. There won’t be the danger of my ramming anything when I move a tether. The tanks will have to be attached. Here’s how I see our doing that. “Two men will descend on the platform, from the axis outwards—which is downwards—along the cable. They’ll attach a tank, and then a device, close to the end towards the axis. They’ll descend almost to the center, and attach the second device, and then a tank. They’ll next descend to the center, and attach a device that’ll melt through the tether on my remote command. The two will then continue a bit farther towards the rim, fastening a single device, and then a tank, on the rimward side of where the

cut will be. At that point, a third man will raise them back up to the axis. Then I’ll cut the tether, by remote. “The two ends will be programmed to stay in place. One of the two men will re-enter the lock. The other, and the one who ran the winch, will uncouple the end of the tether, and then float the platform farther around the axis to the point above the strut’s end. Then one will descend to the strut. He’ll be able to stand on it as if it were a tilted ladder, but he’ll attach himself to it by a sling. The two halves of the tether will stay in position. “I’ll fly the cut end to the man on the end of the strut. He’ll first clamp the attachment that will couple the cut end to the winch, pull out a piece of cable from the winch, and couple the tether to that. I’ll run the winch, to tighten the tether enough so that he can retrieve tank and device, but not as tight as it’ll be during launch. The other end of the cut tether, extending out from the axis, I’ll let drift, so as to save the propellant remaining. That cable won’t entangle anything. “Then the man on the strut will have to ascend to the axis, and attach the platform metal-to-metal to the axis above the second cable. By that time, he’ll be tired. You might want to stop at that point. We could. The strut will be firmly held by the electromagnetic couplings. We could wait until later, or the next day, and let the same two men cut the second cable, so as to save having to repeat the instructions for a new pair. Then the cable from the countermass would get attached to the other end of the strut. Those jobs will be delicate. You won’t want them done by tired people.” As Marvin paused, Michael barked, “Damned right we don’t want someone doing a crucial job exhausted! Time’s not a problem. We’ll take it slowly and safely.” Relieved by that assurance, Marvin continued. “The next day, the same two men cut the second cable. One goes in. The second couples to the strut. A third runs the winch securing the

platform. Half of the tether, we’ll let drift from the axis. Those two men come in. I’ll reactivate the remotes on the two free ends of the drifting tethers, and fly the two ends to meet at the axis, above the plane of the tethers. “A new pair of men emerges, who’ll join those ends with a splice and a coupling that can be mechanically tightened, later. Those two will then uncouple the ends fastened to the axis, and come in. I’ll fly the tether to the place where the strut was. The couplings for the struts and the tethers are all identical. Two pairs of men will couple each end. The pair on the rim will come in. The pair on the axis will be joined by a man who’ll operate the winch. He’ll lower them to the center, where they’ll tighten the mechanical coupling.” At this juncture, Marvin glanced nervously at the Captain. “It isn’t absolutely a necessity that we go to the trouble of re-stringing a tether to replace the strut,” he pointed out with a trace of the agitation which formerly had so frequently afflicted him, “but a gap there will produce an imbalance in the structural stability of the station. Even replacing the rigid strut with a tether will leave the structure weaker, but not nearly so much weaker as it would be if we simply left a gap.” Sensing burgeoning distress, Michael hastened to reassure the meticulously conscientious expert. “We’ll want the station as structurally sound as possible when we launch,” he agreed equably. “For that reason alone, I’d say we render it as stable as we can, though I’ll not mind knowing that we did as little damage as possible to a magnificent facility.” Gratified to see profound relief nakedly mirrored in the programmer’s eyes, he noted that Nigel nodded vigorously, as well. “Other points,” Marvin stated in a tone again steady. “I now have five pairs of remote devices synchronized. One set will go on the strut, for the

fail-sequence. I’ll need two pairs for the two halves of the tether, and a fourth set for the platform. I intend to leave in place the other pair I use to move the strut, and to replace the tanks on the strut with full ones, after the move, due to the remote possibility of a cable’s drooping as I move it, and hooking an end of the strut with force enough to pull it loose. In that case, I’d drop the cable, and reposition the strut. A cable’s flying loose wouldn’t pose the danger the other occurrence would. If I lost a tether, we could appropriate one attached to one of the other sections, causing further weakening, though I fervently hope that doesn’t prove necessary.” “Your precaution makes sense. We’ll keep the strut capable of being moved,” Michael readily agreed, noting that his statement obviously produced further relief in the speaker. “Once the tether’s strung, we’ll need to rig a means of providing rolling friction on either side of the magnetic couplers—which of course we’ll deactivate, before we launch—to allow the strut to roll up the axis when we lift, rather than slide. We haven’t found time to design such a device. Likely Nigel could do that even better than we could, and install that gear.” “I’ll be glad to take that much off your shoulders, Marvin,” Nigel declared. That prompt, vigorous response on Nigel’s part produced gratitude that the Captain took no pains to conceal. “We’ll also need to detach the two movable scan platforms on which remote sensing equipment’s mounted, off the side of the axis the strut will ascend. Four of those platforms, in all, extend from the despun portion of the axis, equally spaced around the perimeter. Two are in the way. Michael expressed a wish that we mount those two platforms on the strut, and make use of them afterwards. We’ll do that last.” Glancing hopefully at the man in charge, Marvin hinted, “If Conrad and I had time, we could do some unique things with those, but we can talk about that after we get the tether

strung. First things first.” Managing to conceal the intense satisfaction produced by that last proposal, Michael asserted smoothly, “Time enough to consider playing with frills after we succeed in rigging the essential features.” “Well. When we’ve completed the work I’ve outlined, the tether will be in place. We’ll next need to equip the strut with the gyroscope, which we’ll use to stop the spin temporarily, and to rotate the plane of the ship. We’ll appropriate the massive wheel now mounted inside the axis, just above the plane of the rim. I’ll equip it with gear similar to that which I mounted on the strut. That gear will program it to move as if it were still attached to the station. “That wheel is almost ten meters in diameter. Despite its relatively small size, it boasts an incredibly huge mass. It’s fashioned of extremely dense alloy that’s unbelievably strong, so that the outfit’s capable of achieving a phenomenal rotational speed without flying apart. It’s fastened into a framework that holds the motors the Gaeans used to start it spinning, and keep it spinning, until the station—itself not spinning at that point in time—achieved the orientation in space that the designers wished, through conservation of angular momentum. “That’s all the builders used this outfit for, so we aren’t stealing a vital component. While the device remains equipped with the means of rotating it, it isn’t fitted with gear that would allow equal forces acting in opposite directions to be exerted on the axis of its rotation. We’ll need to exert two sets of forces acting at right angles to each other. We’ll have to engineer a hydraulic system capable of performing that function. Michael and I have pored at length over the specifications, and we’ve evolved a plan to accomplish that. “We’ll first cut away certain portions of the openwork of the axis, and of the strut, after welding in place certain temporary reinforcements. Two

men can do that. Probably that chore ought to be performed by Michael and myself, given that we’ve studied the structural elements we’ll be temporarily weakening. “Then, I’ll need to attach my devices to the wheel. I’ll program the wheel to move as if it were still attached to the station. I’ll move wheel and frame sideways: out of the axis, into the space above the spinning struts, but below that of the spinning tethers. Giving the massiveness of the body, the necessary motions will take a considerable amount of propellant even in free-fall, so I’ll need to move it with no undue delay. “I’ll first move it in an arc so as to position it between two tethers, and then move it down a radius, towards the rim, so as to allow it clearance enough when it rises through the plane of the tethers so that it won’t hit the one on either side of it. Then I’ll raise it through the plane of the spinning tethers, at a point two hundred meters out from the axis. I’ll next move it back along a radius to the vicinity of the center of the strut, where I’ll rotate it ninety degrees. I’ll then move it through the opening to the place it’ll occupy inside the strut, at the strut’s center, where electromagnetic couplers mounted on its frame will hold it, until we rig permanent couplers. That last movement will be the most dangerous, given that I’ll have precious little clearance.” The programmer’s voice remained steady as he made that last statement, but the knot in the Captain’s gut hardened into stone. Marvin added firmly, “I’ll want no one in the locks, or outside, on the off chance that I might hit the elevator.” Suffering shades of lost spacers! Can he do what he thinks he can? Tight-lipped, Michael nodded bleakly. His fellow visionary gamely forged on. “Luckily, the supporting framework for the wheel in the axis consists of concentric circular supports, which we can adapt to allow force to be applied hydraulically with a constant

angular acceleration to rotate the axis of the wheel in either of two different directions, while it’s spinning. We’ll start it spinning just before we launch, so that the overall angular momentum of spinning ship and spinning gyroscope add up to zero. When we apply force in one direction on the gyroscope, the effect will be to slow, or to stop altogether, the rotation of the ship. When we apply force on the gyroscope at right angles to that first force, the effect will be to rotate the plane of the spinning ship. “We’ll use both effects. When we reel in the two bodies, our spin will increase drastically. We’ll slow it, to achieve an Earth-normal g. That maneuver will end with the gyroscope’s spinning less rapidly thereafter. “Next, we’ll stop the rotation of the single rigid body which section, countermass and strut now form, rotate the plane of the ship, and then start it spinning again. We’ll be able to do that with no expenditure of fuel, employing only the forces exerted on the axis of the small gyroscope. The only fuel we’ll use will be that needed to launch us, to stop that upward motion, and to accelerate us to maximum velocity in the new direction. “So. I imagine it’ll take the bulk of one day for Michael and me to cut away the portions of axis and strut and detach the frame supporting the wheel, and for me to attach my gear and then move the gyroscope. On that day, Michael and I can also replace the pieces we cut from axis and frame. While we’re doing that, the others could be readying the hydraulic system.” Pausing for breath, Marvin glanced from face to face, observing that Conrad looked worried, Michael looked grim, and Nigel’s face remained impassive. Marvin looked determined. “I’ve spent over a week intensively studying what’s available, and calculating,” he asserted forcefully. “I’m confident that I can do what I’ve described, to move the items in question. Once the gyroscope’s mounted in place, Conrad will connect its motors to power-generating components he mounts on the strut. It would help if

those were to connect automatically to Eleven’s main grid once the two bodies get coupled to the strut.” Frowning, the expert in power generation and transmission nodded. “I could arrange that, and rig a backup source of power, in case anything went wrong. It wouldn’t do to find ourselves unable to exert force on the damned outfit while stuck rotating at…what ghastly multiple g?” “Eight point six,” Marvin replied. “No, such a disaster doesn’t bear thinking about.” Heads nodded vigorously, even as chills raced down spines held ramrod-straight. After a moment’s thought, Conrad declared, “Before I can do that, I’ll need to steal a variety of electrical components from the hull of a section such as Thirteen, which we’ve left without a photosynthetic exchanger. Then I’ll have to haul that loot to the axis, and climb down the strut to install it.” Heads again nodded. Marvin added, “Whoever goes out to help Conrad, could also detach— from the same section—two of the laser-heated, water-fueled thrusters used for attitude-control of the section while the builders flew it to the point in space where they assembled the station. We’ll attach those to the strut, to assist in lifting it when we launch. They’ll be full of water fuel, which will enough to operate them during the single time we’ll use them: during launch. That part won’t be hard. What’ll be touchy is the chore I’ll do, of integrating the controlling gear on those thrusters with the functions I’ll use from Eleven’s board, when we launch. I’ll go out on the strut after all the other work’s complete, to accomplish that. “Right at the start, I wired the gear that controls the thrusters on Eleven and its countermass—those that will provide those bodies the necessary thrust when we lift off—into Eleven’s board, instead of Central’s.

But I’ll need to integrate the operation of those units with the operation of the thrusters we install on the strut.” The rugged face of the Captain grew a shade grimmer, as Marvin’s words underscored the enormity of the technical challenge posed by the venture about to commence. “Michael and I discussed what we’d need in the way of hydraulic equipment. Section Forty provides storage space for various items evidently used when the builders assembled the station in space. I took time to go through what’s stored in there. That’s where I found the massive couplers capable of being shut by remote control, which we’ll use to hold Eleven and its countermass to the strut. I also found hydraulic actuators; motors and cylinders; gas-loaded, bag-type accumulator tanks; pumps, lines, control valves and heaters; gas-charged reservoirs; levers, hydraulic fluid, and other related gear. I suspect that the builders used such equipment to join the pieces of the rim and axis being assembled in space. “At any rate, enough of a selection is available that we ought to be able to rig what we need. If one group builds the hydraulic system according to the specifications I drew after Michael and I calculated what force we’d need, while Michael and I cut away the openwork, and Conrad uses that same period to ready his electrical components, we could install both of those systems on the following day. Then, the only chore remaining would be to attach the scan platforms. Conrad and I have designed despin units, which we’ll attach, so that the platforms don’t rotate with the strut. He could then assist me, when I integrate the controls on the thrusters.” Michael made no comment, but his mind raced. “One last point,” Marvin stated firmly. “At any time when men are outside, we’ll need to turn off the fields that protect the hull from meteoroids, for hours at a time. Normally, if I were working the board while men were out on the hull, I’d automatically keep turning an eye on the

meteoroid scanner. But I want absolutely no distraction, doing what I’ll be doing. So someone will have to monitor the scanner on Central’s board, or Eleven’s. The thought occurs to me that Cleo could do that, if one of you would show her how. It’s not difficult—just boring—but she’d watch like the mythical hawk, and free up one of you.” “Good idea,” Michael commended the speaker. “So. We equip strut, axis, and Eleven’s hull, uncouple the strut, and move it. We replace its tanks with full ones, and attach winches to its ends. We equip the two tethers, cut them, and attach their ends to the winch. We splice the ends of the remaining halves, attach the cable where the strut was, rig a device to provide rolling friction, and remove electrical gear and two thrusters from the hull of Thirteen. We cut away portions of the axis and the strut, detach the framework of the gyroscope, move the gyroscope, rig permanent couplings to attach the gyroscope to the strut, replace the structural elements we cut away, and modify the frame of the gyroscope. We install the electrical gear and thrusters on the strut, rig a hydraulic system, and then install it. We move the scan platforms, and install those, and integrate the thrusters into Eleven’s board.” Having offered that concise summary, Marvin sat back, nervously scanning three intent faces. His sibilant voice wholly noncommittal, Nigel spoke. “Work assignments. Equipping the strut and placing coupling and diode circuit: Marvin and Conrad. There’s nothing you can do outside, while they rig that, chief. Michael and Leonard will help them suit up. Michael will man Eleven’s board. Justin will man Central’s board, and teach Cleo how to run the scanner. I’ll build the platform, with Leonard’s assistance. We could do that much today. It might help if we ate an early lunch: pre-cooked meals.” Michael nodded as he commented, “Justin finished replenishing the supply. Meals can be fit into convenient times. Cleo can heat them, if

Justin’s occupied.” As the second officer proceeded to outline, in detail, what each crewmember would be doing for the remainder of the week, Michael listened intently, as two furrows creased his brow. When the sibilant voice at last fell silent, the listeners somberly contemplated the magnitude of the work that would take them until the following Sunday morning to finish. Having digested the summary, Michael nodded, silently acknowledging that he could find no fault with Nigel’s use of personnel. Perceiving that the Captain offered no objections, the Lieutenant offered a further comment. “When the last touches have been put to the gear outside, we’ll all cease work for the day, and take an extended recreation period. Marvin, you’ll need time to work on the board in Eleven, after all the gear’s in place, will you not?” “I will. At least a day, with Conrad helping, and then a day to do a final set of simulated practices for launch, with Michael.” “Last item,” Nigel concluded. “I haven’t designated anyone to fill tanks. That’ll be done by whoever’s handy. Cleo likely knows how. If she doesn’t, I’ll show her. So. By next Wednesday, if all goes well, we should be ready to contemplate launch, hm?” Nigel’s qualification to his statement sent a chill down Michael’s spine: a response that produced not the least tremor in his crisp voice as he replied, “Right. I’m confident that all will go superlatively well. We’ll set a tentative date for launch: a week from next Wednesday.” The shrewd judge saw no need to strain his sensors. That final statement generated a palpable aura of raw energy in the space between him and the three men sitting with their eyes riveted to his. Michael smiled a trifle grimly. “Well. Marvin, my compliments on the work you’ve done to make this venture possible. I’ll give you full credit in the log. I’ve no doubt but what your professional reputation will be most

gratifyingly enhanced.” Two spots of color flared in the expert’s cheeks, but he returned the Captain’s glance squarely. “Thank you, Michael,” he responded softly. The man in command now turned to his other expert. “I appreciate what you’ve engineered as well, and I’ll give you full credit, also, Conrad.” “I never doubted that, Michael,” his crewman replied forthrightly. “Well, gentlemen. Let’s meet the challenge.” Rising, Michael waited while the others replaced their chairs overhead, his every subtle sense now straining for input. To his relief, he detected no reluctance, no hesitancy, no fear. They’ve mastered whatever shock smote them initially, he deduced. They seem now to be regarding this chancy attempt simply as another dangerous but necessary job to be done. Even Marvin, who knows he’ll be risking his life tomorrow. Our re-programmed genius appears to sport perfect confidence in his ability to achieve what he just outlined. He emphasized the dangers to us more than those he faces. Well. As an ancient military gambler once put it, the die is cast. Opening the door, the originator of a supremely chancy venture strode out ahead of his crewmen. Passing through the bridge, Michael emerged into the recreation hall to find the three-person crew working on the wall in the act of putting the finishing touches to the doorframe. Observing that less than half of the divider had been installed, Nigel caught up to the Captain, and offered a suggestion. “Michael, you and Leonard might as well break for lunch. I’ll help Justin raise one more panel, right now, and we’ll fasten eight or ten bolts. Cleo can secure the rest when she finds time.” Inclining his head to Leonard, who peeled off his tool apron, Michael strode away, accompanied by the youth.

“Justin, Marvin and Conrad will be out shortly,” Nigel observed. “You’ll man Central’s board, and teach Cleo how to run the meteoroid scanner. Cleo, do you know how to fill portable propane tanks from the lines running from the reserve tanks on the hulls of the sections?” “I do, Nigel.” “I thought you might.” Heaving a panel upright, the officer held it while his assistants fastened ten strategically placed bolts. “If you find yourself with no particular orders at some time, you can bolt that in, Cleo,” he directed. “I’d like to see all these panels secured before Marvin moves the strut. If we have time at the end of today, I’ll help you finish more of it. Let’s go.” Shaken by the implication, Cleo surmised that Nigel gave that order while worrying that Marvin might bump Eleven. Does he think that quite likely? she fretted. Or is he just taking every possible precaution? Well, I’ll know what’s going on. I won’t be washing dishes, worrying myself into skeletal skinniness. Take care, Marvin! Following Nigel into the dining hall, the Gaean aimed a spicy meal at the knot in her gut, and washed it along with hot coffee. Seating herself next to Justin forty minutes later at Central’s huge board, the novice looked askance at the man whose seamed face creased into a grin as he cautioned, “No need to go tense, girl. You’ve drawn a routine, boring job, but a vital one.” Activating a screen, the spacer pointed to an area of the board. “This panel of switches turns the fields of the hulls on and off. This is the master switch. We flip it off before anyone goes out. The fields would instantly kill a man who came within a certain distance of a protected hull. When a door’s open, you can’t turn that switch on. If someone chances never to come back in, you have to initiate a special sequence so as to shut the door.”

A visible shudder coursed through the listener. Ignoring that reaction, Justin continued equably, “This display maps the constantly changing sphere of space surrounding the station. The unit tracks meteoroids entering that volume of space, and sorts them by size. Most are micrometeoroids. A suit will protect a man from those. That’s what most objects impinging on any body in space are. Large ones show up only rarely, but there’s always the off chance one will intersect with us. “There’s also the chance of a swarm’s crossing our path. The trails of the small ones show up in green. See there? The display looks like a shifting swirl of faint green lines. Any large solid objects, or any that possess smaller size but high velocity—any capable of killing a man—show up in orange. Not all such entering the scanned volume of space follow a course intersecting with the station. “The station is moving, however. The sphere monitored keeps changing. The scanner automatically charts the path of the orange sort, and compares their projected path to that of the station. If a collision threatens, the orange turns to bright red on the screen, and you’ll get a readout, here.” Cleo’s eyes narrowed in ever-more-intense concentration. “No need to panic, if you see that,” the instructor affirmed. “The sphere’s huge. This window will give you an estimated time of impact. Usually you have anywhere from thirty minutes to two hours before collision. If an impact’s predicted, you calmly tell whichever of us happens man the board—this board or Eleven’s, given that they both work alike—the time of impact. We’ll alert whoever’s outside. “Usually, whoever’s manning the board keeps an eye on the scanner when men are working outside, but if that’s Marvin, this week, he’ll have enough with which to contend. So you’ll keep watch. If you’re on with him, you’ll wear a pack. “Now, get this through your head, girl: don’t rattle him! Calmly tell

whoever’s out there the present time and the projected time of impact. The odds don’t favor a red alert’s occurring at any time during the week, but we’ll all feel safer, knowing that you’re on guard.” “What if you can’t all get back in, in thirty minutes?” “That’s hardly likely, but just in case, I’ll show you how to activate the sequence that’ll turn the fields back on, even though the doors remain open. The suited men will maneuver away from any part of the hull, and they’ll get to watch the stupendous display of visible light the impact makes…hopefully from a safe distance. “I saw that spectacle once. A man’s a far smaller target than is a station’s hull. It’s highly likely that the rock would miss all of us. Bear in mind that we’re talking far-out projections, Cleo: dim chances. Now, let me show you the sequence.” Her gut constricting into a spasm, the neophyte concentrated on the lesson. My frazzled nerves, as if they didn’t face danger enough just doing what they’re attempting! she reflected bleakly as the sequence burned itself into her capacious memory. Smiling at the patently nervous Gaean, Justin sought to reassure her. “We live daily with the presence of meteoroids, Cleo. They’re a bigger danger in this system than they were where our ancestors came from. Less material coalesced into planets, here, perhaps, or some other obscure factor operates. People living on airless planetoids or space stations accommodate to the danger. Meteoroids are part of—what was that obsolete word used on Old Earth?—the weather outside. “Now, let’s activate this screen that Marvin added. I expect it’ll show what he’s moving. It won’t, likely, until they get his gear attached. No, it’s blank. We’ll leave it on. This pair of screens shows the vault of space above and below the station. The picture’s generated by the cameras on the astronomical scan platforms. I’ll leave it on. You’ll be able to observe

Whipple, up close. Magnificent, isn’t it? Switch your glance periodically from that body to the scanner. Take a break every few minutes. Otherwise, you’ll fatigue both eyes and brain. Hear?” “I hear.” Sitting back, Cleo listened as Justin opened the channel that would allow them to pick up the cross-conversations from the men in the suits. Frowning slightly, she began watching like a mythical bird of prey. Standing next to Conrad in Central’s conference cabin, Marvin experienced the familiar mental plunge into isolation as Michael latched his helmet in place. The Captain’s voice, disembodied from the figure visible through the programmer’s faceplate even as the suited spacer watched his superior’s mouth move, commanded, “Check your readings.” Squeezing the switch on the back of his finger, the occupant activated the life-support pack, and read out the final figures to Michael, who frowned grimly as he fastened Marvin’s maneuvering unit. “Ready?” the Captain inquired. “Ready.” The programmer’s voice betrayed no quiver, though he remained acutely conscious of a hard lump in the pit of his stomach generated by the thought of the task ahead. Having heard the other suited spacer assure Nigel of his readiness, Marvin urged firmly, “Well, Conrad, let’s get this job behind us.” “I’m right behind you, partner.” The comradeship freighting his shipmate’s voice cheered the shy introvert still bemused by his cognizance of having gained a special friend. Moments later, Marvin floated out of the lower of the two locks in the axis, his sleeves and torso festooned with components tethered to rings on his suit. He emerged in the space below the spinning tethers, but above the spinning struts. Despite his nervous dread of the imminent chore, he took a few minutes to admire the stunning view of Whipple. Its gibbous face loomed above him, visible through the blur of revolving cables. He found it

tantalizing in its nearness. I surely wish that I could afford the luxury of spending time observing Whipple in that old astronomical observatory, the researcher mourned, racked by acute yearning for the impossible. What a sight! I’ll undoubtedly never behold anything to match it again. On what Marvin perceived as his horizon, the familiar turquoise disc of the giant gaseous planet rode the vault, shedding pale radiance on the spectacularly strong metallic alloy of axis and struts, conferring a blue-green tint on the silvery openwork gleaming in the diffuse light of the distant sun. The aramid-fiber tethers, golden in white light, appeared a ghostly green in the observer’s vision, as they spun like spokes in a giant wheel above him. Tearing his gaze from the fascinating sight, the spacer made a mental note. Be sure you count accurately clockwise from the section the elevator joins—Central—to make certain you face the strut reaching to Eleven. All these sections look alike. Hell of a note if you equipped Ten’s! Burdened with the formidable quantity of equipment tethered to rings on the body and sleeves of his suit, Marvin made a mental estimation of speed, launched himself on a tangential path, and intersected the openwork of the cylindrical axis neatly. Positioning himself to the right of Eleven’s strut, he made a determined effort not to look outwards at the vault of space now seemingly rotating in a vast arc across the field of vision of his stationary self. He most especially took care not to peer at the daunting length of the strut stretching away below him, towards what his body now sensed as downwards, fooled into that belief by the centrifugal acceleration given it by the rotational motion. Marvin smiled wryly to himself as his body reacted thus. Illusory, my sensations, but if I come loose from this blasted 873meter-long ladder, I’ll nonetheless take a hell of a fall, he admitted, his nerve-endings quivering. I’ll either get smashed flat by an oncoming section

as I traverse the rim on a straight-line path tangential to the circle made by whatever point on the strut my body occupied just before it tore loose, or I’ll whiz between two sections to get lost in the void. I need to keep my mind focused on what my hands and feet are doing! Well. Here goes. Reaching out with his left glove, the intrepid castaway pulled himself to a position facing the strut and perpendicular to the axis. Slowly, he pulled himself hand over hand to a new position in the center of one side. Feet on a rung of the ladder-like central member of the openwork forming one face of the rectangular strut, his left hand on the side of the seeming ladder, he attached his safety sling to a rung. Thus secured, he patted his body with his right glove, checking on the welter of components hanging with little weight from the rings on his suit. Carefully, he affixed to the end of the strut a small device that directed a narrow, intense beam of light down the length of the structure forming a radius-spoke in a giant wheel. A second device mounted on the back of a gloved finger converted the decreasing intensity of the light into a measurement of distance, which recorded on the digital dial. Deftly, he attached the power pack that would run the diode circuit, and affixed the first diode. Taking a deep breath, he began his long, tortuous descent. Michael’s crisp voice vibrated in his ears. “I can see you, just barely, Marvin. Any motion sickness?” “None. I’m beginning my descent. I’ll speak to you every so often, Michael, so you’ll know I’m not dizzy or sick, but I’d appreciate your refraining from speaking to me, unless it’s an emergency. Conrad will be able to tell you how far I’ve progressed towards the rim. I’ll be making several sets of calculations in my head, and keeping track of measurements.” “I hear you. Check in as often as you can. Feel all right now?” “No problem.” Except for the damned spasm in my gut, Marvin

mentally qualified that assurance. Don’t look through the strut like that. Don’t! Watch the gauge. You can’t afford to make the slightest error while measuring distances. Slowly, surely, the silver-suited spacer descended: a puny, spider-like figure, long of limb and bloated of body, measuring, calculating, affixing now a diode, now a remote, now a mount for a tank, now a power-pack, now a specialized electronic component. A mite clinging precariously to the supporting framework of a gigantic, mythic Ferris wheel, an alien life-form stealing a thrill-packed, spinning ride, he forged on. Once, impelled by some irresistibly seductive, subconscious urge, he looked down the slender, seemingly convergent lines of the strut, to the bulbous shape of Eleven far below. Section and rim appeared stationary against the sweep of the tapestry of stars. A wave of panic fear washed over him: a chilling phobic reaction of an Earth-evolved human mind perceiving itself suspended above a yawning void. Oh, don’t do that! he admonished himself, clutching the metal desperately with both gloved hands. Don’t! Why in hell is it that your mind reacts this way, when you don’t feel this same sensation floating free in a maneuvering unit? Those converging lines of the strut must fool your spatial sense. Damn! Stop here, and pull yourself back together. Desperately, the seasoned spacer clung to the strut while staring fixedly at its frame as he fought to regain his mental stability. “Michael. Marvin here. I’m a third of the way down.” “Feeling all right?” “No problem.” None I can’t handle, I guess, the programmer assured his alter self. My fingers are tiring. So are my toes, but my fingers will be damned nearly numb when I finish. Brace up, and get on with it. Keep your eyes on what you’re doing!

Slowly, surely, Marvin took step after downward step, calculated, measured, clipped and unclipped his safety line to the strut, affixed components, and reported to Michael, who knew just how tired the man’s fingers would be growing. The Captain’s own gut gradually tightened into a knot as hard as a nickel-iron meteoroid. Meanwhile, Conrad finished installing the coupler and related gear, and the diodes on the axis. Expending a puff of gas, he floated back towards the pressure-proof door in the topmost lock of the two allowing egress from the axis, below the lock to which the ship lay moored. Wistfully, he gazed upwards at the crippled vessel. The object at which he stared, a vertical torus set within a horizontal one, extended at right angles from the despun portion of the axis on the far side from that which the strut would roll up during launch. The delicate, fragile-seeming structure consisting mostly of empty space, which an Earthman would have experienced difficulty regarding as a shape suited to flight, loomed in Conrad’s view as a familiar, poignantly heart-wrenching testimonial to the obscene wastefulness of a war which he saw, deep down, as organized looting offering its active participants no chance to gain honor. Had Cleo been able to read Conrad’s mind at that juncture, she would have learned that his motives in joining Galt’s corps exactly paralleled Nigel’s. The sight of the mortally damaged vessel depressed the Columbian spacer. I hate the thought of leaving that here, he groused. I suppose the Gaeans might eventually be able to replace its laser propulsion components, rebuild the life-support system we gutted, and re-equip the bridge we cannibalized. Better their ending up with a military ship, than having it permanently lost. If they ever get back here, that is. Norman might well crush Signe’s rebel force. Be the ultimate damned irony, if Michael wangled an exchange

of prisoners, and got Cleo returned to Gaea, only to have her die fighting in a heroic last stand against that vicious sod’s Third Corpsmen. She would, too. She’d fight to the death, the way she tried to do against us. Damn! Damned if I’ll allow myself to believe that possible. I’ve got enough to worry about, contemplating tomorrow. Look at Whipple, up there. So close that I feel as if I could maneuver over to it. Hell of a sight. Irresistibly intriguing. I wish I had a telescopic attachment for my helmet, and time to take a leisurely look. Well, I don’t, damn the luck. Likely I’ll never see a sight as spectacular as this again. Well, I’m not out here for the view. Even as he grumbled, Conrad reentered the lock. Stepping out of the elevator into Central’s corridor, he switched off the magnetism in his boots, and hurried as fast as the bulky suit allowed, to the rim, and Eleven. Michael, who wore a pack, left Leonard on the board, and opened the pressure-proof door of the lock for the man preparing to go out. “Need another pill?” he asked. “No, I’m all right,” Conrad growled. “Need to take a piss, is all. I took one too many in this blasted suit. Another will overflow. Marvin’s two-thirds of the way down, and he seems all right. The poor bastard’s fingers will be aching. I’ll be done before he is. He’ll damned well be exhausted!” No especial urge to remind his subordinate of the mixed audience his remark just reached prompted any correction on the part of the Captain. Conrad’s doing a risky job with care and skill, Michael acknowledged approvingly. Worrying about his partner, not propriety. Cleo’s no stranger to either word. She’ll likely hear far worse before the week is over. “Take care on the hull, Conrad. Marvin is checking in periodically. He’s doing fine. Watch where you step.” “Don’t worry. I’ll plant my deck-grippers with the utmost care. See you.”

As Michael shut the pressure-proof door, Conrad reactivated his boots. Held fast to the deck, he touched the switch that caused the air to be withdrawn from the lock, and then activated the one that opened the door to the hard vacuum outside. Mounting the ladder reaching from the deck to the opening onto the hull, he climbed up to emerge standing on the narrow “top” end of Eleven: the end opposite the one attached to the rim. Dropping to one knee periodically, so as to attach the components forming his diode circuit while keeping his other foot pressed flat against the hull to anchor himself firmly, he slowly traced a zigzag course the length of Eleven, gazing out occasionally to observe Marvin’s continued descent. Eventually, he declared with evident satisfaction, “Michael, I’m finished. How close is Marvin to completing placement of the diodes?” “I’m all but finished, Conrad,” Marvin interjected. “I’ll be fifteen more minutes, likely. If you want to stay out, I’ll be down, and Justin can see how they work. Is Justin wearing a pack, Michael?” “No, but he’s listening in.” “Oh, damn! I only open my mouth to change feet. Cleo, I forgot where you were, a while back,” Conrad apologized. “No offense meant. Michael, I’ll stay out until Marvin’s finished. I’ll check on a few of the power components.” “All right. Now, let’s be quiet, so Marvin can calculate.” Having checked a number of units scattered the length of Eleven’s bulbous hull, Conrad stole a few admiring glances at Whipple. Tearing his eyes from the huge body, he watched as Marvin finally stepped down onto the hull of the rim, to stand motionless while clinging to the strut with both gloved hands. “Are you all right, partner?” he asked anxiously. “All right. Just bone-weary.” Turning, Marvin walked down the sloping hull, out across the side of the double locks, and up the bulbous side of

Eleven to where Conrad waited. Visibly concerned, the engineer laid a gloved hand on the exhausted spacer’s shoulder. “Hell of a traverse you made,” he commended his comrade. “Justin, turn on the screen.” “Justin says the graphic’s great, Conrad. You two come on in,” Michael commanded. The relieved leader, accompanied by Leonard, met the pair at the door to the lock. Wasting no time, Michael unlatched Marvin’s helmet. Liquid dark eyes, shadowed by bluish circles, stared at the Captain out of a face drained of what little color it normally showed. Lines at the corners of the man’s eyes and mouth testified to exhaustion. “Hell of a fine job,” Michael commended the expert crisply. “We’ll unsuit you on the bridge. You two can don your spare uniforms. Speaking into the pack, he ordered, “Cleo, stay out of the bridge when you get back, till we’re finished.” Sitting back tired, and afflicted by fear, the novice had watched the graphic image of axis, strut, and Eleven’s hull take form on the screen. She had not been able to see Conrad, except as a dark shape moving against the outline of Eleven, nor did she detect Marvin’s shadowed presence until he walked out on Eleven’s hull. Both the spidery image of strut and axis and the bulbous outline of Eleven showed clearly. The day had seemed endless to her. A few orange streaks had appeared to strike fear into her, but no red ones had materialized. Conrad’s unheeding words had produced a giggle, and evoked an unabashed chuckle from Justin. The unwitting offender’s subsequent rueful apology drew an affectionate smile from both listeners. “Well, girl, let’s get back,” Justin directed. “We’ll have time to work on the wall, before dinner. We’ll limber up our muscles after sitting for so long.”

Cautiously, Cleo waited in the dining hall until Marvin and Conrad issued from the bridge. They look drained, she commiserated. Marvin, especially. Taking that tired spacer’s hands in both of hers, she smiled up at him as she observed softly, “I’ll bet your fingers feel the strain.” Her friendly gesture warmed the exhausted spacer. “They ache a bit,” he admitted, returning her a wan smile. Turning to the other man, she remarked, “You’ve got enough on your mind without trying to keep a watch on your mouth, Conrad. Nothing you let slip is going to bother me. Things pop out of me on occasion, as well.” “Nothing like what lurks in the lower deck of his depraved brain, I’ll wager,” came a sibilant voice from her rear, as Nigel walked up soundlessly behind her. “My store of off-color expressions increased by a power of ten the first hour I worked next to you,” Conrad shot back. Laughing, Cleo declared, “I’ll just tune you both out. Nigel, I couldn’t pass through the bridge to work on the wall until they finished dressing.” “Well, let’s confront it now, with modesty intact.” Upon rounding the corner of the wall to find Justin, Michael and Leonard fastening a panel, Nigel single-handedly picked up the next, and heaved it into position. Quickly, Cleo thrust bolts through it. The crew of five worked steadily, and the wall grew inexorably longer. At twenty minutes past suppertime, the divider stood bolted in place. “If I get time during the week, I’ll hook up the pressure sensors, and test them,” Justin declared, addressing Nigel. “Big if, that,” Nigel responded. “About time we ate, hm?” Having followed Justin into the food-chemistry laboratory, Cleo gave him a hand as he heated frozen dinners. “I can do this for you, each meal, Justin,” she assured him. “And make coffee, if you’ll show me how.” “Lyophilized powder, the extract is. Here’s how you measure it to

make a large pot.” As Cleo watched, he added, “It doesn’t matter which of the processed frozen meals you heat, so long as you don’t serve the same thing three or four meals in a row. I’ve got them labeled.” “No wonder last week tired you. You did three men’s work! I’ll cook. You just sit down with the rest, after this.” “I will, if I’ve just come in, girl. I’m no more tired tonight than you are.” Glancing covertly at Michael during the meal, Cleo observed the lines of fatigue etching his rugged face. He wasn’t out, but he looks as exhausted as Marvin, she reflected anxiously. Well, don’t let on tonight that you’re worried. Take his mind off this business. The strain shows on him. When the Captain stepped through her door, Cleo, unashamedly naked, sprang out of bed and threw her arms around him. Clasped with crushing force to his muscular chest, she again sensed the strength of will driving the visionary on the dangerous course he pursued. When he held her away, she smiled up at him, her fingers working to peel off his tunic. Michael swept her up bodily. For a minute or so, he stood motionless, enjoying the pressure of her arms around his neck, and the touch of her cheek against his shoulder. Settling her on the bed, he shed pants and boots, and slid in. Passion surged up in the spacer-captain, driving him to exert his considerable skill to lift himself and his partner to bliss. Cleo nonetheless sensed that he brought a divided mind to the task. Michael’s preoccupied with the difficulties facing him, she realized. He’s making love almost automatically. Help him achieve physical release. That will calm his mental upset. Pity blended with affectionate concern, transmuting into a singleminded, strenuous effort to confer pleasure: an elemental, protective, ultrafeminine response that matched her partner’s urgent, purely physical

craving for fulfillment. Having reached a climax, Michael lay spent, drained, the control he habitually exerted over his rational faculties for the moment relaxed. For a time, he allowed his mind to drift aimlessly, conscious of the satisfying feel of Cleo’s soft flesh pressed against his own. At length a realization stabbed through his tired brain. “I didn’t give you satisfaction, did I?” he demanded apologetically, turning to regard the woman he loved. “A climax, no. Satisfaction, yes. Those two words don’t mean the same thing in my vocabulary. Don’t go brimful of wounded masculine pride on me, Michael. I enjoyed that.” “You’ll enjoy this more.” Rearing up, the stocky athlete laid the Gaean diagonally across the bed, and positioned his head between her legs. His mouth enfolded her small focus of delight. Lying back in delight, Cleo abandoned herself to ecstasy, her pleasure so intense that it bordered on pain. Relieved of any anxiety regarding satisfying her partner, she first relaxed, but swiftly generated the exquisite tension of approaching culmination. Instinctively, she arched, as a relentless tongue unerringly targeted a marvelously sensitive center of sensation, to drive her into climax. A groan of pleasure floated out on the ambient air. Rising, Michael slipped an arm under her shoulders, and drew her close, feeling her slim body go limp in his embrace. Contentment stole over him. He relaxed, mentally and physically. The tension generated during the day seeped out of his sturdy body. At length, he felt Cleo stir. “Tell me, if you don’t climax,” he ordered. “I’ll regroup.” Laughing, the Gaean chided, “What a way to put it! Now that your pride’s restored, tell me what you thought of the skit.” “Woman, did you know ahead of time that Marvin was so talented an

actor?” “Space, no! Conrad needed a partner, and Marvin’s so bright… I simply concluded that he’d find it easy to commit lines to memory, and if the partnership worked out, it would give him a greater sense of comradeship. I never dreamed that he’d been a University Player! He’s a different person entirely on the stage!” “Shocked me numb, for a bit, discovering that he possessed such skill.” “Michael, Marvin gave me a heart-stopping few seconds. I didn’t dare glance at Nigel. I just held my breath, waiting for the explosion, thinking, ‘What have I done?’” Chuckling, Michael retorted, “If I had known what was coming, I could have told you not to worry.” “You knew he’d laugh?” “Cleo, Nigel’s far too well satisfied with himself, and sports far too robust an ego, not to take such a perfect imitation as a form of flattery. Marvin wasn’t ridiculing him. He simply modeled a character on him, with fantastic success.” Flashing the Gaean a grin, he added, “You find Nigel completely unpredictable, don’t you?” “I do. I admit it.” “But fascinating.” That final observation emerged as a statement voiced in a tone breathing the faintest hint of chagrin. Cleo answered with perfect honesty. “That too, Michael. Once I got over being terrified of him.” “I can’t believe that anyone ever terrified you.” Little do you know, then! Spying an opportunity to satisfy a curiosity that still nagged at her mind, Cleo took an oblique approach. “How good a swordsman is Nigel?” “He could take me, and not a great many men would care to try that.”

“Nevertheless, you’re not the least bit afraid of him.” That observation emerged as a flat statement of fact. Michael’s reply came couched in an equally dispassionate tone. “Cleo, if Nigel weren’t absolutely certain that any time he chooses to issue me a challenge, he’ll find me ready, on a number of occasions long before we landed in this mess, my career would have suffered a setback from which it likely wouldn’t have recovered. And since my career and my self-respect mean a hell of a lot more to me than would life without either, maintaining that readiness constituted an easy decision to make.” Cleo’s eyes widened in astonishment. “But Michael…if you’ve had trouble with Nigel…and he could take you…why hasn’t he?” That query produced a grim smile. “He might, some day. We’ve come perilously close, more than once, but Nigel respects a man who isn’t afraid of him. He terrifies most of his military associates: subordinates, peers, even superiors. But then, he owes me a favor or two, and under normal circumstances, we get along well. He’s a prime asset to the team.” Shocked to her core, Cleo stared at the man making that bald admission. Nigel admires courage, she reminded herself bemusedly. Somehow, you tumbled to that, and concealing your fear saved your life. Michael’s not afraid of Nigel. Or at least, he’s not afraid of taking a fatal thrust to save his self-respect. Certainty of a sudden flooded the Gaean’s consciousness. Michael did jump Nigel over his giving me no break, that first week, she concluded. He had to! He could never afford to overlook the slightest hint that Nigel might have disobeyed orders, if he expected to stay in control. So he laid his life on the line to maintain his dominance, just as he had on earlier occasions. A shudder coursed through the prisoner of war, as she contemplated the fragility of the thread upon which all their lives hung. Gazing ruminatively at the woman he loved, Michael caught a fleeting

glimpse of fear. She’s being devious again, he ruminated. She habitually avoids discussing any of the others with you. So why is she playing the inquisitor tonight? A blinding flash of insight smote the agile-minded leader. She just said outright what kept preying on her mind during those first four weeks! Somehow, she learned that Nigel could prevail over you in a duel. Your admitting that just now produced no surprise. All along, her fear was for you, not herself! She figured that Nigel’s jealousy would drive him to challenge and then kill you, spacer-captain, and that fear pushed her over the edge two weeks ago! Well…it’s a wonder that Nigel didn’t challenge you. She watched you deliberately drive barbs under his hide…watched you push your luck. Best tactic to take with the touchy bastard, nonetheless. You found that out long ago. If you had ever let yourself feel the least fear of him, he’d have sensed that, and been on you like the proverbial dog on a bone. You never tumbled that your matching double-edged remarks with him produced a devastating effect on Cleo. A rush of strong emotion surged into the autocrat’s mind. She loves you! he exulted inwardly. Fully as deeply as she tried to tell you, regardless of what she now feels for Nigel. Part of that radiant happiness that clawed at your vitals on the morning after she reached the understanding with him, must have been due to her belief that the danger of Nigel’s challenging you no longer existed! Overjoyed, Michael drew Cleo closer. Other thoughts rose to temper his happiness. Struggling to fit this experience into a recently enlarged perspective, he battled his conditioning, but lost. Unable to resist, he voiced the thought that sped through his mind to lance his heart. “I’ve often feared that if you ever had to choose among us, Cleo, you’d pick Nigel—though at times I entertained hopes that you’d pick me. Lately,

I’ve wondered if you’d choose either of us. Right now, I’m not sure that I really want to know.” The woman exquisitely aware of loving six men simultaneously experienced a sudden catch at her heart. Sitting up abruptly, her eyes nakedly mirroring pain, she declared in a voice admitting of no doubt, “Michael, let me tell you how I feel about that. I don’t want to have to make such a choice, at any point in time. Not ever! But if some combination of events does someday force such a frightful ordeal on me, I’ll tell you now what I’ll do.” Convulsively, her lover sat up to face her, his breathing suspended. A clear, feminine voice thrilled along nerves that lay raw, exposed, vulnerable. “I’ll have each one of you write your name on a scrap of glass-cloth. I’ll crumple them up, throw them in a bowl, and shake the bowl. I’ll close my eyes, and pick a name. I’ll let inscrutable chance make the choice I could never bear to make.” Michael commenced to breathe again. A rush of relief succeeded an onslaught of poignant regret. “Fair solution, Cleo,” he admitted bleakly. “I’ve gambled often enough to shrink at the thought of bucking odds of one in six, but I have to admit that your answer follows logically out of what you’ve always told me of your feelings. It may never come to that. We may never find ourselves able to lift. Or…” Biting back the words that nearly escaped him, Michael accentuated the positive. “In the meantime, you’ve made my life not only bearable, but happy. Not just once a week. Daily! It’s due more to you than to me that we’ve stayed civilized.” Touched to the core, Cleo hurled herself into his arms. “Oh, Michael, my feelings have grown monumentally complicated, living this life,” she mourned. “But I love you, spacer-captain…more deeply than ever. Don’t let’s talk of the future. Let’s enjoy what we’ve got now…tonight. Each

other.” Michael’s arms tightened, and his mouth closed over hers. Driven to passion now wholly generated by his love for this woman—passion expressive solely of that deep, strong feeling—he raised her this time to fulfillment. When they lay slackly, drifting towards sleep, he murmured, “Whatever happens, Cleo, I know one thing. I’m going to do all I can to fulfill my promise to keep you safe, regardless of the cost to me.” Sensing the passionate sincerity freighting that avowal, the prisoner of war silently asked herself, Whatever does he mean? His whisper overrode her puzzlement. “I love you, Cleo.” “I love you.” Vaguely troubled, the captive pondered Michael’s unsettling earlier statement, as she fell asleep in his arms.

WEEK SEVEN: TUESDAY Michael’s inner time sense, amplified on this day by a subconscious realization that he faced the possibility of seeing his cherished plan aborted by malicious fate, jarred him into wakefulness at 0320. Rolling over to lie prone, propped on both elbows, he looked down at the peaceful face of the woman he loved—the woman whose courage and grim tenacity had resulted in his being thrown into this critical test of his ability to lead. If some capricious dice-tossing Power offered you a chance to retrace your steps—to gamble that your maimed ship would make it back to Columbia, and forego the equally risky shot at making a grab for the Gaeans’ autonomously navigated shuttle-vehicle—would you wish yourself safely home now, never having known Cleo? he asked himself. Frowning, Michael pondered that question. No, he decided suddenly. No! Your wild idea’s the solution—for you, for her, and for the muddle caused by your decision to share her. If Marvin doesn’t ram Eleven, that is. I could face starting over, but without him… Don’t think losing him possible! He’ll deliver. Perhaps I should have ordered him to sleep in for a couple of hours. Damn! The poor bastard looked wiped, last night. Hell of a climb to make in a suit. His hands shook, at dinner, but from exhaustion, not fear. I know the feeling. If he seems jittery this morning, I’ll delay. Justin looked more rested. Neither Nigel’s cool nerve nor his iron constitution seems to

have suffered any wear. Conrad’s as steady as ever. So is Leonard. Well. Shall I wake Cleo? She put in an easy day yesterday. Fretted, no doubt, although she hid her anxiety, last night Slipping an arm under his bedmate’s shoulders, Michael drew her towards him, and smiled into the eyes that flew open at his touch. “Up to taking my mind off tethers one more time?” “Mmmmm.” “I take that as yes, woman.” As the Captain’s mouth closed over that of his partner, he resolutely put aside his fears for the next twenty minutes. Having cautiously ascertained that the bathcabin held no occupants, Cleo vanished inside. Michael absently made the bed, his mind deep in technical problems. Employing a series of automatic motions, he dressed. Carrying the bundled bedding, he passed Cleo as she emerged. After tending to his own needs, he inquired, “Did you manage a shot at the facility, yesterday morning? Avoid desperation arising from a delay?” A rosy flush accompanied the Gaean’s reply. “No big problem. The cooks evidently rise early, and the rest of you seem to hit the area in a concerted rush. I got my turn.” “Good. Let’s go.” Picking up a hot packaged breakfast, but no coffee, from the long counter just outside the door to the food-chemistry laboratory, Michael seated himself. Crisply, he bade Marvin, who sat down beside him, “Good morning.” Noting that the man thus addressed returned the greeting calmly, the Captain asked in a matter-of-fact tone, “Are your hands still tired?” “No,” Marvin asserted with surprising decisiveness. “Justin hauled me into the infirmary after supper last night, and had me stick them into a small, warm, whirlpool bath, which did wonders for them.” Conscientious as they come, Justin, Michael silently commended the

technician. That must be some outfit he stole out of Fourteen or Central. Well, Marvin seems ready, so we’ll hold to Nigel’s schedule. Seating herself next to Justin at Central’s board, Cleo stared intently at the meteoroid scanner, dutifully resting her eyes periodically by shifting her gaze to the pitted face of Whipple. As the pair listened to the exchange of comments and orders passed between those suiting up, and those wearing the packs, fear knotted the gut of the woman unable to see the men outside. Marvin looked tired, she fretted, but calm. Outwardly, anyway. Nerves tingling, she listened to the exchange revealing that Michael, Nigel and Leonard just reached the axis. “The winch is secured. Leonard, position your seat-sling. Nigel, angle in with the platform at the top of the strut.” “I’ve got a hold. Leonard, I’ve got the platform clamped to the openwork, and I’ve tethered the line of tanks to the strut. Run the line out. There, I’ve snagged the quick link. I’ve got the platform attached, and I’ve activated the outfit Marvin says will compensate for Coriolis drift. Play the line out a ways. Looks good, hm? Can you climb down from there, chief?” “I think I can drop in. Hold the cursed thing steady! All right, I’m aboard.” “Hang on while I step in. Damn the perverse issue of a mutant mother! There.” “Clip your sling to the strut. We’ll take it slowly and safely. After I reel in this array of tanks, I’ll hand them to you. Snap them to the lower bar of the railing.” “No big overabundance of room in this contraption, is there? Ready?” “Ready. Lower us down, Leonard, but slowly, because we’ll keep reattaching our safety slings. Stop the second I tell you.” A long silence ensued, broken only by Michael’s commands to Leonard. At length, Nigel observed, “Damned if Marvin’s outfit isn’t keeping us right in

line. Marvelous, hm?” “Definitely! And this line seems adequate to the strain, small as its diameter is. Leonard, stop us.” Cleo watched the scanner, listening the while. After what seemed an interminable passage of time, Michael gave Leonard the order to raise the platform. Considerable time elapsed before the Captain informed the others of their arrival at the axis. Leonard announced that he just commenced floating into the lock. Marvin’s voice could be heard, asking Conrad to check his readings. At length, the suited spacer declared himself ready. After a further delay, Conrad’s steady voice issued from the board. “Ready at the coupling on the rim, Michael.” “Well, we’re not! Sit tight, Conrad.” Time crept by. Nigel’s voice hissed, “Damn the misbegotten son of a— there, that’ll do it. Ready, chief?” “In a bit—no—there. I’ll give the word, and we’ll raise it together. Conrad, do you hear?” “I hear.” “Lift!” Silence. At length, Conrad, breathing as if he had been running, gasped, “Mine’s unlatched!” No reply reached him. Finally, Michael grunted, “That’s got it. Nigel, are you all right?” “The damned bar flew back and struck my helmet when the latch gave, but the figures haven’t changed.” “Head for the lock.” Her nerves jittering, Cleo sat rigidly watching the scanner, conscious of being alone on Central’s board, given that Justin had departed to help Michael and Nigel unsuit. Sighing in relief as she saw him return, followed

by three unhelmeted, suited forms, she rose, but sat back down as Justin pressed a hand on her shoulder. Stiffly seating himself next to her, Michael reached for a push-button control on a cable extending from the board. Having taken the third place, Nigel gestured Leonard into the fourth. Justin positioned two chairs so that the occupants could see the graphic display, and sat down in one. Conrad, arriving in record time for a man hurrying while garbed in a pressure suit, dropped into the other. No trace of anxiety colored Michael’s voice as he issued a final order. “We’re ready, Marvin. Carry on.” Six tense bodies froze into immobility. Six pairs of eyes converged on the graphic display. At his post on Eleven’s board, Marvin sat as if carven of stone, his helmeted form taut as well as still. In the fingers of both hands, he held touch-sensitive controls. He had donned the helmet well enough in advance of his task that his mind now perceived the three-dimensional, graphically displayed scene delivered to his eyes as the reality in which his body existed. The strut lay at rest just below him, in his wildly surreal, luridly colored view of the exterior of the station. Thrusters, ejecting gas under pressure while programmed to give the 893.65-meter-long construct the motion it would have possessed had it still been attached to the rotating station, held the huge component as if it were. The forces Marvin prepared to exert on the strut would act in addition to those ghostly ones that would only cease when the strut coupled to the electromagnets in the axis, and once again became part of the spinning structure. The unnerving realization impinged momentarily on the programmer’s mind that if any error lurked in his calculations, he was a dead man. Resolutely, he forced that ghastly concept, and all others not pertaining to

the job at hand, out of his consciousness. Calmly, he began the delicate manipulations. His eyes riveted to the graphic representation he thought of as the strut itself, Marvin watched the arrow-straight object respond, the slight pressures exerted by his expert fingers translating into forces of a magnitude capable of endowing the long, slender projectile with a potentially fatal momentum. Slowly, majestically, the gossamer-webbed, stylus-thin body rose out of the plane of its fellows. Go easy, Marvin ordered himself. Easy. Don’t let it rise past the center of what space you’ve got. One more nudge—watch it—there. Far enough. Ahhh. An audible, hissing breath floated out on the ambient air. Elated, the manipulator watched the strut hover in the narrow confines below the bulging arc of Eleven’s bulbous hull, but above the lesser curve of the rim. Beautiful, his mind commended his alter self in utterly unemotional fashion. From the moment his hands had begun their work, his surroundings in Eleven’s bridge had ceased to exist for him. The structure upon which all his faculties focused at a white heat of concentration now became the totality of his existence. In response to delicate motions of his fingers, the strut swung gracefully in an arc, and came to apparent rest to form an extra spoke in a giant wheel: a spoke offset from the rest. Good, he exulted. Now, slide its end toward the rim. So. Keep going. Watch it now…there. Dead centered, it is…moving out beyond the rim. You’ll see your marker…know when to stop. Ah. Now. Beautiful. Lift. As his mind issued that command to his fingers, the strut rose ethereally, passing through the plane of the spinning tethers halfway between Eleven’s tether and that of its nearest neighbor, a countermass. Marvin noted that the end towards the axis enjoyed ample clearance.

Now…move it back in. Careful. Take it slowly. Easy…creep towards the axis…easy…there. The slender odd spoke now hung in lonely splendor above the giant wheel spinning synchronously with it, below it. Swing it back over Eleven’s tether…same arc as before…easy. Easy! There. Now, be careful, Marvin admonished himself, though no fear touched his mind, and no clutch tightened around his gut. His mind wasted no energy on fear. Neither did it send any signals that convulsed his intestines. Brain and body focused solely on the all-engrossing, intellectually fascinating task confronting him. The strut moved sideways, sweeping out the rhomboid-shaped plane that would allow for the width of the axis. Far enough, the mover decided. Long fingers again exerted delicate forces. The strut once again slid endwise, its forward tip bypassing the axis with room to spare, moving parallel to the radius connecting Eleven with the axis. Good! the manipulator commended himself. The center of the moving construct, plainly marked electronically, crept towards the axis, and finally reached it. Ah. Now. Be careful. In the manipulator’s surreal vision, the strut seemed to leap sideways, closing the small distance between its center and the axis. The openwork shivered down its length, as forces ceased and others commenced to act. That momentary effect passed. In the view of the operator, the construct remained firmly attached at its midpoint to the openwork frame of the central column. Rapt, silent, Marvin riveted his eyes to the properly positioned structure. Joy suffused him. Fierce pride surged into his consciousness. I did it! he exulted. It worked! Harmon couldn’t have managed any better. Maybe not as well. Flawless, my technique! Damned if I think Harmon would have dared to try. I’m alive! We stand a chance to lift, now. If I do as perfect a job moving that massive wheel, what a splash my reports

will make in the journals! And Michael’s! We’ll do it, by all the wealth of Earth! We’ll build a ship we can pitch while conserving the spin, while using no fuel. Michael’s a visionary, damned if he isn’t! What he risked, trusting my skill! His gamble paid off. I did it! In the euphoria preceding the physical reaction yet to hit him, Marvin never thought to address the Captain. Michael had remained utterly motionless throughout the dangerous maneuver, his eyes never leaving the graphic display. His breathing all but suspended, his hands gripping the switch for the fail-sequence, he sat as if carven of stone until he saw the strut firmly attach itself to the axis. A rush of overmastering relief rendered him giddy. For a few seconds after that gratifying event ended the palpable suspense, no one spoke. All at once, a chorus of excited cries fell on the ear of the leader waiting to hear Marvin’s response. None came. At length, Michael raised his hand, demanding quiet. “Marvin! Are you all right?” he asked, a most uncharacteristic tremor in his voice. Startled by the sound, the man thus peremptorily questioned struggled to emerge from his trance-like state, and regain touch with reality. “M…Michael, it…it worked. No p…problem…” The expert’s words fluttered out in a stammering, husky whisper expressive of wonder. “Damned right it worked! Like a charm! Due to your skill! Stay there. We’ll bring coffee, and we’ll all take a break on Eleven’s bridge.” Rising abruptly, Michael snapped out orders. “Conrad, fetch a pot. Justin, come along. Marvin might need you.” Turning on his heel, he strode swiftly away, flanked by Nigel and Justin. Cleo and Leonard followed Conrad into the food-chemistry laboratory, where they hastily swept up cups. Bursting into the bridge on Eleven, the Captain found Marvin still seated in the raised second helm couch, staring at the barely visible end of

the strut in the screen where Eleven’s cameras recorded the view of the exterior. His hands turned the helmet he had removed, over and over, in a mindless, mechanical response. Heart pounding, mouth dry, the programmer tried to master his body’s delayed reaction to the adrenaline high that had fueled his flawless performance. This state I’m in parallels the one that gripped me after I made my final exit on the opening night of Vengeance Is Mine, he recalled, fighting the tremulousness afflicting him. Damn, but I hate falling apart like this! His comrades’ abrupt entrance startled him. Rising, he turned. Michael held out a hand. Instinctively, the bemused expert gripped it. Drawing his still-dazed subordinate close, the Captain laid a comradely, silver-clad arm around the man’s hunched shoulders. “Congratulations on a superb job, Marvin,” he declared warmly. “Now, sit down, and unwind. Conrad’s bringing coffee.” Mutely, his subordinate obeyed. Laying a hand on the programmer’s shoulder, Nigel gave a comradely squeeze. “Marvelous job,” he vouchsafed softly. “Technique and engineering both.” “Damned right,” Justin added, narrowly searching the face pale as fresh-cut water ice. “You take it easy for a bit, hear?” “I’m all right,” Marvin managed to whisper. “Just…finding it hard to switch back from the other reality.” Turning to behold three other entrants, Michael quickly poured a cup of steaming brew, which he thrust on the subordinate whose lapse into shock dismayed him. Worriedly, he observed that Marvin’s hands shook slightly as he grasped the offering. “Hell of a feat you just managed, partner!” Conrad boomed, evoking a ghost of a grin from the shipmate deep in the throes of a severe nervous reaction.

Leonard and Cleo chorused like congratulations. Seven people sipped coffee, striving to subdue jangled nerves, and calm racing hearts. This tastes good, Marvin acknowledged, still only half returned to reality. I’m alive! I didn’t wreck their chances. I didn’t fail them. They understand how chancy that maneuver was. They appreciate what I did. My nerves are acting up. I can’t let them! I’ve got to calm down! Why in hell do I get this shaky feeling now, when the danger’s past? I’ve got to get hold of myself! Keeping watchful eyes on the man he saw to exist, still, in a parallel universe, Michael let the break run overtime. The strain produced by that chore took it out of the poor bastard’s hide, he conceded bleakly. I hope to hell he doesn’t come unraveled, this week. Nervous type in the best of times, he is. But what a marvel of a job he just did! He’ll calm down…function normally. He has to! At length, Michael rose. “Well, Nigel, let’s go. Marvin, Nigel has equipped himself a workspace opposite Cleo’s cabin. You and Conrad do the same in the recreation area, so as to work on the winches. Leave the space opposite the lock clear. For most purposes, we’ll find it easier to work here, where we’ve now got the bulk of our tools and equipment stored, than to work in Two or Nine, and transport tools back and forth. Haul whatever you need in the way of furniture: worktables, or whatever.” Turning to the medical technician, Nigel crisply issued orders. “Justin, you and Cleo will man the board here. Marvin tied into the station’s power grid, and tapped into circuits that let you perform some of Central’s board’s functions from Eleven’s bridge, including that which switches off the station’s fields, and initiates the emergency sequence. Justin, help us on with our helmets and gloves.” Seating herself ten minutes later beside Justin at Eleven’s board, Cleo nervously waited as her partner investigated Marvin’s setup.

“I see what he did,” the spacer explained. “The scanner’s permanent: part of Eleven’s equipment. While we’re joined to the station, it duplicates what shows on Central’s board, but it has its own switch and sequence, here. This other temporary panel allows us to throw the station’s master switch, and activate the station’s sequence. We’ll dispense with that, when we undo all the umbilical lines: power, water, ventilation, communications, monitoring equipment, automatic sequences that go into effect in case of various sorts of emergency—the works—just before we lift. So we’ve two master switches to throw.” “There’s no screen showing Whipple.” “No. Touch that switch. There. You can see what’s going on outside of Eleven, now. Forward side and aft side, axis side and rim side—or top and bottom, if you think of those that way. Takes a little getting used to, orienting your mind to which way you’re looking, when all four views are in front of you.” “Justin, I can’t think of what’s ahead of me as being behind me, or above me!” “Your mind will adapt. Just watch the axis side, initially. Switch your glance from screen to scanner, or you’ll tire eyes and brain staring at the meteoroid tracks.” Experienced at least in observing the scanner, Cleo found that she could switch back and forth from screen to meteoroid tracks and watch both. As she watched, three tiny figures emerged into view, to float towards the axis trailing a barely visible line of tethered tanks. Intently, she observed their maneuvers, and saw one propel himself to the axis. She failed to determine what they were doing, but their voices enlightened her. “I’ve positioned the winch, Michael, but maybe I’d better let the platform down once empty to see if it’s lined up accurately with the end of the strut.”

“It looks good to me, Leonard. If it isn’t lined up, we’ll shut off Marvin’s outfit and drift to the end of the strut. Nigel, you do this side of this ladder-like segment of the axis, and I’ll do the other.” “It’s easier climbing into this outfit now that we’ve gained practice, hm? Let me position this sack. Can you float me the line of tanks? Got it. Wait until I arrange things, Leonard.” A span of silence ensued, before Nigel’s sibilant drawl impinged on the listener’s ears. “I’m ready. Watch how you reel out, Leonard. Too fast, and the safety line I’m feeding out of the sack as I run my ascender down will lift me out. Not much gravity yet. The blasted line’s full of knots. Damned nuisance, this.” “If this line holding the platform breaks, you won’t think so,” Michael retorted, prompting Nigel to grunt, and Leonard to chuckle. Silence impacted the woman whose nerves quivered. “I’m down. I’m stepping out onto the side of the strut. My boots are holding me. I can climb the openwork like a ladder. The outward pull on my chest isn’t bad. I’m hooking both my safety line and the platform to the end of the strut, and clipping the sling from my harness to the openwork while trailing the line of tanks. I’ll keep moving that up, and pulling them in.” “Take your time,” Michael urged. “That outward pull will get worse in direction but smaller in magnitude, as you ascend.” “The pull isn’t bad, but I damned well need to watch where I look, chief. Or rather, where to avoid looking.” Tensely, Cleo kept her eyes on both screens, barely able to see Nigel’s silver-suited form: an amorphous blob on the end of the strut nearest Eleven. An orange streak shot across the scanner, followed by another. Oh, no! the conscientious watcher wailed. But I don’t see any red ones. Can Nigel get back up, and the three of them float to the lock, in half

an hour? Surely they can. Whew! All green again: the usual swirl. My nerves must still be raw from the suspense of Marvin’s moving that huge structure. The poor man surely did suffer a severe reaction to the stress! I hope his nerve holds up. Having finished his chore on the one half of the strut, Nigel descended back to the tip, and rose in the platform to the axis. Leonard detached the winch, and he and Michael repositioned the equipment for the descent to the other end of the long construct. Nigel floated the sack of safety line, and clipped to the axis the trailing line to which he had attached the empty tanks. The viewer’s nerves gained no respite, as three more orange streaks flashed in succession across the scanner. Having descended to the strut, Michael changed the tanks. When he again regained the axis and pronounced the job done, Cleo breathed a silent sigh of a relief that evaporated as she heard Nigel declare his intent to stay out and inspect the axis. Justin departed to help Michael and Leonard unsuit, leaving his watchmate wearing a pack. “Nigel, tell me you’re all right, occasionally, will you?” she pleaded, her anxiety patent to the hearer. “I’m detached from the station, and maneuvering freely, Cleo. I’m spiraling slowly around the axis while rising towards the de-spun portion. I took time to enjoy the spectacular view of the spinning tethers below, and Whipple above, before inspecting the path the strut will take. I need to concentrate, now. I’ll tell you when I’m finished.” The sibilant voice drawled lazily. Nigel sounds as if he’s out for a stroll! the nervous Gaean acknowledged wryly. Seeing the sights! Well…I’ll wager they do get a marvelous view of Whipple. It’s nearly as close as it ever gets. I almost

wish… I do wish that I could see it that way…from outside. I wish that Michael had time to teach me how to float in a suit! Oh, well. I’m out here, part of the action…a tiny but important part. If Michael had confined me in a cabin, that first day…kept me locked up, all this time, to serve as a collective possession they used simply for physical relief any time any of them got the urge…I’d be dead, now. I’d have found a means of joining Max. That might happen shortly, anyway. Oh, Max, you’re still part of me, though I don’t seem to talk to you as often, these days. So much has happened to me! It seems as if I’ve been living this life for Earthyears, instead of weeks. Six weeks? No…seven. The emotional burden of a lifetime crammed into less than fifty days. Hard enough adjusting to intimacy with one man—making a marriage work smoothly—but I’m juggling six marriages at once. I seem to be succeeding, at present, but I’d better not grow overconfident. This ghastly week’s just beginning! Having completed his inspection, Nigel floated back into the lock, and issued the order to re-activate the fields on the hull. Rising stiffly from her seat, Cleo stretched. What to do, now? she wondered. Judging by all I’ve heard, Nigel intends to scrounge material out of which to build something. Leonard’s filling propane tanks, and Michael and Justin are rigging an oxygen tank so that Leonard can breathe this afternoon in Thirteen. Nobody gave me any orders. Perhaps Conrad and Marvin could use a hand. Acting on that assumption, the Gaean headed for the side door of the bridge. Scanning the yawning space of the recreation area, she saw that a massive winch occupied the center of a sturdy workbench, surrounded by couplings, chains, and lengths of cable. On the deck nearby reposed the second huge component. On a worktable nearby lay an array of hand tools and portable power tools.

As she approached, Conrad pulled out a length of the woven metal cable fastened to the winch. “Marvin,” he announced, “I hate to tell you this, but this cable’s the wrong diameter. Too small. Now, how in hell did we manage that?” “Damn it, you cut it off! Can’t you measure accurately?” Marvin snapped, exhibiting all his old petulance. Raising his voice, he complained, “Now I’ll have to redo both ends!” Breaking off in mid-sentence, the speaker flushed hotly, grown suddenly, acutely conscious of his egregious lapse. Dropping his eyes, he averted his face. As Conrad watched, Marvin’s gangly frame seemed to shrink, to contract, to hunch over. An angry rejoinder died on the beholder’s lips. “I guess I didn’t measure accurately,” he replied in a placatory tone. “Take a break, Marvin. I’ll cut off two more lengths.” Turning on his heel, he strode into the bridge, to which Cleo had retreated on hearing the complaint. Flashing her a rueful smile, he neither stopped, nor passed any comment. Thoughts chased in rapid succession through the mind of the witness. Swiftly making a decision, she acted. Reentering the workplace, she walked purposefully to where the offender stood motionless, staring down at the jumble of items surrounding the winch. Slipping her arm through his, she urged softly, “Marvin, take a break with me. Please?” The bleak despair showing nakedly on the face the man turned to her sent fear surging through the amateur therapist. Smiling up at him, she tugged on his arm. Wordlessly, he accompanied her as she led him determinedly towards her cabin. As the door slid shut behind them, Cleo walked over to the bed and seated herself. “Sit down, and relax,” she invited, prompting her guest to sit down uneasily beside her, and look askance at her. Since the wall had first been

raised, secluding her private space, Cleo had never spent time alone in her cabin with any of her six shipmates, other than on a man’s allotted night. Deeply worried, the woman studied her companion’s pale face, noting the shadows under the dark eyes, and the tight set of the mouth. Gently, she remarked, “Marvin, I realize that you’re working under a severe strain. I know it’s causing you to grow upset. If I were to say frankly what’s on my mind, would you trust deeply enough in my feeling for you, not to let my words hurt?” A flush once more suffused the narrow face of the socially handicapped spacer, but Marvin kept his eyes on hers. In a strained voice he replied, “I can guess what’s on your mind. My resolve went to hell, just now.” Reaching out, Cleo grasped both of his hands. “Marvin, if you thought you could change completely without ever stumbling once, you were being dreadfully unrealistic!” she asserted forcefully. “Look what I did, three weeks ago! Talk about lapses! And I had worked Earthyears to change myself!” Gazing intently into eyes that seemed pools of pain, she declared encouragingly, “Everyone has noticed the change in you. Surely you’ve felt that! “Yes, you snapped at Conrad just now, because you were uptight…nervous. Who wouldn’t be uptight, who had done what you did this morning? Six weeks ago, Conrad would have snapped back. He didn’t, today. He let your words roll right off him. He realized why your resolve slipped. He knows you’ve been striving hard to change yourself. “But Marvin…what’s worrying me isn’t Conrad. Michael has labored under fully as great a strain all along, as you’re doing now. That unrelenting strain has aged him. You can see the traces left on his face by the heavy burden of command. When Michael becomes really uptight, he gets angry, and he’s drastically uptight this week. “Please…put yourself in his boots, the way Conrad put himself in yours,

just now. The Captain has kept us pointed at a goal. He has kept our morale up…kept us civilized. Michael needs help, now: yours, mine, everyone’s. If you keep that fact in the forefront of your mind, you’ll refrain from snapping at him. Marvin…pick a code word, and say it to yourself at tense moments, so you can keep Michael from coming apart, this week.” The logic inherent in that shrewd appeal struck the highly intelligent listener forcibly. Cleo watched her plea take effect. She beheld hunched shoulders straighten, and saw the pain recede. Her guest replied firmly, “You’re right, about Michael. I’ll do my best not to give way again…not to get upset to that extent. But I already have a code word, Cleo. I picked one quite a while back. It helped, until today. I say your name to myself.” Touched to the core, the woman threw her arms around the man making that admission in the manner of one merely stating a pertinent fact. “Marvin, you possess such courage…such determination…not to mention ability! I owe you so much! And when we manage a launch, it’ll be due mostly to you!” Hugging her back, the recipient of a compliment he knew to be utterly genuine shook his head. “No, Cleo, your other notion’s right on the mark. It’ll be due mostly to Michael’s ability to lead. Now, I’d better get back. I appreciate your caring enough to say what you did.” “Marvin, I love you!” “My knowing that is going to hold me together, and help me hold Michael together. I love you, girl.” Rising, the man still acutely conscious of his lapse bestowed a strained but deeply affectionate smile on the woman he pulled to her feet. Opening the door, he gestured her through. She watched him stride away, renewed purpose evident in the way he carried himself. Relief surged through Marvin’s confidante. As she stared after him, her heart pounding, she grew aware that Nigel stood on the far side of the

workbench he had hauled into the space stretching away opposite her door. His eyes followed Marvin’s back until it vanished through the entrance to the dining hall. Swiveling his head, he raked the Gaean with a piercing glance. Did you park yourself there to see what we were doing? the former focus of the Lieutenant’s rabid jealousy silently raged. You gave me no orders! We’re entitled to a break! We weren’t doing what you naturally think we were! Challenge mirrored in every line of her face, the irate woman met the penetrating glance of the dark eyes squarely. Striding forward, Nigel spoke in an ironic drawl. “No, I wasn’t spying on you, Cleo,” he declared evenly. “I had no idea where you were, or whom you were with, nor do I harbor any emotion but admiration for your thoughtful effort to relax the overly tense nerves of the man on whose coolness, knowledge and skill the success of our venture now chiefly depends.” Remorse followed shock in the overwrought therapist’s mind. “Nigel, I never…” “Yes, you did. But I can imagine why.” The unprepossessing face creased into a sardonic smile of pure self-mockery. “Hold this for me.” Grasping the metal shaft protruding from a massive roller, Cleo sought to hold the heavy object immobile. “Now, tilt it,” the engineer ordered crisply. “More…hold it there.” Striving to keep the ungainly burden steady against the top of the bench, the Gaean acknowledged guiltily, if silently, I misjudged you, Nigel. And you read my mind once again. You’ve changed, too…as profoundly as has Marvin. You’ve changed yourself. No way would you ever accept anyone’s help to achieve such an outcome! Nonetheless, you’ve buried your jealousy so deeply it’s as though it didn’t exist. Awash in relief, buoyed by renewed confidence, the petite woman held

the shaft on the end of which Nigel inscribed carefully measured, angled marks. Fifteen minutes later, Conrad strode by, bearing a coil of heavy cable over a shoulder. Engaged in assisting Nigel, Cleo developed tremors in hypersensitive nerves. The blonde spacer emerged into the exercise hall to find his partner busily working to rectify the error. Turning, Marvin ceased what he had been doing, and looked squarely at the man whose friendship had come to mean so much to him. “Conrad, I owe you an apology,” he declared levelly. “For my rudeness.” Astounded, the engineer stared at the crewmate formerly more wont to sulk than to apologize. His lean face broke into a wide grin as he replied with hearty warmth, “Don’t sweat it, partner. If your nerves hadn’t frayed some after that feat you pulled off this morning, I’d suspect you weren’t human. I’ve got the right size this time. Let’s build to it.” Flashing his comrade his transfiguring smile, Marvin built to it with such energetic zeal that the pair stood admiring two fully modified winches when Michael walked in to summon them to lunch. Presiding behind the counter in the dining hall, Cleo served the meals she had heated, and poured the coffee she had brewed. Grown cognizant that Marvin and Conrad must have effected a reconciliation, she took her seat after everyone had been served, and heard the two men take turns setting Leonard problems in calculating the elastic modulus of cables having different cross-sectional areas, by way of answering a question he had asked. That exercise in mental arithmetic, interspersed with jokes, produced profound relief in the amateur therapist. His sensors tingling, Michael listened. Marvin seems to have unwound, he exulted. Glancing across the table, he discovered Cleo’s eyes riveted

intently upon his own self. She smiled at him, but he noted the shadows under her eyes, and the lines of strain on her face. Worrying again, she is, he reflected bleakly. Well, so are you. You can’t order her to desist, when you aren’t able to stop yourself from doing it. Upon rising from the extended break, everyone but Nigel repaired to Central. Leonard assisted Michael, Conrad and Justin to don pressure suits. Seated at Central’s board next to Marvin, Cleo listened to the crossflow of remarks. Michael emerged on the hull of Thirteen, followed by Conrad, and then Justin. Conrad set about detaching various items, with Michael’s assistance. Justin stood by, evidently clipping smaller items to his suit, and then hefting a more massive one. Static crackled suddenly out of the packs worn by both crewmen on the board. Startled by the sound, Cleo audibly drew a sharp breath. Glancing up from the calculation on the screen before him, Marvin smiled reassuringly. “Nothing to get excited about,” he explained. “Justin’s packing a component possessing a residual field that’s interfering with the communication beam. When he parks it… See, it cleared up. Justin, can you hear me?” “I can now. I’ve got to move three more of those.” “Tell us when you’re finished hauling them.” Slowly, methodically, Conrad detached what he referred to as his loot, with Michael’s help. The medical technician made trip after trip to the lock, packing items that Cleo suspected must be awkward to haul. Justin will be tired tonight, she surmised. Michael’s voice issued crisply from the pack. “I’ll haul half that cable, Justin. Stand still, and let me coil the rest. Damned, massive, unwieldy, snaky pile of… Watch where you put your feet! I’ve got it. Don’t stumble. I’m following. Take it slow and easy.” “Michael, let your coil down, before I drop mine down the lock.”

“Carry on, Justin. I’m free of it. Watch out, and don’t get caught in it!” “There. Both coils down. We get to haul two of those?” “Unfortunately, yes. It’ll be a while.” Silence followed. Cleo noted two orange streaks that paralleled one another. Neither turned red. Marvin, concentrating intently on his work, passed no comment. Shifting her eyes from the scanner to his calculations, she watched. He’s computing angular momentum. My word, what a huge angular speed! Surely that would… Now, don’t get wound up poking into what’s not your business, and neglect—oh, my soul. “Michael, there’s a red alert,” the guardian announced calmly, speaking into the pack. “It’s 1625 now. You have until 1745. Do you hear me?” “I hear you, Cleo. Conrad, how close are you to finishing?” “I’ve just about got this slime-rotted cable free. Say thirty minutes.” “We’ll work a bit longer, Cleo. Keep monitoring.” As if I’d tear my eyes off the panel now! she rebuked him silently, her gut knotting with fear. Hurry up, out there. No, don’t hurry. Don’t make some mistake. Don’t fly off! “Justin, this cable’s free.” “Michael, are you…” “Just a few minutes more, and I’ll have this.” Silence impacted Cleo’s straining ears. “Michael, I’m finished here. I’ll give Justin a hand with the cable.” “Carry on. I’ll pack this, when I get it loose.” “Justin, wait till I coil my end. Damned bulky… There.” “Ready?” “Ready. Lead off.”

“Conrad, let your coil down.” “It’s down. I’m clear.” “There it goes. Conrad, watch it! I’ve got you! Release your right boot! Quick!” “I’m all right. I stepped on that slime-infested flat cross-piece.” “Why in hell don’t you watch where you put your feet?” Biting off the acid words clamoring to pour out of his throat, Michael forcibly got hold of himself. Damned easy to do, he admitted, controlling his fraying temper, but he almost got jerked into the lock by that snaking cable! “Conrad, is this the last of it?” “No. Two more massive sons of b… They won’t take me but ten minutes.” “Cleo, how much time do we have?” “It’s 1710. You have until 1745.” “Thirty-five minutes. We’ve got time to spare. Justin, take this unit down the ladder, and I’ll help Conrad.” Silence again fell like a pall. Cleo sat rigidly staring from readout to clock to the swirl of green lines overlain by one ever thickening red one. A crackle of static emerged from the pack. Oh, no, now we can’t talk… Michael, you’ve got only twenty-two minutes! Marvin’s eyes strayed from his work, and riveted themselves to the clock. The static died away, and Conrad’s voice reached them. “That’s got it, Mi…” A new burst of crackling drowned out his words. The two people manning the board held their breath. Abruptly, the static cleared. “Cleo. We’re all inside. Activate the fields.” With a convulsive movement of her hand, the woman obeyed Michael’s order. She saw that the clock read 0737. Sitting back drained, she watched

the ominous red line thicken, sprout a bulge at one end, and metamorphose into an evil red sphere. Unable to tear her eyes from the scanner, she watched, mesmerized, as the red globule swelled, grew bloated…and suddenly vanished. Dispersed. Ceased to be. Oh, my heart, she exclaimed silently. That did it. I wonder how large a chunk that was! Marvin remarked softly, “The odds in no way favored our seeing that.” “How big was it?” Frowning, the spacer activated a screen, and brought up a readout of figures. “About as big around as a large soybean, but it was traveling with a fearsome velocity. It would have done for a man in a suit, and it wouldn’t have helped the equipment on the hull any, either, but I doubt that it would have breached a plate, and holed the hull.” Rising abruptly, he declared, “I’ll help Leonard unsuit them.” Turning, he hurried out. Rising a trifle stiffly, the Gaean hastened to heat dinner and make coffee, knowing that those coming in would be exhausted. Standing by the table in the dining hall holding the coffee pot, Cleo silently filled the cups three tired spacers drained before starting on their dinners. Leonard looks as fatigued as they do, she noted. He carried all that gear. Marvin’s stressed, still. Nigel alone seems unaffected. Michael snapped at Conrad, out there, but he mastered his momentary anger almost immediately. This week will strain everyone’s self-control. Michael’s is thinning. I can tell. I hope Marvin’s new resolve holds. So much will depend on the skill of both men. So much rides on their ability to work with each other under fearful strain, now, and when we launch. If we do! Lying beneath the bedcover awaiting Conrad, Cleo sought to regain

her inner harmony. Succeeding well enough that she caught herself dozing off, she stiffened. Don’t fall asleep! she chided herself. Conrad put in a bad enough day! When he arrived, patently well scrubbed, if tired, she rose swiftly to throw her arms around him, unmindful of her nakedness. Hugging her against his lean, hard body, he heard her whisper, “I worried about you, today, Conrad. About all of you.” “The more as I managed to blunder onto that infernal cross-piece that held the cable to the hull,” the engineer declared disgustedly. “I should have detached those rather than leaving them fastened to the cable, but we were pressed for time. You can’t look straight down in a suit, to see what you’re stepping on, but I knew it was there. I damned nearly got snaked into the lock with the last third of that cable falling around my head. I felt like an idiot, when I realized what I’d done. Worse yet, I pissed Michael off royally. I mean…” Giggling, Cleo reassured the man on whose face a faint flush appeared. “Conrad, let me tell you a secret. I didn’t grow up with a brother with whom I collaborated on all sorts of projects, and spend fifteen Earthyears of my life working alongside male researchers, without enlarging my own store of colorful expressions. You’ve all displayed a most gentlemanly restraint. I don’t hold what escapes in a stressful moment against you.” As she spoke, her hands parted the fastenings of his tunic. With deft movements, she slipped it off, and undressed him. Wearily, the spacer sat down on the bed, and let her pull off his boots and his pants. When he slipped under the bedcover, she lay down next to him. Sliding an arm under her, he drew her head onto his shoulder. “Woman,” he confessed, “I’m played out tonight. Uptight. Drastically worried about what I’ve got to rig for a chancy maneuver that we can’t try

out before we depend on its working, after launch. Mind if we just talk?” “Of course I don’t mind! Would you care to bounce your problem off a willing, interested listener, or would you prefer to discuss anything but that?” “Obliging wifely sort, you are,” came the affectionate reply. “Come to think about it, considering what you seem to know about the current the life-support system draws, likely you could follow if I lay out verbally a stepby-step outline of what I need to do, and what I’ll need to haul out there to do it with.” Lying back to stare unseeing at the plate overhead, relaxed by his companion’s undemanding, comradely presence, soothed by the comfortable warmth of her body tucked against his own, Conrad explained Michael’s and Marvin’s plan, and outlined his own part in equipping for it. Astonishment gave way to suppressed excitement, as Cleo listened. My perishing soul, what a fantastic notion! But why wouldn’t it work? I see what Marvin was calculating, today. Shades of the ancients, what a daring concept! Frowning in concentration, the Gaean engineer followed Conrad’s mental diagram of the circuit he needed to build, occasionally asking a thoughtful question that left the Columbian in no doubt as to her ability to understand both the electronic circuitry he described, and the scientific principles involved in a ship’s tapping and storing electric current drawn from the disc of low-energy plasma rotating around the giant gaseous planet. Concluding his outline, the Columbian turned to regard Cleo quizzically. “You know something, woman? Bouncing my plan off you helped me. I find it a hell of a lot easier to lay out a job while lying here relaxed, than I do while clumping about on the hull in a pressure suit, all the time hoping I’m not forgetting anything. “Marvin and I talked theory last week, not practical application. He

left designing the actual circuitry up to me. I’ve been wishing that I rated a workplace of my own, and time to sit down and think in leisurely fashion. I guess if I had demanded that Michael give me time, he’d have agreed, but I tried to keep the whole of my layout in my head. Both officers do that routinely. I prefer to sketch out my plans on a datapad, but tonight helped.” Drawing his partner close, the man offering that welcome observation kissed her, his salute more tender than passionate. “I love you,” he murmured, when his lips freed hers. “I can slip off to sleep with ease, now.” Relaxing with his head pillowed on her shoulder, and an arm thrown across her chest, the hardy fatalist sank effortlessly into oblivion. Her spirits buoyed by the upsurge of comradely feeling produced by her bedmate’s confidences, Cleo drifted off more slowly. Oh, Conrad, don’t think you aren’t a husbandly sort of man, she commended him silently, awash in affectionate warmth. Friend and lover, you are. Friend, tonight. This one of my six concurrent marriages seems remarkably free of strains. I love you, you decent, ordinary, comfortable, comradely spouse!

WEEK SEVEN: WEDNESDAY Chillingly life-like dreams troubled Cleo before she awoke, and filled her with anguished foreboding after she opened her eyes to drink in the reality of her cabin, and take comfort from the warm pressure of Conrad’s back against her own. My blistered body, I dreamed that Michael died on the hull! My perishing soul, what brought that on? That meteoroid alert yesterday? Conrad’s accident? Why Michael? This is the second time I’ve dreamed about this station…about him. Do I sense unconsciously that if a wreck occurs, it’ll most likely be the Captain who gets injured—or killed—given that he goes out on almost every task needing done? Or…is something about to happen? Dreams haunted me before Rollin died…and the others… No. That’s impossible. Pure fancy. Of course the chance of someone’s getting killed keeps preying on my mind! The danger’s all too real. So was the likelihood of losing loved ones during the invasion. Don’t give way to—what was that old word for the irrational belief in strange, malignant forces affecting people’s lives? Superstition—that was it. You know better than to indulge in such a silly, archaic notion! Shaking her mind free of morbid thoughts, Cleo propped herself on an elbow, and gazed down fondly at Conrad’s recumbent figure. Given that her movement deprived him of support, he rolled onto his back. His lean, tough

face, relaxed in sleep, looked younger than its wont—almost handsome. The lines etched into the spacer’s forehead and around his eyes and mouth by an experience including a plenitude of brushes with death in the line of duty, and twenty Earthyears of service under officers whose iron discipline at times shaded into brutality, smoothed out in the peace of utter unconsciousness. I need to wake Conrad, Cleo decided, and give him the chance to relax for a while…not have to leap from sound sleep into a frenetic rush to get to breakfast. Impulsively dropping on her companion’s chest, she kissed him on the mouth. Coming awake with a violent start, the spacer-fighter clamped a viselike grip on Cleo’s upper arms, and thrust her upwards. Belatedly realizing who woke him thus, he chuckled as he drew her back down to do her gesture justice. His long, intimate kiss aroused them both. “We have time for a quickie, don’t we?” he inquired in a husky whisper, his eyes darkening with desire. “We’ll take time!” Frenetically scurrying fifteen minutes later, Cleo smiled ruefully. I need to learn to cast into the void my qualms about waking them out of peaceful sleep, she chided herself. Rushed again! At least I managed to get to the head. A quickie. The things he comes up with! Guardedly observing the six men who sat eating breakfast more silently than usual, Cleo noticed traces of strain on the Captain’s rugged visage that his habitual composure failed to hide. Justin looks more rested than Michael, for all that Justin seemed so exhausted last night, she noted. The cumulative strain shows on Michael. Seated at Eleven’s board, wearing a pack, Cleo heard Nigel and Leonard assisting the others to suit up, in Central. Determining that Marvin, Conrad, Justin and Michael stood ready, Nigel ordered Cleo to switch off the

fields of the hull. Obeying with alacrity, she watched, consumed with anxiety that she sought to dismiss as irrational. After a lengthy delay, four tiny figures emerged from the upper lock to float to the axis, each pair shepherding a massive winch, and a set of bulky mechanical couplers. Keeping a wary eye on the meteoroid scanner, the Gaean contemplated probabilities. Marvin and Justin both said the odds made a red alert highly unlikely. Surely the chance of our experiencing another today would be all but nil, she speculated, but the possibility exists, so don’t get careless. They must have had a dreadful time maneuvering those unwieldy winches into the elevator! Michael’s crisp voice issued from Cleo’s pack. “Marvin, ride down with the winch. Secure it to the platform, and take care playing out your safety line. I don’t place much trust in this line holding the platform. Those winches are massive.” “I’ll manage fine, Michael.” Marvin’s voice, steady, devoid of any touch of petulance or nervous irritability, reassured the nervous listener. “I’m down,” she heard him announce. “I’ve secured the winch to the end of the strut, and shoved the load out. I’m fastening the safety line to the strut, and running a sling from my harness to the openwork. We’ll anchor the platform, and one of us can use it as a place from which to work.” “Don’t take any chances. Conrad, are you ready? Justin?” “Tight squeeze, us and the gear, but lower away.” Cleo listened to monosyllabic exchanges interspersed with grunts, muttered complaints about the difficulties of working in contorted positions, several regrettable lapses into luridly indecent language by Conrad, and once even by Justin, and a rapid-fire exchange of exclamations and exhortations as Marvin and Conrad performed the ticklish task of making crucially important welds.

After an interminable time, they finished. “Damned fine job, Marvin,” Conrad declared gruffly. “That ought to stand anything.” “I feel confident that it will. We’ll know better how to position ourselves on the next one.” “Hell of a place to have to work. Michael, raise us back up.” The practice they gained on the first task failed to offset the fatigue afflicting all three suited spacers in knees, arms, and especially fingers. The exasperated exclamations each man let slip caused Michael to develop visceral tension, but he noted with relief that the exasperation seemed directed at the circumstances, not at each other. Laughing softly, Marvin exclaimed, “Who was that cocksure ancient theorist who said, ‘Give me a lever and a place to stand, and I’ll move the world?’ Blasted optimist, he must have been. Shove harder on the son of a bitch.” “There, that’s got it. Archimedes, that was. I’d like to see that smug bastard hang off a fat-assed flywheel by his teeth and toenails and run this pisser of a welder. Watch it now. Here goes.” Seated next to Nigel on Eleven’s board, Cleo gave way to a burst of giggles, prompting Leonard to flash her an embarrassed grin. He had avoided meeting her eyes after those earlier, luridly obscene outbursts echoed in both his ears and hers. Chuckling, Nigel remarked, “Conrad’s unconsciously exerting restraint, believe it or not, Cleo. His flights of fancy generally include far worse than what he let escape a while back.” Michael, sitting in a seat-sling clipped to the axis, his gut knotted, his nerves raw, heard the giggles. Damned if Cleo’s a prude, he acknowledged, and damned if I’ll call Conrad on his mouth. Or Marvin, who’s laughing, by all the Powers, and

telling jokes! I can’t believe what has come over him! Yesterday, I worried that he must be coming unstrung. You’re the one whose nerves are fraying, spacer-captain. They’re getting the job done. Stop fretting yourself into a blue funk! Sitting back with barely enough g acting on his body to give the feeling of weight, he managed a lessening of his intestinal cramping. After what seemed an interminable time to the Captain, Marvin exclaimed, “That looks good, Conrad. Justin, go on up with the welder. We’ll follow with the rest of this gear.” Having clamped welder and platform securely to the openwork frame of the axis, four men floated into the upper lock. Nigel and Leonard helped unsuit all of them but Michael. A frown creasing his unprepossessing face, the second officer glanced narrowly at the Captain. “Sit down and rest, Michael,” he urged. “Relax. It’s earlier than I figured it would be, when I made the schedule. Marvin collected the gear we’ll attach to the tether. I’ll have him brief us one more time before we go out, hm? Leonard and I’ll suit up now.” Seated stiffly on a bench in the main corridor of Central, facing the door of the elevator, Michael tried to relax. His chest itched. He had omitted his usual eye-opener, and suffered now from thirst. Marvin seemed confident that they did a good job, he reassured himself. As petulant a perfectionist as he normally is, if he feels that it’ll serve, no doubt it will. So far, so good. The platform works well. Descending the tethers won’t be as difficult as redoing the frame of that horrendously massive wheel, and installing the hydraulic system. A bitch of a job, that’ll prove, for Marvin and me. I hope he stays this cheerful! Nigel’s holding up well. He did exactly as I asked when he made this schedule. If he’s royally pissed because I’m keeping him in the dark on part

of my plans, he hasn’t let on. He wouldn’t, though. Hard to read him, but he’s a damned capable second officer. He seems to have abandoned any thought of challenging my right to issue orders. No telling what might happen, though, if we suffer some accident or failure of crucial equipment that makes a launch impossible. Morale would go straight to hell. His, especially. Well. Take this chore one step at a time…one challenge at a time. We’ve done all right so far. On seeing Justin and Marvin step out of the elevator, the Captain broke off his musings. Having aided the two silver-clad forms, Leonard and Nigel assisted Conrad, the last to arrive. Justin and Conrad helped Nigel and Leonard into their suits, while Marvin laid out the components that would be attached to the tether. Clearly and concisely, Marvin reviewed the placement and method of affixing his gear to the cable. “You’ll have to make an accurate measurement of where to fasten this outfit I’ve rigged so that I can burn through the cable by remote, Michael,” the expert emphasized. “Either tether’s getting cut in the wrong place will be a disaster. A slight error in the placing of remotes or tanks won’t pose the problem the other would.” Nigel declared noncommittally, “I’ve laid out the safety gear you rigged for yourself last night, chief, and my own. Conrad, help me on with mine.” Nodding, Conrad adjusted the harness fitting around Nigel’s chest, and fastened the sling holding his hardware: ascenders, stirrups fashioned of webbing, and other items. Standing suited except for helmet and gloves, his harness worn over his suit, the sling holding his hardware draped over his shoulder and across his chest, his maneuvering unit over that, Nigel watched as Marvin assisted Michael to don his gear. Conrad and Justin picked up the components tethered together for ease in being floated to the axis. Marvin checked three men’s helmets and

gloves, and waited while they activated the life-support packs. Marvin gave Cleo the order to shut off the fields. Conrad and Justin stepped into the elevator, hauling the components. Michael and Leonard rode it, when it returned. Nigel waited until last. Marvin hurried down the rim towards Eleven. Having seated himself next to Cleo at Eleven’s board, the programmer glanced long enough at the screen to assure himself that all those going out had emerged into view, before immersing himself in his work. Cleo watched as three figures floated around to position themselves on the axis. Leonard readied the elevator. Michael and Nigel secured both ends of the tether holding tanks and remote-controlling gear to the platform, before maneuvering aboard. Each man clipped an ascender to the cable, and attached a sling from the ascender to the harness fastened around his chest, subliminally aware that he could release the ascender so as to slide it along the cable to the desired new position, where it would again clamp the cable tightly. Used to the convenience the metal devices offered, neither man gave any conscious thought to the mechanics of their imminent descent. Exquisitely conscious of Marvin’s warning to avoid letting the other, more massive components bump the cutting device, Michael suspended that item from one of the rings on his suit. The two men fastened tanks and remote-controlling hardware within easy reach, along the waist-high railing of the platform. The light-emitting measuring device, attached to the cable just below the coupling, flashed its narrow beam down the length of the cable. “Unreel slowly, Leonard,” Michael cautioned. “We’ll be sliding the ascenders down, and measuring. Too slow will be preferable to too fast. Stop when I tell you.” Dividing her glance between the scanner and the view of the axis, Cleo saw the platform descend at a creeping pace.

I haven’t seen a single orange track, even, let alone a red one, today, she rejoiced, but it seems as if the swirl of green is a bit denser than it was earlier. Is that abnormal, I wonder? Or is this normal? If red’s a long chance, perhaps the higher frequency of orange yesterday was, too. If the number of larger chunks is high, is the micrometeoroid density less? I guess it doesn’t matter, so long as they’re green. I must ask Marvin, sometime. He’s deep in calculations, again. Michael’s voice issued from Cleo’s pack. “Stop us, Leonard. Nigel, a tank goes here. I’ve marked the spot with a cloth strip. Snap on the upper fastener. There, I’ve got the lower. All right, the remote’s next. Here. Wait till I slide my ascender down. Got it?” “The top’s connected.” “The bottom’s attached. Leonard, lower away. Same pace.” The platform crept downwards. Frowning, Cleo stared at the scanner. She noted that the green lines seemed to have proliferated. Glancing at the man absorbed in calculations, she debated whether or not to request an explanation, and decided to err on the side of caution. “Marvin, I hate to interrupt, but please tell me whether this is abnormal…or dangerous.” Glancing at the scanner, Marvin tensed. Frowning, he inquired, “Have there been any orange?” “No. Not once today. This denser swirl of green just started. It wasn’t like that earlier.” The experienced viewer spoke into his pack. “Michael, it looks as if there’s a dense swarm of micrometeoroids somewhere in the sphere being monitored. Are you noticing dust?” “No. Damn! Any orange?” “None. All day, none,” Cleo assured him.

“We’re at the center. We’ll go on attaching the gear. Watch with Cleo, Marvin. Nigel, this is where the cutter goes.” Taut with apprehension, Cleo glued her eyes to the scanner, which still showed a dense swirl of green lines. No orange mingled with the green. “Can green be dangerous?” she asked. “Green won’t penetrate a suit, but a swarm can be a nuisance, and the abrasive effect doesn’t help some of the equipment on the hull. It won’t help what they’re attaching, either. They have to ascend just as slowly. They can’t avoid whatever might hit, now. I’d finish, if I were doing the chore. The sphere’s huge, so the swarm might not intersect the station. We’ll hope it doesn’t.” “Leonard, lower away. Slowly. Where the remote goes isn’t far.” Frowning, Cleo exclaimed, “Marvin, those green lines are definitely denser now than they were when I first noticed. They’ve slowly gotten even more numerous!” Nigel’s sibilant voice sounded sharply in Cleo’s ear. “Michael, your suit! Dust swarm. Damn the luck!” “It’s not bad yet. All we need to attach is the tank, after this remote. Have you got your end attached?” “Pull on your fastener, while I keep tension on mine. That’s got it. Just a minute… All right, grab the bottom fastener of the mount. There.” “I’ve got the tank. Hold the mount… Look out!” Leonard’s voice, shrill with fear, cried, “Oh, shit! Marvin! The cable’s cut! It jerked them both out!” Marvin’s voice took on a tone of absolute command. “Leonard, stay right where you are. Hear? That’s an order! Don’t try maneuvering anywhere. Cleo, get Conrad and Justin!” Tearing horrified eyes from the sight of two silvery forms plunging towards them, Cleo sprinted to Conrad’s workplace. The sight of her face

told the two men even before she spoke that disaster just struck. Three people raced to the board. Marvin kept his eyes riveted to the two plummeting figures. At the instant in which the two accident-victims grew aware that the cable to which each had tethered himself for safety had somehow parted, both men reacted alike, responding automatically to knowledge and training. Michael held on to the bulky tank of liquefied gas he chanced to be clutching at the moment when he and Nigel were jerked out of the platform by the safety slings tethering them to the crumpling cable. His first thought was to maneuver so as to stay out of the plane of spinning tethers. Nigel instinctively used his maneuvering unit. Michael turned the valve on the tank. The dual acts managed that feat, by luck, more than by calculation. Michael’s second thought was the split-second realization—a picture, not words—of where their free-fall path would take them, owing to their being attached to the end of the cable coupled to Eleven. Horrified cognizance on the part of a mathematician-physicist—an awareness that materialized almost instantaneously—led to his acting. Aiming the gas tank so as to propel himself and Nigel down the straight-line path tangential to the circle their bodies had been making as part of the rotating system before they plunged free, Michael opened the valve wide, thereby adding an accelerated velocity to their initial uniform speed. Nigel’s instincts drove him to keep himself secured to the cable so as to prevent his being hurled off into the void. Having reached for an ascender hanging from the sling draped over his shoulder, he clipped that mechanical aid firmly to the cable. Grasping that support with his left hand, he released the ascender to which the safety-sling to his chest-harness attached, and reversed that object on the cable, next to the other. In so doing, he made sure that both ascenders gripped the cable in the proper position for braking, on the other side of the cut end from the remote device

and the mount for the tank. Knowing that his ascenders would keep Michael’s now upside-down aid from sliding, Nigel clipped a third such device to serve as a handhold for the man wielding the tank. Grasping his two ascenders, he sought to ascertain whether his body and Michael’s would clear the sections and countermasses thrusting upwards from the rim. Eleven endless seconds after their fall commenced, the two silver-clad spacers perceived themselves on a collision course with a section. We’ll hit, Michael groaned inwardly. Letting the empty tank careen away into the void, he grabbed the two ascenders, his hands positioned now next to Nigel’s. Twisting frantically, both men tried to avoid disaster. Nigel cleared the looming, hurtling, bulbous mass flashing by to pass just ahead of them. Michael’s body, moving at a velocity roughly seventy percent that of the monolith, should have crossed the rim just behind the section, but he struck a protruding end of a panel forming part of the power-generating system. That protuberance hooked both his harness and his maneuvering unit. The latter broke. The stout webbing of the harness stretched, abraded, and finally snapped. That brief interaction having absorbed some of the force of the impact, Michael survived his back’s slamming against the panel, which gave a few centimeters, thereby absorbing some more of the force. An instant later, his suited body sheered off, and plunged across the rim after Nigel’s. During that brief, slanting collision in which no contact occurred between the falling man and the hull of the section itself, Michael’s lifesupport pack absorbed yet more of the force of impact. His suit failed to rupture, but his back crushed fabric, ventilator tubes, and bladder against pack and barely yielding metal, causing the air to rush to the front of the suit, and compress. That circumstance in turn impeded the circulation for a

time, and disrupted the delicate balance within the suit. The combined effects of glancing blow and impedance of airflow caused the occupant of the suit to lose consciousness. Falling with both hands gripping ascenders placed just below those that Michael’s hands grasped, Nigel sustained his grip during the jerk to his body when his companion’s impact slowed their velocity. The Lieutenant saw the Captain’s gloved fingers slacken their grip. Reaching out with his left hand, he clutched at his companion’s arm, and managed to gain a hold on a ring just above Michael’s right wrist. Tethered to the cable by his safety sling, Nigel nonetheless grimly held on to the mechanical aid he had clipped below that, expecting to experience a jerk of some unknown magnitude when the inelastic cable lost its slack, and straightened. The cable’s slack, which had trailed the two men’s accelerated selves, wrapped itself around the hull of the section that had barely missed them. Now, a complex set of forces came into play. The two silver bodies swung in a wide arc, causing Nigel to fear that they would swing back around to hit a section on the rim from the outside. Instead, they slowed, stopped, and swung slowly back as the cable extended outwards. Gritting his teeth, the premier athlete sustained the jolt that proved not as sharp as he had feared it would be, but which lasted over a longer time than he expected. By the sheer force of his indomitable will, he maintained his grip on Michael. The woven metal band around the sleeve of the suit, to which the ring was joined, withstood the force pulling the occupant outwards. Once again part of the spinning station, held by centrifugal force like a stone on the end of a string swung in a circle by a frolicsome boy, the two silver forms rode the cut end of the cable that now stretched tautly from Eleven, wrapped around Ten, and pointed stiffly outwards beyond the rim.

Feeling as if he hung suspended from a cliff by one arm, on a planet generating a gravitational acceleration one hundred thirty percent that of this station, bearing the full pull on his other arm of a man who weighed almost a third again as much as he would on Earth, Nigel rasped, “Michael! Speak to me! Can you hear?” “I…blacked out…” The slurred response barely registered on Nigel’s ear. “Your harness ripped off. See if you can twist around and grab a ring on my sleeve with your other hand.” With effort, Michael turned his head, and saw Nigel’s gloved hand gripping his sleeve. Exerting all his willpower, he twisted his battered body in a circle, and groped with his left hand. His fingers closed on a ring. “I’ve…got one…” he gasped. “Hold on!” Justin’s voice demanded, “Nigel! Is Michael conscious?” “I am. But… Nigel. Your gear’s intact. You can climb the cable…but you can’t tow me. They can’t reach us. Not off the outside of a section. You’ll tire long before they could do anything. Nigel…let go of me. Save yourself!” Justin exclaimed, “Michael, no! Marvin’s…” “Justin, be quiet,” Nigel barked. “Michael. Listen. I won’t let go! No way. Hear? Don’t waste breath arguing. I’m going to bend my arm, and draw you close. Grab a ring on my chest.” “You…can’t! In a suit. Against this g…” No reply proved forthcoming. Exerting the prodigious strength Cleo had so feared, Nigel flexed muscles to which training and swordsmanship had given phenomenal strength. Aided by a powerful adrenaline rush in turn augmented by unyielding determination, the possessor of a superb physique clenched his teeth, and strained. Slowly, inexorably, his wrist curved. His

left arm bent, drawing Michael’s right hand closer, ever closer, to Nigel’s chest. Twisting, Michael extended his left arm. The fingers of that hand touched a ring, groped, clutched, gained a hold. Nigel’s wrist flexed. Michael let go with his right hand of the wrist holding him. Convulsively, he grasped a second ring on the front of Nigel’s suit. The two men now hung face to face: silver-clad partners in an eerie, death-defying ballet. Nigel’s right arm bent. Slowly, inexorably, he drew their locked forms towards the cable. His gloved hand brushed his shoulder. “Grab an ascender,” he hissed. Michael’s left hand let go of the ring on Nigel’s suit. Convulsively, that hand stretched towards the metal grip of the ascender Nigel had fastened for his fellow spacer. The extended fingers touched what they sought, only to slip off. Nigel’s shoulders curved…hunched. His hands drew together. Those combined actions enabled Michael’s fingers to close on the metal. “I’ve got it,” the Captain muttered hoarsely. That strained, harsh whisper reached Nigel’s intent ear. “Pull!” he ordered. As Michael pulled, the Lieutenant grated, “Let me move your other hand!” As he spoke, Nigel thrust Michael’s right hand toward one of the two ascenders he had fastened to the cable when he felt himself start to fall. “Hang on!” he rasped. With desperate tenacity, Michael held on. Having reached for a webbing stirrup, Nigel clipped that to an ascender, secured that aid to the cable, and then slipped one of his feet into the stirrup. The vast relief to his arms when he took his weight on his foot drove a sharp exhalation of breath out of him. Reaching a hand to the sling hanging across his shoulder, he unclipped several webbing runners, and expertly improvised a safety sling with which

to anchor to the cable the battered Captain whose grip threatened to fail. Affixing a carabiner from which a stirrup dangled to the ascender Michael gripped, he rasped, “Slip your foot in the stirrup!” After a struggle, Michael finally managed to obey, and took his weight on that foot. Uttering a grunt of satisfaction, Nigel clipped a stirrup to the Captain’s second ascender. Michael thrust his other foot into the dangling loop of webbing. “Rest your arms,” the uninjured man ordered crisply. “Justin! I’ve got Michael secured. What were you trying to say?” As he prepared to listen, Nigel rigged himself a second stirrup. When Cleo leaped to her feet and sped to summon Conrad and Justin, Marvin sat motionless, staring at impending disaster, his mind racing. Even as the thought flashed through his brain’s seat of logical thought that somehow the micrometeorite grains impacting the remote cutter had activated it, he thrust explanations from his consciousness. Frozen, scarcely breathing, he watched, horror fading into puzzlement as he saw the two men fall faster than they ought. Burgeoning excitement gripped him, as the picture his mind formed—a picture paralleling that which Michael’s had generated—changed into one allowing hope. The realization that the two men were accelerating gripped him. Waiting with bated breath to see whether the pair would collide with Ten, he saw them vanish behind it. On hearing the groan the impact wrenched out of Michael, Marvin let a cry of despair escape him. A gasp of relief followed that response, as the programmer saw the two forms emerge into view in the outside screen, still paired. The witness perceiving a new danger held his breath as the two falling figures swung in a wide arc after the cable drew taut. An audible exhalation followed, when he saw that they failed to swing around to smash into a

section from outside the rim. His gut churning, the expert reviewed the rapid-fire succession of conclusions that impinged on his mind, and weighed courses. Justin and Conrad, who had arrived in time to see the two plunging figures vanish behind the hull of Ten, stood rigid with fear. In anguished silence, the two men strained to listen. Faint with horror, Cleo did the same. Four observers heard Nigel’s rasping words of inquiry. Leaning forward, they sought to decipher Michael’s all but inaudible first reply, and his halting subsequent phrase. Justin asked his question. Michael’s order, and Nigel’s flat refusal, evoked gasps. All subsided into silence as Nigel’s imperious command cut off Justin’s anguished exclamation. Scarcely breathing, they listened. No sound reached four pairs of straining ears. The watchers waited, shivering with dread. Finally, they heard Nigel’s staccato commands and final welcome assurance. Marvin grasped Justin’s arm in a grip of steel. “Let me answer,” he demanded. “Nigel! I’m going to release the strut, and move it. I’ll perform a tricky maneuver. Hang tight. Don’t try to climb. Rest your arms. Watch, but don’t talk to me. “Leonard! Float free. Maneuver to the far side of the axis from Eleven: out a distance. Justin! You three! Head for Central. This minute! On the double! Hear?” “Right,” Justin barked. “We’re gone.” Grasping Cleo’s arm, he sped unhesitatingly towards the door of the bridge, and sprinted into the rim. Conrad’s hand closed on Cleo’s other arm. The two men ran, keeping pace with each other while forcing the woman to keep theirs. None of the three wasted any breath on speech. Silence as deep as that pervading the vacuum of the void descended in the bridge. Marvin donned the helmet. Sitting motionless, he gave himself time to adjust to the artificial reality. His hands positioned the touch-

sensitive controls. As calculations scrolled down the screen of his consciousness, his mind settled into a state of intense concentration. Calmly, he planned his moves. Fingers activated the gear on the strut, initiating the ghostly forces. With a touch, their owner released the electromagnetic coupling. The strut lay poised for flight. As Marvin exerted tiny pressures, the slender artifact lurched sideways, swept out a long, thin rectangle, and hung motionless. Sensitive fingertips moved, pressed. The strut slid endwise, to advance menacingly, dangerously, gaining fearful momentum as it headed straight towards Eleven’s tapered upper end. Watching like the mythical hawk, Marvin let the fearsome object approach to a dangerous proximity before stopping that bold advance. Far enough, he warned his alter ego. Be careful, now. The strut swung slowly, ponderously, in an arc, coming to rest with its tip on the far side of Ten, and its distant end close to the axis. Now the tricky part. No inner convulsion accompanied that calm assessment. The way it’s programmed, it’ll drift away from Ten, once it’s farther beyond the rim than you took it last time. It’ll drift more on the outer end. You’ll need manually to counteract that drift. If you bump them with any appreciable velocity, the momentum will be great enough that you’ll blow their suits, given that the mass of the strut is huge compared to theirs. So. Slide the strut out. Let it drift. Get a feel for that. Then bring it back at a creep. You can do it. Easy, now. Whipping around the rim on their taut leash at a linear velocity of over one hundred twenty meters a second, two men faced each other and the cable to which they clung. Feet in webbing stirrups, hands gripping the ascenders from which those stirrups depended, chests tethered to a third mechanical aid, bodies hanging roughly parallel to the line of taut cable, each seasoned spacer maintained a tense silence, scarcely daring to hope.

Calculations duplicating Marvin’s flooded Michael’s mind, his brain not so overwrought by shock, dread and pain as to lose its mathematical precision. Marvin can’t do what he’s attempting! he groaned mentally. He’ll smash us, or Ten, or both, and lose the strut. He’ll very likely wreck the station…forfeit the others’ chances. Marvin, no…no! Damn! I’ll… No. Don’t say anything. Don’t distract him! Nigel could have saved himself. He could have climbed to the hull of Ten. Strength enough, he has, even against this g-force, with what gear he’s packing. I’m almost certain of that. But he flatly refused! No one could have blamed him for letting go of me and trying! The crew’s chances of lifting depend on his surviving, if I don’t, and on Marvin, who’ll die if he rams that damned monstrosity into Eleven! Why didn’t Nigel make the sort of choice Cleo’s team leader made at her urging? Choose the greatest good for the greatest number? Nigel coolly debated whether or not to kill me six weeks ago. I can’t figure him. I never have been able to… Gods beyond the pale, look at that thing! Marvin can’t… Staring across the cable, Nigel read what must be happening on the features he glimpsed at that moment in their revolving career, as the light of the distant star illumined the wide-eyed face behind the helmet: a face plainly registering dread. Turning his helmet, and twisting so as to look over his shoulder, Nigel beheld the advancing end of the strut, bearing a massive winch as a bow ornament, descend past the huge, wide, downward-curving sweep of the rim, and lance in majestic slow motion unerringly towards them, aiming for a point in space perilously close to that occupied by their fragile, vulnerable selves. Above that menacing winch, the luminous, silvery lines of the strut’s openwork frame rose to a dizzying height, converging to nothingness. That awesome sight impressed on stunned, affrighted minds the towering tallness

of the missile seemingly targeting them for annihilation. Nigel’s iron control so far slipped as to allow a sharply indrawn, clearly audible breath to escape him. Mesmerized by the compelling vision, the two men lacked the power to tear their eyes away from the engine of destruction falling slowly but inexorably towards them. Terrified, but unwilling to distract Marvin, lest he make a single false move that would send that monstrous spear lancing straight into them, they waited. Neither man allowed a single word to pass clenched lips. Meanwhile, three rigid figures sat before Central’s board, listening intently. Silence palpably shrouded their hunched, tense bodies. Cleo still wore the pack, but heroically, she refrained from crying out an anguished query. Nigel’s sharp inhalation of breath fell ominously on straining ears. Justin’s hand gripped Cleo’s arm with force that would leave tangible proof for the ensuing week of the adrenaline-enhanced strength of his emotion. Wordlessly, fearfully, the comrades mentally cursing their impotence waited. The strut and its surroundings again having become his universe, Marvin stared tautly at the three-dimensional view graphically depicted before him. His perspective differed from that of the two men fearing a fatal impact from above. To his intent gaze, the strut seemed to be moving below him, gliding with majestic slowness over the rim, past the looming bulk of Ten. In the distance, a slender thread tapered into nothingness. Beyond its farthest visible point two silvery specks floated against the backdrop of an unimaginable blackness. Marvin let the strut drift momentarily. Having corrected, he gained a feel for the unequal forces acting on the skeletal structure, in fingers that unerringly compensated for the least sideways shift from the path he mentally gauged. Relentlessly, he held the strut on that undeviating, straight-line course. Slowly, but inexorably, the long, thin spear crept

forward, to hang parallel to the tenuous cord holding the accident victims. To Marvin, the strut seemed at rest. Now. Be damned careful. Their lives depend on your steadiness. Watch how you move. Easy. Creep. Slide. That’s good. Barely buck the drift…slower…slower… Scarcely daring to breathe, Michael and Nigel watched the frighteningly massive winch-prow glide past, and seem to stop. The pair glued their eyes to the near portion of the strut now hovering motionless beside them. Silently, they watched the behemoth creep closer, sideways to them, its arrow-straight, silvery lines accentuating the change in perspective occurring during the advance. In imminent danger of sustaining a lethal blow from an 873-meterlong flail of spidery gossamer openwork, the two tethered observers fatalistically awaited obliteration, even as bodies tensed to make whatever helpful move might be permitted them should they miraculously survive that fearsome approach. The geometrically regular metalwork loomed ever more menacingly huge in their sight, as the monster drew near. Rigid with dread, they saw the seemingly widening shaft close the remaining space. Miraculously, the strut stopped, and hung, refraining from smashing their defenseless, silver-suited, vulnerable, flesh-clad bones with a casual, deadly tap. Being closest to the strut, Nigel reached out a long right arm. His fingers touched a rung of the ladder-like member in the center of the face looming alongside of them. “Marvin, ten centimeters more! I can’t quite reach it!” The huge mass slowly, almost imperceptibly, crept the required distance, and stopped. Nigel’s hand grasped rigid metal. Pulling himself and his companion close to the openwork, he hissed, “Michael! Clip your sling to the frame!” His stressed superior obeyed. Reaching for the metal frame with one

hand, Michael snapped open the gate of the carabiner on his sling, detached the sling from the ascender on the cable, and fastened the carabiner to the strut. Slipping one foot out of its stirrup, he secured the webbing to the strut, transferred his weight to it, repositioned the second stirrup, and hung tethered, facing the central ladder. “Marvin,” Nigel rasped, “there’s a remote, but no tank, on the end of the cable. Can I take a tank off the strut, and attach it? Save the cable?” Deliberating with lightflash speed, Marvin rendered a decision. “Tether the end of the cable to the strut. Take the tank off that half of the fail-safe, which is thirty meters up from you. Don’t detach till I give you the order. Keep clipping your safety sling to the strut. Climb the strut’s ladder. Whatever you do, don’t look up, or down. Look at the strut. And watch where you put your feet!” Wordlessly, Nigel obeyed. Freeing himself from the cable, he clipped his sling to the frame, and began to climb, feeling inordinately heavy. Step by painful step, lifting leaden body on feet of stone while continually moving the sling, he slowly ascended the narrow width of a spidery ladder resting on emptiness and stretching upwards past the down-curving span of the rim dominated by the huge bulk of Ten looming almost directly overhead. Around the intrepid climber stretched star-strewn, yawning infinity. The slender framework towered above him, its defining lines converging to a distant point far above the forbidding vastness of the rim. Nigel knew better than to look up at that daunting vista. Eyes riveted to the metal of the strut, he climbed steadily, until he reached a tank that seemed located at the proper distance he stepped off mentally. “That’s it,” Marvin declared. “Rig a sling for it. It’ll be heavier, so compensate for that. Pack it on your back.” Unhesitatingly, the programmer issued orders to the Lieutenant. Silently, Nigel carried out the peremptory command. Boots holding

him to a rung, safety sling clipped to the frame, he freed the tank, and then rigged the bulky cylinder with a sling through which he thrust his arms, so as to carry the tank like a backpack. Keeping his eyes focused on the metal rungs of the ladder rising out of the void, he staunchly resisted recurrent, insidious urges to look up or down. Slowly, methodically, carefully, he retraced his steps downward, feeling as if he bore the weight of a world on his shoulders. A grunt escaped him when he reached Michael. Struggling out of the sling, Nigel wrestled the tank into an interstice of the openwork. “Shove the blasted outfit over here,” the Captain urged. “I can attach it to the cable.” “Here. Can you reach it?” “Push it…there. Hold it steady.” Exerting all his willpower, the battered accident-victim strained hurting body and aching, tired fingers, finally managing to make the necessary connections. “Got it,” he grated in a hoarse whisper in which four tense listeners caught the overtones of acute physical distress. “Good. Cast the cable off. Marvin, do you want us to ride the strut on opposite sides, for better balance? If so, I can climb around.” “Hell, no, don’t do that! Put your feet in your stirrups, and hang next to Michael.” With no demur, Nigel did as Marvin commanded. “I’m secure. Take it up, whenever you’re ready.” To Michael, the silent, gliding ascent straight upwards towards the overhanging bulk of Ten growing ever more huge as they rose, combined with the awesome view of the seemingly motionless station suspended edgewise over their heads, would forever bear the surreal aspect of nightmare. Knowing himself securely tethered to the strut, neither man could now resist leaning back and staring up at the vast panoramic whole

looming so unmistakably above him. That certainty embedded itself into both men’s understanding, owing to the greater-than-normal centrifugal force acting in a direction outwards from the rim: a force which their Earthadapted bodies sensed as weight. At the center of the vast hollow sphere of his universe, Michael rode suspended by fragile straps from a monstrous ladder rising dauntingly over eight hundred meters above his head. Steadily, his weight grew less. An eerie certainty possessed him that his flesh was evaporating. Twisting so as to watch the bulbous bulk of Ten slide by behind him, he next turned his head to let the rim fill his field of vision. Overhead, he saw the axis loom ever larger. “I’m swinging it!” Marvin warned. “Hang on!” A disconcerting sense that his ladder now commenced to tip over sent chills cascading down Michael’s spine. The bottom end, to which the two spacers clung, swung in a wide arc. Subtly, their perspective changed. Guts churned as each man clutched frantically at the metalwork. Inexorably, the axis drew closer, looming ever more hugely. That huge construct seemed to move menacingly toward their now stationary selves, but long before the threatened contact occurred, the strut stopped, and hung motionless. “Nigel! Michael! Brace yourselves! It’ll jump sideways!” Marvin’s urgent voice ringing in their ears, the riders felt the strut leap, shudder, tremble, and settle, having reattached itself to the axis. He did it! Michael exulted. The strut’s unharmed, and we’re both still alive! Leonard’s voice, hoarse with emotion, cried, “The strut’s coupled! I’ll let the platform down, Nigel. Michael! There’s no safety line hanging from the axis. Should I fetch it?” Conrad’s vehement voice interrupted. “I’m suiting up and bringing it.

Wait for me, Leonard! No sense risking a wreck after so spectacular a rescue. No matter what orders those two issue. Hear?” Nigel’s chuckle bore an overtone that unmistakably betrayed the overwrought state of his mind. “Threatening mutiny, they are!” “You’re a fine one to talk about mutiny! You set them the example, a while ago! We’ll wait. Nigel…I’m permanently in debt to you, for what you did. I owe you my life!” “You owe Marvin, chief. Both of us do. Let’s leave it, till we plant our feet firmly on a deck, hm?” Strong emotion combined with stress, shock, pain and exhaustion to render Michael afraid to trust his voice. Scanning the figure next to him, Nigel exclaimed, “Conrad! Bring Michael a maneuvering unit! Hear?” “Right.” Tensely awaiting Nigel’s affirmation that Marvin had ended his rescue as successfully as he had begun it, Conrad and Justin leaped to their feet at Leonard’s cry, and headed with all haste to the corridor. Relief flooding her mind, her heart pounding, Cleo watched them go. A new fear gripped her. “Marvin!” she breathed into the pack. “Are you all right?” “I’m…fine. I…I’ll watch the scanner. You’d better leave… They’ll be unsuiting…right there in the corridor. Better join me, Cleo.” Turning, the woman raced out the door, her trot lengthening into a sprint as she burst into the rim. On a dead run, she headed for Eleven. On the bridge in Eleven, Marvin sat back, motionless, drained, but filled with joy so intense that it bordered on pain. I did it! he marveled. They’re alive! I didn’t crush them…didn’t blow their suits. What I risked! Their lives… The others’ chance to lift… If I had taken a long time to think it over…I’d have gotten so nervous that I might have failed. My hands would have shook. They’re shaking now.

Lifting those trembling members, the rescuer removed the helmet, and turned it mindlessly over and over, lost in wonder. Nervous reaction notwithstanding, he automatically kept an eye on the meteoroid scanner, still denoting the presence of a swarm of grain-sized particles. The door slid open with a bang. Startled, Marvin looked up to behold Cleo. Rising, he caught her as she hurled herself into his arms. Her body trembling, her chest heaving, she gave way to the tears she failed utterly to control. Holding Marvin in a fierce embrace as her body shook with silent sobs, she buried her face in his chest. Cleo’s reaction channeled the high-strung introvert’s emotional response in a direction it would not have taken otherwise. Tears of pure relief brimmed in his own eyes, and to his considerable surprise and dismay, overflowed to course down pale cheeks. If we aren’t a pair! he chided himself ruefully. I need to sit down. Abruptly, he collapsed into the seat he had occupied, pulling Cleo down into his lap. He hugged her, his own copious drops falling into her wavy brown hair as he still kept watch on the scanner. For five minutes, the two comrades clung to each other, their overwrought nerves finding relief in a physical reaction of which each felt direly ashamed. At length, lifting red eyes and puffy cheeks to gaze up at the man who just wrought what she considered a miracle, Cleo gasped, “Marvin, I’m sorry! I didn’t come in here intending to blubber on your shoulder!” The expert’s soft laugh reassured her. “I’m glad you did. That unmanly bout of tears helped me. I don’t mind your seeing me do it, Cleo, but I don’t need the others’ knowing. Keep an eye on the scanner while I wash, and hide the evidence, would you?” “After what you just did, no one could fault you for shedding a few tears! But go and wash. I’ll watch.” Having helped Conrad don his suit and collect gear, Justin watched the

elevator door slide shut. Only then did he succumb to the reaction overtaking him. Mouth dry, heart thudding, he fought frightening weakness. Pull yourself together! he admonished himself sternly. Michael could be hurt. He wouldn’t let on, if he could help it. Shape up! Marvin’s likely in the throes of shock. Well, he’ll keep. Wait for Michael. Why that impact didn’t rupture his suit, I’ll never know. By all the Powers, we had a close call today. Brace up, now. They’re alive! Having floated to the axis, Conrad tethered himself to the openwork next to Leonard, who hung once again suspended in his seat-sling beside the winch. The younger man had raised the platform, and repositioned it above the end of the strut. Staring through his comrade’s faceplate, Conrad saw the face behind it to be ice-white. Laying a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, he asked, “Are you all right?” “I’m fine. But…I thought…” “So did we, but everything’s all right now. Here, fasten this.” As Leonard lowered the platform, Conrad played out the safety line secured to the axis. Having been assured that the two accident-victims below were ready, both men watched the platform slowly ascend. Conrad floated into the platform as Nigel vacated it, and fastened a maneuvering unit around the Captain. Having detached his safety sling, Michael opened the gate in the platform’s railing, and prepared to emerge. “Are you able to maneuver?” Conrad demanded. “Yes, I’m able! Nigel, lead off. You two follow. We’ll all quit outside for today.” Floating freely before the pressure-proof door of the upper lock, Justin watched the panel indicate the closing of the outer door and the reentry of the air. The inner door opened, and the occupants floated out of the lock. Anxiously, the medical technician scanned all four faces, noting Leonard’s pallor even as he urged Michael into the elevator.

Strapping himself against the wall opposite Justin, Michael braced for the unpleasant sensations. When the door slid open, Justin offered the Captain an arm, which the battered spacer took. Stepping into the corridor to behold Marvin, Michael stood unsteadily while the medical technician unlatched his helmet and gloves. Once freed of the helmet, he whispered, “Marvin…what you did…I owe you…” Justin cut him off. “Thank Marvin later. He understands.” Deftly, the technician helped his patient out of the suit, and pointed to the stretcher reposing on the deck. “Lie down,” he ordered. Outraged, Michael declared heatedly, “Justin, I’m damned well able to walk to Eleven!” “Sure you are. You stand prepared to draw on your last reserve of strength and will to save your pride, and add to your already profound exhaustion. So tomorrow, when someone else’s life hangs on your skill and your strength, your strength will prove impaired by the last unnecessary drain you put on it today.” Unflinchingly, Justin met the black frown leveled at him, his eyes boring straight into those of the objector. A full second passed before Michael nodded. “All right, you scored a point. At least let me get dressed.” “Lie down now, just the way you are! I’ll cover you! You’re going to bed!” Unable to muster strength enough to resist that peremptory command, Michael gave in. Suddenly certain that he could not have walked the kilometer and a half to Eleven, he dropped heavily onto the stretcher. Having spread a folded bedcover over his charge’s nude body, the technician nodded to Marvin, who picked up the rear bars. Lifting smoothly, the two bearers strode off down the corridor. The door of the elevator opened, disgorging Nigel and Conrad. The

latter swiftly removed his own helmet and gloves, and then reached for Nigel’s. Without bothering to shed his own suit, Conrad assisted Nigel to remove his. “Sit down on that bench, and rest,” Conrad ordered. “Until I climb out of my suit.” The man thus adjured sank wearily onto the bench, his iron physique for once plainly testifying to an overwhelming exhaustion. Lines etched into the copper-hued face seemed to the worried viewer to have deepened. Strands of dark hair lay plastered against the high forehead, damp with perspiration despite the intricate, air-cooled ventilating system that had operated in the suit. Slumping against the wall, Nigel watched the other man pull on his uniform. Picking up his comrade’s garments, Conrad laid them on the bench. “Sit tight, Nigel,” he urged. “Relax, while I get you a drink of water.” Returning with three glasses of water held in two hands, the engineer handed Nigel one, which the recipient drained in a single long swallow. Reaching for a second, Nigel gulped the whole of that. “I think I’ll revive, now,” he declared. “Give that other to Leonard.” The door opened, and the youthful spacer emerged. Having helped the newcomer out of his suit, Conrad offered him the glass, which he emptied. Seating himself next to Nigel on the bench, Leonard laid an arm over the Lieutenant’s bare shoulders. “Every damned one of us rests in debt to you for what you did today, Nigel,” he declared vehemently. “In Marvin’s, too—I realize that—but right now Michael would be dying slowly of thirst, alone in the void, but for you.” Turning an inscrutable face on his youngest comrade, whose classic features bore signs of lingering emotional trauma, Nigel smiled wryly. “Sheer luck is all that enabled me to gain a hold,” he averred. “It’s over, Leonard. I’m glad that you kept your head, and didn’t try maneuvering to

the rim. Let’s get dressed, hm?” Having turned the fields of the hull back on at Conrad’s assurance that all were inside, Cleo sat back, emotionally drained. It’s over, she reflected numbly. They’re all safe. Michael is. Thanks to Nigel. And Marvin. Oh, my heart. I’m still shaking. I’ve got to pull myself together, and fix them a meal. It’s 1542, and no one has eaten since breakfast! Hastening into the dining hall, the Gaean met Justin and Marvin, who bore Michael’s unmoving form on the stretcher. Catching sight of the woman’s suddenly ashen face, the older man hastened to explain, “He’s just exhausted, Cleo. Bruised. Not hurt.” On seeing his words produce visible relief, he turned into the infirmary. “Let it down, Marvin. Good. Now give me a hand.” Before Michael could heave his sore, rapidly stiffening body to a sitting position, two pairs of arms lifted him effortlessly into the bed. Catching hold of Marvin’s hand, Michael gripped it. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate what an astounding feat you pulled off!” His face lighting with his transfiguring smile, the rescuer returned the pressure. “I know you do. You don’t need to say a word. Now, rest up.” Giving place to Justin, he asked, “Can I get him a drink?” “Fetch a glass of high-energy concentrate.” Surveying Michael’s broad back, upon which he beheld reddened blotches fast darkening into purple bruises, Justin frowned. “Any abdominal pain?” he asked, his fingers palpating certain areas. “There?” “No. My back hurts, is all. I hit a solar panel.” “Lie still. I’m going to push the bed over to the monitor. Just relax.” “Justin, I’m all right, damn it! Tired, is all.” “Hush. Talking will interfere.” Deftly, the technician satisfied himself that his patient had sustained no internal injury. “It’s a wonder you didn’t rupture your spleen, or damage

your liver or kidneys,” he muttered as he raised Michael to a sitting position, and handed him a cup of water. Eagerly, the recipient gulped the draught that failed fully to slake the thirst tormenting him. When Marvin returned bearing a tall glass of thick brown liquid, Justin intercepted him. Standing with his back to the occupant of the bed, he dropped the powdery contents of a small packet into the drink, and stirred the dark beverage with a bent glass tube. Turning, he thrust the glass on the man whose thirst he rightly judged to be unslaked. “Down this,” he ordered. Oblivious of Justin’s intent, Michael drained the sweetish drink. Grimacing, he growled, “A cup of coffee’s wha…” Collapsing onto the bed, the patient slid abruptly into unconsciousness. Smiling a shade grimly, the care-giver took a small glass jar of pungent salve from the bowl of hot water in which he had set the jar to warm it, and began working the oily cream gently but thoroughly into the bruised areas. Hearing voices, Cleo emerged from the food-chemistry laboratory to see Nigel walk through the door to the dining hall, followed by Leonard and Conrad. Running to the lithe athlete exhibiting unmistakable signs of exhaustion, Cleo threw her arms around him. Her eyes brimming with gratitude, she cried, “Nigel, Michael owes you his life, and every one of us owes you an incredible debt!” Arms of steel enfolded her. Gazing down into the emotion-charged face of the woman he loved, Nigel murmured, “Pure luck, my being able to grab him. Enough said, Cleo. Let’s put the incident behind us, hm?” Burying her face in his chest, she hugged him fiercely. Gently, he stroked her hair, before holding her away. Smiling, he coaxed, “How about brewing three thirsty spacers a pot of coffee?”

“I’ve got two pots ready! And dinner. Or lunch, I guess it is. Sit down, and I’ll bring it out to you.” “Marvelous!” On seeing Marvin emerge from the infirmary, Nigel strode forward to greet the rescuer, his hand outstretched. Exerting a crushing grip on the hand he pulled forward as his other arm encircled the programmer’s shoulders, he exclaimed in a voice tremulous with emotion he uncharacteristically made no attempt to hide, “What a flawless performance that was! Superb. We both owe you our lives. I’m now doubly in debt to you!” Flushing, the introvert returned the forceful grip while meeting the rescuee’s eyes squarely. “I didn’t have time to think of how risky a decision that was, Nigel, or I might not have managed so well. I’m just glad it worked!” “I won’t forget what I owe you, Marvin.” Each comrade being profoundly moved, the pair embraced for a few seconds. The younger man urged huskily, “It’s behind us, Nigel. Let’s grab a cup of coffee.” Stepping in as if on cue with a tray laden with steaming pot and hot dinners, Cleo urged, “Sit down and dig in. You all must be starved!” Hovering over five men attacking hot, pre-packaged meals with gusto, Cleo filled and refilled coffee cups. Glancing up, Justin issued a flat command. “Set that pot down right here, girl, and eat your dinner. You look as if you’d been blown out through a bolt-hole!” Chuckling, Conrad observed, “You look good to me, woman.” “I expect all of us look a bit the worse for wear,” Nigel remarked, directing an ironic smile at the Gaean as she sat down next to him holding a steaming plate. “But you’re as restful an eyeful as the table boasts, Cleo.”

“My word! What gallantry! And after that scary ride over sheer nothingness!” “Strange, how the combination of forces produced by complex motions, coupled with an unusual perspective, makes one feel that he’s poised over an abyss while threatened with destruction from above. Especially when floating free in a maneuvering unit seems enjoyable,” Nigel mused, frowning in puzzlement. “I wondered that, myself,” Marvin admitted. “I looked down towards Eleven once, while I strung the remotes, and got the most ghastly feeling when the converging lines of the strut fooled my spatial sense.” Leonard, who had maintained an unusual silence through the meal, commented, “The first time I looked down the length of that puny tether from my seat-sling, towards the rim below, I knew how it must have felt to stand on the edge of a cliff on Old Earth.” “After hanging off the end of that damned strut knowing that it was anchored, I can imagine what riding it as it moved up past the rim must have felt like,” Conrad declared feelingly. “The experience generated a most humbling sense of my utter insignificance, as measured against the vastness of the station, let alone the sweep of the galaxy,” Nigel admitted. “Perspective,” Cleo mused aloud. “Even in a scene drawn by a stylus on a datapad, it fools your eye. And what you saw in your helmet, Marvin— the view you watched as you caused the strut to move—seemed as threedimensional as this cabin, didn’t it?” “It did. It became my reality.” “Imagine the perspective in a drawing blown up to fill your field of vision…the lines limned in gleaming silver against the blackness of the void…the whole daunting length of that strut towering straight upwards from where you cling to its bottom end…and then rising…tugged by that

monstrous pillar trailing your impotent self…feeling it tip over as you cling to it…” Nigel’s sibilant voice trailed off, as he failed to find words adequate to convey what he had witnessed. “It must compare to standing on a walkway of flat artificial stone in a city of Old Earth…at night…and gazing up at one of those towering tall buildings. Skyscrapers, they called those, in their fanciful way…” Cleo’s voice grew vibrant with awe. “But to have it suddenly ascend, pulling you with it! How frightening!” Staring in puzzlement at the Gaean, Conrad exclaimed, “Skyscrapers! What a great way to put it! Where did you dig out that expression? I’ve never heard it before.” “I…read Rollin some rhymes. It turned out that the poems described games played on those walkways. Sidewalks, they were called. There was one on each side of the street…the corridor…between the buildings. Rollin asked how tall the buildings grew, so we looked it up. Five or six of the sort called skyscrapers—now that I recall—were almost two-thirds as tall as the strut is long.” “Imagine that!” Marvin exhorted, fascinated. “To stand looking up the sides of those! They’d seem to lean together, above you…seem to threaten to topple!” “I can’t visualize a municipal unit built on that scale—one boasting such an awesome upward dimension,” Nigel confessed, shaking his head. “Nor can I!” Conrad and Cleo exclaimed in unison. Seated opposite the Gaean, Justin reflected sadly, That’s the first time Cleo has ever mentioned the son she lost, in casual conversation. That stillraw wound is slowly healing, though she’ll always carry the scar. Thank the Powers she’s not coping tonight with another loss, and that Leonard isn’t. Talk about impotence! He must have floated for what seemed an eternity, helpless to do anything but wait for ultimate disaster. He fought the effects

of shock. I could see the signs. If Marvin hadn’t issued that stern order, we might have lost Leonard. The lad cares deeply for Michael. For all of us! Well…I couldn’t care more deeply for Leonard if he were the son I’ll never sire. Hell of a price we pay for the dubious privilege of living a life so fraught with danger. I wonder why it generates so potent an appeal. Spacer. Strange, how a ship’s couch under you—the panoramic view of the stars sweeping across the screen—makes a man feel free as the mythical bird. Space-struck adventurer—at your age! You debated quitting the Corps, the last time your enlistment ran out, but if you had, you’d never have known Cleo. You’d never have found this marvelous late love greater than any you’ve ever known. Wonderful, that happiness, even if it can’t last. And if you had never met Cleo, you’d never have grown as close as you have to these men you thought you knew so well. Family. Leonard said it. We damned near lost two-sevenths of it today. Unconsciously, the technician breathed a sigh of profound relief. Better check on Michael. He’ll get twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep, which should help the healing process. Won’t he be pissed, when he realizes that I slipped him a dose of sleep inducer? Not that he wouldn’t have slept, but I’ve seen him set that damned inner clock of his, to wake four or five hours after a traumatic experience guaranteed to have prostrated any other man. Well, he won’t tonight. His nerves are fraying. The strain’s getting to him. Understandable, that, but dangerous. Well. You’ll likely land in the head, tomorrow. Up to your chin in shit. I fervently hope that the soothing effect of his peaceful sleep tones down his fury when he realizes that I knocked him out. Good thing it’s Leonard’s night with Cleo. She’ll no doubt smooth away the lingering effects of that lonely, helpless vigil the lad kept with such quiet courage, today. She bore up damned well herself. Cried, afterwards, it looked like. Those tears

provided relief she desperately needed. At the end of the meal no one hastened to finish, Nigel rose, and gathered all eyes. “Gentlemen—Cleo—it’s almost 1700. Conrad, you and Marvin can work on whatever you need to get ready for tomorrow. Justin, you and Leonard hook up the pressure sensors in the wall we didn’t complete. Cleo, after you finish in the lab, check the photosynthetic tanks, which neither of us has looked at lately. I’ll be working on the rollers, if anyone needs me.” As five people rose, Nigel beckoned to the medical technician, who followed the Lieutenant into the bridge. “Justin, did Michael suffer any internal injury?” “Amazingly, no. He’s badly bruised, and exhausted. He suffered mild shock, but nothing drastic, considering.” “Hm. Tough as spring-steel, he is. He’ll likely wake in a few hours, and insist on going out again.” “No way will he wake, until 0300 at the earliest.” The ugly face creased into a grin. “You made certain of that, hm? Good thinking. The rest will do wonders for his physical well-being, if not for his tranquility. Well, your assurance that he isn’t injured relieves my mind.” “Nigel, you’ll be stiff and sore tomorrow. A dangerous loss of your athletic edge, that might prove. You’d better let me rub you down with my muscle-relaxant salve.” “Ugh. Dismal thought, but prudent, I agree. All right, just before I retire.” Impulsively, Justin laid a hand on the second officer’s shoulder. “Nigel, we owe you, for what you did today. All of us.” “You owe Marvin, Justin. Now, let’s get to work, hm?” Bestowing on the medical technician a smile more than ordinarily ironic, Nigel strode out. Frowning thoughtfully, Justin stood staring after the departing figure

for a few seconds, before entering the infirmary where Michael sprawled prone, snoring audibly. Dream sweet dreams, Justin bade the sleeper. Store up tranquility, spacer-captain. Smiling wryly, he strode out to face the onerous job awaiting him. Employing tongs, Cleo lifted the containers, flatware and cups out of the steaming rinse, stacked the dripping articles in a wire drainer, washed the coffee pots, and wiped off the work area. Hastening into the dining hall, she lifted the cover of the hatch, and descended to spend forty-five minutes checking the monitoring equipment on all three tanks, noting the satisfying manner in which the transplants had taken hold. The strawberry crown’s got three flowers on it, she exulted. I see where things need work…but not tonight. I’m wiped. Drained. Leonard…so pale, at supper. What happened scared him as badly as it did me. And what Nigel did! He absolutely refused to cast Michael off, to save himself! Out of pride? At times…back in Columbia…he came…what did Michael say? Perilously close to challenging his captain…killing him…more than once. No one could have blamed Nigel if he had let go after Michael ordered him to do so. I don’t imagine that the others could lift, with both officers dead. And…if Nigel’s still bitterly jealous, underneath…what a temptation! Or would it have been? Perhaps just the opposite. Quite possibly, Nigel would purely hate to have the others suspect that he abandoned his captain to a hideous death out of jealousy. No. Nigel would have no compunction regarding killing Michael in a duel. He may yet! His code and theirs permits that. But I suppose it prohibits doing less than one’s all to save an endangered shipmate. Cruel, Nigel can be…but he lives by a stern code. Or…could it be that a change of heart paralleled the astonishing

change in his behavior? Deeply as I’ve grown to love him, I somehow doubt that. Nigel didn’t seem to want to be thanked. It seemed as if he felt he were being praised for something he didn’t really do. And yet, there was no shade of hesitancy—of calculation—in what he said—so vehemently!—while hanging so precariously. And come to think of it, no one could have blamed him if he didn’t catch hold of Michael in the first place. They wouldn’t have known that any chance had offered, of his saving the man all knew to have hit some projection on Ten. No blame would have attached in the least to Nigel if he didn’t grab Michael and hang on. Did he simply reach out instinctively? And then have to make a reasoned choice? I wonder if I’ll ever understand him. Somehow, I doubt that, too, but oh, I’m glad he grabbed hold, and refused to let go! Leonard’s slim figure filled the doorway. Leaping to her feet, the Gaean threw her arms around him, and hugged him fiercely. When her grip slackened, he spoke, his voice husky with the lingering effects of emotional trauma. “Cleo, I won’t be any good to you, tonight. Will you mind if I don’t make love to you?” “Of course I won’t mind! Let me help you out of your uniform. Just fall into bed, and relax. There. Now sit down, and I’ll pull off your boots.” Having done that service despite Leonard’s muffled protest, his partner for the night slipped into bed next to him. Pulling her close, he murmured in her ear. “Cleo…I know that you felt the same way I did, today…endured the same awful fear…but I watched them fall…below me…with me there…helpless. I saw Michael hit. If he had gotten launched away at that velocity, he’d have died slowly…horribly. Or killed himself, if he could get a glove off. Where I was…floating alone in the middle of that damned swarm of micrometeoroids that must have triggered that outfit to cut the cable…I couldn’t think of much else, except what it

would be like to go out like that. I’d hate the thought of an enemy’s dying that way! But I owe Michael so much…like him so well… “I tried to keep hold of myself. When I watched the strut move, I thought, Marvin will save them. But when I saw that kilometer-long mass of rigid metal move out…swing in an arc, on the other side of the axis from me…I got a hell of a view…I thought, He can’t do it. He’ll kill them both. Even creeping along, if that huge mass struck them, the momentum would blow their suits, and smash them both into jelly. “He moved that thing out past the rim. Do you know what that meant? He had it programmed for inside…to move as if it were part of the station. Out beyond the point where he’d moved it the first time…he guessed, Cleo. Compensated for a greater linear velocity…for Coriolis drift. He flew it by the seat of his pants…by feel. Or…maybe a man blessed with Marvin’s brains could calculate fast enough to figure how much force he needed. Whatever…he kept that monstrous thing under control. “All I could think was, dying spaced is a better way to go than dying slowly, but Nigel will die too, out of stubborn pride. He wouldn’t let go of a comrade, despite knowing that he could have climbed the cable. “Nigel could have. I’m not sure whether I could have, but Nigel’s stronger than any man I’ve ever known. I watched with my gut tied in knots. I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw those two tiny silver dots move onto the end of that damned thing…and then watched Nigel climb it. “Nigel saved the cable, Cleo. In that moment…that ghastly situation…he calmly announced that he’d fix things, and made a thirty meter climb under g-force a third greater than normal, while packing that tank. I still can’t believe what he did! I can’t believe what Marvin did! I’d given Michael and Nigel up for dead. And even when they were safely back in, my gut stayed kinked. I’m still as uptight as I think I’ve ever been. My damned

nerve’s playing out. Nigel’s never did! Cleo…” A hoarse sob broke from the man. Cleo held him fiercely, stroking his back, and whispering disjointed, soothing phrases of which the tone helped more than the meaning. Determined not to give way to tears, Leonard forced them back, his eyes and throat burning. Stubbornly, he refused to allow himself to gain the release of a physical reaction he viewed as unmanly weakness, no matter whatever frightful stress provoked it. He nonetheless clung to Cleo, holding her in a clasp rendered crushing by the intensity of his emotion, while he fought to control himself. At length, the distraught youth mastered his inner turmoil, and relaxed his grip on the woman he loved. The tension his regaining his poise failed to lessen nonetheless persisted. “Leonard,” his confidante whispered, “A good long rest is what you need. Turn over on your stomach. I’m going to massage your back, to relax you. Don’t turn back over, or thank me. Just slip off into sleep. Hear?” Without waiting for an answer, Cleo sat up, even as Leonard rolled over to lie prone. Seating herself astride his narrow hips, she used all she had learned from Nigel, and practiced on Michael, to knead the tension out of cramped musculature. For all that Leonard’s so slender, his muscles are as hard as Michael’s, almost, she marveled. Diligently, she worked, starting on his neck, and moving out over his shoulders. Kneading, probing, she rejoiced as cramped muscles relaxed. At length, her hands tired. Grimly, she ignored their protests. Exerting a wealth of effort, she manipulated the muscles of her companion’s upper arms, returned to his shoulders, and descended his spinal column. Sliding off, she massaged the calves of his legs, as Nigel had done for

her. The recipient of her ministrations lay unmoving, silent. Her fingers numb with fatigue, she desisted. Sitting back, she listened to his regular breathing. Gingerly, she reclined beside him, and pulled the bedcover over them both. Leonard never stirred. Cleo’s mind raced as she reflected on the anguished confidences the man had made. I was so worried about the others, I never gave a thought to Leonard’s being an eyewitness, she chided herself. While he drifted, all alone, he saw tragedy unfold. Justin’s grip on her arm rose to mind. At least I wasn’t alone, she reflected. A most unsettling thought struck her. I dreamed that something awful happened, and it did…almost. How strange! Coincidence, that was: no malignant force. The chance of Michael’s getting hurt exceeded that of the others, but how strange! Is chance…Fate…satisfied, now? The worst part lies ahead of them. Oh, my stressed-out heart. Don’t let there be any more accidents. Please! Max…you almost met two men I’ve grown to love, today. Would you have known? Oh, Max, I miss you. I miss Rollin. I talked about him, tonight. I was able to do that. Rollin’s with you…so he’s happy. And with me…in my heart, and mind…for as long as I live. Leonard moved slightly in his sleep. Snuggling against him, Cleo welcomed the memory of her son into the forefront of her mind as she sank into a welcome unconsciousness.

WEEK SEVEN: THURSDAY Coming groggily to his senses at 0246, Michael rolled over, conscious of dull pain in his shoulder and right arm. The memory of his fall returned to send shudders coursing through him. You damned nearly bought it today, he conceded. As his eyes rested on the digital dial of the clock, they widened in disbelief. What in the hell! It can’t be morning! I’d never have… But I did. Fighting a most aggravating lassitude, he managed to sit up. Giddiness assailed him. Growling an anathema, he let his feet drop to the deck, but remained seated as a stab of more intense pain shot down his right arm and side, and across his shoulder. Frowning blackly, he reviewed all that had happened. A lingering, bitter taste in his mouth first annoyed, and then enlightened him. By all the Powers, Justin shot me with sleep inducer! Stretching out both arms, the outraged officer scanned them. No puncture. Michael turned them over. None! Then why…how… He doctored that drink Marvin got me! Slipped me a knockout dose! Of all the unmitigated gall! Fury succeeded outrage. I’ll break him of ever entertaining the notion of trying that on me again! Rising abruptly to his feet, Michael reached for his uniform, which Conrad had thoughtfully brought from Central and laid over the chair facing

the terminal. I’ll… Pain racked the victim of the accident. Swaying, he leaned heavily on a counter. Pull yourself together! he ordered his alter self. That arm damned nearly tore out of its socket when we did those fancy gyrations as the cable lost its slack. It’s a wonder the ring held. I’ll wager Nigel’s arms hurt like bloody hell today. With painful slowness, the survivor pulled on his pants. I need to take a piss, he growled silently. Grabbing his tunic, the Captain made his way across the dining hall/barrack to the bathcabin, and satisfied his need. I’ll bet my back’s black, he surmised glumly. Picking up Conrad’s hand mirror, he held it so as to view the reflection of his back from the mirror. The bruises are all but faded out, he noted in surprise. Justin must have done something to cause that. Damn his nerve! How dare he! Thrusting his arms into his tunic, he fastened it. Pressing his face into the shaving cabinet, he rid himself of a faint shadow of beard, washed, and combed his hair. The brief activity of walking and dressing served to limber his muscles. I don’t feel all that bad, considering, he acknowledged, weighing how he felt against his consciousness of the formidable challenges facing him. I feel rested. Well, you ought to feel rested! It’s time you dealt with Justin’s damned cheek! His eyes icy, the Captain strode purposefully into the dining hall. Four men sprawled inertly on the bunks. Justin lay on his back, asleep, but his seamed brown face seemed haunted by fear, in the perception of the irate beholder. The sleeper moved, and muttered, obviously in the throes of a dream. “He’s going to hit…” the angry beholder heard clearly. About to shake the offender rudely awake, Michael found himself hesitating. He’s reliving my fall. It shook him that badly! The poor bastard did what he thought he ought. New reflections tempered potent anger, but

failed to prevail against its force. What in hell has come over you? he castigated himself. Of all the brazen impudence! The object of black wrath tossed restlessly. Opening his eyes, he beheld his superior glaring down at him. Oh, shit, Justin groaned inwardly. He couldn’t even wait till I rose at 0320! Sitting up, he met Michael’s glacial blue eyes unflinchingly. “Get dressed, and present yourself with no further delay in the infirmary,” the Captain ordered curtly. Turning on his heel, he stalked back to the cabin he regarded more as his domain than Justin’s. Sighing, the culprit rose and dressed. I’m going to take a piss whether he fumes at the delay or not, he decided. I doubt if he can get any angrier. Seating himself behind the worktable that projected at right angles from the wall, Michael glared at the door, even as other considerations again surfaced to contend with his ire. You know damned well that Justin’s a conscientious bastard, he admitted dourly. He must have realized that you’d be furious, but he knocked you out anyway. Or did he think you wouldn’t tumble? Hell, no. He knows better. So why…? He felt that you needed sleep. Knew you’d refuse to down a dose. Took it on himself—with cool effrontery—to knock you out! Justin walked in, his shoulders straight, his head high, his face calm, and met his irate superior’s gimlet eyes squarely. Michael stated levelly, “You slipped me a powder, last night, without asking my consent, which I was fully able to give. You exceeded the authority deriving from your being a medic. I’m docking you two weeks’ salary for that presumptuous act which you’d better never attempt to repeat. However, in view of the manner in which you’ve worked this last seven weeks, under extraordinarily difficult conditions, I’m refraining from logging a formal reprimand. You’ll sign the fine over as a contribution to the

Corps’ fund to aid disabled veterans, when we return. So. Comments?” The man expecting far harsher punishment replied evenly, “The fine’s fair. I appreciate your handling the matter that way. But presumptuous or not, I carried out what I conceived to be my duty, while knowing that you’d likely regard my action the way you did. My oath as a medic will continue to take precedence in my mind over an officer’s order interfering with my care of a patient.” “Of all the crust! Justin, you need a refresher course in logic!” Verging on barking out his intent to inflict an additional, far more severe punishment, Michael mastered a new access of virulent rage. Of a sudden, the bulk of his anger dissolved in a rush of reluctant but profound admiration for the subordinate meeting his eyes with fearless yet respectful determination. “I take that to mean that you’d do it again today, if the need arises. Ask my permission, Justin. On reflection, I think I might even give it to you. But ask!” The conscientious professional replied with perfect honesty, “I’ll go so far as to try that first, if I find myself in similar circumstances.” “Suffering shades of lost spacers, you’re inviting severe disciplinary consequences for any subsequent infraction, by declaring your intent in advance!” Michael snapped. The anger that flared anew for a few seconds likewise died. “You had better hope that I manage to stay glued to whatever I’m hanging off, today.” Having barked that ominous warning, he rasped, “You’re dismissed.” Walking back out into the dining hall at 0312, the offender heaved a sigh of profound relief. That long sleep did do something for Michael’s tranquility, he decided. The fine will leave me eating scantily over my next long leave, and sleeping in some low-class dive near the locks after the automatic transfer goes into my retirement account, but I can face that prospect far easier than I could

four weeks of punishment drill during recreation time, or a flaming logged reprimand for insubordination. I strongly suspect that he came damned near to imposing both.

Well,

if I face the same choice again, I’ll do exactly what I did last night. He looks fit enough to go out and do what he’d have risked attempting while still exhausted. He’s his old self, this morning. The spring suddenly returned to Justin’s step as he strode into his laboratory to prepare breakfast. Cleo awoke at 0320. Propping herself on an elbow, she gazed down at the man lying prone, his arms wrapped around a pillow. My shivering soul, Leonard looks as if he never moved all night, she fretted. I hope he’s rested. Should I wake him? Avoid a last minute rush? Or… You made a resolve, yesterday. No more scurrying madly! Settling herself on top of her bedmate’s torso, Cleo kissed him on the shoulder. He gave a start, before twisting out from under her, and drawing her mouth to his. “Mmmm…nice way to wake up,” he murmured, after a long, intimate kiss. “And that was a super way you put me to sleep! I’ve never been able to afford the luxury of a visit to a masseur, so I got a lesson last night after all. Cleo, you’re easy on a man’s mind, especially when his mind’s upset. Are you up to letting me make you what return I can, now?” “I have to admit that I woke you with that thought running through my mind!” Exerting himself to make her a memorable return, Leonard ignored the marching minutes. Lying breathlessly fulfilled a considerable time later, Cleo glanced languidly at the clock. Oh, my perishing soul, that took longer than Conrad’s quickie. “Leonard! Look at the time!” Rising with precipitate haste, the Gaean fled to the miraculously empty bathcabin.

After Justin’s departure, Michael sat frowning blackly. You’re going soft, spacer-captain, he chided himself scathingly. You let him off with a slap on the wrist. You should have… But… Hell and damnation, it wasn’t as if he had defied you to your face last night, or intended to do you harm! He thought he was doing you good. He did do you good, damn it! What in the everlasting final freeze would you have accomplished if you stormed out of here at 2000, right when everyone was hitting the sheets? You’re lucky you’ve got him. Admit the truth: you admire his nerve. Well! Conrad climbed out of his bunk at 0320, muttering colorful obscenities under his breath. Emerging from the bathcabin at 0330, he joined Justin in the food-chemistry laboratory. At 0325, Nigel rolled over, cast a venomous glance at the clock, and heaved himself heavily out of bed. Standing stark naked, he stretched, grunted, and headed in that state for the bathcabin, where his uniform reposed in the adjuster. Given that the open door constituted an agreedupon signal by his comrades that Cleo was not the facility’s occupant, the Lieutenant strode in just as Conrad made his exit. Having relieved the need that woke him early, Nigel washed, and thrust his ugly face into the shaving cabinet despite his cognizance that he grew scarcely any beard. Muttering a curse, he shrugged into his tunic, and ran a pocket comb through tousled dark hair. Stretching once again, he flexed the muscles of his arms, frowning grimly. Marvin stepped through the door in time to observe that final action. “I’ll bet you’re sore,” he commiserated softly. That observation produced a wry smile. “But alive, hm? Thanks to you.” Clapping the newcomer heartily on the shoulder, the officer departed, leaving his crewmate warmed by words and gesture. Arriving at the infirmary, Nigel knocked on the door. At Michael’s crisp

“Come in!” the caller entered to find the Captain fully dressed, and seated at his worktable. Rising, Michael walked around to face his rescuer, his hand outstretched. “Nigel, I owe you my life,” he stated levelly. “If you hadn’t grabbed me, and hung on, I’d have bought it.” Even as Nigel gripped the hand, he flashed an ironic smile on the man extending it. “It’s not me you owe, Michael,” he protested softly. “And if you hadn’t wielded that tank of gas so effectively, both of us would have died smashed on the hull of Eight. Let’s say no more about the incident, hm? I came in concerned about today’s problems.” “I’m well aware of what we both owe Marvin, but I won’t forget what you did.” “Feel up to going out, today?” “Certainly I feel up to going out! You’re the one who ought to be sore!” “Having submitted my reluctant flesh to Justin’s treatment for muscular aches, I stand rejuvenated. Arms, legs, back—all limbered. Sinuses reamed out, olfactory nerves deadened. Ready for any challenge, chief. I’ve amended the schedule, in the light of our not finishing the allotted tasks yesterday. Shall I elaborate?” His granite face creasing into a grin, Michael nodded. “I thought I noticed a telltale whiff. Put in a busy night, last night, Justin did.” That latter observation dripped sarcasm, a circumstance nowise lost on the hearer. “Pull up a chair, and let’s hear the revisions you’ve made.” Nigel returned the grin, but made no reference to the medical technician’s treatment of his patient’s exhaustion. Seating himself opposite the Captain, he complied with the directive. “I suggest that we first see what Marvin thinks happened to the cutter, and locate it. If it isn’t lost, it’s attached to the end of the cable streaming

from the axis. I suspect that the dust swarm somehow touched off the outfit. “If Marvin feels that we can re-use the one that did, after all, function superlatively well, if prematurely, Leonard, Justin and Conrad will suit up, with our help. Conrad and Justin will each climb down one half of the strut, trailing a long line of refilled tanks, which they’ll tether to the axis and let drift alongside the strut. They’ll exchange full tanks for empty, in case Marvin hooks the strut with a loop of tether as he flies those. Leonard will position the elevator above an end of the strut, and let out the safety line. He’ll lift Justin and Conrad when they finish. “Marvin and Cleo will man Eleven’s board. You and I will save our strength for the harder tasks. Conrad and Justin will come in, and Leonard can rest in his sling. You and I will suit up with Justin’s and Conrad’s help. You can lower me to attach the coupler to the cut end and couple to the winch, with Leonard to help me. Then Leonard can lower you and me down the second cable. “The schedule will remain the same from then on, although I might not get around to installing the rollers until tomorrow. I expect that while Justin and Conrad are out, I can finish building those. One other notion strikes me. It might be wise to inspect the cable that wrapped around Ten, don’t you think?” “I do think. The possibility exists that it could have abraded, but there won’t be any acute tension on it, nor will it be holding the strut in place until just before launch. So rather than risk one more chancy descent before we know whether the rest of the gear gets rigged with no disaster’s striking, we’ll leave that inspection of the cable till last. If it looks frayed, we’ll have to utilize the spliced one, or steal a different one.” “Well, then. When we equip the second cable, chief, let’s attach the cutter when we’re on our way back up, with our slings above the damned

thing.” “If I had been using my head, that’s what we’d have done first time round. Hindsight’s wonderful! I guess I find it all too easy to assume that Marvin’s creations are fail-proof. And speaking of that, we had better replace the tank on the part of the fail-sequence gear you robbed, as well, on the slim chance that we might suffer an unanticipated disaster.” “I figured on their doing that, never fear. Well, the wreck puts us a bit behind schedule, but we’re in no spectacular hurry, hm?” “We have time in abundance. Are you sure your arms feel up to coupling that cable?” “If I weren’t, chief, I’d say so. It might be better if you coupled the other end, with Leonard’s help, though, and satisfy yourself without seeming to run an inspection, of the quality of the job they did on welding and bracing the winch and the mechanical couplers. If you’d trust my identical assessment on the other, that is.” Bestowing a conspiratorial grin on the man offering that suggestion, Michael observed, “You’re suddenly developing a remarkable sensitivity to factors affecting morale, Nigel. Yes, I’ll trust your assessment exactly as I would my own. I figured on running an inspection after the strut got coupled to both tethers.” That compliment produced a ruminative frown. “I’ve wondered, lately, whether the unusual circumstances prevailing through the last few weeks haven’t caused me to go soft, but on reflection, I think my four…no, five subordinates have voluntarily exceeded my most rigorous standards.” Shock surged through the Captain. By all the Powers, Nigel has changed, he marveled. I never thought I’d see the day… We’re both going soft! Or… No. We’ve adapted to subtle changes in our relations with this group of subordinates. I’m damned glad now that I delegated the task of setting

up the scheduling of the work to my second officer. Lieutenant’s responsibility, that chore, spacer-captain, but you considered usurping it. You weighed pissing Nigel off royally against keeping full control of the chanciest project you’ve ever attempted. Be glad you suppressed the temptation. You’ve given Nigel ownership in the venture. Better increase it, if an opportunity offers. Did he grab you with the simple notion of maintaining at peak level the others’ chances of lifting? He might well have thought along those lines. Jealousy notwithstanding, he respects your ability. Those reflections having flashed through Michael’s mind without producing any noticeable pause in the conversation, he laughed. “I’ve been wondering that about myself, but I concluded that neither of us went soft. I ascribe the change to our having exhibited a laudable flexibility: a premier ability to adapt to extraordinary circumstances. I’m profoundly impressed with the job you did on the life-support system, Nigel, and I count myself exceedingly fortunate to be able to draw on your unique talents now.” Michael’s tone as he voiced that utterly truthful declaration left the second officer in no doubt of his captain’s sincerity. The ugly face creased into a smile only faintly ironic. “I appreciate that commendation. Well, we’re late for breakfast. We’ll be wise to stoke up on calories, hm?” “Right.” Conscious of a more than ordinary sense of unity of purpose, the two officers walked out to make short work of heaping plates of rhubarb cobbler served with side dishes of spicy fishballs. Towards the end of the meal, Michael rose, and spoke. “Nigel, after breakfast, brief Justin and Conrad on the task you’ve assigned them. Leonard, you and I will haul the tanks you filled on Tuesday to the corridor in front of the elevator, and I’ll help you suit up. Nigel, after you and I get all three people suited, and their gear readied, I’ll see you and

Marvin in my office. “Cleo, you’ll be alone on the board in Eleven, for a time. Marvin, show her how to run the intercom from the board to my office. Call me, Cleo, if there’s the slightest hint of a problem.” Seated next to Marvin at her post, the Gaean listened intently as he instructed her how to run the intercommunication system. “These are the switches to Eleven’s cabins,” he explained. “This one lets what you say reach all of them simultaneously. Activating this other lets you hear the men suited, but you have to wear a pack to talk to them. Slip into this pack.” As he adjusted the straps, he asked, “Do you know how to activate the screens showing the outside?” “This panel. Justin showed me.” “Right. Turn it on, and the scanner. Don’t turn off the fields until someone gives you that order. Keep switching from screen to scanner. You’ll tire your eyes, otherwise.” “Justin coached me on that score, too. I’ve gotten used to watching both, and even to watching the same scene from two angles in two screens, though I find it hard to think of what I see ahead of me, as above me.” “You’ll develop spacer’s orientation. Gets to be second nature, making the mental adjustment. You’re required to make a new one when your couch assumes launch position, and the board’s above you.” “I wish I could train to become a spacer.” Impulsively putting words to a mental yearning harbored ever since she first sat this board, the prisoner of war voiced that sentiment in a whisper. “You’d learn easily, Cleo.” His face wreathed in his transfiguring smile, Marvin suggested, “Once we’re launched, perhaps Nigel would consider teaching you. He and Michael both.” Hardly likely, Cleo demurred silently. Michael would scarcely want to

log the fact that he trained the enemy who stranded them—that he taught such subjects to the Gaean who made this chancy venture necessary. It’s one thing to press a captive foe into menial labor. It’s quite another to give her a skill that conceivably could be used against Norman, if Signe’s force ever takes to interworld space. And if Signe drives Norman out, or kills him, she’d likely do that, if she could manage to capture a military ship or two when she defeats that rotten bastard. No, Michael wouldn’t go to that length, even though he loves me. Having seen the three suited men and their gear into the lock, the officers strode down the rim to Eleven, and collected Marvin from the bridge. Seating himself once more behind his worktable, Michael waited as the programmer pulled a chair loose from overhead, and sat down facing the Captain, who wasted no time in preliminaries. “Marvin, I assume that the meteoroid swarm activated your cutter. Will you need to construct a new one, or do you think that the one that functioned is still attached to the half floating from the axis?” The embarrassment producing a scarlet flush failed to prevent Marvin from meeting the Captain’s eyes squarely. “That dust somehow triggered the premature activation, Michael,” he agreed. “I find it hard to conclude that the impact of any of those grains caused it, though their combined force might conceivably have done so. I suspect instead that a nickel-iron grain penetrated to a sensitive area, and caused a short. I should have anticipated that remote possibility, and shielded the device better.” “Marvin, I’m not offering censure. Your device did work. All I’m concerned with now, is figuring out where it is, and ascertaining whether it can be reused.” “I appreciate your saying that, but I blame myself. When you attached it, did you clip that third fastener—the one made of woven metal

cable—above or below the cutter?” “Above, didn’t we, Nigel? I fastened it. And you told us to clip that cable below, Marvin, now that I think back.” “If you clipped it above, the device is on the end floating from the axis.” Chagrined, Michael growled, “Well, I accept full blame for that error, Marvin. Mine far outweighs yours.” “I stood alongside and watched you make it, chief, and never thought a thing about it,” Nigel candidly admitted. “I can fly the loose end to the axis, Michael, and one of you can attach the coupling that will join the two cut ends, and chain it to the frame of the axis after retrieving the cutter. Then I won’t have to fly the tether twice.” “We’ll do that. And we now know from bitter experience to make attaching the cutter the last thing we do, on our way up, with our slings clipped above it.” “I should have told you to do it that way. The major error’s still mine,” the nervous expert acknowledged in a tone husky with embarrassment. “Marvin, after that feat by which you rectified our combined mistakes, you’ve cleared the screen completely. We’ll take pains to cut this next cable properly.” “Next ship we build, we’ll know what we’re doing, hm?” Nigel drawled lazily. Laughing, Michael rose. “Well, gentlemen, let’s continue our apprenticeship. Nigel, while we’re waiting for the others to finish, I’ll give you a hand with the rollers.” Marvin returned to Eleven’s board to find Cleo sitting with her eyes glued to screen and scanner, listening to Conrad’s and Justin’s brief exchanges. “Any unusual tracks?” he inquired.

“No. One orange. The same density of green as on Monday and Tuesday.” “A dust swarm’s rather a rarity, too. Well, feel free to ask me, if you see anything unusual. Are they nearly finished out there?” “I think so. The man I can see is fairly close to the end.” Having switched on the screen before him, Marvin brought up his calculations. As Cleo monitored the scanner and watched the outside views, she wondered how it would feel to lie in launching position on a couch, and stare into the deeps ahead. I’ll never know, she acknowledged wistfully. I ought to be glad I’m out here doing this small chore that keeps me apprised of what’s going on. Shifting her gaze, she watched the stars sweep in a sidewise arc in the forward screen, and tried to imagine how they would appear if she were accelerating straight at them. Time flowed on. No more orange streaks appeared, let alone any red ones. At length, Cleo observed the elevator descend, pick up the tiny figure she now knew to be Justin, and slowly raise him to the axis. She watched as two silver forms nudged sack, elevator, and winch around the curve of the axis, and saw one float back around towards the lock, trailed by a line of silvery dots. Activating the intercom to the workspace, Cleo informed Michael that Justin had entered the lock. Michael departed, followed shortly by Nigel. A brief exchange between Leonard and Conrad informed Cleo that Conrad had arrived at the axis. At length, a second silvery figure stalked by a line of dots floated towards the lock, and vanished. Having glanced at the view outside, Marvin shut off his screen, arranged his controls, and donned his helmet. Cleo waited, her eyes riveted to the reassuring swirl of green. Justin’s voice issued from her pack. “Check your readings.”

Michael’s replied, “Ready.” Nigel demanded, “Float those tanks into the elevator, Conrad, and I’ll take them down.” “I will when I get unwound. Damn the slime-rotted sons of… Grab that end one. There.” Silence fell. Conrad’s question and Nigel’s reply testified to Nigel’s readiness. At length two silver figures floated into view, only to vanish behind the axis. Their voices reached Cleo’s straining ears. “I’ve fastened the quick link. Leonard, reel the elevator up all the way. That’s good. Marvin, we’re ready to descend the cable. Where do you want us to position ourselves while you move the other?” “I’ll fly the end to where the half’s still coupled. You three stay on the other side of the axis until I tell you to move. Don’t talk to me while I do it.” “Right.” Fascinated, but scarce daring to breathe, Cleo watched long, white fingers exert tiny forces. Straining to see the cable move in the screen, she caught a brief flash of greenish light, which vanished. Frozen into immobility, she all but ceased breathing. She gave a start when Marvin called out, “Michael! The end is hovering by the coupling. You two can grab the dangling end, now, but if any of you holding it feel the cable move—the least bit—let go, hear? Attach the coupling, and clamp that to the axis, before you detach the cutter.” “We hear you, Marvin,” Michael declared evenly. Three silvery figures floated into view. “I’ve grabbed it, Nigel. I’ll hold it. Watch your fingers!” “This’ll take a bit of time. Leonard, hand me…got it.” Time passed, punctuated by requests for tools. “There. Michael, can you…” “That should hold it.” Marvin urged, “Get back away from it, now, before I shut off the

remote! Well away! It’ll drop!” Three silver figures retreated. After pressing a finger, Marvin sat back, and let out a long breath. “All right, take the cutter off now. Michael, you’ll have to reset it, so that it will burn through on command. I’ll direct you, when you hold the device in your hand.” “I’ve got it.” Still wearing the helmet, Marvin issued concise instructions, which Michael followed as Nigel listened and observed. “Watch you don’t bump it on the way down!” Marvin cautioned hoarsely. “Just in case!” “I’ll treat it as if it were a liter of blasting gel.” Sliding the ascender clipped to the sling down the cable while carefully avoiding any glance downwards at the rim, Michael felt as if he stood poised on a large charge of blasting gel. The memory of his fall rose to daunt him. Stubbornly, it resisted his determined effort to banish it. Although his hands deftly placed tension on the fasteners for one end of the mount for a tank, allowing Nigel to secure the other end, on the screen of his mind he saw this cable’s twin crumple as it whipped his body into the void. Once again, he endured the ghastly sensation of plunging helplessly towards the rim. The familiar knot in his gut hardened into rigidity. You’ve got to get over this nervous dread of falling! he chided himself sternly. Hang on to the railing, and look below. Confront your fear. Master it! As the point on the cable where the cutter would be affixed approached, Michael ordered, “Leonard, stop us.” Having marked the exact center with a strip of cloth, he forced himself to grasp the railing, and look down. A wave of giddiness, of gut-wrenching fear, assailed him, rocked him, and passed. Frowning blackly, he stared at the rim, his mouth a thin slash in his rugged face. That’s better, he growled silently. Keep hold of yourself.

Exerting an iron will, he kept his gaze on the rim, and then deliberately focused on the stars sweeping past. Grimly, he withstood the queasy resurgence of fear. Turning his head, he frowned at the strut, hanging parallel to the cable, its massive winch a bare ten meters from him. It’s firmly held, he reassured himself. Motionless relative to you. You’ve got a grip on yourself, now. See that you keep it. “Leonard, let us down,” he commanded. Turning to find Nigel’s ironic glance fixed on him, Michael unconsciously jutted his chin, but the observer passed no comment. Picking up the remote device, the Captain ordered Leonard to stop. Both men turned their attention to the work at hand. His nerve-racking chore concluded, Marvin removed the helmet, sat back, and strove to relax his tense body. That wasn’t horrendously bad, he admitted. Easy to let something pliable droop, if I fail to concentrate on maintaining that tension. I need to keep my whole mind on that dual manipulation…keep each hand exerting force in opposite directions, plus other greater forces acting in unison at an angle of ninety degrees to the first. I’m getting better at this two-hands business, with practice. That session yesterday, under that frightful strain— with lives hanging on my least movement—gave me a crash course, all right. It’s a good thing I didn’t know in advance I’d have to do that. My nerves would have been shot before I started! I’ve got to stay in control of myself! The consequences of my making an error will be worse, later today, when those grabbing the end are on the strut, or the rim. I can’t let myself get flustered, and I simply mustn’t snap at anyone! I got a bit sharp with Michael, just now. Cleo’s right. When I get upset, I snarl at everyone around me, the way I did at Conrad. That egregious error luckily failed to lose me his friendship, but it might well have. I’ve come too far to throw away what I’ve

gained, now! A partner. That close call yesterday can’t have helped Michael’s nerves, although he seems less uptight today than I’d have expected. That won’t last. Tomorrow will be a fright. Saturday will be a nightmare. I had better put myself in Michael’s boots, and watch my mouth. A bad habit, Cleo described my failing. I’ve had it a long time, but I’ll keep working at trying to break it. A sigh escaped the man whose gut still cramped. Tonight will do wonders for my nerves, the man still troubled by social ineptitude comforted himself. I still find it hard to understand why Cleo cares for me, when she’s got the others, but I know she does. Marvelous lover, she called me. She meant every word. I’d have thought… She showed me more than I knew. I didn’t know a hell of a lot. Should I ask? No. Better not risk either offending her or embarrassing her, although, come to think of it, I’m the one who suffers worst from embarrassment. Cleo met my problem head-on, and discussed it frankly. She told me in plain Earth-Standard how to get round her injury. Do I dare ask her if she wants…variety? I’m not sure, but time’s getting short. Before I know it, we’ll be lifting—heading for home—and I’ll lose her to one of the others. Or might we all lose her? Would Galt… Surely Michael could… The Captain’s crisp voice issuing from the board jolted the pensive dreamer into concentrating on the present. “All right, Nigel, that’s got it. Leonard, raise us back up, but slowly. We’ll have to unclip to get past each piece of gear on the tether.” Unable to see the silver-clad forms descending the tether, Cleo had alternated her observations of the scanner with covert glances at Marvin. He’s still lost in that other reality, she surmised. He seems worried, but he evidently flew that cable with expert skill. That chore leaves him drained, no doubt about it. Take his mind off this exacting task that takes

so much out of him, tonight. Get him to talk. Soothe his nerves. Michael and Nigel arrived at the axis. Leonard repositioned the winch, Michael the platform. Having pushed off the axis at Michael’s order, Nigel rested, floating free. Michael joined him. “Marvin, where do you want us when you cut the cable?” he asked. “Float out quite a ways, on the opposite side,” the expert replied. “Tell me when you’re ready.” Having been given that directive, Michael and Nigel pushed off, to float weightless, unable to see through the axis to observe the device’s melting through the cable, given that the lock obstructed the view. Informed of its parting by Marvin’s exclaiming, “It worked!” they floated out as the programmer directed, “All right, Michael. Nigel can couple the cable to the winch.” Suspended in Leonard’s seat-sling, Michael lowered the two men to the strut, observing with satisfaction that the platform came to a halt exactly at the end of the rigid openwork. The safety line trailed downwards. The strut hung vertically in Michael’s peripheral vision. Both circumstances accentuated his feeling of being suspended over the abyss, but no giddiness, no panic fear, washed over him as he looked down. You’ve got yourself in hand, he commended his alter self. Keep hold, now. Marvin exclaimed, “Ready?” “Ready.” “The cable’s melting… It’s cut!” The two halves of the cable, programmed to stay in place, looked unchanged to Michael, who hung suspended in the seat close to the end attached to the axis, but he saw a flash of green light as the cut tip flew towards the end of the strut.

Nigel hissed, “There it is!” “Listen, both of you,” Marvin warned. “I’ll cause the end to hover so that the loose tip dangles. One of you will hold the cut end while the other attaches the coupler. If either of you feel the least tug—the least tremor in the cable—let go! Lose the coupler if you have to! Hear? The cable will jerk you loose otherwise! Keep your boots firmly planted. They’ll hold you against any jerk, if you’ll just let go! Hear?” Nigel replied levelly, “We hear, and we’ll use extreme care. Bring it on in. Can you grab that dangling tip, Leonard?” “Got it.” “All right, watch your fingers, while I attach the coupler.” Silence fell. After a considerable time, Nigel grunted. “There. You can let go.” “I can pull the winch cable out of the winch.” “Go ahead. Farther…that’s good. Hold the end. There. Now watch yourself. We’ll have to lean way out. I’ll have him reel in some of the slack. Watch you don’t get your safety line caught in the winch. Marvin, we’re ready.” “I’m reeling it slowly. Tell me when you can reach the mount for the tank.” “A little more…more…hold it! There, I’ve got the far fastener. Leonard, can you…” “Pull on it…that did it. I’ve got it. Can you reach the remote?” “Reel in a bit more. That’s good! I’ve got the end undone. Is yours…?” “I’ve got it, Nigel.” “Marvin, it looks good. Leonard, step aboard the platform. I’ll hand this gear to you.” Marvin, hunched intently over his controls, breathed an audible sigh of

relief that Cleo unconsciously echoed. Oh, my heart, she groaned silently, I’m a nervous wreck. So is Marvin. Watch the scanner. And whatever you do—red alert or any other awful problem—don’t distract him. One of them will die out there, if you do. Nigel having pronounced the work complete, Michael raised the two men slowly sliding their ascenders up, clipping them on and off to bypass knots in the safety line. Nigel stacked the line in the stiff-rimmed sack that stayed open of itself. Watching as they drew closer, Michael maneuvered out. Leonard unfastened the platform. Nigel snapped the rim of the sack shut, and hung the tool kit from a ring on his suit. The three spacers floated the gear to the other side of the axis. “Leonard, are your fingers tiring?” Michael asked. “Say frankly.” “Just a little. Not badly. Fatigue won’t interfere with my helping on this next job.” “All right. Nigel, you ready?” “Ready.” “Leonard, climb aboard.” Listening to the cross-talk, Cleo shifted her gaze once again from scanner to screen, where she could now watch the descent. Two silver figures reached the tip of the strut. Scarcely breathing, she watched Marvin’s white hands move. Shifting her eyes, she observed the barely visible green line miraculously uncurl from around Ten, and snake towards the end of the strut. As Marvin repeated his warning exactly as if Michael had not heard it earlier, fear made her gut contract even more tightly. A sigh of relief escaped her when the Captain’s calm voice betrayed no least hint of annoyance. Michael at length pronounced the end fitted with the coupler, and

joined to the cable on the winch. Cleo watched Marvin shift to different controls, and slowly reel in the cable. On hearing the exchange signifying that the task had been completed, she watched the swirl of reassuringly green lines in between glances outside, to observe the slow descent of the platform. “Michael, I told Conrad and Justin to stay suited, and rest,” Nigel announced. “I figured that would be easier than having all of us unsuit for lunch, and then suit back up. You need to rest before you walk to Eleven to help Conrad couple the tether. Float back in, and sit on the bench. Leonard and I will bring the tanks and remotes, and we’ll rest alongside you. After Leonard helps Justin couple, Leonard will go in, and both of you will be finished. I’ll lower Conrad and Justin down the spliced cable.” His right arm hurting, his fingers aching, Michael made no demur. Floating into the axis, he waited until the other two men, burdened with gear attached to their suits, caught up to him. Nigel ought to be worse off than Leonard, he reflected dubiously, but I won’t countermand his amendment of the schedule. Tough bastard, Nigel. Well, running the winch isn’t strenuous. I’m thirsty again. My back itches. Sign of healing? Or just my body’s usual perverse way of protesting my forcing it to wear a suit? The piss bucket will overflow if I take one more leak. Damn, but I’m sore! I’m not drastically tired, though. I shouldn’t be, after eleven hours of shut-eye! Damned stubborn… But that long sleep did you good. Your shoulder would be a lot stiffer if Justin hadn’t knocked you out. The door closed, and air surged into the lock. Three suited forms floated into the outer lock, prompting Michael to command, “You two go on down with that gear.” Stepping out of the elevator, feeling his flesh sag on his bones, the Captain let Justin unlatch his helmet and remove his gloves. Seating himself

stiffly on the bench beside Nigel, facing Conrad, who had assisted the other two men before dropping onto a second bench that Conrad and Justin had hauled into the corridor, he declared, “You three did an excellent job of mounting the winches.” “I appreciate your saying so,” Conrad responded. “Hell of a place to have to run a welder, that, but we managed.” Justin seated himself next to Michael, across from Leonard. I’m glad I did the presumptuous bit, the medical technician congratulated himself. He’d have done this prolonged stretch himself, rested or not. As things stand, he’s tired, but not dangerously so. His arm’s sore, I’ll wager. Well, Conrad’s rested, and I am. Leonard looks exhausted. Spare him what you can. Relaxing, Michael let Nigel call the end to the rest period. Rising, he refused Justin’s offer to latch his helmet. “Marvin can do it,” he replied, no sharpness shading his voice. “I’ll need to speak with him before I go out. Conrad, let’s go.” Nigel assisted Justin, and then Leonard, who picked up the coil containing half the length of pliable cable with which they would splice the two halves of the too-short tether. Justin hefted the other half, and the two men vanished into the elevator. Having swept up a pack, Nigel let the straps out all the way, and shrugged into them. His ugly face creased into a grimace. A soft, sibilant, luridly unprintable expletive, delivered in a caressing tone, escaped the man so sorely stressed on the previous day. Dropping back to a sitting position on the bench, he waited. Cleo caught the soft sound, and knew who had uttered it, but she puzzled over the meaning of an expression she had never before heard. Happening to glance at Marvin, she observed the scarlet flush mounting his cheeks. Catching her eye, he hastily averted his face.

Oh, my soul, whatever does that phrase mean? the unworldly Gaean asked herself in dismay. It must be dreadful—vile! Nigel must be hurting. Never before has he given way like that. Unless—he said something strange that time Michael got his pants caught in the clamp, on the hull of the ship. Was that obscene? I expect so. It must have been as awful as this. Marvin’s speechless with embarrassment. Oh, my blistered body. Should I say something? No! The spacer’s face still retained traces of pink when Conrad and Michael strode into the bridge. “Marvin, from what I could tell, neither cable came close to hooking the strut, or hitting anything,” the Captain stated. “Fine job, you did.” The faint flush that crept back into the cheeks of the recipient of Michael’s forthright compliment disguised the traces of Marvin’s earlier embarrassment. “Thank you,” he replied in his soft voice. “I’m gaining practice in flying the synchronized dual remotes.” “That’s putting it mildly,” the Captain agreed wryly. “Well, you’re about to get more. Conrad, let’s wait here until Justin and Leonard couple it. Latch my helmet, Conrad, so I can hear.” Cleo, wearing the pack, listened as Justin’s voice issued from the board. “Marvin, we’re at the axis. Do you want us to unfasten the end with the mechanical coupler Michael attached?” “Wait until I give it the motion that will hold it steady. Get back away, both of you.” “We’re floating out and away.” Marvin donned his helmet. He sat still for a time, adjusting to the virtual reality, before manipulating his controls. “All right, release it. I’ll make it stay right there, but watch yourself, Justin, in case it whips. Hear? I may not get it just right. The speaker’s tall, tense form hunched as he

issued that caution. “We’ll be careful.” A sharply spoken query shattered the silence. “Leonard! Are you all right?” “Yes. It caught me on the wrist, and I moved with it.” That reassuring reply to Justin’s question came couched in a perfectly steady tone. “Justin, I’m going to fly the cut end of the cable, but stay floating out and away till it arrives, and it hovers in one place, hear? And after you grab the end, if it moves away in the slightest—hear?—let go of it! Even if that means letting the coupling go! And plant both boots against the frame!” “I hear. I see it. It’s almost… I’ve got it, Marvin. Leonard, I’ll attach the coupler. Hold the splice…let it float free. Hand me…good.” Able to hear Michael’s breathing, Cleo waited tautly. At length, Justin exclaimed, “Leonard, pull the coupling a bit closer— more! That’s better. Now, hold it…there. Marvin, the two are joined. We’ll uncouple the end from the axis now.” Time passed. “It’s uncoupled, Marvin. It never so much as quivered. We’re moving around to do the other.” Observing the tension in the operator’s body, Cleo developed tautness to match it. Having cast a swift glance at the scanner, she watched two silvery forms vanish out of sight. Michael’s sharply indrawn breath at Justin’s question to Leonard paralleled hers. Still as if carven of stone, she waited. An orange streak shot across the scanner. Oh, my soul, no red one, please, she begged of the uncaring universe. Justin panted, “That’s got it. The end is hovering beautifully. Marvin, we’re floating to the lock.” “Tell me when you’re inside.” Michael’s voice, issuing loudly from the panel, startled the Gaean.

“We’re going on out, Marvin.” The two men walked towards the lock. Mute, the programmer sat motionless, rigid, waiting. Two silver forms floated out the lower lock, and positioned themselves where the strut had been coupled. “Ready, Justin?” Michael asked. “Ready here,” came the steady reply. Marvin’s fingers moved. Cleo saw nothing change outside. Uneasily, she glanced at the scanner, and then caught a glimpse in the screen of a greenish, snaking, silver-tipped line aiming straight for them. As she watched, the blunt, silver projectile stopped, hovered, dropped. Marvin urged sharply, “Michael, don’t—you hear me? Don’t make a grab for it until I tell you. Got that?” “I hear you, Marvin.” Michael’s voice held no edge whatsoever. “All right. Michael, I’m going to fly it as close as I can, and hold it there. One of you reach for it, and the other of you plant both feet firmly, and hold the one reaching. Lay the coupling in place, and then don’t touch it again. Use the bar to snap the latch shut. Tell me when you’re finished.” Cleo sat frozen. If Marvin makes some error when one of them is holding that cable, it will pull them both off, and hurl them away into the void. Why didn’t he have them tie themselves? But maybe that wouldn’t help. Perhaps no tie could hold against a sudden jerk by 880 meters of cable. Can magnetic boots? Two men will be lost instead of one, if anything goes wrong! “The cable is in the slot. Let go of me, Michael, and let’s latch the son of a…slimeball.” “It’s latched, Marvin,” Michael’s voice announced. “Good.” “We’re coming in,” Conrad declared. “Justin, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

His voice hoarse with strain, Marvin urged, “Justin, let go if it moves in the slightest degree. I’ve got it hovering. Can you reach your end?” “I think…no… There, I’ve got it. Leonard, pull with me. There. I’ve slipped it in. Lay that bar… Shove on it with me. Harder! Watch you don’t… There! It’s latched, Marvin.” Sitting back, the expert removed the helmet. No trace of any flush remained. Ice-white, drained, shaken, he slumped limply. Perspiration glistened on his forehead as he gazed unseeing at the screen. A drop rolled down his cheek unheeded. Cleo said nothing, but laid a comradely hand on the one of his nearest her. Turning his head, Marvin smiled wanly. “If I had made a wrong move there, I might have pulled even four magnetic boots loose,” he admitted. “And they hold better than any line. I’m glad that’s over.” Two suited forms walked into the bridge. One traversed the width, and kept going. Rising, Marvin unlatched the Captain’s helmet. Looking his superior officer straight in the eye, he spoke. “I didn’t mean to speak that sharply, Michael, but the mere thought of what any error on my part would cause just then…” A granite face plainly registering fatigue creased into a grim smile. “Don’t think that same thought didn’t occur to me. Your directions were clear, and your technique flawless. That’s all that mattered. Now, help me unsuit in the dining hall.” Nigel’s voice issued from the board. “Tighten that coupling before either of you unclip your ascenders to place them below it, Conrad, hear?” “Don’t worry, we’ll not only tighten it, we’ll give it a thorough inspection. Lower away.” Alone on the board, Cleo sat tensely dividing her gaze between the screen, where the platform slowly grew larger in her view, and the scanner

showing nothing but green. She listened to the brief comments Justin and Conrad exchanged, and heard their periodic demands that Nigel stop their progress. The platform crept downwards. At length Conrad announced that they had reached the coupling. Silence, punctuated by a few lurid, guttural anathemas from the electrical engineer, and one exasperated cry of “Shit!” from his partner, finally ended in Conrad’s gruff declaration that the two men had succeeded in tightening the mechanical device, which restored the tension along almost a kilometer of cable to their mutual satisfaction. The platform continued to descend. My perishing soul, they’ll have to go the whole length, almost, to get all the gear off, Cleo fretted. I surely hope there’s no red alert, and that the splice holds. Her gut knotted as the platform grew ever larger in the screen. Tense, nervous, she waited and watched. Marvin returned, followed by Michael, who commanded, “Cleo, take a break. I’ll fill in for a time.” “Thank you.” Rising, the Gaean hastened to the bathcabin. My poor overloaded bladder’s about to get relief! she rejoiced. Any longer, and I’d have simply had to ask Marvin to watch. Emerging into the dining hall, she glanced at the clock on the wall. Shades of the ancients, it’s 1525! No one has had any lunch. I’ll bet Michael’s dying of thirst. Turning into the laboratory, she found a pot of leftover coffee, heated three oversized cups in the oven, and set them on a tray. Upon reentering the bridge, she announced, “Michael, I’ll watch while you two drink these.” Setting the tray on the deck by the door, she offered each man a cup. “Woman, you read my mind with effortless ease.” Rising from the couch, the Captain reached eagerly for the steaming brew. “Marvin, join me.” Rising, the still-pale programmer accepted a cup. Observing that the platform headed back up, Cleo listened, but heard nothing. She grew aware

that Michael observed the progress of the suited figures over her shoulder. Draining his cup, he directed, “Marvin, let’s help them unsuit. Cleo, someone will tell you when to turn the fields back on.” The two men hurried out. At length, the platform reached the axis. Cleo heard Nigel order, “You two go on in with the gear you’re packing on your suits. I’ll tend to the platform, and bring the string of tanks.” Two bloated, silvery figures floated to the lock. A third busied itself at the axis, and then followed. Breathing a fervent sigh of relief, the Gaean waited. At length, she heard Nigel order, “Cleo, turn the fields back on.” “All right, they’re on.” No sooner did she break the connection, than a thought impinged. I should have asked Michael if they intended to eat now, or skip lunch entirely and wait for dinner, she chided herself. Why didn’t I think of that? Is anyone still wearing a helmet, I wonder? “Justin. Are you there?” she inquired, cautiously. “What do you need to know, Cleo?” Nigel inquired. “Do you want me to cook dinner?” “Do that. We’ll eat as soon as everyone’s dressed.” Hastily gulping her tepid coffee, Cleo hurried out to heat meals. Arriving at the elevator door, Michael and Marvin found Leonard, fully dressed, wearing the pack Nigel had left on the bench, waiting to help unsuit those coming in. “Let me see your wrist,” Michael demanded in a voice that admitted of no refusal. Reluctantly, the younger man pushed up his sleeve. “It isn’t broken,” he insisted. “The coupling caught me right on the ring to which the glove fits, and whacked that against the bladder. My wrist turned a bit black-and-

blue, is all.” Michael informed him levelly, “If it hit hard enough to turn your wrist that black, you came within a centimeter of having that ring cut the bladder. You’re damned lucky. What makes you think that wrist isn’t broken?” “I can move my hand, and all my fingers. The hand doesn’t hurt much. Just the wrist, and that isn’t bad.” “I’ll have Justin look at it as soon as he’s in.” Hastily pulling down the sleeve, Leonard offered no further objection, hearing finality in the Captain’s voice. The elevator door opened, to reveal Conrad and Justin. Michael unlatched the latter’s helmet, aware that the technician’s seamed face registered keen anxiety. “I need to look at Leonard’s wrist,” he declared forcefully. “It could be broken.” “He swears it isn’t, but I told him you’d see him as soon as you’re out of that suit.” Reaching for the flat life-support pack on Justin’s chest, Michael detached it. Nigel stepped out of the elevator, packing a tank under each arm. Setting his burdens down, he reached for two more. “Cleo’s heating dinner, Michael,” he announced.

“Leonard, how badly are you hurt?”

“My wrist’s just bruised. I didn’t break it.” Justin withdrew his head through the neck-ring, wriggled out through the front of his suit, scratched a spot over his ribs vigorously, and reached for his pants. Dressing hastily, he demanded, “Show me that wrist.” As Leonard thrust out the injured arm while moving his fingers, the technician ordered, “Let that arm and hand hang straight down. Mmm. I think you’re right, but come along, and I’ll treat what damage occurred.” Arriving at Eleven to find Cleo setting out hot meals on the long counter, and pouring cups of steaming coffee, four tired, hungry men sat down to rest and eat. On seeing Leonard and Justin emerge from the

infirmary and headed for the counter, she exclaimed, “I’ve been keeping yours hot. I’ll bring them.” After retreating into the inner sanctum, she hastened out with three steaming plates and a fresh pot of coffee. Having served the newcomers, she refilled the empty cups of those already seated. “Cleo, sit down and eat,” Michael commanded. “Leave that pot on the table. We can pour our own.” Picking up the last hot dinner, the Gaean seated herself, and asked anxiously, “Leonard, was your wrist broken?” “No, just bruised. No big problem.” “It’s harder to break a wrist than an arm, actually,” Justin commented. “The articulation’s surrounded by strong tendons, and the slight movement that takes place between the various small bones making up the carpus— bones held together by strong ligaments—absorbs some of the force of a blow. All the same, that severe whack could have done far more damage than occurred.” “Will Leonard be able to use that wrist tomorrow, Justin?” Michael asked, frowning. “Yes, he’ll be able to use it. I’d advise against his doing heavy lifting, and urge that he avoid whacking it again.” “For the rest of today, we’ll work inside,” the Captain announced. “We’ll keep at it until 1800. If anyone’s hungry then, he can make a sandwich. Cleo, thaw some bread and spread, and leave them on the counter. Set out cold coffee we can heat a cup at a time. Conrad, lay out what electrical components we’ll be installing on the strut. Marvin, you and I will assemble the hydraulic system, with Justin’s help. Nigel, haul your rollers to the corridor in front of the elevator, and then help whoever needs assistance.” “I could use Cleo’s help, Michael, if you’ve no objection,” Conrad

declared. Neither face nor voice betrayed the least hint of the Captain’s surprise at that request. “Certainly,” he agreed with no shade of hesitation. “Leonard, you’ll hand tools to Marvin and me, with your left hand.” Flashing his superior a wry grin, the injured spacer nodded. Having plucked the containers and flatware out of the steaming rinse, and washed the coffeepots, Cleo made fresh coffee, which she placed in an insulated pot. She next set out bread and a spread consisting of mustardand-onion-flavored fish. Upon arriving at the exercise area, she beheld Conrad kneeling on the deck, surrounded by a welter of equipment. Glancing up, he shot her a grin as he announced, “I’m building the circuit that’ll be wired according to the diagram I planned in my mind and bounced off yours, the other night. I figured you could help me lay it out, and then hand me tools while I make some of the connections before hauling this stuff outside. Likely you could make some of those connections as well as I can, but this chore’s my responsibility, so I’d better do it all. That way, Michael will know exactly where to lay the blame, if the damned thing malfunctions and precipitates a disaster.” For ninety minutes, the life-support engineer assisted the electrical expert by lifting heavy equipment, and dragging lengths of heavy cable. Once the pair arranged all the components forming the circuit and set out connecting cables, Conrad made those connections that he knew would not interfere with the equipment’s being moved. At 1800, he wiped a sleeve across his forehead, and smiled wanly at his assistant. “Quit for the day, woman. I can finish up.” “Two will finish quicker than one. I’ll quit when you do,” Cleo asserted stoutly, evoking an admiring smile from the tired spacer who nodded in assent. At 1840, Conrad sat back, and surveyed the equipment arranged on

the deck. “That ought to do it. I appreciate your working overtime, Cleo. Let’s grab a sandwich.” Rising to his feet, he gave her a hand up, squeezing it in comradely fashion. Washing sparingly at 1920, Cleo regarded herself in the mirror. I need a haircut again. No time this week. Conrad looked exhausted, tonight. Everyone did—even Nigel. I’ll bet he’s sore. Well, rest up for Marvin. He won’t be physically fatigued, but he’ll be uptight. See if you can’t relax his nerves. You’re tense, as well as wrung out tonight. Try and relax your own nerves. Dropping into bed, she strove to keep herself from dozing off. Emerging from the shower at 1930, Marvin donned a freshly adjusted uniform, and emerged into the dining hall, where he found that someone had already raised the tables to act as dividers between the bunks. Nigel sprawled face down on one. Conrad sat wearily on the edge of another, removing his boots. Justin stood over Leonard, inspecting the injured wrist of the man sitting up in bed. Walking on through, Marvin traversed the bridge to emerge into the deserted recreation area. Seating himself on the couch, he stretched out long legs, and leaned back on bunched pillows. Even as he glanced repeatedly at his watch, he tried to relax. I hope Cleo’s not too tired to want to make love, he fretted. I really need relief…but she worked late. Dare I mention what I’d hoped to bring up? Better not. Worry nagged at him. Marvin’s shyness, coupled with his inability to form close friendships with the spacers with whom he formerly worked, had isolated him from the sort of discussions in which men used to visiting courtesans traded frank appraisals of such women’s skill, and described their own prowess in sexual encounters. That circumstance failed to prevent the sexually dysfunctional spacer from hearing the occasional graphic, joking

remark. Bleakly, he wondered whether his admittedly sketchy knowledge might not seduce him into attempting actions guaranteed to offend a rigidly upright Gaean. His acute awareness that he lacked the skill at erotic art that he strongly suspected his five comrades possessed in abundance depressed him. I’d better not risk trying anything likely to tick her off, he decided. Perhaps she won’t notice that my lovemaking lacks variety. She gets that on the five nights she spends with the others, every week. I don’t know why she puts up with my fumbling efforts. If an opportunity arises, perhaps I could ask her. Well, it’s time. See how things go. Rearing up in bed, Cleo smiled at the man entering. When he seated himself on the side of the bed, she hugged him affectionately. “Peel off your uniform, and let me take your mind off flying tethers,” she whispered, slipping her hands inside his tunic. Electrified by the touch of her hands following so quickly on his indulgence in sensual mental visualizations, the Columbian hastily shed his clothing, and slid in beside her. His potent arousal bringing on the inevitable even more quickly than usual despite his valiant effort to hold off, Marvin lay on top of the woman he loved, morosely aware that the evening had gotten off to an even worse start than usual. Sensing his discouragement at his obvious inability to prevent premature ejaculation, Cleo drew his head towards hers. Her lingering, passionate kiss served to hearten the man silently cursing his dysfunction. She knows you can’t help shooting your load too soon, he reassured himself. Now, give her satisfaction. Marvin’s feeling blue tonight, Cleo surmised. That has intensified his need of release. If he fails to give you yours, that’ll shatter his newfound confidence in himself. Don’t let that happen!

Exerting himself to please his partner, Marvin caressed the woman he so ardently wished to satisfy, gratified to observe that her nipples grew erect under the touch of his sensitive fingers. He kissed her breasts, letting his tongue circle first one hard nipple, then the other. Cleo’s sigh of pleasure thrilled along nerves strung to their limit. “Marvin,” she urged in a husky whisper, “kiss me between my legs.” Astonishment vied with a surge of overmastering desire. Sliding downwards, Marvin closed his mouth over her stiffening nodule, and explored tiny folds with his tongue. As her body arched upwards, a groan of sheer ecstasy slid past parted, rosily bowed lips. Her organ of pleasure grew erect: a response paralleled in the body of her lover. When he rose, and plunged his rigid manhood into her, he nonetheless managed to delay his release until Cleo achieved the climax he knew with certainty drove her into rapture. Lying fulfilled, amazed, triumphant, holding soft, yielding flesh close to his, Marvin floated, half in trance. At length, one clear idea rose to impact the mind struggling to regain its power of coherent thought. I didn’t need to ask her! he marveled. Cleo said outright what she wanted. She displayed no embarrassment whatsoever. She’ll tell you if she wants you to do things you’ve never done. She won’t grow annoyed because you lack experience enough to give her variety. She loves you! She has to, if she cares enough to teach you techniques new to you! His heart overflowing with emotions stronger than the passion which had overwhelmed him, Marvin whispered, “Cleo, I love you so…” Snuggling her body into the curves of his, the Gaean caressed his chest. “I love you,” she assured him softly. “That was marvelous.” Balm poured into old, still-raw wounds in the sexually handicapped introvert’s vulnerable psyche. Pain he had grown to accept as his portion in life—emotional hurt originating in the loneliness that had plagued his adult

years—ebbed slowly out of his heart and mind. Even if I lose her, I won’t be the same person, he reflected in wonder. I’ll know I achieved the heights a few times in my life…know that I was able to raise a partner to bliss. What a woman she is! Cleo lay happily savoring her certainty that Marvin’s fragile ego suffered no damage. He tries so hard to please me, but if he had failed, merely because I’m tired tonight, his new confidence might have shattered. Marvin’s no doubt too shy to ask what Leonard asked, and he likely harbors the same fear of offending your Gaean sensibilities that Michael once felt. Better simply to ask this lover to do what makes you feel good. Having been that daring, should I mention what has been nagging at my mind now for four nights? I’ll risk that too. Taking an oblique approach, she remarked, “Marvin, I still can’t believe that you never let on, all these Earthyears, that you possessed such astounding skill as an actor!” “Not much call for that ability in a spacer’s life.” “Well, I’ve been struggling for four days, and my curiosity is about to outweigh my fear of hurting your feelings. Would you answer a question if I assure you that I don’t intend any offense?” Marvin’s soft laugh reassured his interrogator. “I think I can guess what you want to know, but ask away.” “How is it that you could be so shy—find ordinary conversation so hard, for so long—and be able to stride out on a stage with assurance the equal of Nigel’s?” Smiling regretfully on hearing the query he expected, Marvin tried to explain. “When you’re a person who isn’t overly impressed with himself, Cleo…a man people don’t take to…one who’s lonely, as you saw

immediately…acting a part feels infinitely satisfying. I fell into it by accident, when a professor I admired talked me into trying out for a part. I found it easy to memorize the lines, and I’d taken courses in public speaking, although they didn’t make me any better able to converse readily. “To my amazement, I got the part. During the rehearsals, I made a startling discovery. Acting a role on a stage let me stop being me, for a time. I knew from the script how the character would behave…knew what he’d say, in what circumstances. I didn’t have to figure out how to react, myself. I discovered that I could become, for a brief, illusive moment, what I knew I’d never be in real life: hero, lover, leader, warrior…whatever the play demanded. I acted them all. I think I found that imaginary plane of existence more real, at times, than the plodding life I led in a university where the lively social life continued to pass me by.” Deeply touched by the man’s painfully honest admission, Cleo confided, “I’ve done that at times, myself, Marvin—lost myself in a book where I became the heroine enjoying all the exciting adventures, and forgot the strains and annoyances of my daily grind, for a short while at least.” “That’s the trouble. It’s an imitation life, that doesn’t last, and reality looks drabber than ever, afterwards.” Marvin’s bleak tone altered, as he whispered, “Until now, Cleo. Until I met a heroine who managed to find something in the person I really am inside, that she could actually love.” “Marvin, you’ve changed all but one thing: you still consistently undervalue yourself! You need to credit yourself for your sensitivity, your ability, your courage, and your capacity for unselfish affection. You’re an easy man to love, once you let a woman see what’s behind that shy, selfconscious exterior.” Amazement again overwhelmed the socially inept, sexually dysfunctional spacer, driving him to exclaim, “Cleo, no woman who had her pick of admirers would have tried to see beyond it, except one with a heart

as big as yours!” Admirers! Cleo repeated wryly. Three of them most assuredly didn’t start out as that! Why did I try to see beyond Marvin’s petulant outbursts, and his dismal performance in bed? The answer swiftly struck her. Because you sensed the depth of his isolation, and identified with it, out of your suffering so cruelly from loneliness yourself. You reached out to get to know the man within, and found a wealth of richness. Marvin saved your life and Nigel’s, three weeks ago, and saved Michael’s and Nigel’s, yesterday. We all owe you! she cried vehemently in her mind. Her arms tightened around him. “Marvin, I love all of you,” she declared in an urgent whisper. “Believe me when I tell you that I’ve never ranked the six of you in any order of how much I love you. Nor will I, ever. I couldn’t choose among you now. I won’t ever try. If some ghastly fate forces such a choice on me, I’ll draw names out of a bowl, and you’ll rate the same chance as the others: one in six, if all of you wished for a wife. “But Marvin…I don’t want ever to have to make such a choice! We’ll all suffer ghastly pain in the end. More and more, that’s coming to weigh dreadfully on my conscience. Please believe that I love you no less than I do any of the others. I always will.” His trust in this forthright lover absolute, Marvin savored an upwelling of happiness tempered with fatalistic certainty. I’d never be so lucky as to have my name come up, he concluded bleakly, but she holds me the equal of any or all of them! Settling her head on his shoulder, he whispered, “No degree of pain will ever make me regret knowing you, and loving you, no matter whose name you draw out of your bowl, Cleo. I’ll always love you.” Pulling the bedcover over them both, he bemusedly reviewed the amazing course his night had taken.

Her lover’s final, husky admission tore at the sensitive captive’s heart. What a muddle! she reflected for the thousandth time. Marvin’s as decent, as caring, as comradely a husband as any of them. So honest! We’re approaching launch, and I’m coming to hate the thought. Dragging my feet—mentally, anyway—and dreading our arrival in Columbia. Oh, Marvin. I love you, you shy, courageous, talented, affectionate man, you!

WEEK SEVEN: FRIDAY Jarred out of unconsciousness by shouts, Cleo reared up, to find Marvin tossing and yelling out unintelligible exhortations in his sleep. Throwing herself on the bedmate obviously in the throes of a nightmare, she shook him. “Marvin, it’s all right!” she exclaimed, fighting to hold him as he thrashed about in her arms, perspiration gleaming on his pale, high forehead. “It’s all right! You were dreaming!” That urgent reassurance got through to the man abruptly roused. Liquid dark eyes opened, to stare wonderingly at the Gaean. “What…?” “You had a bad dream. You cried out, and thrashed around. Don’t you remember it?” Gazing anxiously at the sensitive face so unable to conceal its owner’s thoughts, Cleo saw it mirror fear, as the memory of some frighteningly real projection of imagined disaster rose again to assault Marvin’s consciousness. “Damn!” he muttered, wiping his gleaming brow. “I wonder what prompted that?” Cleo hugged him fiercely. “You’ve been working under a ghastly strain, and worrying constantly,” she replied emphatically. “Your mind rehashed those anxieties into something dreadful. I know what that’s like. My mind does it to me all the time. I rather suspect that you and I sport exceptionally vivid imaginations that periodically run away with us. Relax,

now. It’s only 0325. Rest a bit.” Snuggling against the man still obviously shaken, Cleo caressed him rhythmically, soothingly. My perishing soul, I hope he hangs onto himself today! I hope that his nerves aren’t unraveling! Consternation gripped her, causing her chest to constrict. Marvin sensed her fear. “I’m all right now,” he whispered, flushing with embarrassment. “In command of myself, Cleo. Truly.” “Of course you are!” Would making love calm his lingering agitation, I wonder? she asked herself. Or would he be better off just relaxing? His heart is still pounding! Deciding for himself, Marvin whispered, “Cleo, could I…would you mind…?” Wordlessly, the Gaean slid her hands downwards, to caress her bedmate’s rapidly hardening manhood. Her gesture provoked the inevitable galvanic response. Lying fulfilled in her dysfunctional lover’s arms a considerable time later, vastly reassured, she idly traced patterns on his chest with the fingers of one hand. Softly, Marvin murmured, “Damned if that didn’t do more for my inner calm than the night’s sleep did. Cleo, I haven’t forgotten what you told me on Tuesday. I’ll keep my resolution, this time. I don’t want you worrying, girl. We’ll get this blasted job done right! All of us will. So relax. Hear?” Astonished by the forceful tone of the once-querulous expert’s voice, and immeasurably heartened by his promise, Cleo replied by kissing him passionately. Having returned her gesture with interest, Marvin murmured, “Mmmm. What a lovely way to start the day! I hate to say it, but we’d better heave out.” Seated in his usual place, Michael watched the newcomers pass down the counter to pick up plates of baked fish stuffed with spicy thyme-flavored

dressing, and served with leftover baked potatoes that had been grated and fried, and cups of orange juice and coffee. Cleo has done wonders for Marvin’s nerves, he reflected gloomily. Impossible to miss that. She looks utterly content. Better stiffen your resolve, spacer. Better fight your conditioning. Be glad she’s able to do for Marvin’s self-control what she obviously just managed. He actually looks relaxed. What a woman she is! I wish to hell tonight were my night. Having inhaled the meager draught of coffee he grudgingly allowed himself for an eye-opener prior to spending hours in a pressure suit, Michael went on meditating. Damn. One more bastard of a job. We’re all tired. Leonard’s injured. The strain even shows on Nigel. I know as surely as I’m sitting here that he still hurts like hell. Justin’s exhausted. Conrad’s worried about his share of the responsibility. Damned conscientious sort, Conrad. He’s fatigued, too. You need to keep a firm grip, spacer-captain. Don’t let Marvin get under your skin. What he accomplished last Wednesday surely ought to earn him a bit of tolerance in that regard, so hang on to your fraying temper. Too much lies at stake for you to risk blasting the morale you’ve nursed through seven weeks of hell! We need to get this job done as fast as is consistent with safety, not stretch it out to an endless length. We’d get careless: do less than our best on some aspect, and invite a wreck, later. Strive to achieve a delicate balance of tiredness against dispatch. Aim for steady progress towards completion. Well. Let’s hope your luck holds, you cocky gambler. At the end of the meal, Nigel issued orders, amending his original schedule. “Conrad and Leonard, you’ll help Justin and me to suit up. Justin, you and I will install the rollers. Cleo, you’ll man Eleven’s board after completing what chores need done in the food-chemistry lab. Michael, when we’re

finished, Justin will come in, and give Leonard a hand when he suits up Conrad, Marvin, and yourself. You and Marvin can fill tanks, and then assemble what gear you’ll need. Leonard will man Central’s board. I’ll help the three of you outside. Let’s attack it, hm?” Sitting at Eleven’s board twenty-five minutes later, wearing a pack, Cleo nervously listened as Nigel assured Conrad of his readiness, and Justin echoed that avowal. Conrad’s voice issued gruffly from her pack. “I’ll load this gear in the elevator, Nigel, and send half of it with each of you. Let me heave it in.” Silence followed, punctuated by a few grunts. At Nigel’s command, Cleo shut off the fields of the hulls, and heard the cross-flow of orders as the two men floated the bulky gear into the lock. She watched as two silvery forms came into view, burdened with loads all but invisible to her. Shifting her gaze automatically from scanner to screen, she saw the two men position themselves in the angle formed by the axis and the strut, which she could barely see, given that it hung suspended almost directly endwise to her view. “Hold this in place, Justin…good. I’ll clamp it…there. All right, wait until I center the roller on this longitudinal member. Adjust the support. So. Hold the generator… All right, hand me the welder. Watch it now. Bitch of a job, this will be.” Nigel’s self-control’s fraying a bit, Cleo reflected uneasily. The strain seems to be telling even on his iron nerves. Well, look at the week he put in! I can understand, and sympathize. “Looks good, Nigel.” “Move down. There. There’ll be four of these confounded outfits on each side. It’s centered… Watch it now.” An orange streak coursed across the scanner, causing the observer’s heart to beat a trifle faster. Oh, no, not another alert! Eyes glued to the

display, she watched. No more orange. No increase in the density of green. My uptight gut, I hope that’s not the first of a swarm of big ones. Please, no drastic change in the weather. Please! At length, Nigel and Justin completed the task on one side of the center of the strut. Both spacers floated around to descend into the angle formed by strut and axis. Able only to catch an occasional checkered glimpse of silver bodies crisscrossed by metal openwork, Cleo listened tautly to what few comments passed between the two men. After what seemed an eon, she heard Nigel grunt in evident satisfaction, and Justin let out an audible, long exhalation. “That looks damned good, Nigel.” “It’ll serve, I judge. I’m glad that chore’s behind us. Let me anchor the welder. There. Let’s go in.” Leonard’s voice reached her. “I’m going to tell Michael they’re finished, Cleo, and help Justin unsuit. You’re on your own for a bit.” “I hear you, Leonard.” As her gut clenched, the woman wondered, Why am I so nervous today? Ahead of the need? Vaguely uneasy, she listened to the familiar assurances, and the cross-comments as Michael, Marvin and Conrad entered the lock, packing a plenitude of bulky gear. Nigel entered the upper lock, and met the others in the lower one. Four men floated the welter of equipment and tools, and a long line of dots that Cleo knew to be tanks, to the point on the axis just above the plane of the struts, where the openwork would be cut away. Sitting rigidly erect, the taut observer watched the silver forms cluster at a point she could see, and listened. Michael’s voice reached her. “I see what you meant, when we planned this project, Marvin. The builders evidently did the opposite of what we intend, to float wheel and frame inside after they assembled the station,

although they had no spin with which to contend. They designed their permanent cross-bracing—above and below, and alongside, the space occupied by the rectangular frame holding the wheel—to carry the strain when over one hundred square meters of the outer cylinder’s removed. I can see their welds.” “Right, but we’ll do the temporary additional bracing we planned, anyway. We’ll take no chances, mm? We can use the members we cut away, for that. This’ll be a good place to leave them, anyway. This chore will take us a while, Michael.” “Don’t worry, we’ll do it right. I’ll start on this side. Nigel, help me. Conrad, give Marvin a hand opposite. The thought strikes me that we’d better all keep our eyes firmly on what we’re handling, and not let them stray to the stars wheeling around us.” Muttered growls followed that directive. As Cleo watched, the clustered group separated into two pairs. After a time, she saw a silvery bar five times the length of the puny figures manipulating it, separate from the framework of the axis, and sweep out an arc of forty-five degrees in eerie slow motion. “Watch it, damn it! Watch it!” Conrad’s voice clearly projected fear. “It’s all right. The come-along cable’s loop slipped a bit. It’s tight, now. Lift your end… Good. I’m getting mine secured. I’ll weld your end first…be there directly.” Marvin’s voice betrayed no trace of agitation. Her heart pounding, Cleo loosened her white-knuckled grip on the arm of the couch, and watched a second gleaming member slowly alter its position, maneuvered by two puny silvery forms. “That’s good, Nigel. Right on the mark. I’ll weld this end first.” “Be a hell of a note if one of these slipped off into the void, hm?” “Wouldn’t it, though!” Slowly, the tiny figures moved over the face of the axis. Long, silvery

slivers separated, altered their orientation, rose, descended, or angled, to take new positions within the confines of the tall, slender axis, adding to the gossamer-webbed pattern of similar members bracing its interior. “Well, Marvin, what do you think?” “It looks good to me, Michael. There’s not much clearance for moving the massive outfit here, either, though it’s more than I’ll have on the strut. However, I’ve gained practice that’ll stand me in good stead for this chore, and I’ll be doing the worst job last…after I’ve gotten a feel for flying the thing. I’ll take my time arranging my gear on the wheel. I’ll make certain I’ve overlooked nothing.” “Take all the time you need. Conrad, start on your couplers.” Cleo watched as two pairs of silver-clad bodies moved slowly, seemingly erratically, back and forth, and up and down, within the network of silvery lines enclosing the massive wheel the watcher saw as a starless black blot. Conrad issued Nigel a running series of requests for tools, or assistance in placing or holding components: requests punctuated by an occasional highly regrettable, muttered phrase. Not a sound reached her from Marvin or Michael for a considerable span. That circumstance that sparked renewed anxiety. Finally, Marvin spoke. “Michael, I’ve finished placing my remotes, and the related gear. I’ve made the most exacting of the necessary measurements. I’ll retrace my path, now, and attach the mounts. Follow me, if you would, and fasten the tanks.” “Right.” Marvin was measuring, Cleo reassured herself. He seems firmly in command of himself, but he’s got to move that frightful mass, shortly. Oh, my heart. I wish that job were behind us! “Michael, I’m finished with my end,” Conrad announced. “Good. You and I will cut the opening in the strut. Nigel, take over

here. Quite a few tanks still need to be attached.” “Right, chief.” Two silvery forms, obviously burdened with equipment, floated into the lock and emerged to maneuver to the center of the strut. Stylus-thin bars, visible to Cleo only when they moved, slowly changed position, nudged into place by the pair working according to a pre-conceived plan. A section of the ladder-like central member caught the light of the distant star. The metallic object glittered as it rose upwards, inverted ninety degrees, and swung in an arc to form a temporary corner brace. “That’s got it, Conrad. Secure your end…good. Last and worst job, this. All right, here goes.” Time slid by, its slow passage grating on Cleo’s nerves. “The job looks great to me, Michael. It won’t take me but fifteen minutes to set up for the electromagnetic coupling.” “Tell me if you need help.” “Michael, I’ve finished. I’m on my way in. I’ll let you know when I get to Eleven’s board.” “Do that, Marvin.” Michael sounds tired already, Cleo reflected nervously. Or am I imagining things? Hyperimaginative, I tend to be. Marvin sounds steady, though. No more orange. No change in the density of green. The weather seems calm. I fervently hope that it stays that way! Cleo listened as Conrad pronounced his task complete. He and Michael returned to the site of the gyroscope. After a time, Marvin arrived in Eleven, looking not only unflustered, but determined. Cleo flashed him a smile, which he returned before donning a pack, and seating himself. “Michael, I’m at the board.” “Activate your gear.” Thus bidden, Marvin initiated the ghostly forces that would keep the

massive wheel moving as if it were still part of the rotating station. Don’t delay, now, Michael, he urged mentally, as he waited. Only four couplings to undo, and three of you to do it. Don’t waste any time coming in. “Marvin, it’s free. It hasn’t moved a hair. We’re on our way in.” “Good.” So far. So little clearance… Having donned his helmet, Marvin let his eyes grow accustomed to the sight before him. The wheel, a massive, hoop-shaped rim, the thinner central portion of which served mainly as a solid support linking the axis of rotation to the outer periphery, appeared in the operator’s field of vision as a disc enclosed in a cubical frame of openwork within which other concentric circular supports nested. I’ll need to watch that rectangular outer frame, not the wheel, he cautioned himself. I can’t let the outfit bump the edges of the opening, either in the axis, or the strut. That will be the worst danger. I need to keep my hands steady. So. “Marvin, we’re here at Central’s board. Move it when you’re ready.” Cleo heard. Her gut tightened as she stared at the helmeted man whose face she could not see, but whose body hunched over his controls, tension evident in its every line. Forcing her eyes to the scanner, and then to the screen, she waited, ceasing to breathe as Marvin’s fingers moved. Michael sat tautly in the midst of four of his crewmen, still garbed in his suit except for helmet and gloves. Unable to see what transpired outside, acutely conscious of the hammering of his heart, he waited. On the graphic display Marvin had rigged before moving the strut, the outline of the axis showed plainly. An interruption across the vertical lines indicated the location of the gyroscope. You won’t be able to see the wheel emerge, but the outline will crumple if he hits the supporting members inside, or rips away any of the cylindrical openwork, the Captain reminded himself grimly. Alarms will

sound. Don’t expect Marvin to tell you what’s happening. He doesn’t seem to be able to talk while he’s concentrating. You’ll just have to wait, and hope. Damn! His eyes glued to the cubical outer frame, Marvin began the chancy task. Easy now. Slowly. Exert equal force on each side. Keep it exactly level. Move it straight towards you. Come on… Come on out… Keep coming… Watch it now. Keep it centered… Ahhh. Beautiful. Keep on moving out from the axis. Good. Swing the outfit in an arc…center it between two tethers. Stop it now. Easy…there. Good. Swing it. Farther…far enough. Move it towards you. Hard to tell exactly when it will clear the tethers, so move it farther towards the rim than you think is necessary. No electronically marked points guide you now. Keep it coming. Easy, now. Easy…reverse…slow it…good. That should be enough. Slowly, ponderously, the massive body, to Marvin’s eyes a hoop outlined in bright green, which nestled within a glittering, seemingly fragile framework of multicolored concentric circles imprisoned in a red openwork cube, gained frightening momentum. The behemoth slowed, stopped, hung motionless. Marvelous! he commended himself. Lift, now. Start it up, and let it coast. Easy… Keeping his eyes on the fluorescent red cube, the mover ignored the dark mass outlined electronically within. Reverse…stop it now. Let it coast…stop… Ahhh…it’ll clear. Lift…easy…it’s through. Stop it. Good. Move it back. Same forces…opposite directions. Easy, now. Take it back…farther… Reverse… Slow it… Stop it… Let it hang. Everything’s all right so far. Sitting spellbound, Cleo watched the space-black disc blot out the

stars: a disc uncannily suspended within the tenuous confines of a cubical web of silver threads gleaming in the diffuse light of the distant sun. The openwork moved directly towards her out of a cavernous black hole in the axis. The delicate framework of fragile supports, enclosing what she knew to be an object of fearsome mass, seemed to expand as it moved inexorably straight at her. Mesmerized, the Gaean watched the monster advance, slow, stop, hang apparently motionless, and then majestically rise, to float unhindered through the plane of the tethers spinning synchronously with a massive, mobile, abstract sculpture. Behind the seemingly unmoving cube housing that dark, metallic heart, the axis rose. Behind that, the far perimeter of the rim curved in a vast arc, studded with bulbous sections and slender countermasses. The whole huge artifact, lovingly, painstakingly crafted by skilled artisans long dead, spread across the screen against a backdrop of madly rushing stars: darting, unwinking points of light overlain periodically by the stately, horizontal progression of the splendid sphere of the giant turquoise planet. Changeless, immutable, the station seemed to form the fixed fundament behind which the cosmos, evanescent, heedlessly scurrying, flowed tumultuously towards some distant rendezvous. Time to rotate it. Ninety degrees. Slowly, the spatial orientation of the cube changed, as the top face rotated to become the one on a side. That wasn’t bad. So. Now for the last and worst maneuver, Marvin told himself determinedly. You can do it. You’ve gained a feel for moving this thing. All right…swing it in an arc…stop it…good. The background seemed to rotate, to Marvin’s view. The strut, which had been sideways to him, turned so as to loom broadside. In its center, a hole gaped. In the foreground, slightly above the plane of the strut, hung the glittering cube.

So. Good. Center it. Down a hair more…that’s got it. All right…start it moving towards the strut. You’ve no clearance to speak of, so take infinite care. Slowly, now. Creep. Slower…creep…slide…easy, now… Easy! No…don’t… Watch it! Oh, shit! No…no! You hit the f****** openwork! No, you only scraped it… You’re still all right. Creep, damn it! Ahhh…it’ll fit. It’s in! It’s held! Grabbed! I shaved the edge, but I didn’t buckle it! The wheel’s in place! Stupendous! Triumphant, euphoric, ecstatic, the still-helmeted operator sat back, and let a shuddering, long-drawn-out sigh escape him. Clenching both hands, Cleo watched the final, agonizingly slow maneuver, her eyes riveted to the screen, her breathing suspended. She saw the silvery cube inexorably slide sidewise into the narrow confines of the strut, bearing its dark heart to its new abode. That long, ecstatic sigh prompted an echoing exhalation to slide from her lips. He did it! she exulted, fierce pride flooding her being. He did it! Michael. He can’t see what happened. Marvin’s speechless. I’d better… “Michael,” the Gaean announced levelly, only a small tremor marring her self-possessed calm. “Marvin just finished moving the wheel. No problem.” That unemotional announcement crashed into the Captain’s consciousness, producing profound relief even as it struck him as wildly humorous. “Suffering shades of the howling hordes of hell!” he boomed out, his voice cracking as his overwrought mind churned. His shrill ejaculation held an edge in which Justin thought he heard overtones bordering on the hysterical. “If that isn’t the understatement of the age! No problem!” Nigel’s hearty laugh sounded reassuringly normal. “Poker voice she’s got, to match her poker face, chief. Marvelous, hm?”

Conrad and Leonard impulsively chorused, “No shit!” Regaining his grip on himself, Michael affirmed forcefully, “Marvin, that was a magnificent job you just did. Take it easy, now. Get a cup of coffee. Hear?” “I…I hear, Michael. Thank you.” The man’s voice, husky, tremulous, yet held a definite note of pride. Michael rose. “Well, let’s get on out, and secure the damned thing. Cleo, continue watching the scanner. Justin, we’ll eat in half an hour. This chore won’t take long. Leonard, help us with helmets and gloves.” Nodding, Justin stared narrowly at the rugged face of the Captain, who displayed an unusual pallor. Michael strode out with all his wonted energy, but the technician experienced an icy chill. Michael’s nerves seem more on edge than I’ve ever known them to be! he railed silently as fear gripped him. His self-control’s thinning! The relentless exertion’s telling on him. Why in hell are they pushing it? We could spread this work out over a longer time…not go out so tired. True, we’d be making more trips out…riskier in another way, that…but still… I wonder if Michael realizes how close he’s veering to the limit of his strength. Likely he doesn’t. Damn it, if there were any tactful way to do it, I’d give up my night with Cleo, tonight—tell Michael to take it—but I see no possible way to suggest that. That would set a terrible precedent. We’ve endured troubles enough in that identical regard. Damn! On the bridge in Eleven, the still-taut expert pulled off his helmet. Absently, he ran a hand through sweat-damp black hair. Reaching over, Cleo laid a hand over his. “Marvin, that was marvelous,” she assured him huskily. “Unbelievable, your skill. Do you want to watch the scanner while I get you a cup of coffee? Or go yourself?” Marvin turned a strained, dead-white face to hers. “I…I’ll watch. I could use a cup.”

Flying to fetch him one, Cleo recalled Michael’s reaction to her announcement. At least I could see what was happening, she commiserated. He couldn’t. He heard nothing, either, until I said that. He didn’t know but what that frightful wheel was smashing the strut flat, or plunging into the axis. I’m glad he possessed sensitivity enough to stay out of Eleven while Marvin moved the thing, though. The poor soul didn’t need the least distraction. Oh, Michael…hang tough. This ghastly week’s almost over! Seating herself beside the man now deep in the throes of a nervous reaction, Cleo handed him his coffee, and watched anxiously as he sipped it while mindlessly toying with a strap on the helmet in his lap. His eyes grew remote. Turning to the board, the Gaean automatically checked the scanner, and followed the progress of the three tiny figures arriving at the center of the strut. A low whistle issued from the pack. Conrad followed it with an exclamation breathing wonder. “Would you look at that, Michael! How in the name of all the Powers he slid that outfit through there without hitting the edge…buckling it…I’ll never know!” “He grazed a member, on this side,” Nigel pointed out. “Brushed against it with as delicate a touch as the lips of a girl offering her first kiss. You can see the scrapes, but he never hurt a thing! Marvelous, hm?” “Damned if it isn’t! My gut’s still tied in knots. Well, let’s fasten the blasted wheel permanently in place.” Fifteen minutes later, three silver-suited figures floated back to the lock. Cleo heard the welcome order to reactivate the fields. Turning, she saw that her companion had stopped fiddling with the helmet, and had finished his coffee. Dropping to one knee in the narrow space between the two couches, she gripped his arm, and laid her head against his shoulder. “Marvin, that was a feat to equal the rescue,” she breathed.

Perfection! And your steadiness equaled your skill. I’m so proud of you!” Slipping his arm around her, the gratified hearer squeezed convulsively. “I told you…I’ll keep my resolve, this time. Let’s think about eating, girl. My gut just unwound to the point where I think food can penetrate it.” Laughing, Cleo rose with him. “Sit down in the dining hall and finish relaxing, Marvin. I’m going to help Justin.” Presiding over the counter, Cleo listened as three tired men surrounded Marvin, and offered congratulations. Flushing, embarrassed, the shy expert yet looked each straight in the eye, and softly thanked him. Seating herself with her own meal, Cleo noticed the lines of strain at the corners of Michael’s eyes, the dark shadows under those eyes, the tight set of his mouth. She observed that he refrained from indulging in a cup of steaming coffee, and displayed little appetite for baked stuffed eel, baked potato, and vegetables in cheese sauce. She likewise noted that the act of eating cost him visible effort. Pity mingled with a resurgence of the cold fear that had assaulted her earlier. Having finished his dinner, Michael resolutely willed himself not to follow it with coffee. Relax, he ordered himself. Unwind. What we’ve got left to do today won’t be difficult. Just tedious. Tomorrow will be a flaming terror, though. The least error will produce unmitigated disaster. Well, we can test some of it, but not the most crucial operations. Let the crew sit a bit, and rest. Marvin’s holding up, evidently. Leonard’s getting a day in which to heal up. Justin will put in a relatively easy afternoon. Well. One last effort: the worst challenge yet to your engineering skill, Michael. Tomorrow. And then…we’ll see. Alone once again on the board, Cleo listened to the comments as the four men who had cut away the openwork replaced it. No especial problem

surfaced. Nigel assisted Michael, and Conrad helped Marvin. Nonetheless, the afternoon seemed endless to Cleo, who noted one more orange line darting across the scanner. When at last Nigel’s sibilant voice ordered her to switch on the fields, she slumped in her couch, utterly drained. My poor, perishing soul, she exclaimed to her alter ego, that’s over. They’ll have an hour in which to relax before dinner. Or might they want dinner served early, so they can take a longer sleep-shift? Why didn’t I ask? Try now. “Nigel, are you there?” “What’s on your mind, Cleo?” “Would you like me to fix dinner now? Or at the usual time?” “Hm. Michael, what would you prefer?” “Now suits me.” “Carry on, Cleo. I’ll stop and tell Justin. He’s working in Two. We’ll all quit early.” Seating herself after refilling the cups the others drained before casting a glance at their helpings of stew, Cleo noticed a definite dearth of conversation. Four exhausted men ate wordlessly, intent on fueling stressed bodies. Justin broke the silence. “Michael, after supper, I’ll haul the whirlpool bath I stole from Fourteen out here, and have each of the four of you stick hands and then feet in. The stimulation does wonders for tired fingers. Marvin can vouch for that.” Raising his eyes from his bowl, the programmer attested earnestly, “It surely does. I’ll look forward to that treatment for muscular aches!” “Easier on the olfactory nerves, hm?” “Positively benign, the effect, Nigel,” Marvin agreed, his eyes twinkling. “I noticed you rated the other, a while back.” “Don’t remind me!”

Whatever are they talking about? Cleo wondered. Something that smells bad, evidently. Well, whirlpool therapy ought to help their poor numb fingers and toes. Having cleaned up after the meal, thereby freeing the cook to set up the bath, Cleo retired to her cabin. Justin was only out part of the day, but he still looks tired, she mused. He’s not as wiped as the others, though. Leonard seemed rested, and suffering no obvious pain. Well, do what you can for Justin’s nerves. He’s as worried as you are. It showed in his eyes, at lunch. When her partner walked in twenty minutes late, Cleo jumped out of bed, and threw her arms around him. “All of you looked so tired tonight,” she murmured, hugging him hard. “And I carried my heart in my mouth all day!” “I told you not to fret about us, girl! We know what we’re doing.” “You think I didn’t see how badly Michael’s tension today worried you?” “Scored a touch there, you did,” the technician admitted wearily. “Yes, it bothered me. But that outfit I stole out of Fourteen helped, and he’ll get to bed early. Cleo, I won’t be any good to you tonight either. How about if I just hold you, and tell you how much you’ve come to mean to me? And wake you in time to try lovemaking while rested?” Laughing, Cleo tightened her arms around him. “What a compliment, knowing you took my words straight to heart! Justin, you’re such a comfortable, husbandly soul.” Purposefully grasping the bands of his tunic, she busily undressed him. Lying relaxed, savoring the welcome warmth of the shapely body pressed against his, Justin suffered a sharp stab of pain. Husband, he repeated glumly. Don’t I wish I were hers! How will I ever cope with doing without her? Family. Leonard had it right. I keep desperately hoping…

Better not get your heart set on any fanciful notion, spacer. You don’t normally wallow in wishful thinking. You don’t know for certain what Michael’s got in mind. Besides, we might all die a few minutes after we launch our crazy creation. “I love you, girl,” he whispered, as his hand caressed her breast. Cleo felt the man’s hard-muscled body relax against hers. The hand ceased moving, and Justin’s breathing grew deep and regular. He’s asleep already, she surmised. Exhausted, they all are. Oh, Justin. I love you, don’t ever doubt that. What a muddle! Well…launch might solve my dilemma. For me, dying isn’t such a dreadful thought. I’d see Max again, and Rollin, and Glendon…all those I’ve lost. Will they know what I’ve done? If so, will they care? Is what I’ve done—what I was forced into doing—so dreadful? Loving instead of hating? Drawing us together instead of serving as a rebellious, angry, hate-filled focus of endless friction? I can’t seem to muster the least shame, any more. I love six men. What a quandary. Well…drift off, and rest up. Tomorrow will be a fright. Comforted by Justin’s nearness, Cleo drifted into sleep that blotted all worry from her troubled mind.

WEEK SEVEN: SATURDAY His inner chronometer having waked him at the time he expected, Justin lay drowsily focusing his mental faculties on the task facing the crew, even as his hard flesh rejoiced in the pleasurable feel of Cleo’s soft body snuggled against his own. Last big hurdle, he ruminated. The final challenge. I hope we’re up to meeting it! I can’t believe what we’ve accomplished to date—what Michael has driven us to achieve. I wonder if he realizes what percentage of that success he owes to Cleo? She has welded us into a brotherhood. I can’t imagine a Columbian woman’s ever having managed that. We compete for their favors too openly, and too flamboyantly. Unwittingly, we teach them to capitalize on that…to drive wedges between us…to manipulate us. We place far too much emphasis on their physical attractiveness, and offer them no incentive to enlarge their minds to the fullest extent. We penalize…intimidate…those who manage that feat on their own. In behaving thus, we hurt ourselves as much as we handicap our women. Hell of a note, that cultural failing. You worn-out, used-up husk of a spacer, do you imagine that you’re up to what you said you’d be? This week has taken a lot out of your hide. I’d surely hate to fail Cleo two weeks in a row. Damn! My hide isn’t what’s worrying me. Well, give it your best shot, you antiquated excuse for a lover. Time’s running out!

Awakened from sound sleep by Justin’s mouth closing over her own, Cleo became aware of the weight of a muscular body pressing down on her, and the wiry strength of the arms enfolding her. It wasn’t Nigel’s night, she recalled confusedly, struggling to orient herself. Whatever’s… Justin! Keeping his promise. My thudding heart, is he ever! Yielding to the impassioned kiss of the man on whom the Earthyears set far less heavily in actuality than in his perception of their effect, Cleo returned his gesture with ardent abandon. When the oldest of her lovers freed his partner’s lips, his hands unerringly found all the places most sensitive to his practiced touch. His tongue caressed her nipples. His fingertips massaged her intimate feminine center, sending waves of exquisite pleasure coursing through the shapely body thrusting against him, projecting ever more imperative need. Striving to give her pleasure, he discovered that his body matched her fierce response. When at last he surrendered to his own now excruciating craving for relief, thrusting rhythmically, deeply, into her welcoming womanly depth, he achieved a pinnacle from which he looked down in triumph as his earlier fears expired in a heap of ashes on the slopes below. Cleo lay breathless, marveling. “My perishing soul, Justin, you keep your promises!” burst from her as she stared up at him, wide-eyed. “Damned right.” The spacer awash in masculine pride slipped off to lie propped on an elbow beside her. Eyes twinkling, he added, “Think I’d gone out on a strut in making that one?” “Of course not!” Pink-cheeked, the Gaean gazed reproachfully at him. “You only said that you’d wake me, and try it rested. You never swore that you’d send me into otherworldly bliss!” That assertion produced a laugh of pure delight. “Girl, you’re a master therapist, you know that? Better than a magical youth potion. Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

“You did, but I don’t ever get tired of hearing you say that,” Cleo assured him, slipping an arm under him. Settling his head on her shoulder, he relaxed, letting his hand steal over to caress her breast. “I hate the thought that all of you will be back out there,” she murmured, brushing the top of his head with her lips. “It’ll be dangerous, mounting that hydraulic system, won’t it?” A quiver in her clear voice betrayed the depth of her anxiety. “No more so than any work done outside, but engineering the damned thing will be tricky. Nerve-racking, more than dangerous, but the job will get done well, just as everything that’s in place got done. So don’t fret, hear?” “Justin, I can’t help worrying, any more than you can, or Michael can, but I’ll function.” “So will all of us. Well, girl, it’s that dismal time again. Heave out.” Seating herself at the table with a plate of mushroom casserole, Cleo greeted Michael, acutely aware of the dark smudges beneath his eyes, and the tight set of his mouth. My blistered body, he looks bone-weary despite his getting extra sleep last night. Or is he going short, due to stress and worry, the way you did? Waking early? Or his he so unable to relax that he can’t fall asleep for hours? He could die out there, if he works exhausted! The ominous sense of foreboding that had disturbed the Gaean on the prior day returned with battering force. Seated next to Nigel at the board in Eleven forty minutes later, Cleo heard the now familiar orders and assurances, and watched on the screen as four silvery forms emerged, floating unwieldy loads she could see only dimly. The figures reached the center of the strut, where they tethered the components. Taut with anxiety, she listened as Michael’s voice reached her.

“The worst chore’s the first one facing us, Marvin: replacing those solid supports with hydraulic actuators capable of providing torque sufficient to rotate the two concentric inner frames ninety degrees while that massive wheel spins. Those outfits will do the job, unless some error got by both of us.” “Let’s hope none did. I figured we’d start on the innermost frame. We’ll clamp cable that’s strategically arranged to hold the gyro’s supporting ring rigidly in place until we get the units mounted.” “Suits me.” Staring almost directly at the end of the strut, Cleo could barely make out the four tiny figures clustered at a point near the face farthest from the axis. They appeared to her to lie on their sides, though she knew they thought of themselves as standing: held to the cross-members of the face by the tenuous g. To them, as to her, “down” meant towards the rim, but they knelt or stood parallel to a radius ninety degrees around the axis from that up which the cameras bringing her the view pointed. In the perception of the woman staring though its dim length from below one end, the bracing within the strut cross-hatched the four bright dots (suited men), who were most clearly visible when they moved. Automatically shifting her glance from scanner to screen, she strained to detect any overtones of fatigue or exasperation in the voices reaching her. “Justin, move that generator over here. That’s good. Now, hand me the cutter. Damn it, I can’t reach that far and still see the gauges!” “Let me hook you into this pair of slings, Michael. Brace one foot against… So. Does that help?” Cleo recognized the voice as Marvin’s. “Better. All right, watch it now.” After an interval, Michael grunted in what Cleo assumed to be relief. “That looks good, Michael. Leonard, lift that… There. I can make the

welds, if you wish.” “Carry on.” Time dragged by. Cleo heard labored breathing, punctuated by an occasional soft curse. Oh, my soul, even Marvin’s doing it! “Hand me that outfit, and I’ll weld the reinforcements.” “Here. I’ll position the generator.” Time seemed suspended, the crowding seconds locked behind some impenetrable barrier. Involuntarily, Cleo held her own breath. “Help me tighten this. Can you…” “Leonard, grab a hold with me. That seems to be…” “That’s got it. It ought to hold. Let me move to reach out…there.” An orange streak met Cleo’s eye as she glanced at the scanner. Oh, no. First one today. Keep a sharp eye out. Nigel’s wholly engrossed…calculating something to do with mass and propulsive thrust. Don’t slip up now, woman. “Well, that was the easier one of those. We’ll need to hang by a damned seat-sling for the next. Hell of a note! Grab that outfit, Justin.” “Got it, Michael. I rigged slings.” “Good. Wait till I… There. Marvin, pull on this f****** c*********!” When Michael let slip what Cleo now knew to be a luridly obscene expression, Nigel swiveled his head to stare at the screen engrossing the Gaean’s attention. His ill-favored face creased into a frown. Passing no comment, he returned to his calculations. Her heart racing, Cleo groaned silently, Oh, my blistered body! Michael, hang on to yourself! “That’s got it, Michael. It looks good. I can reach it easier than you can. Do you want me to do the cutting?” Marvin sounded wholly unruffled. “What in hell makes you think…!” A pause ensued, after which Michael directed levelly, “No…you do it.”

Cleo inadvertently let out a long exhalation, prompting Nigel to glance sharply now at her. After a time, the Captain growled, “That’s got it. Justin, what in hell are you doing? I’ll do the welding.” Time all but stopped for the woman listening with palpitating heart to the string of muttered, vile epithets assaulting her ears. “Looks good, Michael. Let me weld the reinforcements. My hands are rested.” No trace of emotion colored Marvin’s voice. The silence that fell like a pall in the wake of that appeal set Cleo’s heart hammering. Finally Michael rasped, “Carry on.” Oh, Marvin, you keep your word as unfailingly as does Justin, or Nigel. Thank all the Powers! Tense with fear, the woman listened to two more exchanges, as the pair painstakingly finished modifying the two mounts on the outer frame, and fitted them with actuators. Marvin smoothly projected his assumption that the two men would take turns doing the crucial tasks, as before. His superior offered no objection, and the team at length finished the exacting changeover. “That looks damned good, all round, if I say so myself, Michael,” Marvin asserted stoutly. “It’ll serve.” The Captain’s voice grated unnervingly on Cleo’s straining ears. “All right, let’s get the rest of the system for this side mounted. Reservoir first. Justin, you and Leonard and I will do that. Marvin, set up for remote activation of the hydraulic controls.” “A while ago, I marked the sites where we’ll need to attach reservoir, gas tank for charging, heater, accumulator tank, control valves—the whole section of the circuit that goes on this side, Michael,” Justin announced in a voice as calm as Marvin’s. “I committed those measurements to memory, when I got the lines ready, the other day.”

“That’ll save time. Leonard, what in hell did you do with the… That’s right. Over here.” Shifting her eyes to the scanner, then back to the screen, Cleo felt as if her gut sought to digest a stone. No especial problem surfaced as the four men mounted the equipment on the cross-members of the strut. Nigel seemed totally engrossed in his calculations. The swirl of green lines showed no troubling abnormality, and no more orange streaks shot across. “There, that’s got the part of the circuit on this side. We can’t test the damned system until after Conrad mounts the electrical components. If any of those fluid conductors or connections sport a weak place, they’ll blow, and mess up the heating system.” “The heating system’s designed to shut only a small part of itself off if a line blows, Michael. The rest of the coils will go on functioning. Conrad demonstrated that to me. We run no risk of the fluid’s freezing inside the components having small volume, let alone in the reservoir or the accumulator tank, if that happens,” Marvin replied equably. “I tested all the lines we packed out here, Michael. Of course, they had atmospheric pressure outside them, there in Two, but…” “Hell of a big but, that, Justin. Well, we’ll know later this afternoon. Let’s get this blasted second half of the circuit installed.” Time seemed to have slowed to an infinitesimal crawl, in the perception of the woman keeping tedious watch on scanner and screen. Raising his head, Nigel scratched it. Lazily, he drawled, “Bladder need emptying? I’ll watch.” “I’d appreciate that!” Her cheeks a bright rose-pink, Cleo fled to the bathcabin. My blistered body, no finesse to that offer, thoughtful as it was! she fumed as she made use of the urinal. My poor bladder has undergone

continual stress all this week. But thank the Powers, everything seems to be going all right out there. So far. Forty minutes later, Michael’s voice growled in her ears. “Well, that’s it. The system’s in place. We’ll fill the reservoir. Leonard, float that heated tank over here.” After a pause, the youthful spacer declared, “There, it’s anchored. I checked the temperature. The heater’s working fine. Hell of a power-pack, that thing’s got. It’s the same kind as that on the reservoir.” “These Gaean-made outfits differ considerably from ours, but they seem to be well engineered. All right, I’ll connect the tank. There. Open that valve. What in bloody hell! It’s… Damn the filthy son of a bitch!” A succession of searingly unprintable epithets crashed into Cleo’s ears. The tirade galvanized Nigel into sitting tautly erect, and riveting his full attention on the screen. “I’ve shut the valve, but I can’t see!” “Just hang tight, Leonard, until the cloud expands enough to thin to where we can see.” Marvin’s voice sounded as calm now as had earlier. “We didn’t lose much fluid, Michael.” “The blasted needle-valve in the nozzle must be stuck! I can’t shut the damned thing off! I’ve kinked the hose, but…” “Just hang on. Keep it kinked. It has a quick-change coupling, doesn’t it?” “Yes, the…” A blistering, particularly obscene expletive curled Cleo’s nerve endings. “Nigel, we need a flexible, six-centimeter line a meter long, with a quick-disconnect coupling on one end, and a nozzle on the other that’ll fit a standard receiver, for charging this reservoir with fluid. While you’re assembling the line in Two, I’ll have Leonard go in to get it. All right?” Marvin’s inquiry came couched in a voice kept admirably level.

Having wriggled out of the pack, Cleo thrust it on the man beside her. “It won’t take me but a short time to make what you need, Marvin. I’m gone.” Thrusting the pack back into Cleo’s hands, Nigel vanished out the door of the bridge. “I can spell you at holding the kink, Michael,” Justin offered. “Not right now. I can’t see through this fog worth a damn yet.” Michael’s voice grated harshly. Marvin actually laughed. “Now we know what a deep-sea diver on Old Earth would have experienced when a giant squid enveloped him in a cloud of ink.” That sally evoked a monosyllabic grunt from the Captain, but Justin chuckled. No whit daunted by Michael’s reaction, the older man observed equably, “Deep-sea divers must have developed as wary a respect for the incredible pressure outside their suits as we do for the vacuum surrounding us. As chancy a profession as ours, that of diver.” “Chancy’s the word. Michael, let me hold the damned thing for a spell,” Marvin coaxed. “All right. Watch it… That’s good. It’s hard to keep it kinked, but we lost enough oil as things stand. That screw-up must just have happened. You checked the nozzle, didn’t you, Justin?” Cleo could imagine the black frown which she accurately judged to have accompanied Michael’s words. “I most surely did! It worked in Two. The nozzle must have gotten bashed against something on the way out here,” Justin affirmed stoutly. At length, Leonard arrived back, bearing the replacement. Cleo heard exasperated growls as Michael made the change. “Damn! I couldn’t help that. Son of a…” “You made the switch in record time. One can’t avoid a bit of spill in the fastest change. The cloud will dissipate shortly. Less oil escaped the

second time. This nozzle will seat itself into the receiver perfectly…watch. There. Do you want to fill the system, or shall I?” “You do it, Marvin.” Weariness suddenly infused the normally imperious voice, causing Cleo to develop a catch at her heart. Michael has withstood so much pressure on his nerves! He barely escaped dying horribly, just three days ago! He never let on how sore he must have been the next day. He worked hurting. He can’t be sleeping well! Don’t come apart now, spacer-captain! The reservoir having been successfully filled with fluid, and checked for leaks, the officer in charge gruffly declared that part of the job finished, and ordered Cleo to heat the meals for lunch. Nigel commanded, “Give me the pack, Cleo. I’ll watch the scanner, and turn off the fields when they’re in. Get lunch ready.” Hovering over the four tired men wolfing down fried eel, refilling coffee cups as fast as they emptied, Cleo sensed the rawness of Michael’s flayed nerves. No one said much. Marvin’s face seemed more pale even than usual, and his liquid eyes seemed huge in the face nakedly revealing acute strain, but he evinced no sign of petulance, or uncontrollable agitation. Justin failed to conceal from Cleo’s probing eyes the worry he tried hard to hide. Lines of fatigue showed even on the smooth planes of Leonard’s face. At one point, Conrad glanced searchingly at the Captain, and frowned. At the end of the meal, Nigel rose. “Leonard, help Conrad, Justin and myself to suit up, and then man the board in Central. Michael, I assume that you and Marvin will want to run a test of the gear?” Michael’s voice rasped a bit. “We assuredly will, but not with you three out there. We’ll be on the board in Eleven. Tell Cleo when you’re finished, and come in. We intend to spin the gyro, as well as test the

hydraulic system.” Nigel raised an eyebrow. “Won’t the angular momentum affect the stability of the station?” “No. The station’s gyroscope—the far more massive outfit spinning in the housing in the end of the axis—confers a stability that our experiment won’t direly affect, and other compensatory factors will operate. The station will adjust. If it couldn’t, we’d be unable to lift as we intend: ship and gyro spinning in opposite senses, so that the total angular momentum adds up to zero. “We need to test all the systems we can, so as to make certain that the hydraulic system will stand the huge internal pressure, and rotate that stupendous load from the pivot points we’re using, with those actuators. We also need to assure ourselves that our welds and bracing hold. If those give while the outfit’s spinning, the wreck will equal in magnitude any Marvin could have caused bashing something with the strut. If anything goes wrong at the end of today, all our work will have gone for nothing.” Oh, my soul, Cleo exclaimed inwardly as an emotion-charged silence enveloped the company. “When we test the outfit, Marvin and I will be here in Eleven. The rest of you will remain in Central. Safest place, that, if a huge disaster occurs. We’ll test in stages: the hydraulic system against the load not spinning, spinning the wheel, and then rotating the frame holding the spinning wheel. I’m trusting that everything will function properly.” Silence fell like a smothering cloud of soot, after that blunt announcement. Cleo watched Marvin’s face grow almost bloodless. She saw Nigel’s eyes narrow to slits. Shades of my ancestors! she cried mentally. No wonder Michael’s been so uptight all day! Oh, my heart, what a crushing burden he has borne on his broad shoulders, all this time! My perishing soul, what will happen to

us, if all the heroic effort sunk into this project goes for nothing? Is it that frightful thought which has driven him to the edge of nervous collapse? But their gear will work. Surely it will! All of it. It’s got to work! Having followed the Captain into the bridge, Cleo stood back uncertainly. “Take your usual place,” he ordered. Marvin arrived, bearing a chair. As Michael sat down in the second helm couch, Marvin positioned the chair in the narrow space between the couches, and dropped into it. The Captain brought up a formidable array of figures on a large screen, and the two men began a painstaking check on the accuracy of their calculations. Keeping her mind on the comments passing between Leonard and the three men accepting his help to suit up, Cleo nonetheless sampled the tone, rather than the content, of Michael’s and Marvin’s interchange. Michael seems a bit less on edge since lunch, she reassured herself, and Marvin’s valiantly maintaining his calm. I wonder if Michael truly comprehends what a personal triumph Marvin’s behavior today represents? Does he have any idea what unbelievable effort it takes to overcome habits as ingrained over so long a time as were that poor soul’s? I doubt that Michael ever had to change himself radically. His temper gets the best of him at times, but normally he exhibits an admirable mastery of it. Or did he have to work as hard as I did, to learn how to control frequent lapses into hot, destructive, dangerous anger? Whatever, Marvin has managed a miracle. At Nigel’s order, Cleo turned off the fields of the hull, and watched as three figures floated onto the strut, towing bulky loads. Staring tautly at the scanner, she watched, listened, and worried. “Justin, you and I will need to climb down the strut a ways, to mount this first thruster. Once it’s mounted, you can help Conrad while I make the adjustments. I’ll go first. I need to measure the distance with exceeding

accuracy. You wrestle the blasted thing down. It’ll get a bit heavier as you descend.” “I’ll manage.” Time again seemed halted: hamstrung. Two gleaming silver dots crept towards Cleo. A staccato interchange assured her that the unit rested in place. Justin retreated to the strut’s center, and assisted Conrad, who muttered an occasional highly imaginative imprecation, but seemed to encounter no daunting problem. Time broke loose from its stalled state, and advanced at a crawl. Rubbing her damp brow with her sleeve, Cleo slumped in her couch. The day seemed interminable. Nigel at length pronounced his first job finished. His sibilant voice betrayed no sign either of fatigue or exasperation as he enlisted Justin’s help to mount the second item. Conrad worked his way from hydraulic driver to thruster to equipment of his own, which would draw current on this day from the station, via the axis. His route took him to other highly specialized components designed to store the huge amounts of current needed to run the system during launch. Slowly but surely, he unreeled and periodically fastened cable along the span stretching from mid-strut to its end, where he installed the junction his line would make with equipment on Eleven’s hull, once the two masses were reeled in. He then painstakingly retraced his steps, checking as he went. “Nigel, I’m finished on this side,” he finally growled. “Sit in a sling, and rest, Conrad,” Nigel ordered. “For half an hour, hear? Do you feel that you ought to go in for a time? Say frankly.” “My hands are tired, but not dangerously so. I didn’t need to exert much effort with my fingers. I used that automated reel and those lightactivated closures to secure that cable. My toes are damned weary, but I’ll be able to do the other side after I rest a while. No sweat. I sat all

morning. I don’t have to climb down any lower than your thruster, on the other side. That’ll be a cinch, after this pisser of a job.” “Take it easy, hm? Hell of a climb, that was, Conrad.” The sibilant voice breathed a most unwonted, open admiration. Cleo found herself gripping the arm of the couch until her knuckles whitened. Relax, she adjured her alter self. Conrad’s resting. She had seen the tiny figure grow almost imperceptibly bigger in her view, and reach the near end of the towering slender structure. Recalling Marvin’s utter exhaustion on the night he came in from traversing the full daunting length of that bridge over emptiness, she kept glancing at the puny form as it retreated, and grew slowly smaller again in her sight. Oh, Conrad, I’ll wager your toes damned well are numb, she fretted. Even Nigel’s impressed! Tough as spring-steel, you are, you man of steady nerves and iron muscles! Ninety minutes later, Nigel addressed Cleo. “Tell Michael that Conrad, Justin and I finished with no problems surfacing. We’re coming in.” “I’ll do that.” Turning, the woman fixed her eyes on the Captain listening intently as Marvin explained how he intended to program certain fail-safe back-up programs into the main sequence the two would use during launch. Waiting until a break of sorts occurred in the exchange, Cleo relayed Nigel’s message. Michael sat back, his rugged face taut. “Well. Marvin, this is it. We’re about to see whether our engineering skill equals the challenge we’ve set it. Cleo, head for Central—on the double, hear? Have Nigel tell us when you’re all there on Central’s bridge.” Mute, her gut churning, Cleo nodded, whirled about, and fled to the rim. After watching her depart, the two men on the board exchanged bleak looks.

Suddenly, Marvin laughed aloud. “Remember when I told you I was scared, but game, Michael?” he asked. “Well, right now I’m petrified, but damned if I’m not still game. We gave it our best shot. A wreck won’t be due to any carelessness on our part. Hell, no! I’ll wager you my whisky ration against whatever you care to put up, that everything works like a charm.” Astonishment breached the Captain’s habitual control of his expression. His face haggard, he stared in shock at his associate for a few seconds, before his rugged features creased into the first grin he had managed all day. “Damned if I’ll tempt fate by betting against our success, Marvin. If everything works like a charm, I’ll have a drink on you, though, tomorrow, if you’ll crack your bottle.” “I’ll not only crack it. Seven of us will empty it.” The man making that promise returned his partner a vivid smile, before donning his helmet. Damned if Marvin’s not in better control of his nerves right now than you are, the senior officer admitted to himself, shocked at the thought. He has been, all day. What in hell has come over him? I can’t believe… He surely has changed. Cleo’s doing, altogether? Or did she merely initiate the process, by proving to him that he could alter his behavior, and thereby thrust him into an irreversible, self-perpetuating psychological readjustment? Whatever, I can’t believe the magnitude of the change! You owe this man, Michael. You’d never have gotten through this last stretch without him, much as you hate to admit that to yourself. You can’t bring yourself to admit that to him, either, can you? Sharply conflicting emotions contended in the mind already stressed to the maximum. Nigel’s sibilant voice issued from the board. “We’re all here, Michael. We’re ready when the two of you are.”

Well, this is it. Bracing himself, the Captain rasped, “I hear you. Ready, Marvin?” “Ready.” His eyes riveted to a panel of gauges, Michael activated the hydraulic system. No leaks! he exulted, awash in potent relief. At least, not yet. The pressure’s holding. “Marvin, rotate the outer frame,” he ordered. I can’t see what’s going right, damn it! the Captain railed inwardly, but I’ll sure as hell see a wreck if one occurs! “The ring is turning beautifully, Michael. There. I’m rotating it back.” The wreck won’t come during this phase. This part will go like a charm. Disaster will strike when we spin that damned massive wheel! “The inner ring’s rotating. There’s no problem with flexible lines rubbing anywhere, evidently. No problem, period.” None yet, Michael qualified that assurance, frowning blackly. I wish I’d mounted a pair of cameras on the center of the strut. I’ll do that, if I find time. If we’re still in business, tomorrow, that is. Damn! My gut’s tied in an eight! “I’m starting the gyro,” Marvin announced. Eyes glued to the screen, the observer watched like the mythical hawk. No change in strut or axis could he spy. No explosion of the spinning object into fragments occurred, to hurl lethal projectiles possessed of unimaginably destructive momentum outward. No rogue wheel tore loose to wreak havoc on the heart of the station. His brow bathed in a sheen of cold sweat, his breathing suspended, Michael stared at the unchanging, panoramic view. “Michael, it’s spinning like a child’s toy! Perfectly steady! I’m increasing the angular speed…beautiful! I’m exerting the force on the axis of the gyro that will tend to slow the rotation of the station. Watch the

monitors…make sure the station’s compensating. I won’t rotate the gyro more than five degrees…just enough to test whether the hydraulic system’s exerting the necessary force, against that ghastly load.” Michael’s hands clenched on the arm of the couch. Mindlessly, he bit his lip as he scanned the monitors, watched numbers change, observed lights flicker on and off, and saw numbers change back. The station’s handling the stress, he exulted. Marvel of engineering, this place. Now if only everything works on the day we launch… His gut clenched as that thought impinged. “I’m rotating it back. It worked! The lines held, and the torque proved sufficient. There. I’m shutting down the spin. The station compensated, didn’t it?” “It surely did. You’d have won that bet.” Those hoarse words conveyed unutterable relief. Marvin removed his helmet. Raising an arm, he wiped his sleeve across his forehead. “Whew!” he breathed. His gangly body slumped in the couch. “I…I could use a cup of coffee. How about you?” “Could I ever! Let’s indulge, Marvin. Nigel! Everything worked perfectly. If you three haven’t unsuited, do that. It’s 1710. We’ll knock off for the day, hear?” “I hear, chief. Accept my whole-hearted congratulations, both of you, hm?” “Thank you, Nigel.” Damned if he didn’t just give us an accolade! To his vast disgust, Michael realized that his hands were shaking. That circumstance prompted him to wonder bleakly whether his legs would bear him to the food-chemistry laboratory. Savagely, he commanded his mutinous body to function. A shade stiffly, he rose, and strode out to build a pot of coffee. Just as Michael lifted pot from oven, Cleo burst through the door.

Hurling herself into Marvin’s arms, she hugged him fiercely. Startled, he nonetheless hugged her back, gazing apologetically at the other man over her wavy dark head. Having released Marvin, Cleo precipitated herself into the Captain’s arms, and hugged that spent spacer still striving to master quivering raw nerves. “Oh, Michael, you’ve got the worst of the job licked! Everything worked! And everyone’s safe!” “Suffering shades of long-lost spacers, woman, you must have just beat all existing records for a kilometer-and-a-half sprint. Calm down, now! Your heart’s pounding!” “So is yours!” Wiry arms again squeezed with adrenaline-enhanced strength, before Cleo stood back, breathless, her face aglow with profound relief. Marvin thrust a cup of coffee into her hand, and another into Michael’s. “Let’s sit down, shall we?” he suggested. “Damned if my knees aren’t wobbling. I hate the way my body goes on reacting, after my mind knows that everything went all right,” he complained with a ghostly trace of his old petulance. Collapsing into a chair, Michael inhaled a long draught of the steaming brew, burning his tongue in the process. Marvin’s as strung out as I am, but he’s handling himself admirably, the keen observer admitted, eyeing the pale-visaged man sitting opposite. I just hope he functions as well during the frightful ordeal launch will constitute for the two of us: mental strain combined with prolonged, severe, physical stress. I hope I can. I never doubted that I could, before this afternoon. My nerves are shot! If you weren’t so damned hardheaded, spacer, you’d let Justin knock you out again tonight. You simply can’t bring yourself to admit to anyone— even Justin—that you’re having trouble sleeping, and that you need medical

help. Sign of weakness, admitting that. I can’t let on. I won’t! Although…Justin would keep his mouth shut. Maybe I’d… Hell and damnation, lives ride on your steadiness! Cleo’s. Leonard’s. Justin’s. Conrad’s. No unraveling of his self-command appears likely. He took in stride a climb the full length of that damned strut today. He acted as if that feat of endurance were just part of the job. Nigel saved your life, three days ago, for whatever obscure reason. Marvin kept you from coming unraveled, today. Hurts to admit the truth, doesn’t it, spacer-captain? You owe them all, Michael. Swallow your pride, you stiff-necked, strung-out shell of a leader. Ask Justin to put you out, right after supper. Get nine hours of decent sleep. You’ll be outside again tomorrow. It’d be the final damned irony if you sweated successfully through these frightful days, only to make some stupid mistake that costs one of their lives—or your own—doing a far simpler task. Justin scored a point when he said you’d draw on your last reserve of strength and will to save your pride. He has you figured. Canny sort, Justin. Over his plate of spicy casserole, Michael glanced at each face in turn, and extended his sensors, detecting an undercurrent of excitement blended with pride. Morale took a jump today, he exulted, filled with intense satisfaction. They’re buoyed by the consciousness of what we accomplished this week, exhausted as they all are. It’ll work. It has to! Rising from the table, the Captain unobtrusively inclined his head to the medical technician, who caught the summons, and followed his superior officer into the infirmary. Turning to face the object of his recent wrath, Michael commanded evenly, “Fix me a dose of whatever you used to knock me out Wednesday night. I’ve been having trouble getting to sleep, and I need to keep my edge.” Caught wholly by surprise, the man thus adjured nonetheless

succeeded in keeping his profound shock off his face. “Sleep inducer, that was, Michael. I’ll mix a dose.” Having drawn a glass of water, Justin reached into a cabinet for a packet, and dropped the contents into the glass. Adding a spoonful of sucrose, he stirred the mixture, and left the glass on the counter. “Drink all of that after you’re in bed. Eight-hour dose, this. Do you want me to slip through the side door, and make sure you’ve waked, at 0345?” “If I haven’t emerged, do that. I’m going to bed now…at 1855. I ought to wake before I need to rise.” “I’ll keep an eye out.” Carefully keeping face and voice expressionless, Justin bade Michael goodnight. Relief washed through the conscientious caregiver. Having extracted the whirlpool apparatus from a cabinet, he slipped through the door to the food-chemistry laboratory, where Cleo stood lifting the last of the flatware into the drainer. By the liquid seas of the motherworld of men, I can’t believe what I just got asked! the medical technician marveled. Michael realizes that he verged on coming apart, today! He would have, too, if it weren’t for Marvin. Marvin, of all the improbable people! Wonders haven’t ceased. Dust of the ancients, I never thought I’d see the day when Marvin exerted a calming influence on the Captain! I’d better fill this outfit, and waylay Conrad. Grouchy, he’ll be. Well, sweet-talk him into sticking his feet in. Look what a spectacular effect your words last Wednesday produced on a paragon of prideful stubbornness! If you made a dent in that hard head, you ought to be able to charm Conrad into abject, uncomplaining acquiescence. Right? Looking up from wiping the counters, Cleo smiled at the entrant as she saw what he bore to the sink. Justin beamed on her, his response warming

her as she walked through the dining hall to her cabin. I’m as exhausted as if I’d been outside all day, she sighed inwardly. I ought to wash, though my water’s about gone. I’d better use some of it on my hair. Poor Nigel. I’m looking grubby, again, and feeling wrung out. But we’re all safe! That blessed thought makes up for my physical exhaustion, and the lingering toll the strains of the week took on my mental balance. Do what you can to repair the ravages, woman. Rest up, but don’t fall asleep. Disappointing Nigel that way once was enough. Lying naked beneath the cover, refreshed by her frugal wash, Cleo indulged in pleasurable anticipatory reflections. Nigel, she reflected dreamily. I still can’t believe that he saved Michael’s life…grabbed him, and hung on so tenaciously…absolutely refused to let go, even when ordered to do so. I owe Nigel so much! We all do, but I owe him more. He has kept his promise. When he gives his word, he surely keeps it. I’ve come to love him so… Contentedly, Cleo smiled to herself. Springing out of bed when the door slid open, the Gaean ran to the entrant, and hurled herself into his arms. Raising a rapt face to his, she gave herself up to enjoyment of the passionate kiss her action prompted. Freeing her lips, Nigel held her away, and let bold eyes rove the full length of her nude body. “You’ve cast your inhibitions into the void, hm?” he drawled. Smiling radiantly up at him, Cleo nodded. “Tonight, I have. Let me undress you.” When he relaxed his grip, she set about freeing him of his clothing. “And what’s so special about tonight?” her partner inquired as she peeled the sleeves of his tunic downwards over coppery arms. “Nigel, you’re alive! All of you are. No dreadful accident claimed any

of your lives. My spirits have been soaring ever since Michael said everything worked perfectly. I feel reborn, knowing you’re all safe.” Insistent hands slid the man’s pants downward. Dropping to one knee, Cleo yanked off a boot. Steadying himself with a hand on her shoulder, her lover offered the other foot. Having tossed a second boot aside, the Gaean caressed his hard shaft. “Mmmm,” he murmured, his eyes smoldering. Flushing a deep rosepink, she rose to her feet to find herself lifted, and crushed against a muscular chest. Thrusting her arms around Nigel’s neck, she whispered, “Kiss me again.” Dropping to sit on the side of the bed, her partner cradled her in his lap, and obliged. His inquisitive tongue stirred the woman in his arms to a new height of desire. His hands caressed her, prompting hers to slide up his back. He moved, positioning her body so that her legs hung over the bed. Dropping to his knees between her legs, he enfolded her womanly center in his warm moist mouth, lifting her to rapture. His fingers assisted. Soft cries of pleasure fell on his ear with beguiling force. When he entered his partner’s quivering, arching body, he accurately gauged her nearness to climax. Ceasing his rhythmic movements, he calmed her, leaving her writhing with unsatisfied need. “Please,” she begged, her plea expressive of urgency. His eyes glittering, he moved in her, and watched her face change. His own need now intense, he raised them both to simultaneous, deeply satisfying fulfillment, her cry echoing his groan as they achieved a peak simultaneously. Having savored his accomplishment for a brief few moments, he picked her up bodily, laid her limp form lengthwise in the bed, lay down next to her, and enfolded her in his arms. After a time, Cleo stirred, and melted even more closely against him.

“That was marvelous,” she murmured softly. “Quite the uninhibited partner—one well able now to enjoy sexual pleasure for its own sake, hm?” “Well able to enjoy the blissful way you make me feel, for its own sake. I have to admit to that,” she confessed, smiling out of a face wreathed in a rosy blush. “Your daring is still light-years ahead of your conditioning.” “My six lovers are reconditioning me, Nigel. Tell you what. You put in a frightful week. Even your invulnerable self must be as tired as it ever gets. Turn over, and I’ll massage your back.” “What an offer!” Even as he spoke, the recipient of that welcome announcement rolled over with languorous grace to lie prone. Seated astride narrow hips, Cleo exerted herself to remember all this lover periodically did for her tired body, and went to work on his. My perishing soul! Nigel’s muscles are harder even than Michael’s! she marveled. Well, he’s stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. And yet, his muscles don’t really bulge. He’s lithe…almost slim. Tall. And he moves with such sinuous grace! If his face weren’t so ugly, he’d be a most attractivelooking man. Strange…I don’t consciously think of him as ugly, any more. I’m so used to him. He radiates…something. Whatever it is cancels out the effect of his ill-assorted features. And how he makes me feel…! Hands strong for a woman’s kneaded the iron sinews, and prodded the muscles that the events of the week had so sorely tested. Smiling as a sigh of pleasure wafted by her ears, the amateur masseuse adjured herself firmly, Now don’t quit, just because your hands are numb with fatigue. Keep going. He does a thorough job on you, when you need it! Having driven her exhausted fingers to the limit, Cleo at length desisted, and sank down to recline atop her companion’s utterly relaxed body.

“Now, that was a treat,” he murmured. “I thank you.” “Don’t think I don’t find your skill a treat to stressed-out, overworked muscles,” she retorted. “Where did you learn how to give a massage?” “By patronizing some of the highly skilled masseurs one finds in the capital. Costs a man, their service, but I confess to having indulged rather often, when I could.” “I’ll wager I’m a poor substitute.” Rolling over, Nigel tipped her off, and slipped both hands under her back. “Not at all. You possess strength to match your determination to please. Any touch of your hands…or tongue…gives me exquisite pleasure, Cleo.” His mouth caressed her breast, and his tongue tickled her nipple, provoking a giggle. “Seeing as you’ve launched your inhibitions into the void, care to try something new?” The sibilant voice breathed challenge. “Like what?” Rising off her with fluid grace, the seasoned sensualist pulled her up with him. “Kneel on the edge of the bed, and drop your shoulders to the mattress,” he whispered. “Nigel…!” “Go on. You’ll like the way it feels.” Positioning her body in the ungainly manner her lover suggested, Cleo shivered as his hands caressed her, and quivered as he slid his shaft into her womanly depth from behind, while standing erect. The ungraceful attitude proved as pleasurable as any she had tried. His thrusts reached some center his shaft only stimulated when he entered her from the rear. A gasp escaped her, prompting him to smile in amusement even as his rhythmic penetrations again raised her to a most satisfying peak. Sweeping her up, he sat on the edge of the bed, and cradled her in his lap. She lay limply in the circle of his arm, her eyes closed, savoring a sense

of having reached a safe refuge. He rose, then, holding her with one arm, and pulled aside the bedcover with the other. Laying her in the bed, he slid in beside her, and kissed her with that possessiveness she now perceived as unutterably satisfying. His salute turned gentle, tender. When he freed her lips, he tucked her into his usual nightly embrace. “Cleo,” he whispered with passionate intensity, “I was tired tonight. I’m not invincible…not invulnerable. You gave me exactly what I needed most, out of your acute sensitivity to the needs of others: an ability to sense moods that I suspect borders on a psychic power to read minds. I love you, for that sensitivity, as much as for the other traits I find so attractive. Believe me!” “I believe you. I love you, Nigel. I’m so glad you’re safe!” Snuggling against him, Cleo hugged him, reveling in the touch of his hand sifting through her hair. With precipitate speed, she drifted off to sleep. Nigel lay awake for a longer time, his ill-favored face set in lines of a passionate yearning most unusual for him.

WEEK SEVEN: SUNDAY Michael’s transition from deep, sound slumber to a twilight state of drowsy lassitude lasted a good ten minutes, and proved highly resistant to his feeble struggles to wake, to rise, to regain his accustomed keen mental and physical alertness. What in hell’s the matter with you this morning? he querulously demanded of his alter ego as he sought to flex flaccid muscles, and order lethargic limbs into instant action. You need to hit the deck. What in hell has happened to you? Enlightenment dawned. That dose Justin mixed you knocked you on your ass, spacer-captain. What foul hour is it? Only 0312. You don’t need to heave out yet, damn it. Relax. You asked for the blasted potion. You swallowed your pride, and washed down that indigestible lump with a liquid smash to the solar plexus. Well, it worked. It put you out as effectively as would a hammerblow between the eyes. Damned if you didn’t get eight hours of solid shut-eye! Today’s Sunday. You’ll be helping Conrad and Marvin attach the scan platforms. Marvin will integrate the thrusters into the program for the launch sequence. Touchy, that’ll be. Well, he achieved prodigies, all week. He won’t fall down on the job now. Exerting himself, Michael managed to roll over. Wadding the pillow under his ear, he abandoned his intent to spring to his feet, and grab his

pants. I guess I’ll just lie here and come out of it slowly, he decided, casting a jaundiced eye on the clock. Rise at the last minute. I feel rested, though. Up to anything. Or will be, in thirty more minutes. Cleo’s early awakening proved almost as gradual as Michael’s. Having grown languidly aware of warmth, she opened her eyes to see Nigel’s tall body sprawled prone beside her. Both arms held the pillow bunched under his face. His deep, steady respirations told her that he still slept. My perishing soul, he must have been exhausted last night, she surmised. He always wakes early. Well, any other man who’d done what he did this past week would be lying in a state of collapse. Or…dead. Should I let him sleep till the last minute? Or would he be offended? It’s Sunday. The worst chores are behind them…aren’t they? Rising, Cleo straddled the tall body, and threw herself forward on Nigel’s back. As her arms slid around his muscular torso, she kissed him under one ear. Startled into instant if confused awareness, her bedmate rose with galvanic suddenness, toppling her off. Twisting with feline ease, he pounced on her. Iron fingers closed over her upper arm, as his right hand poised itself above her. Realization occurred barely in time to stop the blow instinctively launched. Releasing her arm, the attacker dropped on her chest, laughing wryly. “What an ungraceful return for so appealing a gesture!” he murmured. “I need to exert myself to atone for being slow on the uptake this morning, hm?” Before she could reply, his mouth closed over hers, in a wholly erotic, possessive kiss. When will you learn? the lover of six veteran spacer-fighters chided herself in exasperation, even as Nigel’s invading tongue roused her to fierce desire. When you get your nose broken, or your windpipe crushed? My

blistered body… Freeing her mouth, her partner kissed her throat, and slid downwards to tickle her nipples with insistent, provocative tongue. Her hands caressed hard-muscled shoulders, and then sifted through tousled dark hair. Her chagrin melted in the heat of the passion this virile partner’s artistry never failed to generate, as with hands, and mouth, and lithe, hard body Nigel raised her first to rapture, and then to sheer ecstasy. Lying limply in the circle of his arm, held close to his muscular torso, she sighed softly, provoking a chuckle. “Don’t let my instinctive reaction discourage you from trying that again, Cleo. Condition me out of waking dead certain that I’m being attacked.” “I might not survive the attempt!” “My reflexes are fast enough that I’ll pull any punch I launch, in time.” “I don’t need the added stimulus of courting mortal danger!” Laughing in delight, her partner countered provocatively, “Danger provides spice to any pleasurable activity. I’m not the man you ought to fear the most in that situation, though. Better watch how you wake Michael, Cleo.” “Don’t worry, I…” Breaking off in confusion, the Gaean grew exquisitely conscious that her cheeks burned, as Nigel rose on an elbow, and smiled wickedly down at her. “Found that out, hm? And survived, no less! Michael must be losing his edge. You’ve shorn him of his strength the way Delilah did Samson. Or have you ever read those stories?” Amazement overcame acute embarrassment. Thrown off balance, Cleo blurted, “I can’t believe that you have!” That slip prompted the duelist to burst into hearty, unrestrained,

ecstatic laughter. On beholding signs of an imminent explosion in the flashing brown eyes and suddenly mutinous face of his companion, he got himself in hand. “I wasn’t laughing at you, Cleo! Believe me. You’re as refreshingly open and honest a woman as I’ve ever known. Renders you vulnerable to teasing, that honesty. And you’re right. If I gleaned any lesson from reading those ancient stories, it was that of demanding an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. If you want to know the truth, you’ve altered my thinking more than any other outside source ever has…the more readily because you didn’t consciously try to change me, and proved so resistant to coercion yourself. Rugged individualist, you are. I love you for that, as much as for anything.” Mercurial anger drained away, to be succeeded by utter shock. Wideeyed, Cleo stared up into dark eyes suddenly passionately expressive. “Nigel…” she whispered, as she read what those eyes revealed. Slipping both arms beneath her, Nigel kissed her, possessiveness swiftly shading into infinite gentleness. When his lips released hers to brush her cheek, his arms maintained their formidable grip. Immobilized in that all-encompassing embrace, the Gaean sensed the turbulence of the powerful emotions she had just glimpsed: emotions that sparked an answering turmoil in her own breast. The two lay entwined, holding each other, their hearts beating rapidly, for a span of restive seconds held relentlessly in check by some benign power. When the satiated sensualist finally stirred, and muttered a regrettable denunciation of the need to rise, Cleo whispered, “Nigel…I love you…” Lips brushed her forehead as their owner smiled. “I believe you. Rise up, now. I’ll even go so far as to fetch your outer integument from the adjuster.”

Giving his partner a brisk hand up, he strolled with nonchalant grace, stark naked, to ascertain that the bathcabin lacked occupants. Having locked the other door, he returned to find Cleo standing nude, busily stripping the bedding. Picking up the fresh sheet, Nigel helped her make the bed, convulsed by renewed mirth. “Didn’t I tell you the time would come when you’d lose that wholly dispensable excess of modesty? The sight of you in that state gives me a final rush of pleasure.” “Nigel, you’ve shattered my deepest inhibitions, damned if you haven’t! There, not a wrinkle. Now, let’s hurry. Here, hold out your arms.” Smiling into sparkling dark eyes after helping her partner into his tunic, Cleo reached out and fastened the bands, then handed him his pants. Sipping his abbreviated eye-opener, Michael savored his consciousness of well-being, refusing to let even the evidence of Cleo’s buoyant spirits as she preceded Nigel through the line disturb his newly regained aplomb. Lovely, she looks today, he mused. Happy. Not all Nigel’s doing, that glow, I’ll wager. She’s ecstatic that we’re all safe. She worried constantly, all week. Well, so did you. Cost you, that mental strain. Good thing you swallowed your pride. You’re rested, today. Easy to grow overconfident, outside. Easy to figure that you can relax your guard, now that the worst is over. That’s exactly when you’d be most likely to make some fatal error. I’d hate like hell to blast all that we’ve accomplished, at this final stage! Marvin seems calm. The strain will be most severe on him, today. You stand deeply in debt to him, spacer-captain. Towards the end of breakfast, having cast a reflective glance upon the Captain placidly downing his last bite of banana muffin, Nigel rose. “Leonard, you and I will help Conrad, Marvin, and Michael suit up. Cleo, you and I’ll man the board in Eleven.”

Turning to see the head cook enter through the door behind the counter, he added, “Justin, you’ll man Central’s board. You may need to switch off certain equipment connected to the scan platforms. Might he not, Marvin?” “That’s so. I’ll show you, before I suit up, Justin.” Seated in her usual place, listening to the familiar cross-talk, Cleo savored vast relief engendered by Michael’s evident calm. He must have fallen asleep with no difficulty last night. He looks more rested this morning than he has all week. I’m so glad! He skirted nervous collapse yesterday. Marvin’s holding up marvelously well. Conrad looks a bit tired still, but steady as ever. Tough as a carbon-fiber laminate, Conrad. I never realized just how tough, until this week, but he rivals Nigel for brute stamina. There they go, floating upwards, parallel to the axis. Keeping one eye on the scanner, Cleo listened. “It would be easier to remove the boom to which the scan platform’s mounted, than to try mounting the platform directly to the strut, wouldn’t you say, Marvin?” Conrad inquired. “That’s what I figured we’d do. Besides, the boom holds the platform out beyond the fields of the hull. It’s engineered so that it shields the equipment from those. In any case, we’ve got to remove the two platforms that are in the way, so we might as well use them. “I took time during my recreation periods this week to study what’s mounted out here. Luckily, one of these holds the imaging system: two cameras, one producing wide-angle images, the other narrow-angle. When those scan a body, it’s also viewed by the infrared radiometer interferometer and spectrometer, and the photopolarimeter, which Wallace used to study the surface texture and composition of Whipple. Of what’s out here, those are what I’d like most to steal.” “What else is out here?”

“That same boom holds a system for detecting cosmic rays, one for studying the gas giant’s magnetosphere, and several kinds of plasma detectors. The second—which we’ll also make off with—holds a telescope boasting a state-of-the-art segmented mirror, and some radioastronomical equipment. The far one—luckily, the one we don’t have to detach—held the laser communication transceiver for down-link with Gaea. The Gaeans deliberately destroyed vital electronic components in that system, to keep us from using it. That fourth boom holds an ultraviolet spectrometer, and some other equipment for studying the upper layers of the gas giant’s atmosphere, and measuring its ultraviolet emissions.” “If I had time, I’d surely love to make use of that outfit for studying the magnetosphere. As long as we have to detach both platforms, Michael, would you mind if we hooked up both, so we could run the equipment from Eleven’s board?” No hint of the Captain’s satisfaction surfaced in his voice as he replied, “I figured on your doing that, Conrad.” “Our despin assemblies get attached at a junction just above the mount, Michael. Adding those components as we attach the booms won’t be difficult,” Marvin explained. Wallace’s research project is on indefinite hold, Cleo mourned. As effectively scrapped as is mine. When he returns—if he ever does—he’ll find his instruments gone—platform, boom, the works. Poor man! I wish I could let him know I’m alive… Sorrow welled up to squeeze Cleo’s heart. Nigel strode into the bridge, and seated himself beside her. Having stared for a few seconds at the four silvery dots clustered at a point high on the axis, he brought up work of his own on the screen in front of him. Cleo listened to Marvin’s requests to Conrad for tools and assistance as he attached his remotes to the first boom, while Michael studied how best to detach the unit. To the Gaean’s relief, no problem surfaced, and none of the

three men seemed uptight, or tense. Shifting her gaze from screen to scanner with the practiced skill gained over the past nerve-racking week, she felt more at ease than she had during any prior stretch on the board. Conrad’s voice reached her. “Damned if I wouldn’t blow a hundred credits for an hour in which to aim these cameras at Whipple and study the view,” he grumbled. “It’s almost as close as it gets. Spectacular, isn’t it?” “Magnificent. Intriguing body, Whipple. Mysterious…full of contradictions. Well…perhaps after we launch…as we leave…we could take some parting shots.” Marvin’s reply likewise expressed longing. “It seems as if we could maneuver over to it, doesn’t it? Now that we aren’t looking at it through the plane of the tethers.” “It surely does seem that close. I find my eyes straying back to it every so often, I have to admit. Well…that does it, for this set of remotes. Michael, I’m maneuvering to the second platform.” “It won’t be hard to detach this. The four booms are identical, are they not?” the Captain replied. “They are.” “I’ll give you two a hand, then. I won’t need to inspect the other.” Cleo found herself wishing she were floating freely, gazing raptly at Whipple. I can see why the life of a spacer attracts men so strongly, as hard and as dangerous as it is, she ruminated wistfully. Spice to any pleasurable activity, Nigel considers danger. A stimulant. Will I miss the danger, if I ever again live where there isn’t any? Grow bored by a normal life? I wonder. There’s so much I’d like to learn… No chance of that. I’m incredibly lucky to be where I am, doing what I’m doing, but I can’t help wishing… Spacer. Damn! “Michael, that does it,” Marvin asserted, interrupting Cleo’s unwonted indulgence in wishful thinking. “I’ll go in. Justin, you can perform those operations now that we went over earlier.”

“Right.” “Well, Conrad, we’ll float, rest, wait, and gaze at Whipple,” Michael declared. Certain that he shot a broad grin at the man he addressed, Cleo again savored relief. At length, Marvin arrived. Nigel rose with fluid grace, and waved the newcomer into the second helm couch. “I’ll take a break,” Nigel announced. “Bring a chair back.” Nodding, Marvin sat down, and activated certain controls. “Tell Michael to detach both,” he told Cleo, as he shrugged into the pack Nigel held for him. Watching the two figures carry out their task, Cleo heard Michael declare the job finished. Marvin announced levelly, “I’ll fly the one for the despin side of the strut first, Michael. Ease it down onto the ladder-member. You two stay well inside the openwork, until I get the outfit in position. Hear?” “Right.” The Captain’s voice held no edge. Cleo watched the sensitive fingers play lightly on the controls. Shifting focus, she saw the blur of motion as a slender openwork boom bearing a bulky cluster of lumps on one end flew magically alongside of the axis in eerie slow motion. The apparition hovered briefly above the strut before drifting down to make contact. “That’s got it,” Marvin declared. “I’ll hold it steady, but if you feel it move, let go!” “We hear you,” Michael replied equably. “Conrad, push outwards a trifle… That’s good. Clamp it. We’ll need to weld supports. I brought what I figured would work. Here.” Time sped along. “I’ve got this side,” Conrad muttered. “Hell of a note, working hanging off the side of this outfit. Will the damned thing line up with your brace, now? If not, I can…”

“It’s lined up. There. No sweat. Let me tighten this… That’s got it. Two more, now. Ingenious, your modification for despin.” After a time Conrad grunted, “That looks good.” “It ought to hold. We’re moving back away again, Marvin. Fly the second.” The experience gained on the first chore allowed the two men to accomplish the next more quickly. When the second boom rested securely in place on the side of the strut opposite the first, Marvin sat back, removed his helmet, and dragged a sleeve across his damp brow. Turning to smile into Cleo’s anxious face, he observed, “No amount of practice makes that chore seem a cinch. I still go all tense.” “I don’t wonder!” “I’m coming in, Marvin,” Conrad announced. “Walking to Eleven. Nigel, I’ll need someone to lug my gear from Two to Eleven.” “Leonard, do that,” Nigel ordered. As Marvin rose, stretched, scratched a spot over his ribs, and strode out to return to Central, Nigel seated himself in the couch, and addressed Cleo. “I’ll keep watch. I expect by now you need to take a leak, hm?” “Nigel!” His chuckle tingled in her ears as she vanished through the door. My bloated bladder does need relief, she admitted. My perishing soul, would he have said that in front of Marvin? Surely not! Whatever has come over him? Is he determined to override my other inhibitions the way he has my modesty? My blistered, battered body, he’s… Spluttering mentally, Cleo achieved a most welcome relief. Floating at his ease above the plane of the strut, Michael watched for a time as it swept out a circle below him. Detached from the station, he beheld the huge artifact rotate, its revolving tethers a blur of greenish light. Turning lazily over by loosing a few puffs of gas, he swept his eyes across

the huge, dark face of Whipple. Heavily cratered, that brooding body floated in tantalizing nearness, the edges of the pits scarring its surface outlined in silver, as the rime frosting them caught the light of the distant star. The magnificent turquoise sphere of the giant gaseous planet shed ghostly light of its own, tinting the carbon-black-and-icy-white features of its visitor in its turn. What a sight! the viewer marveled. Not that the Ice World isn’t, observed from a hull in Columbia, but it’s featureless compared to this. Columbia displays its web of metallic habitats in spectacular fashion to a man anchored to a hull on the Ice World. I’ve seen that spectacle. I expect the Gaeans get a great view of neighboring rocks in the group, standing in a suit above a habitat on one of their planetoids, but Halleck’s all I’ve seen of Gaea. And I’ve only seen that from the ship’s screens. No marvelous celestial visitor showed up to provide a thrill on distant O’Neill. Dyson’s noxious atmosphere reflects light evenly. That body constitutes a pretty sight from Gaea or Columbia, but Dyson’s bland. A man would get a great view of that uninhabitable moon of the gas giant from Wheeler, I’d guess, but no man has ever set foot on Dyson’s jagged, rocky satellite. Well, the renegades hiding out on O’Neill didn’t pick that refuge for its view, Michael. They chose it for its isolation, and this marvel only shows up here approximately every nine Earthyears. Too bad Cleo can’t see it like this…from outside. A notion streaked from nowhere to impact Michael’s mind. Why shouldn’t she? he asked himself. We’ve got that relatively small suit…and she hasn’t ever worn a suit, that I know of. She wouldn’t know how to walk in one, if we ever face an emergency. We could encounter some problem, aboard, after launch, if we don’t die in the attempt. Maybe I’d better… Damn it, I will, tomorrow. I’ll need to inspect that cable that wrapped around Ten. I won’t take her on that jaunt, but I could show her how to

float, and teach her how to use a maneuvering unit. She’s as game—as cool a head—as any recruit I ever took out for the first time. More so than some. I’ll spring it on her, tomorrow. Marvin will be working on the board. Conrad as well. Justin will likely need to catch up on food-preparation, after this week. Should I risk Nigel’s being out with me, when that’s not really necessary? Take Justin? No. Leonard’s used to running the winch for the platform. I’ll invite Nigel to conduct the inspection with me. That will add to his ownership in this venture. I’ll also share with him the pleasurable chore of teaching Cleo to maneuver. Whatever possessed him to grab you last Wednesday, you owe him, too, Michael: for your life. And if your wild idea works, you’ll need to make some fundamental changes in certain underpinnings—subtly alter some relationships. Start ahead of time. Your doing that now might help, later, when you make your pitch. You’re going to need every shade of advantage you can muster, at that juncture. Floating at his ease, lost in contemplation of a chancy future course, Michael failed to see Marvin emerge from the lock, until that bloated spidery form drew almost alongside of him. “There you are,” the Captain declared crisply, a trifle embarrassed by his lapse into unheeding reverie. “Conrad’s evidently not out on Eleven’s hull yet.” “I’m just entering Eleven’s lock, Michael. I’ll be out in a few minutes. I’ll check on the main power-generating gear I installed, while I’m waiting for orders.” “Do that.” As he spoke, Michael jetted himself to the center of the strut, in the programmer’s wake. His suit festooned with a welter of small electronic components, Marvin set to work. He said little, the exacting nature of his task absorbing his full attention, but when he spoke, requesting a tool, or a hand to hold some

delicate item in place, he exhibited no sharpness of tone. With exquisite care, he added new equipment to Conrad’s circuitry. Moving to a thruster in Marvin’s wake, Michael watched as the expert deftly, painstakingly added the hardware that would allow the propulsive unit to function synchronously with those that would lift Eleven and its countermass. Damned if he isn’t a priceless asset, the Captain conceded. You couldn’t have done this without him. You lucked out without realizing it, when you drew Marvin instead of Harmon. Damned if Harmon would have displayed the originality—or the sheer guts—this man has exhibited. Harmon’s greater age and longer experience would have kept his mind more firmly in a groove…hampered his thinking. Marvin displays a marvelous flexibility, and an astonishing creativity. Genius, he is. I believe that now. Fortunate in your crew, you are. Lucky to have every single one of them. His tedious, nerve-racking chore finished, Marvin made his way to the second thruster, and repeated the task. He then gave a series of concise, clear directions to Conrad, as that hardy spacer worked alone on Eleven’s hull. At the conclusion of that exchange, Marvin issued equally clear instructions to Nigel, who ran a series of tests from Eleven’s board, all of which gave positive results. “Well, that’s it, Michael,” the programmer exclaimed in a voice tremulous with fatigue. “Our improvisations ought to serve.” “Are your fingers numb?” A chuckle filled Michael’s helmet. “I’m tired enough that I’ll look forward to hanging five of them in Justin’s whirlpool while we drink a toast to our successful week.” Laughing, the Captain clapped his crewman on the back. “Let’s grab a sandwich, and do that.” Having thrown the switch to turn the fields of the hull back on, Cleo sat back, and heaved an audible sigh of relief.

Nigel smiled broadly on her. “My relief’s submerged under a towering wave of pride, Cleo. Quite a transformation, we’ve wrought. I’ve unshakable faith in our creation. Old Eleven will fly like Sindbad’s roc, hm?” “Like the mythical eagle, Nigel. I’ve no doubt on that score either.” Cleo flashed him a vivid smile. “Well, I’d better help Justin set out a late lunch.” Over a plate of spicy stew served with the garlic-flavored toast Cleo surprised Justin by preparing before he returned from Central, Michael monitored the level of his crew’s morale, and noted the undercurrent of excitement. They’re as proud of what we’ve accomplished as you are! he exulted. They’re exhausted, but they’ll unwind, now. Nigel looks smug as a commander who’s just scored a major triumph over a rival. Well! Rising, Michael faced his crew. “Cleo. Gentlemen. I’m feeling a most gratifying pride in what our team has accomplished this week. Every one of you gave the undertaking the maximum in effort and painstaking care. Accept my thanks for a job superbly carried out, under difficult and dangerous conditions. I’m unutterably heartened by our joint success.” Scanning six faces, the Captain read pleased acceptance of his words, and deep satisfaction. “We’ll knock off for the day, as soon as this meal’s over, and the dishes washed. We’ll eat sandwiches for supper. Cleo, you and Leonard tend those chores. Justin, I’ll see you in the infirmary, right now.” Michael led the way into his office, and turned in time to observe the wariness with which the man thus imperiously summoned regarded him. Smiling at his medical technician, Michael waved him into the chair. “Take a seat, Justin. I’m about to lay a ticklish chore on your ample shoulders.” Relieved by the jocular tone, the older man seated himself across the

worktable from his superior, who announced, “Tomorrow, I’m taking time to teach Cleo the rudiments of how to move—and maneuver—in a pressure suit. While I consider the possibility remote, we could encounter an emergency aboard Eleven, after launch. As far as I know, she has never worn a suit. Nigel and I selected the smallest of those aboard the ship. They’re designed—naturally—for use by men. I’d like you to modify the outfit, first thing tomorrow morning, so that she can utilize the urine-storage capacity.” Dismay melted into rueful amusement on the seamed brown face of the recipient of that order. “Ticklish isn’t the word I’d use,” Justin drawled, “but you’re right. If we had to stay pressure-suited for any length of time, she’d be direly uncomfortable if we don’t manage something. Besides, a large overflow could conceivably interfere with the suit’s functioning. I’ll give it my best shot.” “Do that. You’ll help her into the outfit you rig.” That order produced a wry chuckle. “Laying me a task guaranteed to test my tactfulness, are you, Michael? All right, I’ll see what I can come devise, in the morning.” “I place abundant faith both in your tact and your ingenuity.” I wish I could say the same, the technician muttered under his breath, even as he nodded. His superior added sternly, “Keep my plans to yourself, today.” “I would without your telling me, Michael.” Closed-mouthed as they come, you are indeed, the Captain silently commended the technician. “All right, let’s enjoy a well-earned break.” Six people dropped with eager relief into the couches in the recreation hall, to see Marvin emerge from the bridge, carrying a tray upon which reposed his ration of whisky, a bowl of ice, and glasses.

“Drinks are on me, today,” he announced a trifle bashfully. “I told Michael yesterday we’d crack my bottle, and celebrate our finishing without seeing anything fly apart.” “Most especially, that perverse issue of a mutant mother that you wafted so delicately into place and then spun, hm?” “Most emphatically, that,” Michael agreed vociferously. Accepting a drink, Justin frowned at the clouded, scratched, recyclable vessel barely doing adequate duty. “Nigel,” he asked a bit diffidently, “how difficult a chore would it be, for you to blow some plates, bowls and mugs, of glass? These outfits I retrieved from the recycling bins of the ship won’t last much longer.” Cocking his head, Nigel inspected his own equally battered utensil. Raising an eyebrow, he remarked, “It’s a wonder they’ve lasted this long, hm? If I find time, I’ll see what I can do. I might have to machine molds, and blow into those. That method takes less time in the long run.” “Good thing flatware’s metal. I’d hate to have to produce forks,” Conrad remarked to his fellow cook. “So would I!” “It has always seemed to me an extravagant waste of time and energy to keep recycling food containers,” Marvin volunteered. “I’d think it’d be easier to collect and reuse them.” “I suspect that recycling them requires less energy than would giving them the added mass that would enable reusable containers to last through the sterilization process,” Cleo observed. “Shipping greater mass would prove costlier, also. Especially in Gaea.” “Earthmen packed food in containers that they threw away afterward,” Leonard remarked, shaking his head in wonder. “They ate off of fancy ware they owned. Those outfits they washed after each use—in water, mind you!” “Those same Earthmen trashed their planet: exploited its

unimaginable riches, and created an extravagantly wasteful, throw-away life-style,” Nigel drawled disgustedly. “They surrounded their cities with mounds of garbage: metals, polymers, non-biodegradable offal of all sorts. The heedless sods all but destroyed a flourishing, delicate web of ecosystems world-wide, by fouling their air, soil and water, even before they completed the wreck by engaging in nuclear warfare.” “Even before the fanatical, scientifically ignorant elements among them started that devastating war, those who considered themselves civilized passed their most stringent regulations against such criminal assaults on the environment after the bulk of the harm had occurred,” Michael agreed grimly. “They did too little, too late, and compounded their error by embracing denial. They ignored the looming, clearly evident danger posed by the acquisition of nuclear weapons by fanatics enmeshed in a cult of death. Those who should have known better ignored the ominous signs of approaching disaster. They mouthed ineffectual words, but took no concrete steps to prevent what inevitably happened.” Seven people sighed, and shook their heads, as they recalled that cataclysmic period in the history of Old Earth. “I’ve worried that washing in hot soapy water, and then rinsing in steaming water, might fail to kill dangerous microbial organisms, but our procedures seems to work adequately,” Justin commented, thereby returning their thoughts to the present. “We can’t run phenolic compounds into the tank into which the sinks and showers drain. They’d zap the microorganisms tailored to degrade the soap and human skin cells, in the drain-units. We avoid letting the dirty dishes stand, however, and we cook the food in the containers that double as plates.” A snort emanating from Nigel greeted that admission of anxiety. Vehemently, he asserted, “I rather think we’re overly fastidious, Justin. Cultural holdover, that squeamishness, from the days when virulent

epidemics of contagious diseases rampaged through direly overcrowded cities packed with a teeming populace. The people settling in this starsystem screened their ranks with meticulous care, with the result that certain highly infectious organisms don’t exist here. “Careful monitoring by the Ministry of Health of the genetic potential of married couples, and the recording of that information in the world’s databank under the numerical surname-code of individuals, avoids the production of most genetic defects in children, and prevents the debilitating effects of inbreeding. Rare defects arising through mutation can usually be repaired by gene therapy. No, we’re not at much risk, washing our plates in soapy water that we meticulously recycle.” “I suppose too, that half-measures would cause the malignant organisms to grow tolerant of the chemicals,” Justin remarked, recalling prior experience. “They might even learn to thrive on phenol!” “As harsh an environment as either of our worlds forms for its Earthevolved inhabitants, we enjoy one safeguard Earthmen didn’t,” Cleo contributed. “No dense population of animals raised for food, hides, or kept as pets, exists in this system—and practically no soil. A good many diseasecausing organisms on Earth maintained themselves in animals or soil, and stayed constantly available to infect people.” “Some of the most deadly diseases sweeping through populations on Earth—smallpox, tuberculosis, measles, malaria, plague, cholera, and autoimmune deficiency syndrome, for example—arose from diseases of animals,” Nigel contributed. “Here, the only animals existing—other than ourselves—are a small number of rodents used for research, and those are bred under highly sterile artificial conditions, in laboratories.” “What diseases plague us here evolved from organisms originally producing only mild discomfort,” Justin commented. “Like the virus that causes lung-burn fever.”

“We’re rather in the position that small, isolated, primitive tribes occupied, before being visited by men from crowded, disease-plagued cities, aren’t we?” Leonard asked, frowning. “We most surely are. The arrival here of men from Earth—if Earth still harbors men—or men from densely populated places elsewhere in the galaxy, would likely infect us with diseases that would wipe us out as effectively as smallpox decimated the natives of North and South America in the wake of the first Europeans to arrive on those continents,” Justin declared, shuddering at the thought of trying to cope with so dire a calamity. “We’d totally lack immunity.” “We’d have to consider any such visitors hostile invaders—forbid them to dock, or else strictly quarantine them,” Michael observed, frowning. “Act thus out of a fundamental instinct for self-preservation.” “Perhaps any men arriving would be as unwilling to put us at such risk, as we would to refuse them a landfall,” Marvin opined softly. “Just imagine what we could learn from modern Earthmen!” “If they haven’t degenerated into something we’d regard with in absolute horror,” Conrad countered sardonically. “Rapacious, murderous savages fleeing a fallen civilization on a totally ruined planet.” “If they’ve degenerated to that extent, likely they’ve ceased to be a spacefaring civilization,” Leonard protested. “If we ever see ships arriving, I’d bet they issue from some alien civilization,” Nigel remarked, musingly. “We might not even recognize what we see—or don’t see, but somehow sense—as ships.” “Any aliens smart enough to spend their time casually touring the galaxy would likely turn up whatever serves them for noses at a crude civilization clinging precariously to airless, barren rocks,” Conrad objected. “They’d seek out lush planets: the sort Earth once was.” Cleo giggled, as a notion struck her. “Beauty’s in the eye of the

beholder…or the breather, Conrad. What serves them for noses might find oxygen toxic and liquid water disastrously corrosive. They might regard Dyson’s atmospheric nitrogen, ammonia, methane, propane, and acetylene as the epitome of lushness.” “Anthropocentric, we are, still,” Nigel agreed. “What does that forty-credit word mean?” Leonard inquired. “We see man as the center of the universe,” the life-support engineer replied, chuckling. “Instead of what he quite possibly is: a flawed offshoot on the main tree of galactic life—a failed experiment evolving on a singularly rare type of planet sporting liquid water. A species doomed to be replaced— swept aside, galaxy-wide—by the multitudinous, eminently successful, sentient life-forms rising in droves from giant gaseous planets, or clouds of interstellar gas.” “Damned if I think we’ll be replaced by gallivanting gasbags,” Conrad growled. “I wonder if life based on matter itself isn’t impossibly rare,” Marvin remarked softly. “Perhaps we’re surrounded by sentient life-forms composed purely of energy: entities we can’t perceive with our bodily senses. Beings that live on light, and travel with its speed, while reveling in the vacuum.” “They wouldn’t need ships, would they? What freedom they’d enjoy!” Leonard breathed. Oh, Max. Is that how you live, now? Cleo wondered, as the realization that she had not communed with him in quite a while lanced with painful force into her consciousness. Nice to think so, at any rate. Come next Wednesday, I might be joining you, Max. All of us might. If that happens, don’t hold what I’ve done against me…please. Welcome all seven castaways from the richness even our forbiddingly harsh, galactically isolated native worlds represent to those who know no other home. Please!

Observing that glasses stood empty, Marvin refilled them. Bodies shifted lethargically into new sprawled attitudes, reveling in the chance to relax. No one suggested games. It was as though the mental effort even such normally pleasurable activities offered promised on this day to cause too great a strain on exhausted spirits. The talk turned onto other topics: actors, plays, outmoded customs, historical events, ships. Seven people exchanged ideas, shared insights, and enjoyed the afternoon, all the while conscious that they might not live to see many more Sundays. No cultural clashes occurred between the lone Gaean and her six Columbian companions, even though the comments occasionally touched on sensitive issues. Am I getting less defensive…less bitter…less hostile? Cleo wondered. Or are they becoming more understanding—more tolerant—of the differences between our cultures…our points of view? Or is our accord a combination of both effects? Very likely it is. Whatever, I’ve enjoyed this afternoon of lively, pleasant conversation. Lying in bed, clean, relaxed, the Gaean engineer pondered corollaries to ideas tossed out in the course of the day. In that dreamy state that precedes the body’s descent into unconsciousness, when the flesh relaxes even as the unfettered mind soars into fanciful, highly colored realms of imaginative speculation, Cleo let her thoughts skip from pinnacle to pinnacle, almost as if she had already joined the ranks of the bodiless, sentient immortals.

Here ends the second volume of a three-part work that depicts the ongoing, dangerous, valiant attempt by seven spacers isolated on an abandoned space station to build an escape vehicle in which they can lift, and head for Columbia. These three stirring narratives portray the day-by-

day struggle mounted by those seven castaways. The first volume, Master of My Fate: Ashes of Wrath, has been published by Double Dragon Publishing, Inc. Master of My Fate: A Ship Takes Shape continues the tale. The final volume, Master of My Fate: The Phoenix Rises, will be published in 2008 by Double Dragon Publishing. This epic, three-volume work forms one of a series of nine novels written by Mary Ann Steele, all featuring the same setting, and all chronicling an ongoing saga of futuristic action, adventure, romance.