THETHE
ROCK RATS
Book II of the Asteroid Wars
 
 
 
TOR
A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK NEW YORK
BEN BOVA
 
 
 
 
 
    This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this 
novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
 
THE ROCK RATS: BOOK II OF THE ASTEROID WARS 
    Copyright  2002 by Ben Bova
 
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions 
thereof, in any form.
 
This book is printed on acid-free paper. 
    Edited by Patrick Nielsen Hayden
 
A Tor Book
    Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
    175 Fifth Avenue
    New York, NY 10010
     www.tor.com
 
Tor* is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
 
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
 
Bova, Ben,
    The rock rats / Ben Bova.1st ed. p.    cm. (The asteroid wars; bk. 2) "A 
Tom Doherty Associates book." ISBN 0-765-30227-6 (alk. paper)
    1. Mines and mineral resourcesFiction.    2. Women air pilotsFiction. 3. 
Space warfareFiction.    4. AsteroidsFiction.    I. Title.
 
PS3552.O84R63   2002 813'.54-dc21
    2001058464
 
First Edition: April 2002
 
Printed in the United States of America
 
0987654321
 
 
 
 
 
To Charles N. Brown and the Locus team
 
 
 
 
 
Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
 
Some kill their love when they are young.
And some when they are old; Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold: The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.
 Oscar Wilde
The Ballad of Reading Gaol
 
 
 
 
 
THE
ROCK RATS
 
 
 
 
 
 
PROLOGUE: SELENE
 
    Amanda clutched at her husband's arm when Martin Humphries strode into the 
wedding reception, unannounced and uninvited.
    The Pelican Bar went totally silent. The crowd that had been noisily 
congratulating Amanda and Lars Fuchs with lewd jokes and lunar "rocket juice" 
froze as if somebody had doused the place with liquid nitrogen. Fuchs patted his 
wife's hand gently, protectively, as he scowled up at Humphries. Even Pancho 
Lane, never at a loss for a quip, simply stood by the bar, one hand holding her 
drink, the other balling into a fist.
    The Pelican wasn't Humphries's kind of place. It was the workers' bar, the 
one joint in Selene's underground warren of tunnels and cubicles where the 
people who lived and worked on the Moon could come for relaxation and the 
company of their fellow Lunatics. Suits like Humphries did their drinking in the 
fancy lounge up in the Grand Plaza, with the rest of the executives and the 
tourists.
    Humphries seemed oblivious to their enmity, totally at ease in this sea of 
hostile stares, even though he looked terribly out of place, a smallish 
manicured man wearing an impeccably tailored imperial blue business suit in the 
midst of the younger, boisterous miners and tractor operators in their shabby, 
faded coveralls and their earrings of asteroidal stones. Even the women looked 
stronger, more muscular than Humphries.
    But if Humphries's round, pink-cheeked face seemed soft and bland, his eyes 
were something else altogether. Gray and pitiless, like chips of flint, the same 
color as the rock walls and low ceiling of the underground bar itself.
    He walked straight through the silent, sullen crowd to the table where 
Amanda and Fuchs sat.
    "I know I wasn't invited to your party," he said in a calm, strong voice. "I 
hope you'll forgive me for crashing. I won't stay but a minute."
    "What do you want?" Fuchs asked, scowling, not moving from his chair beside 
his bride. He was a broad, dark-haired bear of a man, thick in the torso, with 
short arms and legs heavily muscled. The tiny stud in his left ear was a diamond 
that he had bought during his student days in Switzerland.
    With a rueful smile, Humphries said, "I want your wife, but she's chosen you 
instead."
    Fuchs slowly got up from his chair, big thick-fingered hands clenching into 
fists. Every eye in the pub was on him, every breath held.
    Amanda glanced from Fuchs to Humphries and back again. She looked close to 
panic. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, with a wide-eyed innocent face and 
lusciously curved figure that made men fantasize and women stare with unalloyed 
envy. Even in a plain white jumpsuit she looked utterly stunning.
    "Lars," Amanda whispered. "Please."
    Humphries raised both hands, palms out. "Perhaps I phrased myself poorly. I 
didn't come here for a fight."
    "Then why did you come?" Fuchs asked in a low growl.
    "To give you a wedding present," Humphries replied, smiling again. "To show 
that there's no hard feelings ... so to speak."
    "A present?" Amanda asked.
    "If you'll accept it from me," said Humphries.
    "What is it?" Fuchs asked.
    "Starpower 1."
    Amanda's china blue eyes went so wide that white showed all around them. 
"The ship?"
    "It's yours, if you'll have it. I'll even pay for the refurbishment 
necessary to make it spaceworthy again."
    The crowd stirred, sighed, began muttering. Fuchs looked down at Amanda, saw 
that she was awed by Humphries's offer.
    Humphries said, "You can use it to return to the Belt and start mining 
asteroids. There's plenty of rocks out there for you to claim and develop."
    Despite himself, Fuchs was impressed. "That's. . . very generous of you, 
sir."
    Humphries put on his smile again. With a careless wave of his hand, he said, 
"You newlyweds need some source of income. Go out and claim a couple of rocks, 
bring back their ores, and you'll be fixed for life."
    "Very generous," Fuchs muttered.
    Humphries put out his hand. Fuchs hesitated a moment, then gripped it in his 
heavy paw; engulfed it, actually. "Thank you, Mr. Humphries," he said, pumping 
Humphries's arm vigorously. "Thank you so much."
    Amanda said nothing.
    Humphries disengaged himself and, without another word, walked out of the 
bar. The crowd stirred at last and broke into dozens of conversations. Several 
people crowded around Fuchs and Amanda, congratulating them, offering to work on 
their craft. The Pelican's proprietor declared drinks on the house and there was 
a general rush toward the bar.
    Pancho Lane, though, sidled through the crowd and out the door into the 
tunnel, where Humphries was walking alone toward the power stairs that led down 
to his mansion at Selene's lowest level. In a few long-legged lunar strides she 
caught up to him.
    "I thought they threw you out of Selene," she said.
    Humphries had to look up at her. Pancho was lean and lanky, her skin a light 
mocha, not much darker than a white woman would get in the burning sunshine of 
her native west Texas. She kept her hair cropped close, a tight dark skullcap of 
ringlets.
    He made a sour face. "My lawyers are working on an appeal. They can't exile 
me without due process."
    "And that could take years, huh?"
    "At the very least."
    Pancho would gladly have stuffed him into a rocket and fired him off to 
Pluto. Humphries had sabotaged Starpower 1 on its firstand, so far, 
onlymission to the Belt. Dan Randolph had died because of him. It took an 
effort of will for her to control her temper.
    As calmly as she could manage, Pancho said, "You were pretty damn generous 
back there."
    "A gesture to true love," he replied, without slowing his pace.
    "Yeah. Sure." Pancho easily matched his stride.
    "What else?"
    "For one thing, that spacecraft ain't yours to give away. It belongs to"
    "Belonged," Humphries snapped. "Past tense. We wrote it off the books."
    "Wrote it off? When? How in hell can you do that?"
    Humphries actually laughed. "You see, Ms. Director? There are a few tricks 
to being on the board that a greasemonkey like you doesn't know about."
    "I guess," Pancho admitted. "But I'll learn 'em."
    "Of course you will."
    Pancho was newly elected to the board of directors of Astro Manufacturing, 
over Humphries's stern opposition. It had been Dan Randolph's dying wish.
    "So we've written off Starpower 1 after just one flight?"
    "It's already obsolescent," said Humphries. "The ship proved the fusion 
drive technology. Now we can build better spacecraft, specifically designed for 
asteroid mining."
    "And you get to play Santy Claus for Amanda and Lars."
    Humphries shrugged.
    The two of them walked along the nearly-empty tunnel until they came to the 
power stairs leading downward.
    Pancho grabbed Humphries by the shoulder, stopping him at the top of the 
moving stairs. "I know what you're up to," she said.
    "Do you?"
    "You figger Lars'll go battin' out to the Belt and leave Mandy here in 
Selene."
    "I suppose that's a possibility," Humphries said, shaking free of her grip.
    "Then you can move in on her."
    Humphries started to reply, then hesitated. His face grew serious. At last 
he said, "Pancho, has it ever occurred to you that I really love Amanda? I do, 
you know."
    Pancho knew Humphries's reputation as a womanizer. She had seen plenty of 
evidence of it.
    "You might tell yourself that you love her, Humpy, but that's just because 
she's the only woman between here and Lubbock that won't flop inta bed with 
you."
    He smiled coldly. "Does that mean that you would?"
    "In your dreams!"
    Humphries laughed and started down the stairs. For a few moments Pancho 
watched him dwindling away, then she turned and headed back toward the Pelican 
Bar.
    As Humphries rode down to Selene's bottommost level, he thought, Fuchs is an 
academic, the kind who's never had two pennies in his hands at the same time. 
Let him go out to the Belt. Let him see how much money he can make, and all the 
things that money can buy. And while he's doing it, I'll be here at Amanda's 
side.
    By the time he reached his palatial home, Humphries was almost happy.
 
 
 
 
 
DATA BANK: THE ASTEROID BELT
 
Millions of chunks of rock and metal float silently, endlessly, through the deep 
emptiness of interplanetary space. The largest of them, Ceres, is barely a 
thousand kilometers wide. Most of them are much smaller, ranging from irregular 
chunks a few kilometers long down to the size of pebbles. They contain more 
metals and minerals, more natural resources, than the entire Earth can provide.
    They are the bonanza, the El Dorado, the Comstock Lode, the gold and silver 
and iron and everything-else mines of the twenty-first century. There are 
hundreds of millions of billions of tons of high grade ores in the asteroids. 
They hold enough real wealth to make each man, woman, and child of the entire 
human race into a millionaire. And then some.
    The first asteroid was discovered shortly after midnight on January 1, 1801, 
by a Sicilian monk who happened to be an astronomer. While others were 
celebrating the new century, Giuseppi Piazzi was naming the tiny point of light 
he saw in his telescope Ceres after the pagan goddess of Sicily. Perhaps an 
unusual attitude for a pious monk, but Piazzi was a Sicilian, after all.
    By the advent of the twenty-first century, more than fifteen thousand 
asteroids had been discovered by earthbound astronomers: As the human race began 
to expand its habitat to the Moon and to explore Mars, millions more were found.
    Technically, they are planetoids, little planets, chunks of rock and metal 
floating in the dark void of space, leftovers from the creation of the Sun and 
planets some four and a half billion years ago. Piazzi correctly referred to 
them as planetoids, but in 1802 William Herschel (who had earlier discovered the 
giant planet Uranus) called them asteroids, because in the telescope their 
pinpoints of light looked like stars rather than the disks of planets. Piazzi 
was correct, but Herschel was far more famous and influential. We call them 
asteroids to this day.
    Several hundred of the asteroids are in orbits that near the Earth, but most 
of them by far circle around the Sun in a broad swath in deep space between the 
orbits of Mars and giant Jupiter. This Asteroid Belt is centered more than six 
hundred million kilometers from Earth, four times farther from the Sun than our 
homeworld.
    Although this region is called the Asteroid Belt, the asteroids are not 
strewn so thickly that they represent a hazard to space navigation. Far from it. 
The so-called Belt is a region of vast emptiness, dark and lonely and very far 
from human civilization.
    Until the invention of the Duncan fusion drive the Asteroid Belt was too far 
from the Earth/Moon system to be of economic value. Once fusion propulsion 
became practical, however, the Belt became the region where prospectors and 
miners could make fortunes for themselves, or die in the effort.
    Many of them died. More than a few were killed.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THREE YEARS LATER
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 1
 
I said it would be simple," Lars Fuchs repeated. "I did not say it would be 
easy."
    George  AmbroseBig George  to  everyone  who  knew him scratched absently 
at his thick red beard as he gazed thoughtfully out through the window of 
Starpower 1's bridge toward the immense looming dark bulk of the asteroid Ceres. 
"I di'n't come out here to get involved in daft schemes, Lars," he said. His 
voice was surprisingly high and sweet for such a shaggy mastodon of a man.
    For a long moment the only sound in the compartment was the eternal hum of 
electrical equipment. Then Fuchs pushed between the two pilots' seats to drift 
toward Big George. Stopping himself with a touch of his hand against the metal 
overhead, he said in an urgent whisper, "We can do it. Given time and 
resources."
    "It's fookin' insane," George muttered. But he kept staring out at the 
asteroid's rock-strewn, pockmarked surface.
    They made an odd pair: the big, bulky Aussie with his shaggy brick-red mane 
and beard, hovering weightlessly beside the dark, intense, thickset Fuchs. Three 
years in the Belt had changed Fuchs somewhat: he was still burly, 
barrel-chested, but he had let his chestnut brown hair grow almost to his 
collar, and the earring he wore was now a polished chip of asteroidal copper. A 
slim bracelet of copper circled his left wrist. Yet in their individual ways, 
both men looked powerful, determined, even dangerous. "Living inside Ceres is 
bad for our health," Fuchs said.
    George countered, "Plenty of radiation protection from the rock."
    "It's the microgravity," Fuchs said earnestly. "It's not good for us, 
physically."
    "I like it."
    "But the bones become so brittle. Dr. Cardenas says the rate of fractures is 
rising steeply. You've seen that yourself, haven't you?"
    "Maybe," George half-admitted. Then he grinned. "But th' sex is fookin' 
fantastic!"
    Fuchs scowled at the bigger man. "Be serious, George."
    Without taking his eyes off Ceres's battered face, George said, "Okay, 
you're right. I know it. But buildin' a bloody O'Neill habitat?"
    "It doesn't have to be that big, not like the L-5 habitats around Earth. 
Just big enough to house the few hundred people here in Ceres. At first."
    George shook his shaggy head. "You know how big a job you're talkin' about? 
Just the life support equipment alone would cost a mint. And then some."
    "No, no. That's the beauty of my scheme," Fuchs said, with a nervous laugh. 
"We simply purchase spacecraft and put them together. They become the habitat. 
And they already have all the life support equipment and radiation shielding 
built into them. We won't need their propulsion units at all, so the price will 
be much lower than you think."
    "Then you want to spin the whole fookin' kludge to an Earth-normal g?"
    "Lunar normal," Fuchs answered. "One-sixth g is good enough. Dr. Cardenas 
agrees."
    George scratched at his thick, unkempt beard. "I dunno, Lars. We've been 
livin' inside the rock okay. Why go to all this trouble and expense?"
    "Because we have to!" Fuchs insisted. "Living in microgravity is dangerous 
to our health. We must build a better habitat for ourselves."
    George looked unconvinced, but he muttered, "Lunar g, you say?"
    "One-sixth normal Earth gravity. No more than that."
    "How much will it cost?"
    Fuchs blinked once. "We can buy the stripped-down spacecraft from Astro 
Corporation. Pancho is offering a very good price."
    "How much?"
    "The preliminary figures work out. . ." Fuchs hesitated, took a breath, then 
said, "We can do it if all the prospectors and miners put in ten percent of 
their income."
    George grunted. "A tithe, huh?"
    "Ten percent isn't much."
    "A lot of us rock rats don't make any income at all, some years."
    "I know," said Fuchs. "I factored that into the cost estimate. Of course, 
we'll have to pay off the spacecraft over twenty- or thirty-year leases. Like a 
mortgage on a house, Earthside."
    "So you want everybody here in Ceres to take on a twenty-year debt?"
    "We can pay it off sooner, perhaps. A few really big strikes could pay for 
the entire project all by themselves."
    "Yeah. Sure."
    With burning intensity, Fuchs asked, "Will you do it? If you agree, most of 
the other prospectors will, too."
    "Whyn't you get one of the corporations t' do it?" George asked. "Astro or 
Humphries. . ." He stopped when he saw the look on Fuchs's face.
    "Not Humphries," Fuchs growled. "Never him or his company. Never."
    "Okay. Astro, then."
    Fuchs's scowl shifted into a troubled frown. "I've spoken to Pancho about 
it. The Astro board would not vote for it. They will sell stripped-down 
spacecraft to us, but they won't commit to building the habitat. They don't see 
a profit from it."
    George grunted. "Lot they care if we snap our bones."
    "But you care," Fuchs said eagerly. "It's our problem, George; we have to 
solve it. And we can, if you'll help."
    Running a beefy hand through his thick mop of red hair, Big George said, 
"You're gonna need a techie team to do the integration job. There's more to 
puttin' this habitat of yours together than just connectin' Tinkertoys, y'know. 
You'll need a flock of geek boys."
    "That's already in the cost estimate," Fuchs replied.
    George huffed a mighty sigh, then said, "All right, Lars, I'm in. I guess it 
would be pretty good to have a base out here in the Belt with some decent 
gravity to it."
    Fuchs smiled. "You can always have sex aboard your own ship."
    George grinned back at him. "Believe it, mate. Believe it."
    Fuchs went with George to the ship's main airlock and helped the bigger man 
get back into his hard-shell spacesuit.
    "They're testin' lightweight suits back at Selene, y'know," he said as he 
slid into the rigid torso and worked his arms through the stiff sleeves. 
"Flexible. Easy to put on."
    "And the radiation protection?" Fuchs asked.
    "Magnetic field surrounds the suit. They claim it's better'n this stuff." He 
rapped his knuckles against the torso's cermet carapace.
    Fuchs gave a little snort of disdain. "They'll need years of testing before 
I'd buy one."
    As he wormed his hands into the gloves, George said, "Me too."
    Handing the bigger man his fishbowl helmet, Fuchs said, "Thanks for 
agreeing, George. It means a lot to me."
    George nodded solemnly. "I know. You two want to have kids."
    Fuchs's cheeks reddened. "It's not that!"
    "Isn't it?"
    "Well, not alone, no." Fuchs looked away from George for a moment, then 
slowly admitted, "I worry about Amanda, yes. I never thought she would want to 
stay out here with me. I never thought I myself would be out here this long."
    "There's a lot of money to be made here in the Belt. A lot of money."
    "Yes, yes indeed. But I worry about her. I want her to be in a safer place, 
with enough gravity to keep her from deconditioning."
    "And enough radiation shielding to start a family," George said, grinning. 
Then he pulled on his helmet before Fuchs could think of a reply.
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 2
 
    Once George had cycled through Starpower 1's airlock and jetted back to his 
own Waltzing Matilda, Fuchs went down the ship's narrow central passageway to 
the compartment where his wife was working.
    She looked up from the wallscreen as Fuchs slid the compartment door open. 
He saw that she was watching a fashion show beamed from somewhere on Earth: 
slim, slinky models in brightly colored gowns of outrageous designs. Fuchs 
frowned slightly: half the people of Earth displaced by floods and earthquakes, 
starvation rampant almost everywhere, and still the rich played their games.
    Amanda blanked the wallscreen as she asked, "Has George left already?"
    "Yes. And he agreed to it!"
    Her smile was minimal. "He did? It didn't take you terribly long to convince 
him, did it?"
    She still spoke with a trace of the Oxford accent she had learned years 
earlier in London. She was wearing an oversized faded sweatshirt and cutoff work 
pants. Her golden blonde hair was pinned up off her neck and slightly 
disheveled. She wore not a trace of makeup. Still, she was much more beautiful 
than any of the emaciated mannequins of the fashion show. Fuchs pulled her to 
him and kissed her warmly.
    "In two years, maybe less, we'll have a decent base in orbit around Ceres 
with lunar-level gravity."
    Amanda gazed into her husband's eyes, seeking something. "Kris Cardenas will 
be happy to hear it," she said.
    "Yes, Dr. Cardenas will be very pleased," Fuchs agreed. "We should tell her 
as soon as we arrive."
    "Of course."
    "But you're not even dressed yet!"
    "It won't take me a minute," Amanda said. "It's not like we're going to a 
royal reception." Then she added, "Or even to a party in Selene."
    Fuchs realized that Amanda wasn't as happy as he'd thought she would be. 
"What's the matter? Is something wrong?"
    "No," she said, too quickly. "Not really."
    "Amanda, my darling, I know that when you say 'not really' you really mean 
'really.'"
    She broke into a genuine smile. "You know me too well."
    "No, not too well. Just well enough." He kissed her again, lightly this 
time. "Now, what's wrong? Tell me, please."
    Leaning her cheek on his shoulder, Amanda said very softly, "I thought we'd 
be home by now, Lars."
    "Home?"
    "Earth. Or even Selene. I never dreamt we'd stay in the Belt for three 
years."
    Suddenly Fuchs saw the worn, scuffed metal walls of this tiny coop of a 
cubicle, the narrow confines of the ship's passageway and the other cramped 
compartments; smelled the stale air with its acrid tinge of ozone; felt the 
background vibrations that rattled through the ship every moment; consciously 
noticed the clatter of pumps and wheezing of the air fans. And he heard his own 
voice ask inanely:
    "You're not happy here?"
    "Lars, I'm happy being with you. Wherever you are. You know that. But"
    "But you would rather be back on Earth. Or at Selene."
    "It's better than living on a ship all the time."
    "He's still at Selene."
    She pulled slightly away, looked straight into his deep-set eyes. "You mean 
Martin?"
    "Humphries," said Fuchs. "Who else?"
    "He's got nothing to do with it."
    "Doesn't he?"
    Now she looked truly alarmed. "Lars, you don't think that Martin Humphries 
means anything to me?"
    He felt his blood turning to ice. One look at Amanda's innocent blue eyes 
and full-bosomed figure and any man would be wild to have her.
    Coldly, calmly, he said, "I know that Martin Humphries wants you. I think 
that you married me to escape from him. I think"
    "Lars, that's not true!"
    "Isn't it?"
    "I love you! For god's sake, don't you know that? Don't you understand it?"
    The ice thawed. He realized that he held in his arms the most gorgeous woman 
he had ever seen. That she had come to this desolate emptiness on the frontier 
of human habitation to be with him, to help him, to love him.
    "I'm sorry," he muttered, feeling ashamed. "It's just that... I love you so 
much..."
    "And I love you, Lars. I truly do."
    "I know."
    "Do you?"
    He shook his head ruefully. "Sometimes I wonder why you put up with me."
    She smiled and traced a fingertip across his stubborn, stubbled jaw. "Why 
not? You put up with me, don't you?"
    With a sigh, he admitted, "I thought we'd be back on Earth by now. I thought 
we'd be rich."
    "We are. Aren't we?"
    "On paper, perhaps. We're better off than most of the other prospectors. At 
least we own this ship . . ."
    His voice faltered. They both knew why. They owned Star-power because Martin 
Humphries had given it to them as a gift.
    "But the bills do mount up," Amanda said swiftly, trying to change the 
subject. "I was going over the accounts earlier. We can't seem to stay ahead of 
the expenses."
    Fuchs made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a snort. "If you count how 
much we owe, we certainly are multimillionaires."
    It was a classic problem, they both knew. A prospector might find an 
asteroid worth hundreds of billions on paper, but the costs of mining the ores, 
transporting them back to the Earth/Moon region, refining themthe costs of food 
and fuel and air to breathewere so high that the prospectors were almost always 
on the ragged edge of bankruptcy. Still they pushed on, always seeking that lode 
of wealth that would allow them to retire at last and live in luxury. Yet no 
matter how much wealth they actually found, hardly any of it stayed in their 
hands for long.
    And I want to take ten percent of that from them, Fuchs said to himself. But 
it will be worth it! They'll thank me for it, once it's done.
    "It's not like we're spendthrifts," Amanda murmured. "We don't throw the 
money away on frivolities."
    "I should never have brought you out here," Fuchs said. "It was a mistake."
    "No!" she contradicted. "I want to be with you, Lars. Wherever you are."
    "This is no place for a woman such as you. You should be living comfortably, 
happily"
    She silenced him with a single slim finger across his thin lips. "I'm 
perfectly comfortable and happy here."
    "But you'd be happier on Earth. Or Selene."
    She hesitated a fraction of a second before replying, "Wouldn't you?"
    "Yes," he admitted. "Of course. But I'm not going back until I can give you 
all the things you deserve."
    "Oh, Lars, you're all that I really want."
    He gazed at her for a long moment, then said, "Yes, perhaps. But I want 
more. Much more."
    Amanda said nothing.
    Brightening, Fuchs said, "But as long as we're out here, at least I can make 
a decent home for you in Ceres orbit!"
    She smiled for her husband.
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 3
 
    Build a habitat big enough to house everyone living at Ceres?" asked Martin 
Humphries, incredulous.
    "That's what the rumble is," said his aide, a winsome brunet with 
long-lashed almond eyes, full pouty lips, and a razor-sharp mind. Even though 
her image on his bedroom wallscreen showed only her head and shoulders and some 
background of her office, the sight of her set Humphries's mind wandering.
    Humphries leaned back in his wide, luxurious bed and tried to concentrate on 
business. He had started the morning with a vigorous tussle with a big-breasted 
computer analyst who nominally worked in Humphries Space Systems' transportation 
department. She had spent the night in Humphries's bed, yet even in the midst of 
their most passionate exertions he found himself closing his eyes and 
fantasizing about Amanda.
    His bedmate was in the shower now, and all thoughts about her or Amanda were 
pushed aside as Humphries talked business with his aide, whose office was 
several levels up in Selene's underground network of corridors.
    "It sounds ridiculous," Humphries said. "How reliable is this information?"
    The aide let a wintry smile cross her tempting lips. "Quite reliable, sir. 
The prospectors are all talking about it, back and forth, from one ship to 
another. They're chattering all across the Belt about it."
    "It still sounds ridiculous," Humphries grumbled.
    "Beg to differ, sir," said the aide. Her words were deferential, but the 
expression on her face looked almost smug. "It makes a certain amount of sense."
    "Does it?"
    "If they could build a habitat and spin it to produce an artificial gravity 
that approaches the grav field here on the Moon, it would be much healthier for 
the people living out there for months or years on end. Better for their bones 
and organs than sustained microgravity."
    "H'mmph."
    "In addition, sir, the habitat would have the same level of radiation 
shielding that the latest spacecraft have. Or even better, perhaps."
    "But the prospectors still have to go out into the Belt and claim the 
asteroids."
    "They are required by law to be present at an asteroid in order for their 
claim to be legal," the aide agreed. "But from then on they can work the rock 
remotely."
    "Remotely? The distances are too big for remote operations. It takes hours 
for signals to cross the Belt."
    "From Ceres, sir," the aide said stiffly, "roughly five thousand ore-bearing 
rocks are within one light-minute. That's close enough for remote operations, 
don't you think?"
    Humphries didn't want to give her the satisfaction of admitting she was 
right. Instead he replied, "Well, we'd better be getting our own people out 
there claiming those asteroids before the rock rats snap them all up."
    "I'll get on that right away," said the aide, with enough of a smile curving 
her tempting lips to show that she had already thought of it. "And mining teams, 
too."
    "Mining operations aren't as urgent as claiming the stupid rocks."
    "Understood," she said. Then she added, "The board meeting is this morning 
at ten. You asked me to remind you."
    He nodded. "Yes, I know." Without another word he tapped the keypad on the 
nightstand and her wallscreen image winked off.
    Slumping deeper into the pillows, he heard the woman who'd spent the night 
in his bed singing in the shower. Off-key. Well, he said to himself, music isn't 
her best talent.
    Fuchs. The thought of Lars Fuchs pushed all other notions out of his mind. 
He's out there with Amanda. I never realized she'd stay out in that wilderness 
with him. She doesn't belong there, living in a crummy ship like some gypsy, 
some penniless drifter wandering out there in the empty wastes. She should be 
here, with me. This is where she belongs.
    I made a mistake with him. I underestimated him. He's no fool. He's not just 
prospecting and mining. He's building an empire out there. With Pancho Lane's 
help.
    The young woman appeared at the bathroom door, naked, her skin dewy and 
flawless. She posed enticingly and smiled for Humphries.
    "Do we have time for one more? Are you up to it?" Her smile turned just a 
tad impudent.
    Despite himself, Humphries felt stirred. But he said gruffly, "Not now. I've 
got work to do."
    And he thought, This twat could get possessive. I'd better transfer her to 
some job back on Earth.
 
Martin Humphries drummed his fingers impatiently on his desk, waiting for the 
lame-brained techs to make all the connections so the board meeting could get 
underway.
    After all these years, he fumed to himself, you'd think that setting up a 
simple virtual reality meeting with a half-dozen idiots who refuse to leave 
Earth would be an easy matter. He hated waiting. He loathed being dependent on 
anyone or anything.
    Humphries refused to leave Selene. His home was on the Moon, he told 
himself, not Earth. Everything he wanted was here in the underground city, and 
what wasn't here could be shipped to Selene upon his order. He had fought 
Selene's legal system to a standstill to prevent them from exiling him back to 
Earth.
    Earth was crippled, dying. The greenhouse flooding had wiped out most 
coastal cities and turned hundreds of millions of people into homeless, starving 
wanderers. Farmlands withered in droughts while tropical diseases found fresh 
territories in what used to be temperate climates. Electrical power grids 
everywhere faltered and sputtered lamely. A new wave of terrorism unleashed 
man-made plagues while crumbling nations armed their missiles and threatened 
nuclear war.
    It's only a matter of time, Humphries knew. Despite all the efforts by the 
so-called world government, despite the New Morality's fundamentalism and 
relentless grip on the political reins of power, despite the suspension of 
individual freedoms all across the globe, it's only a matter of time until they 
start nuking each other into extinction.
    Safer here on the Moon. Better to be away from all that death and 
destruction. What was it Dan Randolph used to say? When the going gets tough, 
the tough get goingto where the going is easier.
    Humphries nodded to himself as he sat in his high-backed chair. He was alone 
in his sumptuous office, a mere twenty meters from his bedroom. Most of 
Humphries Space Systems' board members also lived in Selene now, yet hardly any 
of them were allowed into the house. They stayed in their own homes, or came to 
the HSS offices up in the Grand Plaza tower.
    Damned waste of time, Humphries grumbled to himself. The board's just a 
rubber stamp, anyway. The only member who ever gave me any trouble was Dad, and 
he's gone now. Probably trying to tell St. Peter how to run heaven. Or more 
likely arguing with Satan in hell.
    "We're ready now, sir," said his aide's silky voice in the stereo earplugs 
Humphries wore.
    "Then do it."
    "Are your goggles in place, sir?"
    "I've been wearing my contacts for damned near fifteen minutes!"
    "Of course."
    The young woman said nothing else. An instant later, the long conference 
table that existed only in Humphries's computer chips sprang into existence 
before his eyes, each seat filled by a board member. Most of them looked 
slightly startled, but after a few seconds of turning in their chairs to see if 
everyone was there, they began chatting easily enough with one another. The 
half-dozen who were still on Earth were at a disadvantage, because it took 
nearly three seconds for signals to make the round-trip from Moon to Earth and 
back again. Humphries had no intention of holding up the proceedings for them; 
the six old farts had little power on the board, no need to worry about them. Of 
course, they each had a lot to say. Humphries wished he could silence them. 
Permanently.
    He was in a foul mood by the time the meeting ended, cranky and tired. The 
meeting had accomplished nothing except very routine decisions that could have 
been made by a troop of baboons. Humphries called for his aide over the intercom 
phone. By the time he had gone to the lavatory, slipped his VR contacts out of 
his eyes, washed his face and combed his hair, she was standing in his office 
doorway, wearing a cool powder blue pantsuit accented with asteroidal sapphires.
    Her name was Diane Verwoerd, born of a Dutch father and Indonesian mother, a 
teenaged fashion model in Amsterdam when her dark, sultry looks first attracted 
Humphries's notice. She was a little on the skinny side, he thought, but he paid 
her way through law school anyway and watched her climb his corporate ladder 
without ever once succumbing to his attempted seductions. He liked her all the 
more for her independence; he could trust her, rely on her judgment, which was 
more than he could say about the women who did flop into his bed.
    Besides, he thought, sooner or later she'll give in. Even though she knows 
that'll be the end of her job in my office, she'll crawl into bed with me one of 
these nights. I just haven't found the right motivation for her yet. It's not 
money or status, I know that much about her. Maybe power. If it's power she's 
after, she could be dangerous. He grinned inwardly. Playing with nitroglycerine 
can be fun, sometimes.
    Keeping those thoughts to himself, Humphries said without preamble as he 
stepped back to his desk, "We need to get rid of the rock rats."
    If the statement surprised her, Verwoerd showed no hint of it. "Why should 
we?" she countered.
    "Simple economics. There's so many of them out there claiming asteroids that 
they're keeping the price of metals and minerals too low. Supply and demand. 
They're overdoing the supply."
    "Commodities prices are low, except for food products," Verwoerd agreed.
    "And sinking," Humphries pointed out. "But if we controlled the supply of 
raw materials"
    "Which means controlling the rock rats."
    "Right."
    "We could stop selling them supplies," Verwoerd suggested.
    Humphries waved a hand in the air. "They'd just buy their goods from Astro. 
I don't want that."
    She nodded.
    "No, I think our first step should be to establish a base of operations on 
Ceres."
    "On Ceres?"
    "Ostensibly, it will be a depot for the supplies we sell to the rock rats," 
Humphries said, sliding into his commodious high-backed chair. If he desired, 
the chair would massage his body or send waves of soothing warmth through him. 
At this moment, Humphries wanted neither.
    Verwoerd gave the appearance of thinking over his statement for several 
moments. "And actually?"
 
"It'll be a cover for putting our own people out there; a base for knocking the 
rock rats out of the Belt."
    Verwoerd smiled coldly. "Once we open the base, we cut our prices for the 
supplies we sell the prospectors and miners."
    "Cut our prices? Why?"
    "To get them buying from HSS and not Astro. Tie them to us."
    Nodding, Humphries said, "We could give them more favorable terms for 
leasing spacecraft, too."
    Now she took one of the upholstered chairs in front of his desk. Crossing 
her long legs absently, she said, "Better yet, lower the interest rates on 
purchase loans."
    "No, no. I don't want them to own the vessels. I want them to lease the 
spacecraft from us. I want them tied to Humphries Space Systems."
    "Under contract to HSS?"
    Humphries leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. 
"Right. I want those rock rats working for me."
    "At prices that you set," she said.
    "We allow the prices for raw ores to keep going down," Humphries mused. "We 
encourage the independents to bring in so much ore that the prices are forced 
constantly downward. That will drive them out of the field, sooner or later."
    "Leaving only the people who are under contract to HSS," Verwoerd agreed.
    "That way, we gain control of the costs of exploration and mining," he said, 
"and on the other end we also control the prices for the refined metals and 
other resources that we sell to Selene and Earth."
    "But individual rock rats could sell to companies on Earth on their own, 
independently," she pointed out.
    "So what?" Humphries snapped. "They'll just be undercutting each other until 
they drive themselves out of business. They'll be cutting their own throats."
    "Supply and demand," Verwoerd murmured.
    "Yes. But when we get the rock rats working exclusively for us, we'll 
control the supply. No matter what the demand, we'll be able to control prices. 
And profits."
    "A little on the devious side." She smiled, though.
    "It worked for Rockefeller."
    "Until the anti-trust laws were passed."
    "There aren't any anti-trust laws in the Belt," Humphries said. "No laws at 
all, come to think of it."
    Verwoerd hesitated, thinking, then said, "It will take some time to drive 
out all the independents. And there's still Astro to consider."
    "I'll handle Astro when the time comes."
    "Then you'll have complete control of the Belt."
    "Which means that in the long run it won't cost us anything to set up a base 
on Ceres." It was a statement, not a question.
    "That's not exactly how the accounting department will see it."
    He laughed. "Then why don't we do it? Establish a base on Ceres and bring 
those rock rats under our control."
    She gave him a long, careful look, a look that said, I know there's more to 
this than you're telling me. You've got a hidden agenda, and I'm pretty sure I 
know what it is.
    But aloud all she said was, "We can use this base on Ceres to centralize all 
the maintenance work, as well."
    He nodded an acknowledgement to her. "Good idea."
    "Offer the lowest possible terms on the maintenance contracts."
    "Get the rock rats to come to HSS for maintenance," he agreed.
    "Make them dependent on you."
    He laughed again. "Gillette's dictum."
    She looked puzzled.
    "Give 'em the razor," he explained. "Sell 'em the blades."
 
 
 
 
 
DOSSIER: OSCAR JIMINEZ
 
    The illegitimate son of an illegitimate son, Oscar Jiminez was picked up by 
the police in one of their periodic sweeps through the barrios of Manila when he 
was seven years old. He was small for his age, but already an expert at begging, 
picking pockets, and worming his way past electronic security systems that would 
have stopped someone bigger or less agile. The usual police tactic was to beat 
everyone mercilessly with their old-fashioned batons, rape the girls and the 
better-looking boys, then drive their prisoners far out into the countryside and 
leave them to fend for themselves. Until they got caught again. Oscar was lucky. 
Too small and scrawny to attract even the most perverse of the policemen, he was 
tossed from a moving police van into a roadside ditch, bleeding and covered with 
welts.
    The lucky part was that they had thrown him out near the entrance to the 
regional headquarters of the New Morality. The Philippines were still heavily 
Catholic, but Mother Church had grudgingly allowed the mostly Protestant 
reformers to operate in the island nation with only a minimum of interference. 
After all, the conservative bishops who ran the Philippine Church and the 
conservatives who ran the New Morality saw eye to eye on many issues, including 
birth control and strict obedience to moral authority. Moreover, the New 
Morality brought money from America into the Philippines. Some of it even 
trickled down enough to help the poor. So Oscar Jiminez became a ward of the New 
Morality. Under their stern tutelage his life of crime ended. He was sent to a 
New Morality school, where he learned that unrelenting psychological 
conditioning methods could be far worse than a police beating. Especially the 
conditioning sessions that used electric shock. Oscar swiftly became a model 
student.
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 4
 
     Kris Cardenas still looked little more than thirty. Even in a gritty, 
shabby one-room habitat carved out of one of Ceres's countless   natural   
crevices,   she   radiated   the   blonde, sapphire-blue-eyed, 
athletic-shouldered look of a California surfer. That was because her body was 
filled with therapeutic nanomachines, virus-sized contrivances that pulled apart 
molecules of fat and cholesterol in her bloodstream, repaired damaged cells, 
kept her skin smooth and her muscles taut, acted as a purposeful immune system 
to protect her body from invading microbes.  Nanotechnology was forbidden on 
Earth; Dr.  Kristine Cardenas, Nobel laureate and former director of Selene's 
nanotechnology laboratory, was an exile on Ceres.
    For an exile who had chosen to live on the ragged frontier of human 
settlement, she looked happy and cheerful as she greeted Amanda and Lars Fuchs.
    "How are you two doing?" she asked as she ushered them into her quarters. 
The twisting tunnel outside her door was a natural lava tube, barely smoothed by 
human tools. The air out there was slightly hazy with fine dust; every time 
someone moved in Ceres they disturbed the rock dust, and the asteroid's gravity 
was so slight that the dust hung in the air constantly.
    Amanda and Fuchs shuffled their feet across Cardenas's bare rock floor and 
made their way to the room's sofaactually a pair of reclining seats scavenged 
from a spacecraft that had limped to Ceres and never made it out again. The 
seats still had safety harnesses dangling limply from them. Fuchs coughed 
slightly as he sat down.
    "I'll turn up the air fans," Cardenas said, gliding to the control panel set 
into the room's far wall. "Settle the dust, make it easier to breathe."
    Amanda heard a fan whine from somewhere behind the walls. Despite being 
dressed in a long-sleeved, high-buttoned jumpsuit, she felt chilled. The bare 
rock always felt cold to her touch. At least it was dry. And Cardenas had tried 
to brighten up the underground chamber with holowindows that showed views of 
wooded hillsides and flower gardens on Earth. She had even scented the air 
slightly with something that reminded Amanda of her childhood baths in real tubs 
with scads of hot water and fragrant soap.
    Cardenas pulled an old laboratory stool from her desk and perched on it 
before her visitors, locking her legs around its high rungs. "So, how are you?" 
she asked again.
    Fuchs cocked an eye at her. "That's what we come to you to find out."
    "Oh, your physical." Cardenas laughed. "That's tomorrow, at the clinic. How 
are you getting along? What's the news?"
    With a glance at Amanda, Fuchs answered, "I think we'll be able to go ahead 
with the habitat project."
    "Really? Has Pancho agreed"
    "Not with Astro's help," he said. "We're going to do it ourselves."
    Cardenas's eyes narrowed slightly. Then she said, "Is that the wisest course 
of action, Lars?"
    "We really don't have that much of a choice. Pancho would help us if she 
could, but Humphries will hamstring her as soon as she brings it up to the Astro 
board of directors. He doesn't want us to improve our living conditions here."
    "He's going to establish a depot here," Amanda said. "Humphries Space 
Systems will, that is."
    "So you and the other rock rats are going to pursue this habitat program on 
your own?"
    "Yes," said Fuchs, quite firmly.
    Cardenas said nothing. She clasped her knees and rocked back slightly on the 
stool, looking thoughtful.
    "We can do it," Fuchs insisted.
    "You'll need a team of specialists," Cardenas said. "This isn't something 
that you and your fellow prospectors can cobble together."
    "Yes. I understand that."
    Amanda said slowly, "Lars, I've been thinking. While you're working on this 
habitat project you'll have to stay here at Ceres, won't you?"
    He nodded. "I've already given some thought to leasing Star-power to someone 
else and living here in the rock for the duration of the project."
    "And how will you earn an income?" Cardenas interjected.
    He spread his hands. Before he could reply, though, Amanda said, "I think I 
know."
    Fuchs looked at his wife, clearly puzzled.
    "We can become suppliers for the other prospectors," Amanda said. "We can 
open our own warehouse."
    Cardenas nodded.
    "We can deal through Astro," Amanda went on, brightening with each word. 
"We'll obtain our supplies from Pancho and sell them to the prospectors. We can 
sell supplies to the miners, too."
    "Most of the mining teams work for Humphries," Fuchs replied darkly. "Or 
Astro."
    "But they still need supplies," Amanda insisted. "Even if they get their 
equipment from the corporations, they'll still need personal items: soap, 
entertainment videos, clothing..."
    Fuchs's face was set in a grimace. "I don't think you would want to handle 
the kinds of entertainment videos these prospectors buy."
    Undaunted, Amanda said, "Lars, we could compete against Humphries Space 
Systems while you're directing the habitat construction."
    "Compete against Humphries." Fuchs rolled the idea on his tongue, testing 
it. Then he broke into a rare grin. It made his broad, normally dour face light 
up. "Compete against Humphries," he repeated. "Yes. Yes, we can do that."
    Amanda saw the irony in it, although the others didn't. The daughter of a 
small shopkeeper in Birmingham, she had grown up hating her middle-class 
background and the lower-class workers her father sold to. The boys were rowdy 
and lewd, at best, and they could just as easily become dangerously violent. The 
girls were viciously catty. Amanda discovered early that being stunningly 
beautiful was both an asset and a liability. She was noticed wherever she went; 
all she had to do was smile and breathe. The trick was, once noticed, to make 
people see beyond her physical presence, to recognize the highly intelligent 
person inside that tempting flesh.
    While still a teenager she learned how to use her good looks to get boys to 
do what she wanted, while using her sharp intellect to keep one jump ahead of 
them. She escaped her father's home and fled to London, took lessons to learn to 
speak with a polished accent, andto her complete astonishmentfound that she 
had the brains and skill to be a first-rate astronaut. She was hired by Astro 
Manufacturing Corporation to fly missions between Earth and the Moon. With her 
breathless looks and seeming naivet, almost everyone assumed she had slept her 
way to the top of her profession. Yet the truth was just the opposite; Amanda 
had to work hard to fend off the menand womenwho wanted to bed her.
    It was at Selene that she had met Martin Humphries. He had been her gravest 
danger: he wanted Amanda and he had the power to take what he wanted. Amanda had 
married Lars Fuchs in part to get away from Humphries, and Lars knew it.
    Now, here out on the fringe of humankind's expansion through the solar 
system, she was about to become a shopkeeper herself. How father would howl at 
that, she thought. The father's revenge: the child becomes just like the parent, 
in the end.
    "Humphries won't like competition," Cardenas pointed out.
    "Good!" exclaimed Fuchs.
    Shaken out of her reverie, Amanda said, "Competition will be good for the 
prospectors, though. And the miners, too. It will lower the prices they have to 
pay for everything."
    "I agree," said Cardenas. "But Humphries won't like it. Not one little bit."
    Fuchs laughed aloud. "Good," he repeated.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
TWO YEARS LATER
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 5
 
     As soon as he stepped out onto the surface of Ceres, Fuchs realized that 
this was the first time he'd been in a spacesuit in months. The suit still 
smelled new; he'd only used it once or twice. Mein gott, he said to himself, 
I've become a bourgeois. The suit didn't fit all that well, either; the arms and 
legs were a trifle too long to be comfortable. His first venture into space had 
been aboard Starpower 1's ill-fated maiden voyage, five years earlier. He'd been 
a graduate student then, heading for a doctorate in planetary geochemistry. He 
never returned to school. Instead, he married Amanda and became a rock rat, a 
prospector seeking his fortune among the asteroids of the Belt. For nearly two 
years now, he had abandoned even that to run a supply depot on Ceres and 
supervise the habitat project. Helvetia Ltd. was the name Fuchs had given his 
fledgling business, incorporating it under the regulations of the International 
Astronautical Authority. He was Helvetia's president, Amanda its treasurer, and 
Pancho Lane a vice president who never interfered in the company's operations; 
she seldom even bothered to visit its headquarters on Ceres. Helvetia bought 
most of its supplies from Astro Corporation and sold them to the rock rats at 
the lowest markup Amanda would allow. Humphries Space Systems ran a competing 
operation, and Fuchs gleefully kept his prices as low as possible, forcing 
Humphries to cut his own prices or be driven off Ceres altogether. The 
competition was getting to the cutthroat level; it was a race to see who would 
drive whom out of business. The rock rats obviously preferred dealing with Fuchs 
to dealing with HSS. To his pleasant surprise, Helvetia Ltd. prospered, even 
though Fuchs considered himself a mediocre businessman. He was too quick to 
extend credit on nothing more than a rock rat's earnest promise to repay once 
he'd struck it rich. He preferred a handshake to the small print of a contract. 
Amanda constantly questioned his judgment, but enough of those vague promises 
came through to make Helvetia profitable. We're getting rich, Fuchs realized 
happily as his bank account at Selene fattened. Despite all of Humphries's 
tricks, we are getting rather wealthy.
    Now, gazing around the bleak battered surface of Ceres, he realized all over 
again how lonely and desolate this place was. How far from civilization. The sky 
was filled with stars, such a teeming profusion of them that the old familiar 
constellations were lost in their abundance. There was no friendly old Moon or 
blue glowing Earth hanging nearby; even the Sun looked small and weak, dwarfed 
by distance. A strange, alien sky: stark and pitiless. Ceres's surface was 
broodingly dark, cold, pitted by thousands of craterlets, rough and uneven, 
boulders and smaller rocks scattered around everywhere. The horizon was so close 
it looked as if he were standing on a tiny platform rather than a solid body. 
For a giddy instant Fuchs felt that if he didn't hang on, he'd fall up, off this 
worldlet, into the wild wilderness of stars.
    Almost distraught, he caught sight of the unfinished habitat rising above 
the naked horizon, glittering even in the weak sunlight. It steadied him. It 
might be a ramshackle collection of old, used, and stripped-down spacecraft, but 
it was the handiwork of human beings out here in this vast, dark emptiness.
    A gleam of light flashed briefly. He knew it was the little shuttlecraft 
bringing Pancho and Ripley back to the asteroid's surface. Fuchs waited by the 
squat structure of the airlock that led down into the living sections below 
ground.
    The shuttle disappeared past the horizon, but in a few minutes it came up 
over the other side, close enough to see its insect-thin legs and the bulbous 
canopy of its crew module. Pancho had insisted on flying the bird herself, 
flexing her old astronaut muscles.
    Now she brought it in to a smooth landing on the scoured ground about a 
hundred meters from the airlock.
    As the two spacesuited figures climbed down from the shuttle, Fuchs easily 
recognized Pancho Lane's long, stringy figure even in her helmet and suit. This 
was the first time in nearly a year that Pancho had come to Ceres, doubling up 
on her roles of Astro board member and Helvetia vice president.
    Tapping on the communications keyboard on his left wrist, Fuchs heard her 
talking with Ripley, the engineer in charge of the construction project.
    "... what you really need is a new set of welding lasers," she was saying, 
"instead of those clunkers you're workin' with."
    Rather than trying to walk in the low-gravity shuffle that was necessary on 
Ceres, Fuchs took the jetpack control box into his gloved hand and barely 
squeezed it, feather-light. As usual, he overdid the thrust and sailed over the 
heads of Pancho and the engineer, nearly ramming into the shuttlecraft. His 
boots kicked up a cloud of dark dust as he touched down on the surface.
    "Lord, Lars, when're you gonna learn how to fly one of those rigs?" Pancho 
teased.
    Inside his helmet Fuchs grinned with embarrassment. "I'm out of practice," 
he admitted, sliding his feet across the surface toward them, raising still more 
dust. The ground felt gritty, pebbly, even through his thick-soled boots.
    "You were never in practice, buddy."
    He changed the subject by asking the engineer, "So, Mr. Rip-Icy, will your 
crew be able to assemble the latest additions on schedule?"
    "Believe it or not," Ripley replied archly, "they will."
    Niles Ripley was an American of Nigerian heritage, an engineer with degrees 
from Lehigh and Penn, an amateur jazz trumpet player who had acquired the 
nickname "Ripper" from his headlong improvisations. The sobriquet sometimes 
caused problems for the mild-mannered engineer, especially in bars with 
belligerent drunks. The Ripper generally smiled and talked his way out of 
confrontations. He had no intention of letting some musclebound oaf damage his 
horn-playing lip.
    "Your schedule will be met," Ripley went on. Then he added, "Despite its 
lack of flexibility."
    Fuchs jabbed back, "Then your crew will earn its bonus, despite their 
complaints about the schedule."
    Pancho interrupted their banter. "I've been tellin' ol' Ripper here that 
you'd get this job done a lot faster with a better set of welding lasers."
    "We can't afford them," Fuchs said. "We are on very tight budget 
restraints."
    "Astro could lease you the lasers. Real easy terms."
    Fuchs made an audible sigh. "I wish you had thought of that two years ago, 
when we started this operation."
    "Two years ago the best lasers we had were big and inefficient. Our lab boys 
just came up with these new babies: small enough to haul around on a 
minitractor. Very fuel efficient. They've even got a handheld version. Lower 
power, of course, but good enough for some jobs."
    "We're doing well enough with what we have, Pancho."
    "Well, okay. Don't say I didn't make you the offer." He heard the resigned, 
slightly disappointed tone in her voice.
    Pointing a gloved hand toward the habitat, which was nearly at the far 
horizon, Fuchs said, "We've done quite well so far, don't you think?"
    For a long moment she said nothing as the three of them watched the habitat 
glide down the sky. It looked like an unfinished pinwheel, several spacecraft 
joined end to end and connected by long buckyball tethers to a similar 
collection of united spacecraft, the entire assembly slowly rotating as it moved 
toward the horizon.
    "Tell you the truth, Lars old buddy," said Pancho, "it kinda reminds me of a 
used-car lot back in Lubbock."
    "Used-car lot?" Fuchs sputtered.
    "Or maybe a flyin' junkyard."
    "Junkyard?"
    Then he heard Ripley laughing. "Don't let her kid you, Lars. She was pretty 
impressed, going through the units we've assembled."
    Pancho said, "Well, yeah, the insides are pretty good. But it surely ain't a 
thing of beauty from the outside."
    "It will be," Fuchs muttered. "You wait and see."
    Ripley changed the subject. "Tell me more about these handheld lasers. How 
powerful are they?"
    "It'll cut through a sheet of steel three centimeters thick," Pancho said.
    "How long does it take?" asked Ripley.
    "Couple nanoseconds. It's pulsed. Doesn't melt the steel, it shock-blasts 
it."
    They chatted on while the habitat sank out of sight and the distant, pale 
Sun climbed higher in the dark, star-choked sky. Fuchs noticed the zodiacal 
light, like two long arms outstretched from the Sun's middle. Reflections from 
dust motes, he knew: microscopic asteroids floating out there, leftovers from 
the creation of the planets.
    As they started toward the airlock, Pancho turned to Fuchs. "Might's well 
talk a little business."
    She raised her left arm and tapped the key on her cuff that switched to a 
secondary suit-radio frequency. Ripley was cut out of their conversation now.
    Fuchs hit the same key on his control unit. "Yes, business by all means."
    "You asked us to reduce the prices for circuit boards again," Pancho said. 
"We're already close to the bone, Lars."
    "Humphries is trying to undersell you."
    "Astro can't sell at a loss. The directors won't stand for it."
    Fuchs felt his lips curl into a sardonic smile. "Humphries is on your board 
of directors still?"
    "Yup. He's promised not to lower HSS's prices any further."
    "He's lying. They're offering circuit boards, chips, even repair services at 
lower and lower prices. He's trying to drive me out of the market."
    "And once he does he'll run up the prices as high as he pleases," she said.
    "Naturally. He'll have a monopoly then."
    They had reached the airlock hatch. It was big enough for two spacesuited 
people, but not three, so they sent Ripley through first.
    Pancho watched the engineer close the hatch, then said, "Lars, what 
Humphries really wants is to take over Astro. He's been after that since the 
git-go."
    "Then he'll have a monopoly on all space operations, everywhere in the 
Belt...everywhere in the whole solar system," Fuchs said, feeling anger rising 
within him.
    "That's what he's after."
    "We've got to prevent that! Whatever it takes, we must stop him."
    "I can't sell you goods at below cost, buddy. The board's made that clear."
    Fuchs nodded wearily. "Then we'll have to think of something else."
    "Like what?"
    He tried to shrug his shoulders, but inside the spacesuit it was impossible. 
"I wish I knew," he admitted.
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 6
 
    I'm becoming dependant on this woman, Humphries thought, watching Diane 
Verwoerd as they rode down the moving stairs toward his mansion, in Selene's 
bottommost level.
    She was coolly reading out the daily list of action items from her handheld 
palmcomp, ticking them off one by one, asking him to okay the staff assignments 
she had already made to handle each item.
    Humphries rarely left his house. Instead, he had made it into a haven of 
luxury and security. Half the house was living quarters, the other side given 
over to the scientists and technicians who maintained and studied the gardens 
that surrounded the mansion. Il had been a brilliant idea, Humphries thought, to 
talk Selene's governing board into letting him create a three-hundred-hectare 
garden down in the deepest grotto in Selene. Officially, the house was the 
Humphries Trust Research Center that ran the ongoing ecological experiment: Can 
a balanced ecology be maintained on the Moon with minimal human intervention, 
given adequate light and water? Humphries didn't care in the slightest what the 
answer was, so long as he could live in comfort in the midst of the flourishing 
garden, deep below the radiation and other dangers of the Moon's surface.
    He relished the knowledge that he had fooled them all, even Douglas 
Stavenger, Selene's founder and youthful eminence grise. He had even talked them 
into rescinding their foolish decision toe exile him from Selene after his part 
in Dan Randolph's death had become known. But he hadn't fooled the tall, exotic, 
silky Diane Verwoerd, he knew. She saw right through him.
    He had invited her to lunch at the new bistro just opened in the Grand 
Plaza. She had turned down his earlier offers of dinner, but a "working lunch" 
outside the house was something she could not easily refuse. So he had taken her 
to lunch. And she had worked right through the salad and soy cutlets, barely 
taking a sip of the wine he ordered, refusing dessert altogether.
    And now, as they rode on the powered stairs back to his office/home, she 
held her palmcomp before her and rattled off problems facing the company and her 
solutions for them.
    She's become almost indispensable to me, he realized. Maybe that's her game, 
to become so important to me businesswise that I'll stop thinking of her as a 
hotbody. She must know that I don't keep a woman around for long once I've had 
her in bed.
    He grinned inwardly. You're playing a tricky game, Ms. Verwoerd. And, so 
far, you've played it just about perfectly.
    So far.
    Humphries refused to admit defeat, although it was obvious that this 
luncheon idea had been no victory. He listened to her long recitation with only 
half his attention, thinking, I'll get you sooner or later, Diane. I can wait.
    But not much longer, another voice in his head spoke up. No woman is worth 
waiting for this long.
    Wrong, he answered silently. Amanda is.
    As they neared the bottom of the last flight of moving stairs, she said 
something that abruptly caught his full attention.
    "And Pancho Lane flew all the way out to Ceres last week. She's on her way 
back now."
    "To Ceres?" Humphries snapped. "What's she doing out there?"
    "Talking to her business associates, Mr. and Mrs. Fuchs," Verwoerd replied 
calmly. "About undercutting our prices, I imagine."
    "Undercutting me?"
    "What else? If they can drive HSS out of Ceres they'll have the whole Belt 
for themselves. You're not the only one who wants to control the rock rats."
    "Helvetia Ltd.," Humphries muttered. "Silly name for a company."
    "It's really a front for Astro, you know."
    He looked around the smooth walls of the escalator well without replying. At 
this deep level beneath Selene, no one else was riding down. There was no sound 
except the muted hum of the electric motor powering the stairs.
    "Pancho's using Fuchs and his company to make it much tougher for you to 
take control of Astro. The more business she does through Helvetia, the more the 
Astro board sees her as a real hero. They might even elect Pancho chairman when 
O'Banian steps down."
    "Drive me out of the Belt," Humphries growled.
    "That's what we're trying to do to them, isn't it?"
    He nodded.
    "We'd better do it, then, before they do it to us," said Diane Verwoerd.
    Humphries nodded again, knowing she was right.
    "What we need, then," she said slowly, "is a plan of action. A program aimed 
at crushing Helvetia once and for all."
    He looked at her, really looked at her for the first time since they'd 
finished lunch. She's thought this whole thing through, he realized. She's 
leading me around by the nose, by god. Humphries saw it in her almond eyes. She 
has this all figured out. She knows exactly where she wants to lead me.
    "So what do you suggest?" he asked, really curious about where she was 
heading.
    "I suggest a two-pronged strategy."
    "A two-pronged strategy?" he asked dryly.
    "It's an old technique," Verwoerd said, smiling slyly. "The carrot and the 
stick."
    Despite his efforts to remain noncommittal, Humphries smiled. "Tell me about 
it," he said as they reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped off.
 
Once he got back to his office, Humphries cleared his calendar and leaned back 
in his chair, thinking, worrying, planning. All thoughts of Diane left his 
conscious mind; he pictured Amanda out there with Fuchs. Amanda wouldn't try to 
hurt me, he told himself. But he would. He knows I love her and he'd do anything 
to damage me. He's already taken Amanda away from me. Now he wants to drive me 
out of the Belt and stop me from taking Astro. The sonofabitch wants to ruin me!
    Diane is right. We've got to move, and move fast. Carrot and stick.
    Abruptly, he sat up straight and ordered the phone to summon his chief of 
security. The man rapped softly at his office door a few moments later.
    "Come in, Grigor," said Humphries.
    The security chief was a new hire: a lean, silent man with dark hair and 
darker eyes. He wore an ordinary business suit of pale gray, the nondescript 
costume of a man who preferred to remain in the background, unnoticed, while he 
noticed everything. He remained standing despite the two comfortable chairs in 
front of Humphries's desk.
    Tilting his own chair back slightly to look up at him, Humphries said, 
"Grigor, I want the benefit of your thinking on a problem I have."
    Grigor shifted slightly on his feet. He had just been recruited from an 
Earth-based corporation that was floundering financially because most of its 
assets had been destroyed in the greenhouse flooding. He was on probation with 
Humphries, and he knew it.
    "Those rock rats out in the Belt are getting a bigger and bigger share of 
their supplies from Helvetia Ltd. instead of from Humphries Space Systems," 
Humphries said, watching the man closely, curious about how he would respond.
    Grigor said nothing. His face betrayed no emotion. He listened.
    "I want Humphries Space Systems to have exclusive control of the rock rats' 
supplies."
    Grigor just stood there, unmoving, his eyes revealing nothing.
    "Exclusive control," Humphries repeated. "Do you understand?"
    Grigor's chin dipped in the slightest of nods.
    "What do you think must be done?" Humphries asked.
    "To gain exclusive control," said Grigor, in a throaty, guttural voice that 
sounded strained, painful, "you must eliminate your competitor."
    "Yes, but how?"
    "There are many ways. One of them is to use violence. I presume that is why 
you have asked my opinion."
    Raising one hand, Humphries said sharply, "I don't mind violence, but this 
needs to be done with great discretion. I don't want anyone to suspect that 
Humphries Space Systems has anything to do with it."
    Grigor thought in silence for a few heartbeats. "Then the action must be 
taken against individual prospectors, rather than Helvetia itself. Eliminate 
their customers and the company will shrivel and die."
    Humphries nodded. "Yes," he said. "Exactly."
    "It will take some time."
    "How much time?"
    "A few months," Grigor said. "Perhaps a year."
    "I want it done faster than that. Sooner than a year."
    Grigor closed his eyes briefly, then said, "Then we must be prepared to 
escalate the violence. First the individual prospectors, then personnel and 
facilities on Ceres itself."
    "Facilities?"
    "Your competitor is constructing an orbital habitat there, is he not?"
    Humphries fought to suppress a satisfied grin. Grigor's already been 
studying the situation, he realized. Good.
    When his employer failed to reply, Grigor continued, "Stopping the habitat 
project will help to discredit the man who started it. If nothing else, it will 
show that he is powerless to protect his own people."
    "It's got to look accidental," Humphries insisted. "No hint of 
responsibility laid at my doorstep."
    "Not to worry," said Grigor.
    "I never worry," Humphries snapped. "I get even."
    As Grigor left his office, silent as a wraith, Humphries thought, Carrot and 
stick. Diane will offer the carrot. Grigor's people will provide the stick.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
ONE MONTH LATER
 
 
 
 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE
 
Ooh, Randy," gushed Cindy, "you're so big."
    "And hard," added Mindy.
    Randall McPherson lay back in the small mountain of pillows while the naked 
twins stroked his bare skin. Some guys liked sex in microgravity, but Randy had 
spun up his ship to almost a full terrestrial g for his encounter with the 
twins. His partner, Dan Fogerty, complained about the fuel cost of spinning up 
the ship, but Randy had ignored his bleating. Fogerty was known to all the 
miners as Fatso Fogerty, he had allowed himself to blubber up so shamelessly, 
living in microgravity most of the time. McPherson spent hours of his spare time 
in their ship's exercise centrifuge, or had the whole ship spun up to keep his 
muscles in condition. Fogerty was lucky to have a levelheaded man such as 
McPherson to team with him, in McPherson's opinion.
    The twins were actually back at Ceres, of course, but the virtual reality 
system was working pretty well. Hardly a noticeable lag between a request by 
Randy and a smiling, slinky, caressing response from Cindy and Mindy.
    So Randy was more than a little irked when Fogerty's voice broke into his 
three-way fantasy.
    "There's a bloomin' ship approaching us!"
    "What?" McPherson snapped, sitting up so abruptly that the VR images of the 
twins were still wriggling sensuously on the pillows even though he was no 
longer lying between them.
    "A ship," Fatso repeated. "They're askin' to dock with us."
    McPherson muttered a string of heartfelt profanities while the twins lay 
motionless, staring blankly.
    "Sorry, ladies," he said, pushing himself up off the pillows, feeling half 
embarrassed, half infuriated. He lifted the VR goggles off and saw the real 
world: a dreary little compartment on a scruffy clunker of a ship that badly 
needed a refit and overhaul after fourteen months of batting around the Belt.
    Awkwardly peeling off his VR sensor suit and pulling on his coveralls as he 
made his way up to the bridge, McPherson bellowed, "Fatso, if this is one of 
your goddam jokes I'm gonna wring your neck till I hear chimes!"
    He ducked through the hatch and into the cramped, overheated bridge. Fogerty 
overflowed the pilot's seat, one hand clenching half a meat pie; most of the 
rest of it was spattered over his chins and his coveralls front. He was 
globulously lumpy, stretching the faded orange fabric of his coveralls so much 
that McPherson was reminded of an overripe pumpkin. He smelled overripe, too, 
and the additional spicy aroma from the meat pie made McPherson's stomach churn. 
Reckon I don't smell much better, McPherson told himself, trying to keep an even 
temper.
    Fogerty half-turned in the creaking chair and jabbed a thick finger 
excitedly toward the main display screen. McPherson saw the two-kilometer-long 
chunk of rock they had just claimed, dark and lumpy, and a silvery spacecraft 
that looked too sleek and new to be a prospector's ship.
    "A mining team?" Fogerty half-suggested.
    "Out here already?" McPherson snapped. "We just sent in our claim. We 
haven't contacted any miners."
    "Well, there they are," said Fogerty.
    "That's not a miner's ship."
    Fogerty shrugged. "Shall I give 'em permission to come aboard?"
    McPherson had to squeeze past his partner's bulk to get into the right-hand 
seat. "Who in blazes are they? And what are they doing here? With the whole Belt 
to poke into, why are they sticking their noses into our claim?"
    Fogerty grinned at his partner. "We could ask 'em."
    Grumbling, McPherson flicked on the communications channel. "This is The 
Lady of the Lake. Identify yourselves, please."
    The screen swirled with color momentarily, then a darkly bearded man's face 
took form. He looked vaguely oriental to McPherson: high cheekbones, hooded 
eyes.
    "This is Shanidar. We have a boxful of videodisks that we've viewed so often 
we can lip-synch the dialogue. Do you have any to trade?"
    "What've you got?" Fogerty asked eagerly. "How recent are they?"
    "Private stuff, mostly. Muy piquante, if you know what I mean. You can't get 
them through the normal channels. They were brand-new when we left Selene, six 
months ago."
    Before McPherson could reply, Fogerty broke into a dimpled, many-chinned 
smile. "We can swap you one-for-one, but our stuff is older."
    "That's okay," said the bearded man. "It'll be new to us."
    "What're you doing out here?" McPherson demanded. "We claimed this rock, you 
know."
    "We're not prospecting any more," came the reply. "We've hit our jackpot and 
made a deal with Humphries Space Systems to process the ores. Got our money in 
the bank. We just thought we'd unload these videodisks before we head back 
home."
    "Sure," said Fatso. "Why not?"
    McPherson felt uneasy. But he saw the eager look on his partner's fleshy 
face. After fourteen months in the Belt they had barely cleared the payments on 
their ship. They needed another week, at least, to negotiate a mining contract 
with one of the corporations. McPherson had no intention of accepting the first 
offer they received. And the prices for ores just kept going down; they'd be 
lucky if they netted enough to live on for six months before they had to go out 
again.
    "Okay," he said reluctantly. "Come on over and dock at our main airlock."
    Fogerty nodded happily, like a little kid anticipating Christmas.
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 7
 
     Amanda thought again about how housekeeping on Ceresinside Ceres, 
actuallywas different from living on a ship. Not that their living quarters 
were that much more spacious: the single room that she and Lars shared was a 
slightly enlarged natural cave in the asteroid, its walls, floor, and ceiling 
smoothed and squared off. It wasn't much bigger than the cubic volume they had 
aboard Starpower. And there was the dust, always the dust. In Ceres's minuscule 
gravity, every time you moved, every time you took a step, you stirred up the 
everlasting dust. It was invisibly fine inside the living quarters, thanks to 
the air blowers. Once they moved up to the orbiting habitat, the dust would be a 
thing of the past, thank god.
    In the meantime, though, it was a constant aggravation. You couldn't keep 
anything really clean: even dishes stored in closed cupboards had to be scoured 
under air jets before you could eat off them. The dust made you sneeze; half the 
time Amanda and most of the other residents wore filter masks. She worried that 
her face would bear permanent crease marks from the masks.
    But living in Ceres offered something that shipboard life could not 
duplicate. Company. Society. Other people who could visit you or you could drop 
in on. Strolls through the corridors where you could see neighbors and say hello 
and stop for a chat. The corridors were narrow and twisting, it was true; 
natural lava tubes through the rock that had been smoothed off enough for people 
lo shuffle through in a low-gravity parody of walking. Their walls and ceilings 
were still curved and unfinished raw stone; it was more like walking through a 
tunnel than a real corridor. And there was the dust, of course. Always the dust. 
It was worse in the tunnels, so bad that everyone wore face masks when they went 
for a stroll.
    Lately, though, people's attitudes had changed noticeably. There was an aura 
of expectation in the air, almost like the slowly building excitement that the 
year-end holiday season had brought when she'd been a child on Earth. The 
habitat was growing visibly, week by week. Everyone could see it swinging 
through the sky on their wallscreens. We're going to live up there, everyone was 
saying to themselves. We're going to move to a new, clean home.
    When Lars had first told Amanda about the orbiting habitat, she'd been 
worried about the radiation. One advantage of living inside a big rock was that 
it shielded you from the harsh radiation sleeting in from the Sun and deep 
space. But Lars had shown her how the habitat would use the same magnetic 
radiation shielding that spacecraft used, only stronger, better. She studied the 
numbers herself and became convinced that the habitat would be just as safe as 
living undergroundas long as the magnetic shielding worked.
    Lars was up on the unfinished habitat again with Niles Ripley. He and the 
Ripper were working on a recalcitrant water recycler that refused to operate as 
programmed. Meanwhile, she was running the office, routing prospectors' requests 
for supplies and equipment to the proper inventory system, and checking to make 
certain that the material actually was loaded aboard a ship and sent to the 
people who had requested it.
    Then there was the billing procedure. Miners were usually no problem: most 
of them were on corporate payrolls, so whatever they owed could be deducted 
automatically from their paychecks. Prospectors, though, were something else. 
The independents had no paychecks to deduct from. They were still searching for 
an asteroid to mine, waiting to find a jackpot. Yet they needed air to breathe 
and food to eat just as much as did miners working a claim. At Lars's 
insistence, Amanda ran a tab for most of them, waiting for the moment when they 
struck it rich.
    Strange, Amanda thought, how the system works. The prospectors go out 
dreaming of making a fortune. Once they find a likely asteroid they have to make 
a deal to mine its ores. That's when they realize that they'll be lucky if they 
can break even. The prices for metals and minerals roller coasted up and 
downmostly downdepending on the latest strikes; the commodities markets 
Earthside were hotbeds of frantic speculation, despite the sternest efforts of 
the Global Economic Council to keep things under control.
    Yet there were just enough really big finds to keep the stars in the 
prospectors' eyes. They kept doggedly searching for the one asteroid that would 
allow them to retire in wealth and ease.
    The real way to make a fortune, Amanda had learned, was to be a supplier to 
the prospectors and miners who seemed to be rushing out to the Belt in steadily 
increasing numbers. They did the searching and the finding, the mining and 
refining. But the people here on Ceres were the ones who were getting rich. Lars 
had already amassed a small fortune with Helvetia Ltd. Humphries's people were 
piling up bigger and bigger sums in their bank accounts, too. Even the twins, 
with their virtual reality bordello, were millionaires several times over.
    The real profits, though, went to the corporations. Astro and Humphries 
Space Systems made most of the money; only a small percentage of it stays with 
people like Lars and me, Amanda knew.
    Amanda rubbed at the aching back of her neck. It had become stiff from 
staring at the wallscreen for so many hours on end. With a tired sigh, she 
decided to call it a day. Lars would be coming in soon. Time to scrub up and put 
on a clean set of coveralls for dinner and maybe take a walk to the Pub 
afterward. Before shutting down for the day, though, Amanda flicked through the 
list of incoming messages awaiting her attention. Routine. Nothing that needed 
immediate attention.
    Then she noticed that one of the messages had come in not from the ships 
plying the Belt, but from Selene. From the headquarters of Humphries Space 
Systems.
    Her first instinct was to ignore it. Or perhaps delete it altogether. Then 
she saw that it was addressed to Lars, not her. It was not marked personal, and 
did not bear Martin Humphries's signature. No harm in reading it, Amanda 
thought. It won't be a two-way conversation, face-to-face. She glanced at her 
mirror by the bed, across the narrow room. I'm certainly not dressed to impress 
anyone, she thought. But even if it is from Martin, it was recorded and sent 
hours ago. Whoever sent it won't see me.
    She didn't bother to take off her filter mask as she called up the message 
from HSS.
    The wallscreen flickered momentarily, then showed an attractive dark-haired 
woman with the kind of sculpted high cheekbones that Amanda had always envied. 
The ID line beneath her image read diane verwoerd, special assistant to the ceo 
humphries space systems.
    "Mr. Fuchs," said Verwoerd's image, "I have been authorized by the 
management of Humphries Space Systems to engage in negotiations for buying out 
Helvetia Limited. The buyout would include your supply depot, inventory, and all 
the services that Helvetia performs. I'm sure you'll find our terms very 
attractive. Please call me at your earliest convenience. Thank you."
    The screen blanked to the HSS logo against a neutral gray background. Amanda 
stared at it, seeing the woman's image, hearing her words. Buy us out! We could 
go back to Earth! We could live well and Lars could even go back to graduate 
school and get his doctorate!
    She was so excited that she paid no attention to the message from the supply 
ship that was supposed to make rendezvous with The Lady of the Lake.
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 8
 
    Don't you see, Lars?" Amanda said eagerly. "We could go home! To Earth! You 
could go back to your studies and get your doctorate."
    Fuchs was sitting on the edge of their bed, his thin slash of a mouth turned 
down grimly, Amanda beside him. Together they had watched Diane Verwoerd's full 
message offering him ten million international dollars for his supply service 
and its facilities on Ceres. "It's a bribe," he growled.
    "It's the opportunity of a lifetime, darling. Ten million inter-national 
dollars! Think of it! Ten million, free and clear, just like that!" She snapped 
her fingers. "For nothing more than signing your name."
    "And getting out of Ceres."
    "And returning to Earth. We could go to London, or Geneva, if you prefer."
    "It's a bribe," he repeated stubbornly.
    Amanda took both his big, callused hands in hers. "Lars, darling, we can go 
back to Earth and live comfortably wherever you choose. We can begin a new life 
together."
    He said nothing, simply stared at the blanked wallscreen as if he were 
looking down the muzzle of a gun. "Lars, we could have children."
    That stirred him. He turned his head to look into her eyes. "I want to have 
a baby, Lars. Your baby. We can't do that here, you know that."
    He nodded bleakly. "The gravity. . ." he muttered.
    "If we lived on Earth, we could lead normal lives. We could raise a family."
    "The frozen zygotes are waiting for us at Selene," he said.
    She slid her arms around his neck. "We won't need them, Lars. Not if we live 
on Earth like normal people."
    He started to pull her to him, but then something crossed his face. His 
expression changed; he looked almost as if he were in pain.
    "They want us to leave Ceres."
    "And you want to stay?" Amanda had meant it to be joking; lighthearted. But 
it sounded bitter, almost like nagging, even to her.
    "The prospectors. The miners," he said, almost whispering. "All the others 
rock rats out here . . . our friends, our neighbors."
    "What of them?"
    "We'd have to leave them."
    "We'll make new friends. They'll understand."
    He pulled away from her and got to his feet. "But we'll be leaving them to 
him, to Humphries."
    "What of it?"
    "Once we're out of his way, once he's bought us out, he'll be the only 
source for supplies in the entire Belt. No one else would dare to compete 
against him."
    "Astro might. Pancho"
    "He's on Astro's board of directors. Sooner or later he'll take control of 
Astro, too. He'll control everything! And everybody."
    Amanda had known all along that her husband would stick on this point. She 
had tried to keep it out of her mind, but there it was, in the open, standing 
between them.
    "Lars," she said slowly, picking her words with care, "whatever feelings 
Martin may have once had for me are long gone, I'm certain. There is no need to 
view this as a competition between you and he."
    He walked away from her, paced the little room in six strides and then 
turned back toward her, a barrel-chested bear of a man dressed in faded dark 
gray coveralls, his broad heavy-featured face glowering with distrust.
    "But it is a competition, Amanda. Between Humphries Space Systems and 
Helvetia Limited. Between him and Astro, actually. We're caught in the middle of 
it, whether we like it or not."
    "But we can get out of it," she said. "You can take me back to Earth and 
we'll be rid of Humphries and Astro and the rock rats for good."
    He strode to the bed and dropped to his knees before her. "I want to take 
you back home, dearest. I know how much you want to be away from here, how brave 
you've been to stay here with me"
    "I love you, Lars," she said, reaching out to tousle his dark hair. "I want 
to be with you wherever you are."
    He sighed heavily. "Then we must remain here. At least for a little while 
longer."
    "But why...?"
    "Because of them. The rock rats. Our neighbors and friends here on Ceres. We 
can't leave them to Humphries."
    Amanda felt her eyes misting over. "We can't let this opportunity pass us 
by, Lars. Please, please accept their offer."
    He started to shake his head stubbornly, but then he noticed the tears in 
her eyes. He got to his feet and sat heavily beside her again on the edge of the 
bed.
    "Amanda, dearest, I can't turn my back on all the people here. They trust 
me. They need me."
    "I need you, too, Lars," Amanda said. "We've been out here for five years. I 
haven't complained once, have I?"
    "No, you haven't," he admitted. "You've been very wonderful."
    "I'm asking you now, Lars. I'm begging you. Please accept this offer and 
take me back home."
    He stared into her glistening eyes for long, silent moments.
    She could see that he was thinking, searching for some way to do what she 
wanted without feeling that he had betrayed the other rock rats in the Belt.
    At last he said, "Let me talk to Pancho."
    "Pancho? Why?"
    "To see if Astro will make a similar offer."
    "And if they won't?"
    With obvious, painful reluctance, Fuchs said, "Then we'll accept Humphries's 
offer."
    "You will?"
    He nodded, smiling sadly. "Yes, I'll take his money and leave the Belt and 
bring you home to Earth."
 
 
 
 
 
DOSSIER: JOYCE TAKAMINE
 
    The name on her birth certificate read Yoshiko Takamine, but once she 
started at public school everyone called her Joyce. Her parents didn't mind; 
they were fourth-generation Americans, with only a vague feeling of nostalgia 
for the family's roots in Japan. The first time one of her schoolmates called 
her a "Jap," Joyce thought she meant "Jewish American Princess. "
    Father moved them to the hills above Sausalito, but when the greenhouse 
floods wiped out most of the electrical power generation plants in the Bay area, 
they were plunged into darkness along with everyone else. Those were desperate 
times, with half the county thrown out of their jobs. No electricity, no work. 
Joyce's class held their senior prom by candlelight, and there was talk of 
bringing in drilling companies to bore wells deep enough to tap the natural gas 
that lay kilometers below-ground.
    All the kids had to find some kind of job to help support the family. Joyce 
did what her great-grandmother had done more than a century earlier: migrant 
stoop labor in the farms down in the rich valleys of California. The floods 
hadn't reached that far inland, although prolonged drought was searing the 
orchards and vineyards mercilessly. It was hard, bitter work, picking fruits and 
vegetables beneath the hot sun while grim-faced men armed with shotguns kept on 
patrol against wandering bands of starving looters. They expected casual sex 
from the workers. Joyce quickly learned that it was better to please them than 
to go hungry.
    When Joyce returned home that winter, she was shocked to see how much her 
parents had aged. An epidemic of dengue fever had swept the coast and even 
reached into the hills where they lived. Her mother sobbed softly at night; her 
father stared into the hot cloudless sky, racked with bouts of coughing that 
left him gasping for breath. When he looked at his daughter he seemed ashamed, 
as if all this devastation, all this ruination of the family's plans, was his 
fault alone.
    "I wanted you to become an engineer," he told Joyce. "I wanted you to rise 
beyond my station in life."
    "I will, Dad," she told him, with the careless assurance of youth. And when 
she turned her eyes to the sky, she thought about the wild frontier out along 
the Asteroid Belt.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 9
 
    He's put in a call to Pancho Lane," said Diane Verwoerd.
    She and Humphries were strolling through the courtyard outside his mansion. 
Humphries claimed he enjoyed taking a walk in the "outdoors"or as near to 
outdoors as you could get on the Moon. Humphries's home was in the middle of a 
huge grotto down at the deepest level of Selene's network of underground 
corridors and habitation spaces. The big, high-ceilinged cavern was filled with 
flowered shrubbery, profusions of reds and yellows and delicate lilacs blooming 
from one rough-hewn rock wall to the other. Taller trees rose among the 
profusion of flowers: alders and sturdy maples and lushly flowering white and 
pink gardenias. No breeze swayed those trees; no birds sang in the greenery; no 
insects buzzed. It was a huge, elaborate hothouse, maintained by human hands. 
Hanging from the raw rock ceiling were strips of full-spectrum lamps to imitate 
sunlight.
    Verwoerd could see the enormous garden beyond the ornate fountain that 
splashed noisily in the courtyard. The house itself was massive, only two 
stories high, but wide, almost sprawling. Built of smoothed lunar stone, its 
roof slanted down to big sweeping windows.
    Compared to the gray underground drabness of the rest of Selene, this garden 
and home were like a paradise in the midst of a cold, forbidding desert. 
Verwoerd's own quarters, several levels up from this grotto, were among the best 
in Selene, but they seemed cramped and colorless compared to this.
    Humphries claimed he enjoyed walking in the open air. The only other open 
space in Selene was the Grand Plaza, under the big dome up on the surface, and 
anyone could take a stroll up there. Here he had his privacy, and all the heady 
color that human ingenuity and hard work could provide on the Moon. Verwoerd 
thought he enjoyed the idea that all this was his more than any aesthetic or 
health benefits he could gain from walking among the roses and peonies.
    But any pleasure he might have enjoyed from this stroll was wiped away by 
her announcement.
    "He's called Pancho?" Humphries snapped, immediately nettled. "What for?"
    "She scrambled his message and her reply, so we don't know the exact words 
as yet. I have a cryptologist working on it."
    "Only one message?"
    With a small nod, Verwoerd answered, "His incoming to her, and hers outgoing 
to him immediately after."
    "H'mm."
    "I can guess what the subject was."
    "So can I," Humphries said sourly. "He wants to see if she'll better our 
offer."
    "Yes."
    "He's playing her against me."
    "It would seem so."
    "And if she outbids me, then Astro gets full control of his Helvetia 
Limited." He pronounced the name sneeringly.
    Verwoerd frowned slightly. "He's already using Astro as his supplier. What 
does Pancho have to gain by buying him out?"
    "She keeps us from buying him out. It's a preventive strike, that's what it 
is."
    "So we increase our bid?"
    "No," Humphries snapped. "But we increase our pressure."
 
Seyyed Qurrah laughed with delight as he gazed through the thick quartz 
observation port at his prize, his jewel, his reward for more than two years of 
scorn and struggle and near starvation. He feasted his eyes as the irregular 
chunk of rock slid across his view, grayish brown where the sunlight struck it, 
pitted and covered here and there with boulders the size of houses.
    "Allah is great," he said aloud, thanking the one God for his mercy and 
kindness.
    Turning to the sensor displays in his cabin's control panel, he saw that 
this lump of stone bore abundant hydrates, water locked chemically to the 
silicates of the rock. Water! In the desert that was the Moon, water fetched a 
higher price than gold. It was even more valuable at Ceres, although with only a 
few hundred people living at the big asteroid, the demand for precious water was 
not as high as that of Selene's many thousands.
    Qurrah thought of the contempt and ridicule that they had heaped upon him 
back home when he'd announced that he intended to leave Earth and seek his 
fortune in the new bounty of the Asteroid Belt. "Sinbad the Sailor" was the 
kindest thing he'd been called. "Seyyed the Idiot" was what most of them said. 
Even when he had reached Ceres and leased a ship with the last bit of credit his 
dead father had left him, even there the other prospectors and miners called him 
"Towel Head" and worse. Well, now the shoe was on the other foot. He'd show 
them!
    Then he pictured how happy Fatima would be when he returned to Algiers, 
wealthy and happy at last. He would be able to shower her with diamonds and rich 
gowns of silk with gold threading. Perhaps even acquire a second wife. He was so 
pleased that he decided to take a full meal from his meager foodstocks, instead 
of his usual handful of boiled couscous.
    But first he would register his claim with the International Astronautical 
Authority. That was important. No, before that, he must make his prayer to 
Allah. That was more important.
    He realized he was nearly babbling out loud. Taking a deep breath to calm 
himself, Qurrah decided, prayer first, then register with the IAA, then 
celebrate with a whole meal.
    He kept his ship spinning all the time, counterbalancing his habitation unit 
with the power generator and other equipment at the end of the kilometer-long 
tether. Not for him the long months in microgee, with his muscles going flabby 
and his bones decalcifying so that he would have to spend even longer months in 
lunar orbit rebuilding his body cells. No! Qurrah lived in almost a full earthly 
gravity.
    So he had no trouble unfurling his prayer rug once he had taken it from its 
storage cabinet. He was spreading the rug on the one uncluttered area of his 
compartment when his communications receiver chimed.
    A message? He was startled at the thought. Who would be calling me out here, 
in this wilderness? Only Fatima and the IAA knows where I amand the people back 
at Ceres, of course, but why would they call a lonely prospector?
    Fatima! he thought. Something has happened to her. Something terrible.
    His voice trembled as he answered, "This is the Star of the East. Who is 
calling, please?"
    A bearded man's face appeared on his main screen. He looked almost Asian to 
Qurrah, or perhaps Hispanic.
    "This is Shanidar. You are trespassing on territory that belongs to 
Humphries Space Systems, Incorporated."
    "This rock?" Qurrah was instantly incensed. "No sir! There is no registered 
claim for this asteroid. I was just about to send in my own claim when you 
hailed me."
    "You haven't registered a claim for it?"
    "I am going to, right now!"
    The bearded man shook his head, very slightly, just a small movement from 
side to side.
    "No you're not," he said.
    They were the last words Qurrah ever heard. The laser blast from Shanidar 
blew a fist-sized hole through the thin hull of his ship. Qurrah's death scream 
quickly screeched to silence as the air rushed out and his lungs collapsed in 
massive hemorrhages of blood.
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE PUB
 
    George Ambrose cradled his stone mug of beer in both his big paws. They call 
it beer, he grumbled inwardly. Haven't seen a decent beer since I came out here. 
Fookin' concoction these rock rats call beer tastes more like platypus piss than 
anything else. The real stuff was available, but the price was so high for 
anything imported that George gritted his teeth and sipped the local brew.
    As joints went, the Pub wasn't so bad. Reminded George of the Pelican Bar, 
back at Selene, except for the twins in their spray-paint bikinis. They worked 
behind the bar, under the protective eye of the owner/barkeep. More'n two 
hundred and sixty million kilometers away, the old Pelican was. Nearly a week's 
flight, even in the best of the fusion ships.
    He looked over the crowd. The Pub was a natural cave in Ceres's porous, 
rocky crust. The floor had been smoothed down but nobody'd ever bothered to 
finish the walls or ceiling. Be a shame to leave this behind when we move to the 
habitat, George thought. He'd grown fond of the joint.
    Everything in the Pub was either scavenged or made from asteroidal 
materials. George was sitting on an old packing crate, reinforced by nickel-iron 
rods and topped with a stiff plastic cushion cadged from some ship's stores. The 
table on which he was leaning his beefy arms was carved rock, as was his mug. 
Some of the crowd were drinking from frosted aluminum steins, but George 
preferred the stone. The pride and joy of the The Pub was its bar, made of real 
wood ferried in here by the daft old doddv who owned the joint. Maybe he isn't 
so daft, George mused. He's makin' more money than I am, that's for sure. More 
money than any of these rock rats.
    Men and women were jammed four deep at the bar and sitting at all the tables 
spotted across the place like stalagmites rising from the stone floor, four or 
five men to every sheila. A dozen or more stood along the back wall, drinks in 
their hands. A pair of women and another bloke were sitting at the same table as 
George, but he hardly knew them and they were chatting up each other, leaving 
him alone with his beer.
    A strange crowd, he thought. Prospectors and miners ought to be rough, 
hard-handed men, outback types like in the old videos. These blokes were college 
boys, computer nerds, family men and women with enough education and smarts to 
operate spacecraft and highly automated mining machinery. Not one of 'em ever 
used a pick or shovel, George knew. Hell's bells, I never did meself. Lately, 
though, a different sort had been drifting in: snotty-looking yobbos who kept 
pretty much to themselves. They didn't seem to have any real jobs, although they 
claimed they worked for HSS. They just hung around, as if they were waiting for 
something.
    Off in the far corner of the cave a couple of blokes were unpacking musical 
instruments and connecting their amplifiers. Niles Ripley walked in, 
loose-jointed and smiling at his friendsjust about everybodywith his trumpet 
case in one hand. George pushed himself to his feet and shambled to the bar for 
a refill of his platypus brew. Several people said hello to him, and he made a 
bit of chat until Cindy slid the filled mug back to him. Or was it Mindy? George 
could never tell the twins apart. Then he went back to his table. Nobody had 
swiped his seat. That's the kind of place the Pub was.
    As the music began, low and sweet, George found himself thinking about his 
life. Never dreamed I'd be out here in the Belt, digging ores out of fookin' 
asteroids. Hard work, but better than prospecting, poking around the Belt for 
months on end, looking for a really rich asteroid that the corporations haven't 
already claimed, hoping to make the big strike so you can go home and live in 
luxury. Life takes weird turns.
    The Ripper, who had been playing along with the other musicians, finally 
stood up and tore into a solo that rocked the cave. His trumpet echoed off the 
stone walls, bringing everyone to their feet, swaying and clapping in time to 
his soaring notes. When he finished they roared with delight and insisted on 
more.
    The evening flew by. George forgot about the ship that he owed money on, 
forgot about getting up early tomorrow morning to finish the repair job on 
Matilda's main manipulator arm so he could get the hell out of Ceres and finish 
the mining job he'd signed up for before the contract deadline ran out and he 
had to pay a penalty to Astro Corporation. He just sat there with the rest of 
the crowd, grooving on the music, rushing to the bar along with everyone else 
when the band took a break, drinking all night long yet getting high on the 
music, not the beer.
    It was well past midnight when the band broke up, after several encores, and 
started to pack their instruments and equipment. People began to file out of the 
Pub, tired and happy. The twins had disappeared, as usual. Nobody laid a hand on 
them, except in virtual reality. George plowed through the crowd and made his 
way to the Ripper.
    "Lemme buy you a beer, mate?"
    Ripley clicked his trumpet case shut, then looked up.
    Smiling, he said, "Maybe a cola, if you can afford it."
    "Sure thing, Rip. No worries."
    A few determined regulars still stood at bar, apparently with no intention 
of leaving. George saw four of the new guys there, too, grouped together, bent 
over their drinks and talking to one another in low, serious tones. They all 
wore coveralls with the HSS logo over their name tags.
    "Another beer for me and a cola for the Ripper, here," George called to the 
barkeep.
    "A cola?" sneered one of the yobbos. The others laughed.
    Ripley smiled down the bar at them. "Can't have any alcohol after midnight. 
I'm working on the habitat in the morning."
    "Sure," came the reply.
    George scowled at them. They were so new to Ceres they didn't realize that 
an imported cola cost half the earth. He turned back toward Ripley. "Helluva 
show you put on tonight."
    "They seemed to like it."
    "Ever think of playin' professionally? You're too good to be sittin' out on 
this rock."
    Ripley shook his head. "Naw. I play the trumpet for fun. If I got serious 
about it, it'd become work."
    "You hurt my ears with that damned noise," said another of the yobbos.
    "Yeah," said one of his mates. "Why the hell d'you hafta play so damned 
loud?"
    Before George could say anything, Ripley replied, "Gee, I'm sorry about 
that. Maybe next time I'll use a mute."
    The complainer walked down the bar toward Ripley. "Next time my ass. What're 
you going to do about the frickin' headache you've given me?"
    He was a tall, rangy sort, athletically built; short blond hair, with a 
funny little tail in the back, like an old-time matador. He was young, George 
saw, but old enough to have better manners.
    The Ripper's smile started to look a little forced. Very gently, he replied, 
"I guess I could treat you to a couple of aspirins."
    "Fuck you and your aspirins." The guy threw his drink into the Ripper's 
face.
    Ripley looked shocked, totally at a loss. He blinked in confusion as beer 
dripped from his nose, his ears.
    George stepped between them. "That wasn't very smart," he said.
    "I'm not talking to you, Red. It's this wiseass noisemaker I'm talking to."
    "He's my friend," said George. "I think you owe him an apology."
    "And I think you ought to pull your shaggy ass out of this before you get 
hurt," said the yobbo, as his three companions came up to stand with him.
    George smiled pleasantly. This was getting interesting, he thought. To the 
beer-thrower, he said, "Mr. Ripley, here, isn't the sort to get involved in a 
barroom brawl. He might hurt his lip, y'see, and then everyone here would be 
upset with the people who made that happen."
    The guy looked around. The Pub was almost empty now. The few remaining 
regulars had backed away from the bar, drinks in their hands. A handful of 
others who had been leaving now stood at the doorway, watching. The barkeep had 
faded back to the other end of the bar, the expression on his face somewhere 
between nervous and curious.
    "I don't give a fuck who gets upset with who. And that includes you, big 
ass."
    George grabbed the guy by the front of his shirt and lifted him, one hand, 
off the floor to deposit him with a thump on the bar. He looked very surprised. 
His three friends stood stock-still.
    Ripley touched George's other arm. "Come on, pal. Let's not have a fight."
    George looked from the yobbo sitting on the bar to his three standing 
partners, then broke into a shaggy grin.
    "Yeah," he said to the Ripper. "No sense breakin' the furniture. Or any 
heads."
    He turned and started for the door. As he knew they would, all four of them 
leaped at him. And none of them knew beans about fighting in low gravity.
    George swung around and caught the first one with a backhand swat that sent 
him sprawling. The next two tried to pin his arms but George threw them off. The 
original troublemaker came at him with a high-pitched yowl and a karate kick 
aimed at his face. George caught his foot in mid-kick and swung him around like 
a kid's toy, lifted him totally off his feet, and then tossed him flying in a 
howling slow-motion spin over the bar. He crashed into the decorative glassware 
on the shelves along the back wall.
    "Goddammit, George, that costs money!" the barkeep yelled.
    But George was busy with the three recovered yobbos. They rushed him all at 
once, but it was like trying to bring down a statue. George staggered back a 
step, grunting, then smashed one to the floor with a single sledgehammer blow 
between his shoulder-blades. He peeled the other two off and held them up off 
the floor by the scruffs of their necks, shook them the way a terrier shakes a 
rat, then banged their heads together with a sound like a melon hitting the 
pavement after a long drop.
    He looked around. Two men were unconscious at his feet, a third moaning 
facedown on the floor. The barkeep was bending over the yobbo on the floor 
behind the bar amid the shattered glassware, shouting, "Well, somebody's got to 
pay for this damage!"
    "Are you all right, George?" Ripley asked.
    George saw that the Ripper had a packing-crate-chair in his hands. He 
laughed. "What're you gonna do with that, post 'em back to Earth?"
    Ripley broke into a relieved laugh, and the two men left the Pub. Half a 
minute later the Ripper ran back in and retrieved his trumpet. The bartender was 
on the phone, calling Kris Cardenas, the only qualified medical help on Ceres. 
He held a credit chip from one of the yobbos in his hand.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 10
 
    Even after five years on Astro Corporation's board of directors, Pancho Lane 
still thought of herself as a neophyte. You got a lot to learn, girl, she told 
herself almost daily.
    Yet she had formed a few working habits, a small set of rules for herself. 
She spent as little time in Astro's corporate offices as possible. Whether at La 
Guaira on Earth or in Selene, Pancho chose to be among the engineers and 
astronauts rather than closeting herself with the suits. She had come up through 
the ranks, a former astronaut herself, and she had no intention of reading 
reports and studying graphs when she could be out among the workers, getting her 
hands dirty; she preferred the smell of machine oil and honest sweat to the 
quiet tensions and power jockeying of the corporate offices.
    One of her self-imposed rules was to make decisions as soon as she had the 
necessary information, and then to act on her decisions quickly. Another was to 
deliver bad news herself, instead of detailing some flunky to handle the chore.
    Still, she hesitated to put in the call to Lars Fuchs. It won't make him 
happy, she knew. Instead, she called his wife. Pancho and Amanda had worked 
together five years earlier; they had copiloted Starpower 1's maiden mission to 
the Belt. They had watched helplessly as Dan Randolph died of radiation 
poisoningmurdered by remote control, by Martin Humphries.
    And now the Humper was offering to buy out Lars and Mandy, get them off 
Ceres, establish his own Humphries Space Systems as the sole supplier for the 
rock rats out there. Pancho had tried to fight Humphries, tried to keep Astro in 
the competition through Fuchs's little company. But she had been thoroughly 
outmaneuvered by Humphries, and she knew it.
    Angry more at herself than anyone else, she marched herself to her office in 
La Guaira and made the call to Amanda. She paid no attention to the lovely 
tropical scenery outside her office window; the green, cloud-topped mountains 
and gently surging sea held no attraction for her. Planting her booted feet on 
her desktop, wishing there was some way to help Mandy and Lars, she commanded 
her phone to send a message to Amanda Cunningham Fuchs, on Ceres.
    "Mandy," she began unceremoniously, "'fraid I got bad news for you and Lars. 
Astro won't top Humphries's buyout offer. The board wouldn't vote to buy you 
out. Humphries has a nice little clique on the board and they voted the whole 
proposition down the toilet. Sorry, kid. Look me up when you get back to Selene, 
or wherever you're goin'. Maybe we can spend some time together without worryin' 
about business. See ya."
    Pancho was startled when she realized she'd been sitting at her desk for 
nearly half an hour without instructing the phone to transmit her message.
    Finally she said, "Aw shit, send it."
 
The headquarters of the International Astronautical Authority were still in 
Zurich, officially, but its main working offices were in St. Petersburg.
    The global warming that had melted most of the glaciers in Switzerland and 
turned the snowpacks of the Alpine peaks into disastrous, murderous floods had 
forced the move. The administrators and lawyers who had been transferred to 
Russia complained, with some resentment, that they had been pushed off the 
greenhouse cliff.
    To their surprise, St. Petersburg was a beautiful, cosmopolitan city, not at 
all the dour gray urban blight they had expected. The greenhouse warming had 
been kind to St. Petersburg: winters were nowhere near as long and bitter as 
they had once been. Snow did not start to fall until well into December and it 
was usually gone by April. Russian engineers had doggedly built a series of 
weirs and breakwaters across the Gulf of Finland and the Neva River to hold back 
the rising seas.
    Even though the late winter sunlight had to struggle through a slate-gray 
layer of clouds, Erek Zar could see from his office window that most of the snow 
had already melted from the rooftops. It promised to be a good day, and a good 
weekend. Zar leaned back in his desk chair, clasped his hands behind his head, 
looked out across the rooftops toward the shimmering harbor, and thought that, 
with luck, he could get away by lunchtime and spend the weekend with his family 
in Krakow.
    He was not happy, therefore, when Francesco Tomasselli stepped through his 
office door with a troubled expression on his swarthy face. Strange, Zar said to 
himself: Italians are supposed to be sunny and cheerful people. Tomasselli 
always looked like the crack of doom. He was as lean as a strand of spaghetti, 
the nervous sort. Zar felt like Shakespeare's Julius Caesar: Let me have men 
about me that are fat; sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights.
    "What's the matter, Franco?" Zar asked, hoping it wasn't serious enough to 
interfere with his travel plans.
    Tomasselli plopped into the upholstered chair in front of the desk and 
sighed heavily. "Another prospecting ship is missing."
    Zar sighed too. He spoke to his desktop screen and the computer swiftly 
showed the latest report from the Belt: a spacecraft named Star of the East had 
disappeared; its tracking beacon had winked off, all telemetry from the craft 
had ceased.
    "That's the third one this month," Tomasselli said, his lean face furrowed 
with worry.
    Spreading his hands placatingly, Zar said, "They're out on the edge of 
nowhere, sailing alone through the Belt. Once a ship gets into trouble there's 
no one near enough to help. What do you expect?"
    Tomasselli shook his head. "When a spacecraft gets into trouble, as you put 
it, it shows up on the telemetry. They send out distress calls. They ask for 
help, or advice."
    Zar shrugged.
    "We've had ships fail and crews die, god knows," Tomasselli went on, the 
faint ring of vowels at the end of most of his words. "But these three are 
different. No calls for help, no telemetry showing failures or malfunctions. 
They just disappearpoof!"
    Zar thought a moment, then asked, "Had they claimed any asteroids?"
    "One of them had: Lady of the Lake. Two weeks after the ship disappeared and 
the claim was officially invalidated, the asteroid was claimed by a vessel owned 
by Humphries Space Systems: the Shanidar."
    "Nothing irregular there."
    "Two weeks? It's as if the Humphries ship was waiting for Lady of the Lake 
to disappear so they could claim the asteroid."
    "You're getting melodramatic, Franco," said Zar. "You're accusing them of 
piracy."
    "It should be investigated."
    "Investigated? How? By whom? Do you expect us to send search teams through 
the Asteroid Belt? There aren't enough spacecraft in the solar system for that!"
    Tomasselli did not reply, but his dark eyes looked brooding, accusing.
    Zar frowned at his colleague. "Very well, Franco. I'll tell you what I'll 
do. I'll talk to the Humphries people and see what they have to say about it."
    "They'll deny everything, of course."
    "There's nothing to deny! There's no shred of evidence that they've done 
anything wrong!"
    Tomasselli muttered, "I am going to examine all the claims made by HSS ships 
over the past month."
    "What for?"
    "To see if there are any in the regions where those two other missing ships 
disappeared."
    Zar wanted to scream at the man. He's nothing but a suspicious-minded young 
Italian, Zar thought, seeing nefarious plots and skullduggery wherever he looks. 
But he took a deep breath to calm himself and said in an even, measured tone:
    "That's fine, Franco. You check the claims. I'll speak to the HSS people. 
Monday. I'll do it first thing Monday morning, after I come back from the 
weekend."
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 11
 
    There was no meeting hall in Ceres, no single place designated for public 
assemblies. That was mainly because there had never been a need for one; Ceres's 
ragtag collection of miners and prospectors, repair people and technicians, 
merchants and clerks had never come together in a public assembly until now. The 
closest thing to a government on Ceres was a pair of IAA flight controllers who 
monitored the take-offs and landings of the ships that were constantly arriving 
for supplies and maintenance, then departing into the dark emptiness of the 
Belt.
    So when Fuchs called for a public meeting, it took some doing for him to 
convince the other rock rats that a gathering was necessary and beneficial. As 
it was, hardly forty men and women out of the several hundred in the asteroid 
showed up at the Pub, which Fuchs had commandeered for his meeting. A few dozen 
others attended electronically, from their ships in transit through the Belt. 
Big George was among those latter; he had left Ceres in his Waltzing Matilda 
several days before Fuchs's meeting convened.
    It was a good-natured crowd that came together in the Pub at 1700 hours that 
afternoon. Like most spacecraft and off-Earth facilities, Ceres kept Universal 
Time. The Pub's owner/barkeep had allowed his place to be used for the meeting 
upon Fuchs's promise that it would take no longer than an hour. The "six o'clock 
swill" could proceed as usual.
    "I'm no public speaker," Fuchs said, standing atop the bar so everyone in 
the milling, chattering crowd could see him. Three big flatscreens had been 
wheeled into the back of the room; they showed nearly a score of individuals 
attending the meeting remotely. Many of the prospectors refused to do even that, 
claiming that they didn't want anyone to know where they were, outside of the 
usual IAA trackers, whom they tolerated only because of the IAA's tradition of 
confidentiality and non-interference in spacecraft operations, except for safety 
conditions.
    "I'm no public speaker," Fuchs repeated, louder.
    "Then what're you doing up there?" came an irreverent voice from the crowd. 
Everyone laughed.
    Grinning back at the heckler, Fuchs rejoined, "It's a dirty job..."
    ". . . but somebody's got to do it," the whole crowd finished with him.
    Fuchs laughed, a little sheepishly, and looked at Amanda, standing off by 
the wall toward his right. She smiled encouragement at him. The twins stood 
beside her, fully clothed in glittering metallic outfits. Even in plain 
coveralls Amanda still looked far more beautiful than they, in Fuchs's eyes.
    "Seriously," he said, once the crowd settled down, "it's time we talked 
about something that most of us find distasteful"
    "What'samatter Lars, the toilets backing up again?"
    "The recycler breaking down?"
    "No," he said. "Worse than that. It's time to start thinking about forming 
some kind of a government here."
    "Aw, shit!" somebody yowled.
    "I don't like the idea of rules and regulations any more than you do," Fuchs 
said quickly. "But this community is growing and we don't have any laws or law 
enforcement."
    "We don't need 'em," a woman shouted.
    "We've been getting along okay without any."
    Fuchs shook his head. "There have been two brawls right here in the Pub in 
the past month. Someone deliberately damaged Yuri Kubasov's ship last week. 
Deliberate sabotage."
    "That's a private matter," came a voice from the back of the chamber. "Yuri 
was chasing the wrong woman."
    A few people snickered knowingly.
    "Then there was the break-in in my warehouse," Fuchs added. "That was no 
minor affair; we lost more than a hundred thousand dollars worth of inventory."
    "Come on, Lars," a woman challenged. "Everybody knows that you're competing 
against HSS. So they're playing a little rough; that's your problem, not ours."
    "Yeah, if you and Humphries are battling it out, why try to drag us into 
your fight?"
    Glancing again toward Amanda, Fuchs answered, "It's not my fight. It's 
yours."
    "The hell it is!" said one of the men, heatedly. "This is between you and 
Humphries. It's personal and it's got nothing to do with us."
    "That's not true, as you'll soon find out."
    "What's that supposed to mean?"
    Reluctantly, surprised at how hard it was to bring out the words, he told 
them, "It means that Amanda and I will be leaving Ceres shortly. We'll be 
returning to Earth."
    "Leaving?"
    Feeling real pain, Fuchs went on, "Humphries has made an offer that's much 
too generous for us to us to ignore. HSS will be taking over Helvetia's 
warehouse and all its services."
    For several heartbeats there was absolute silence through the Pub.
    Then, from one of the flatscreens, Big George said, "That means HSS will be 
our only supplier."
    "They'll have a monopoly here!" someone else wailed.
    With a grave nod, Fuchs said, "That's why it's important for you to form 
some kind of government, some group that can represent you, maybe get Astro to 
set up another facility"
    "fire," said the synthesized computer voice from the speakers by the Pub's 
entryway. "fire in section four-cee."
    "That's my warehouse!" Fuchs blurted.
    The crowd bolted through the entryway and out into the tunnel. Fuchs jumped 
down from the bar, grabbed Amanda by the hand, and raced along behind the 
others.
    Each section of the underground settlement was connected to the others by 
the tunnels. Airtight hatches stood in the tunnels every hundred meters or so, 
programmed to seal themselves shut in case of a drop in air pressure or other 
deviation from normal conditions. By the time Fuchs reached the entrance to his 
warehouse, still grasping Amanda's hand, the hatch that sealed off the cave had 
long been shut tight. He pushed through the crowd from the Pub, coughing 
violently at the dust they had raised, and touched the hatch's metal surface. It 
felt hot.
    "The warehouse cameras are out," said one of the technicians. "Must be a 
pretty intense fire."
    Fuchs nodded, scowling. "Nothing to do but wait until it consumes all the 
air in there and kills itself off."
    "Was anyone inside?" Amanda asked.
    "I don't believe so," Fuchs said. "Not any of our people; they were all at 
the meeting."
    "So we wait," said the technician. He fumbled in his coverall pocket, then 
pulled out a breathing mask and slipped it on.
    Several people in the crowd murmured condolences. Most of the others drifted 
off, buzzing with low-voiced conversations. Here and there someone coughed or 
spluttered from the dust.
    "He did this," Fuchs muttered.
    "Who?" asked Amanda.
    "Humphries. One of his people."
    "No! What would he"
    "To convince us to leave Ceres. The money offer he made was a ruse. We 
haven't told him of our decision to accept it, so now he uses force."
    "Lars, I can't believe that he'd do that."
    "I can."
    Amanda looked at the few people remaining in the tunnel and said to her 
husband, "There's nothing we can do here. We should go home; we can come back 
later, when the fire's burned itself out."
    "No," Fuchs said. "I'll wait here."
    "But you don't have a breathing mask and"
    "You go. I'll wait here."
    Amanda tried to smile, failed. "I'll wait with you."
    "There's no need . . ."
    "I'd rather be with you," Amanda said, taking his big-knuckled hand in both 
of hers.
    Standing there with nothing to do except wait, coughing in the gritty dust, 
Fuchs felt a seething anger rising within him, a burning hatred for the man who 
could order such a thing and his henchmen who actually did it.
    The swine, he said to himself. The filthy, sneaking, murderous swine. A 
fire! In a sealed community like this. If the safety hatches didn't work they 
could have killed us all! The fire could consume all our air and asphyxiate 
every one of us!
    Murderers, he told himself. I'm dealing with men who would commit murder to 
get what they want. I'm taking Humphries's money and running away from this 
place like a lackey being paid off by the lord of the manor.
    "Lars, what wrong?" Amanda asked.
    "Nothing."
    She looked truly worried. "But you were trembling. You lookedI've never 
seen such an expression on your face before."
    He tried to control the rage boiling inside him, tried to hide it, keep it 
bottled up where no one could see it, not even his wife.
    "Come on," he said gruffly. "You were right. There's nothing we can do here 
until we can open the hatch and see how much damage has been done."
    When they got back to their apartment, he picked at the dinner Amanda set 
before him. He could not sleep. The next morning, when he and a pair of 
technicians went back to the warehouse, the airtight hatch was fused shut. They 
had to use one of Astro's mining lasers to cut it open and then wait several 
minutes for the big, gutted chamber to fill with breathable air.
    The warehouse was a blackened shambles. The technicians, both of them young 
men new to Ceres, stared at the wreckage with round eyes.
    "Jeez," muttered the one on Fuchs's right as they played their hand lights 
around the still-hot ruins.
    Fuchs couldn't recognize the place. The shelving had collapsed, metal 
supports melted by the heat of the blaze. Tons of equipment were reduced to 
molten lumps of slag.
    "What could've caused such a hot fire?" wondered the kid on Fuchs's left.
    "Not what," Fuchs muttered. "Who."
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 12
 
    It's a good thing that it takes so long for communications to go back and 
forth, Amanda thought. Otherwise Lars would be screaming at the woman by now.
    She had watched her husband, his face grimed from the ashes of the warehouse 
and his mood even darker, as he placed his call to their insurance carrier to 
inform them of the fire. Then he had called Diane Verwoerd, at Humphries Space 
Systems' offices in Selene.
    Even though messages moved at the speed of light, it took more than an hour 
for Ms. Verwoerd to respond. With the distance between them, there could be no 
real conversation between Ceres and the Moon. Communications were more like 
video mail that true two-way links.
    "Mr. Fuchs," Verwoerd began her message, "I appreciate your calling me to 
inform us about the fire in your warehouse. I certainly hope that no one was 
injured."
    Fuchs started to reply automatically, and only stopped himself when Verwoerd 
coolly went on, "We will need to know the extent of the damage before opening 
our negotiations on acquiring Helvetia Limited. As I understand it, a major part 
of your company's assets consisted of the inventory in your warehouse. I 
understand that this inventory was insured, but I'm certain that your insurance 
won't cover much more than half the value of the damaged property. Please inform 
me as soon as you can. In the meantime, I will contact your insurance carrier. 
Thank you." Her image winked out, replaced by the stylized logo of Humphries 
Space Systems.
    Fuchs's face looked like a thundercloud, dark and ominous. He sat at the 
computer desk of their one-room apartment, staring silently at the wallscreen. 
Amanda, sitting on the bed, didn't know what she could say to make him feel 
better.
    "We won't be getting ten million," he muttered, turning to her. "Not half 
that, I imagine."
    "It's all right, Lars. Three or four million is enough for us to"
    "To run away with our tails between our legs," he snapped.
    Amanda heard herself answer, "What else can we do?"
    Fuchs's head drooped defeatedly. "I don't know. I don't know. We're wiped 
out. The warehouse is completely gutted. Whoever set the fire did a thorough 
job."
    Warily, she asked, "Do you still think it was deliberately set?"
    "Of course!" her husband shouted angrily. "He never intended to pay us ten 
million! That was a lure, a ruse. He's kicking us off Ceres, out of the Belt 
entirely."
    "But why would he make the offer...?" Amanda felt confused.
    Almost sneering with contempt, Fuchs said, "To put us in the proper frame of 
mind. To get us accustomed to the idea of leaving the Belt. Now he's waiting for 
us to come crawling to him and beg for as much of the ten million as he's 
willing to give us."
    "We won't do that," Amanda said. "We won't crawl and we won't beg."
    "No," he agreed. "But we will leave. We have no choice."
    "We still have the ship."
    His heavy brows rose. "Starpower? You'd be willing to go prospecting again?"
    Amanda knew that she really didn't want to take up the life of a rock rat 
again. But she nodded solemnly, "Yes. Why not?"
    Fuchs stared at her, a tangle of emotions burning in his deep-set eyes.
 
Niles Ripley was dead tired as he shuffled slowly across the desolate dark 
ground, heading for the airlock. A four-hour shift of working on the habitat was 
like a week of hard labor anywhere else, he felt. And riding the shuttlecraft 
back down to the surface of Ceres was always nerve-racking; the ground 
controller ran the little hopper remotely from underground, but Ripley twitched 
nervously without a human pilot aboard. The shuttle had touched down without 
mishap, though, landing a few meters from a Humphries craft being loaded for a 
supply run to one of the miners' ships hanging in orbit.
    It'll be good to get to the Pub and sip a brew or two, Ripley said to 
himself. By god, I'll even spring for the imported stuff tonight.
    The construction work was going well. Slower than Fuchs had expected, but 
Ripley was satisfied with the progress that the crew was making. Looking up 
through his fishbowl helmet, he could see the habitat glinting in the sunlight 
as it spun slowly, like a big pinwheel.
    Okay, he thought, so maybe it does look like a clunky kludge. Bunch of 
spacecraft tacked together in a circle, no two of 'em exactly the same. But by 
god the kludge was pretty near finished; soon people could go up and live in 
that habitat and feel just about the same gravity as on the Moon.
    Got to get the radiation shielding working first, he reminded himself. 
Sixteen different sets of superconducting magnets and more to come. Getting them 
to work together is gonna be a bitch and a half.
    The work was so damned tedious. Flatlanders back on Earth thought that 
working in microgee was fun. And easy. You just float around like a kid in a 
swimming pool. Yeah. Right. The reality was that you had to consciously plan 
every move you made; inside the spacesuit you had to exert real strength just to 
hold your arms out straight or take a few steps. Sure, you could hop around like 
a jackrabbit on steroids if you wanted to. Hell, I could jump right off Ceres 
and go sailing around like Superman if I had a mind toand I if didn't worry 
about breaking every bone in my legs when I landed. Working in microgee is 
tough, especially in these damned suits.
    Well, I'm finished for today, he said to himself as he watched the habitat 
slowly disappear beyond the sharp, rugged horizon. Ceres is so small, he 
thought. Just a glorified hunk of rock hanging in the middle of nothing. Ripley 
shook his head inside his bubble helmet, amazed all over again that he was 
working 'way out here, in this no-place of a place. He started back toward the 
airlock again, kicking up lingering clouds of gritty dust with each careful, 
sliding step. Looking down awkwardly from inside the helmet, he saw that the 
suit was grimy with dark gray dust all the way up the leggings, as usual. The 
arms and gloves were crummed up, too. It'll take a good half-hour to vacuum all 
this crud off the suit, he told himself.
    The airlock was set into a dome of local stone, its thick metal hatch the 
only sign of human presence on Ceres's surface, outside of the two 
spindly-looking shuttlecraft sitting out there. Ripley was almost at the hatch 
when it swung open and three spacesuited figures stepped out slowly, warily, as 
if testing each step they made in this insubstantial gravity. Each of their 
spacesuits showed a HSS logo on the left breast, just above their name tags. 
Ripley wondered if they might be the guys Big George had shellacked in the Pub. 
They had all been Humphries employees, he recalled.
    They were carrying bulky packing crates, probably filled with equipment. In 
Ceres's low gravity, a man could carry loads that required a small truck 
elsewhere. All of them had tools of various sorts clipped to belts around their 
waists.
    "Where you goin', guys?" Ripley asked good-naturedly over the common 
suit-to-suit radio frequency.
    "Loading up the shuttle," came the answer in his earphones.
    "Same old thing every day," another of them complained. "More crap for the 
mining ships up in orbit."
    They got close enough to read Ripley's name stenciled on the hard shell of 
his suit. Ripley realized that they were so new to
    Ceres they hadn't gotten their own individual suits yet. They had apparently 
picked the suits they were wearing from HSS's storage; their names were lettered 
on adhesive strips pasted onto the torsos.
    "Buchanan, Santorini, and Giap," Ripley read aloud. "Hi. I'm Niles Ripley."
    "We know who you are," Buchanan said sourly.
    "The horn player," said Santorini.
    Ripley put on his peacemaking smile, even though he figured they couldn't 
see it in the dim lighting.
    "Hey, I'm sorry about that brawl couple nights ago," he said placatingly. 
"My friend got carried away, I guess."
    All three of them put their crates down on the pebbled, dusty ground.
    Buchanan said, "I hear they call you the Ripper."
    "Sometimes," Ripley said guardedly.
    "Where's your trumpet?"
    With a little laugh, Ripley said, "Back in my quarters. I don't carry it 
with me everywhere I go."
    "Too bad. I'd really like to jam it up your ass."
    Ripley kept smiling. "Aw, come on now. There's no reason to"
    "That big ape of yours put Carl in the infirmary with three crushed 
vertebrae!"
    "Hey, I didn't start the fight. And I'm not looking for one now." Ripley 
started to walk past them, toward the still-open airlock hatch.
    They stopped him. They grabbed his arms. For a ridiculous instant Ripley 
almost felt like giggling. You can't fight in spacesuits, for chrissakes! It's 
like boxers wearing suits of armor.
    "Hey, come on, now," Ripley said, trying to pull his arms free.
    Buchanan kicked his feet out from under him and Ripley fell over backward, 
slowly, softly, in the dreamy slow motion of micro-gee. It seemed to take ten 
minutes as he toppled over; numberless hordes of stars slid past his field of 
view, silently, solemnly. Then at last he hit the ground, his head banging 
painfully inside the helmet, a thick cloud of dust enveloping him.
    "Okay, Ripper," Buchanan said. "Rip this!"
    He kicked Ripley in the side of his spacesuit. The others laughed and 
started kicking, too. Ripley bounced around inside the suit, unable to get up, 
unable to defend himself. It didn't hurt that much, at first, but each kick got 
worse and he worried that they might tear his air line loose. He tasted blood in 
his mouth.
    When they finally stopped kicking him, every part of Ripley's body throbbed 
with pain. They were still standing over him. Buchanan stared down at him for a 
long, silent moment. Then he unhooked a tool from the belt at his waist.
    "You know what this is?" he asked, holding it up in his gloved hand. It was 
a short, squat, smooth greenish rod with a helical glass flash-lamp coiled 
around its length and a pistol grip beneath. A heavy black cord ran from the 
heel of the grip to a battery pack clipped to Buchanan's belt.
    Before Ripley could say anything Buchanan explained.
    "This is a Mark IV gigawatt-pulse neodymium laser. Puts out picosecond 
pulses. We use it to punch neat little holes in metal. What kind of a hole do 
you think it'll punch through you?"
    "Hey, Trace," said Santorini. "Take it easy."
    Ripley tried to move, to crawl away. His legs wouldn't carry him. He could 
see the laser's guide beam walking up the front of his spacesuit, feel it come 
through his transparent helmet, inch over his face, past his eyes, onto his 
forehead.
    "Trace, don't!"
    But Buchanan slowly lowered himself to one knee and bent over Ripley, 
peering into his eyes. This close, their helmets almost touching, Ripley could 
see a sort of wild glee in the man's eyes, a manic joy. He moved one arm, tried 
to push his tormentor away; all he accomplished was to pull the name tag off 
Buchanan's suit.
    "They didn't say to kill him," Santorini insisted.
    Buchanan laughed. "So long, noisemaker," he said.
    Ripley died instantly. The picosecond laser pulse pulped most of his brain 
into jelly.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 13
 
    Lars Fuchs was sitting at his desk talking to the prospector to whom he'd 
leased Starpower. The woman flatly refused to give up the ship until the term of 
her lease expired, four months in the future.
    "I've been snookered out of two good rocks by HSS people," she said, her 
anger showing clearly in her image on Fuchs's wallscreen. "I'm going out to the 
far side of the Belt and get me a good-sized metallic 'roid. Anybody comes near 
me, I'll zap 'em with the cutting laser!"
    Fuchs stared at her face. She couldn't be much more than thirty, a former 
graduate student like himself. Yet she looked far harder, more determined, than 
any graduate student he remembered. Not a trace of makeup; her hair shaved down 
to a dark fuzz; her cheek bones and jawline gaunt, hungry.
    "I can arrange for you to transfer to another ship that's available for 
lease," Fuchs said reasonably.
    The prospector shook her head. "No deal. I'm working my way around the far 
side. By this time tomorrow it'll take half an hour for messages to catch up 
with me. Sayonara, Lars."
    The screen went blank. Fuchs leaned back in his creaking desk chair, his 
thoughts churning slowly. There is no way I can force her to bring Starpower 
back. She's on her way out and she won't be back for at least four months. When 
she returns she'll either have claim to a rich metallic asteroid or she'll be so 
dead broke she won't even be able to pay me the final installment on the lease.
    No matter which way he looked at it, he could find no answer to his problem. 
If we're going back to Earth it will have to be as passengers on someone else's 
ship.
    Amanda came through the door from the tunnel at the same moment that the 
phone chimed. Fuchs automatically said, "Answer," to the phone, but then he saw 
the awful expression on his wife's face.
    "What is it?" he asked, rising from his chair. "What's wrong?"
    "Ripley," she said in a voice that sounded frightened. "They found him by 
the airlock, outside. He's dead."
    "Dead?" Fuchs felt shocked. "How? What happened?"
    "That's what I want to talk to you about," said Kris Cardenas, from the 
wallscreen.
    Fuchs and Amanda both turned to her image.
    Cardenas looked grim. "They brought Ripley's body to me, here in the 
infirmary."
    "What happened to him?" Fuchs asked again.
    Cardenas shook her head warily. "Nothing wrong with his suit. He didn't die 
of asphyxiation or decompression. The suit's scuffed up a lot, but there was no 
system failure."
    "Then what?" Amanda asked.
    She frowned with uncertainty. "I'm going to do a multi-spectral scan and try 
to find out. The reason I called you was to find out if he has any next-of-kin 
here on Ceres."
    "No, no one closer than New Jersey, in the United States," said Fuchs. "I'll 
transfer his personnel file to you."
    "He was working on the habitat?" Cardenas asked, even though she knew the 
answer.
    "Yes," said Fuchs absently. "Now the project will have to stop until we find 
someone to replace him."
    Amanda said, "We're coming to the infirmary, Kris. We'll be there in five 
minutes."
    Cardenas said, "Hang on. Give me an hour or so to do this scan. I'll know 
more about it by then."
    Amanda and Fuchs both nodded their agreement.
 
Despite her youthful appearance, Kris Cardenas looked grave, almost angry as she 
ushered Amanda and Fuchs into her tiny infirmary. It was the only medical 
facility on Ceres, the only medical facility between the Belt and the 
exploration bases on Mars. Cardenas could handle accident cases, if they weren't 
too severe, and the usual run of infections and strains. Anything worse was sent 
to Selene, while Cardenas herself remained among the rock rats.
    She was twice an exile. Because her body was teeming with nanomachines, no 
government on Earth would allow her to land on its territory. This had cost her, 
her husband and children; like most of Earth's inhabitants, they were terrified 
by the threat of runaway nanotechnology causing pandemic plagues or devouring 
cities like unstoppable army ants chewing everything into a gray goo.
    Her anger at Earth and its unreasoning fears led her to cause Dan Randolph's 
death. It was inadvertent, true enough, but Selene banned her from her own 
nanotech laboratory as a punishment for her actions and a precaution against 
future use of nanomachines for personal motives. So she left Selene, exiled 
herself among the rock rats, used her knowledge of human physiology to establish 
the infirmary on Ceres.
    "Have you found what killed Ripley?" Amanda asked her as she and Fuchs took 
the chairs in front of Cardenas's desk.
    "I wouldn't have caught it, normally," Cardenas said tightly. "I'm not a 
pathologist. It damned near slipped right past me."
    The office was small, crowded with the three of them in it. Cardenas tapped 
a keypad on her desktop and the wall opposite the doorway turned into a 
false-color display of Niles Ripley's body.
    "There was nothing obviously wrong," she began. "No visible trauma, although 
there were a few small bruises on his chest and back."
    "What caused them?" Fuchs asked.
    "Maybe when he fell down, inside his suit"
    Fuchs scowled at her. "I've fallen down in a spacesuit. That doesn't cause 
bruising."
    Cardenas nodded. "I know. I thought maybe he died of a cardiac infarction, a 
heart attack. That's when I went for the scan," she explained. "But the coronary 
arteries look clean and there's no visible damage to the heart itself."
    Fuchs squinted at the image. A human body, he thought. One instant it's 
alive, the next it's dead. What happened to you, Ripley?
    Amanda echoed his thoughts. "So what happened to him?"
    Cardenas's expression grew even tighter. "The next thing I looked for was a 
stroke. That's still the number one killer, even back on Earth."
    "And?"
    "Look at his brain."
    Fuchs peered at the wallscreen, but he didn't know what was normal in these 
false-color images and what was not. He could make out the white outline of the 
skull and, within it, the pinkish mass of the man's brain. Tangles of what he 
took to be blood vessels wrapped around the brain and into it, like a mass of 
tiny snakes writhing inside the skull.
    "Do you see it?" Cardenas asked, her voice as sharp as a bayonet.
    "No, I don't see . . . wait a minute!" Fuchs noticed that while most of the 
brain was a light pink color, there was an area of deeper hue, almost a burnt 
orange, that ran straight through the brain mass, from front to back.
    "That orange color?" he said, not certain of himself.
    "That orange color," Cardenas repeated, hard as ice.
    "What is it?" Amanda asked.
    "It's what killed him," said Cardenas. "Ruptured neurons and glial cells 
from the front of his skull to the back. It did as much damage as a bullet 
would, but it didn't break the skin."
    "A micrometeor?" Fuchs blurted, knowing it was stupid even as his mouth said 
it.
    Amanda objected, "But his suit wasn't ruptured."
    "Whatever it was," said Cardenas, "it went through the transparent plastic 
of his helmet, through his skin without damaging it, through the cranial bone, 
and pulped his brain cells."
    "Mein gott," Fuchs muttered.
    "I have two more bits of evidence," Cardenas said, sounding more and more 
like a police investigator.
    The wallscreen image changed to show Ripley's dead face. Fuchs felt Amanda 
shudder beside him and reached out to hold her hand. Ripley's eyes were open, 
his mouth agape, his milk-chocolate skin somehow paler than Fuchs remembered it. 
This is the face of death, he said silently. He almost shuddered himself.
    Cardenas tapped her keyboard again and the image zoomed in on the area just 
above the bridge of Ripley's nose.
    "See that faint discoloration?" Cardenas asked.
    Fuchs saw nothing unusual, but Amanda said, "Yes, just a tiny little circle. 
It looks . . . almost as if it had been charred a little."
    Cardenas nodded grimly. "One more piece of the puzzle." She reached into her 
desk drawer.
    Fuchs saw her pull out a thin strip of tape, not even ten centimeters long.
    "This was stuck on Ripley's right glove when he was found," Cardenas said, 
handing the tape to Fuchs.
    He stared at it. Hand-lettered on the tape in indelible ink was
    BUCHANAN.
    Coldly, mercilessly, Cardenas said, "Buchanan is a mechanic for Humphries 
Space Systems. He has access to tools such as hand lasers."
    "A hand laser?" Fuchs asked. "You think a hand laser killed Ripley?"
    Cardenas said, "I got one from the HSS warehouse and tried it on my soysteak 
dinner. One picosecond blast ruptures the cells pretty much the way Ripley's 
brain cells were destroyed."
    "Do you mean that this man Buchanan deliberately murdered Ripley?" Amanda 
asked, her voice faint with shock.
    "That's exactly what I mean," said Cardenas, as hard and implacable as death 
itself.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 14
 
    By the time he and Amanda got back to their own quarters, Fuchs was blazing 
with rage. He went straight to the closet by the minikitchen and started 
rummaging furiously through it.
    "Lars, what are you going to do?"
    "Murderers!" Fuchs snarled, pawing through the tools and gadgets stored on 
the closet shelves. "That's what he's brought here. Hired killers!"
    "But what are you going to do?"
    He pulled out a cordless screwdriver, hefted it in one hand. "It's not much, 
but it will have to do. It's heavy enough to make a reasonable club."
    Amanda reached for him, but he brushed her away. "Where are you going?" she 
asked, breathless with fear. "To find this man Buchanan."
    "Alone? By yourself?"
    "Who else is there? How much time do we have before this Buchanan takes off 
in one of Humphries's ships and leaves Ceres altogether?"
    "You can't go after him!" Amanda pleaded. "Let the law handle this!"
    Storming to the door, he roared, "The law? What law? We don't even have a 
village council. There is no law here!"
    "Lars, if he's really a hired killer, he'll kill you!" He stopped at the 
door, tucked the screwdriver into the waistband of his slacks. "I'm not a 
complete fool, Amanda. I won't let him kill me, or anyone else."
    "But how can you . . ."
    He grabbed the door, slid it open, and marched out into the tunnel, leaving 
her standing there. Billows of dust followed his footsteps.
    The Pub was crowded when Fuchs got there. He had to push his way to the bar.
    The barkeep recognized him, but barely smiled. "Hello, Lars. Gonna call 
another town meeting?"
    "Do you know a man named Buchanan?" Fuchs asked, without preamble.
    The barkeep nodded warily.
    "Do you know where I can find him?"
    The man's eyes shifted slightly, then came back to lock onto Fuchs's. "What 
do you want him for?"
    "I need to talk to him," said Fuchs, struggling to keep his voice even, 
calm.
    "He's a badass, Lars."
    "I'm not here to start a fight," Fuchs said. He even felt it was true.
    "Well, that's Buchanan right down there at the end of the bar."
    "Thank you."
    Fuchs accepted a frosted aluminum goblet of beer, then wormed his way 
through the crowd until he was next to Buchanan. The man was with two friends, 
talking to a trio of miniskirted young women, their drinks on the bar in front 
of them. Buchanan was tall, with wide sloping shoulders, and young enough to 
have a flat midsection. His blond hair was cut short, except for a tiny 
imitation matador's twist at the back of his head. His face was lean, unlined, 
relaxed.
    "You are Mr. Buchanan?" Fuchs asked, putting his aluminum goblet on the bar.
    Buchanan turned to him, looked Fuchs over and saw a stocky older rock rat in 
a shapeless gray velour pullover and wrinkled slacks with the build of a weasel 
and a sour expression on his broad, heavy-featured face. The guy had a tool of 
some sort tucked in his waistband.
    "I'm Buchanan," he said. "Who the fuck are you?"
    Fuchs replied, "I am a friend of the late Niles Ripley."
    He said it quietly, flatly, but it was as if he had shouted the words 
through a power megaphone. Everything in the Pub stopped. Conversation, 
laughter, even motion seemed to freeze in place.
    Buchanan leaned his right elbow on the bar as he faced Fuchs. "Ripley won't 
be blowing his horn around these parts anymore," he said, grinning. One of the 
men behind him snickered nervously.
    Fuchs said, "Your name tag was found in his dead hand."
    "Oh, so that's where it got to. I was wondering where I'd lost it."
    "You killed him."
    Buchanan reached slowly behind him and pulled a hand laser from the pouch 
strapped to his waist. He laid it down carefully on the bar, next to his drink. 
Its power cord trailed back to his belt; its business end pointed at Fuchs.
    "If I did kill him, what're you going to do about it?"
    Fuchs took a breath. The lava-hot rage he had felt only a few minutes 
earlier had turned to ice now. He felt cold, glacially calm, but not one nanobit 
less enraged than he had been before.
    He replied softly, "I thought you and I could go back to Selene and let the 
authorities there investigate the murder."
    Buchanan's jaw dropped open. He gawked at Fuchs, standing like a stubborn 
little bull in front of him. Then he lifted his head and brayed with laughter. 
His two friends laughed, also.
    No one else did.
    Fuchs slapped Buchanan's laughing face, hard. Shocked, Buchanan touched his 
bleeding lip, then reached for the laser on the bar. Fuchs was prepared for 
that. He clamped Buchanan's hand to the bar with a viselike grip and pulled the 
screwdriver from his waistband with his right hand.
    The laser cracked once. Fuchs's aluminum goblet went spinning, leaking beer 
through a tiny hole, while Fuchs thumbed the screwdriver on and jammed it into 
Buchanan's chest. Blood geysered and Buchanan looked terribly surprised, then 
slumped to the floor, gurgling briefly before he went silent forever.
    Splashed with Buchanan's blood, still holding the buzzing screwdriver in his 
right hand, Fuchs picked up the hand laser. Buchanan's fall had wrenched the 
power cord out of the base of its grip.
    He glanced down at the dead body, then looked at Buchanan's two friends. 
Their eyes were wide, their mouths agape. Unconsciously, they both backed away 
from Fuchs.
    Without another word, Fuchs turned around and strode out of the silent Pub.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THREE WEEKS LATER
 
 
 
 
 
     
    CHAPTER 15
 
    They held a trial of sorts. Under Fuchs's own prodding, the people of Ceres 
picked a judge by sorting through the computerized personnel files and coming up 
with a woman who worked for Humphries Space Systems as a contracts lawyer. A 
jury was selected by lot; no one picked was allowed to refuse the duty. For the 
defense, Fuchs represented himself. No less than the owner and barkeep of the 
Pub volunteered to prosecute the case.
    The trial, held in the Pub itself, took all of forty-five minutes. 
Practically everyone in Ceres jammed into the rock-walled chamber. Chairs and 
two tables had been moved up to the bar to accommodate the accused and the 
counselors. The judge sat on a high laboratory stool behind the bar. Everyone 
else stood.
    Six different witnesses told substantially the same story: Fuchs had asked 
Buchanan to go to Selene with him for a formal investigation of Ripley's murder. 
Buchanan reached for the laser. Fuchs stabbed him with the power tool. Even 
Buchanan's two companions admitted that that was the way it had happened.
    Fuchs's punctured beer goblet was presented as evidence that Buchanan had 
indeed fired his laser with intent to kill.
    The only question arose when the prosecutor asked Fuchs why he had come into 
the Pub armed with the tool that eventually killed Buchanan.
    Fuchs admitted openly, "I knew that he was a dangerous man. I knew that he 
had murdered Niles Ripley"
    The judge, sitting on a high stool behind the bar, snapped,
    "That's inadmissible. This trial is about you, Mr. Fuchs, not about Ripley's 
death."
    With only the slightest of frowns, Fuchs said, "I was afraid he would be 
dangerous. I had been told that he had come to the Pub before and started a 
fight. And that he had several friends with him."
    "So you armed yourself with a lethal weapon?" asked the prosecutor.
    "I thought it might be useful as a club, if it came to a fight. I had no 
intention of using it to stab him."
    "Yet that's exactly what you did."
    "Yes. When he tried to shoot me I suppose I reacted without thinking of the 
consequences. I defended myself."
    "Very thoroughly," the judge grumbled.
    The verdict was never in doubt. Fuchs was acquitted, the killing called 
justifiable self-defense. Then the prosecutor displaced the judge behind the bar 
and proclaimed that there would be a round of drinks on the house for everybody.
    Amanda was delighted with the outcome, but Fuchs was morose for the next 
several days.
    "This isn't the end of it," he told her one night as they lay in bed 
together.
    "Lars darling," said Amanda, "you mustn't let this get you down so. You 
acted in self-defense."
    "I really would have gone with him to Selene," Fuchs said. "But I knew he 
would never do that. Never."
    "It's not your fault that you had to kill him. It was self-defense. Everyone 
knows that. You mustn't feel bad about it."
    "But I don't!" He turned to face her. In the darkened room, lit only by the 
glow of the digital clock numerals in one corner of the wallscreen, he could 
barely make out the puzzled expression on her lovely face.
    "I don't feel bad about killing that vermin," Fuchs said, in a low, firm 
voice. "I knew I would have to. I knew he would never listen to reason."
    Amanda looked surprised, almost fearful. "But Lars"
    "No one would do a thing about it. I knew I was the only one who would bring 
him to justice."
    "You knew? All along you knew?"
    "I wanted to kill him," Fuchs said, his voice almost trembling with fervor. 
"He deserved to die. I wanted to kill the arrogant fool."
    "Lars. . . I've never seen you this way."
    "What's worrying me," he said, "is Humphries's reaction to all this. The 
negotiations for buying out Helvetia are obviously finished. Buchanan was part 
of his attempt to force us out of the Belt. What is he going to try next?"
    Amanda was silent for a long while. Fuchs watched her adorable face, so 
troubled, so filled with care for him. He almost smiled. The face that launched 
a thousand spaceships, he thought. Well, at least several hundred.
    Yet she was thinking that her husband had turned into an avenging fury. 
Perhaps only for an hour or so, but Lars had gone out to the Pub deliberately to 
kill a man. And it didn't worry him, didn't frighten him at all.
    It terrified her.
    What can I do? Amanda asked herself. How can I stop him from becoming a 
brute? He doesn't deserve this; it isn't fair to force him to become a monster. 
She racked her brain, but she could see only one way back to sanity.
    At last she said, "Lars, why don't you speak directly to Martin?"
    He grunted with surprise. "Directly? To him?"
    "Face-to-face."
    "Over this distance that's not possible, really."
    "Then we'll go to Selene."
    His expression hardened. "I don't want you that near to him."
    "Martin won't hurt me," she said. Tracing a hand across his broad chest, she 
went on, "And you're the man I love. You have nothing to fear from Martin or any 
other man in the universe, on that score."
    "I don't want you at Selene," he whispered firmly.
    "We can't go to Earth unless we go through weeks and weeks of 
reconditioning."
    "The centrifuge," he muttered.
    Amanda said, "I'll stay here, Lars, if that's what you want. You go to 
Selene and talk this out with Martin."
    "No," he said immediately. "I won't leave you here."
    "But...?"
    "You come to Selene with me. I'll talk to Humphries, assuming he'll agree to 
talk to me."
    Amanda smiled and kissed his cheek. "We can put an end to this before it 
becomes an out-and-out war."
    Pulling her to him, Fuchs said gently, "I hope so. I truly hope so."
    She sighed. That's more like it, she thought. That's more like the man I 
love.
    But he was thinking, It's Amanda that Humphries wants, nothing less. And the 
only way he'll get Amanda is over my dead body.
 
"She's coming here?" Martin Humphries asked, hardly daring to believe what his 
aide had just told him. "Here, to Selene?"
    Diane Verwoerd allowed a tiny frown of displeasure to crease her forehead. 
"With her husband," she said.
    Humphries got up from his high-backed chair and practically pranced around 
his desk. Despite his aide's sour look he felt like a little kid anticipating 
Christmas.
    "But she's coming to Selene," he insisted. "Amanda is coming to Selene."
    "Fuchs wants to talk to you face-to-face," Verwoerd said, folding her arms 
across her chest. "I doubt that he'll let his wife get within a kilometer of 
you."
    "That's what he thinks," Humphries countered. He turned to the electronic 
window on the wall behind his desk and tapped at his wristwatch several times. 
The stereo image on the wide screen flicked through several changes. Humphries 
stopped it at an Alpine scene of a quaint village with steeply-pitched roofs and 
a slim church steeple against a background of snow-covered peaks.
    That's ancient history, Verwoerd thought. There hasn't been that much snow 
in the Alps since the great avalanches.
    Turning back to her, Humphries said, "Fuchs is coming here to surrender. 
He'll try to wheedle as much of the ten million we offered him as he can get. 
But he's bringing Amanda because he knowsmaybe in his unconscious mind, maybe 
not consciously but he knows that what I really want is Amanda."
    "I think we should look at this a little more realistically," Verwoerd said, 
stepping slowly toward the desk.
    Humphries eyed her for a moment. "You think I'm being unrealistic?"
    "I think that Fuchs is coming here to negotiate your buyout of his company. 
I very much doubt that his wife will be part of the deal."
    He laughed. "Maybe you don't think so. Maybe he doesn't think so. But I do. 
That's what's important. And I bet that Amanda does, too."
    Verwoerd had to deliberately keep herself from shaking her head in 
disagreement. He's insane about this woman. Absolutely gonzo over her. Then she 
smiled inwardly. How can I use this? How can I turn his craziness to my 
advantage?
 
 
 
 
 
 
DOSSIER: OSCAR JIMINEZ
 
    When he finished the New Morality high school, at the age of seventeen, 
Oscar was sent to far-off Bangladesh for his two years of public service. It was 
compulsory; the New Morality demanded two years of service as partial repayment 
for the investment they had made in a youth's education and social reformation. 
Oscar worked hard in what was left of Bangladesh. The rising sea levels and the 
terrifying storms that accompanied each summer's monsoon inundated the low-lying 
lands. Thousands were swept away in the floods of the Ganges. Oscar saw that 
many of the poor, miserable wretches actually prayed to the river itself for 
mercy. In vain. The swollen river drowned the heathens without pity. Oscar 
realized that just as many of the faithful were drowned, also.
    Luck touched him again, once he finished his two years of public service. 
The New Morality administrator in Dacca, an American from Kansas, urged Oscar to 
consider accepting a job in space, far away from Earth.
    Oscar knew better than to argue with authority, but he was so surprised at 
the idea that he blurted, "But I'm not an astronaut."
    The administrator smiled a kindly smile. "There are all kinds of jobs up 
there that need to be filled. You are fully qualified for many of them."
    "I am?" Oscar's qualifications, as far as he knew, were mainly lifting and 
toting, handling simple invoices, and following orders. With a nod, the 
administrator said, "Yes. And, of course, there is God's work to be done out 
there among the godless humanists and frontier ruffians."
    Who could refuse to do God's work? Thus Oscar Jiminez went to Ceres and was 
hired by Helvetia, Ltd., to work in their warehouse.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 16
 
    Selene's Hotel Luna had gone through several changes of management since it 
was originally built by the Yamagata Corporation.
    In those early days, just after the lunar community had won its short, sharp 
war against the old United Nations and affirmed its independence, tourism looked 
like a good way to bring money into the newly-proclaimed Selene. Masterson 
Aerospace's lunar-built Clipperships were bringing the price of transportation 
from Earth down to the point where the moderately well-heeled touristthe type 
who took "adventure vacations" to Antarctica, the Amazonian rain forest, or 
other uncomfortable exotic localescould afford the grandest adventure vacation 
of them all: a trip to the Moon.
    Sadly, the opening of the hotel coincided almost exactly with the first 
ominous portents of the greenhouse cliff. After nearly half a century of 
scientific debate and political wrangling, the accumulated greenhouse gases in 
Earth's atmosphere and oceans started an abrupt transition in the global 
climate. Disastrous floods inundated most coastal cities in swift succession. 
Earthquakes devastated Japan and the American midwest. Glaciers and ice packs 
began melting down, raising sea levels worldwide. The delicate web of electrical 
power transmission grids collapsed over much of the world, throwing hundreds of 
millions into the cold and darkness of pre-industrial society. More than a 
billion people lost their homes, their way of living, everything that they had 
worked for. Hundreds of millions died.
    Tourism trickled down to nothing except the extremely wealthy, who lived on 
their financial mountaintops in ease and comfort despite the woes of their 
brethren.
    Hotel Luna became virtually a ghost facility, but it was never shut down. 
Grimly, hopefully, foolishly, one owner after another tried to make at least a 
modest success of it.
    To a discerning visitor, the lavish, sprawling lobby of the hotel would 
appear slightly seedy: the carpeting was noticeably threadbare in spots, the 
oriental tables and easy chairs were scuffed here and there, the ornate 
artificial floral displays drooped enough to show that they needed to be 
replaced.
    But to Lars Fuchs's staring eyes, Hotel Luna's lobby seemed incredibly posh 
and polished. He and Amanda were riding down the powered stairway from the hotel 
entrance up in the Grand Plaza. Glistening sheets of real, actual water slid 
down tilted slabs of granite quarried from the lunar highlands. The water was 
recycled, of course, but to have a display of water! What elegance!
    "Look," Fuchs exclaimed, pointing to the pools into which the waterfalls 
splashed. "Fish! Live fish!"
    Beside him, Amanda smiled and nodded. She had been brought to the hotel on 
dates several times, years ago. She remembered the Earthview Restaurant, with 
its hologram windows. Martin Humphries had taken her there. The fish in those 
pools were on the restaurant's menu. Amanda noticed that there were far fewer of 
them now than there had been back then.
    As they reached the lobby level and stepped off the escalator, Fuchs 
recognized the music wafting softly from the ceiling speakers: a Haydn quartet. 
Charming. Yet he felt distinctly out of place in his plain dark gray coveralls, 
like a scruffy student sneaking into a grand palace. But with Amanda on his arm, 
it didn't matter. She wore a sleeveless white pantsuit; even zippered up to the 
throat it could not hide her exquisitely-curved body.
    Fuchs didn't pay any attention to the fact that the spacious lobby was 
practically empty. It was quiet, soothing, an elegant change from the constant 
buzz of air fans and faint clatter of distant pumps that was part of the 
everyday background of Ceres.
    As they reached the registration desk, Fuchs remembered all over again that 
Martin Humphries was footing their hotel bill. Humphries had insisted on it. 
Fuchs wanted to argue about it as they rode a Humphries fusion ship from Ceres 
to Selene, but Amanda talked him out of it.
    "Let him pay for the hotel, Lars," she had advised, with a knowing smile. 
"I'm sure he'll take it out of the price he pays you for Helvetia."
    Grudgingly, Fuchs let her talk him into accepting Humphries's generosity. 
Now, at the hotel desk, it rankled him all over again.
    When it had originally opened as the Yamagata Hotel, there had been 
uniformed bellmen and women to tote luggage and bring room service orders. Those 
days were long gone. The registration clerk seemed alone behind his counter of 
polished black basalt, but he tapped a keyboard and a self-propelled trolley 
hummed out of its hidden niche and rolled up to Fuchs and Amanda. They put their 
two travel bags onto it and the trolley obediently followed them into the 
elevator that led down to the level of their suite.
    Fuchs's eyes went even wider once they entered the suite.
    "Luxury," he said, a reluctant smile brightening his normally dour face. 
"This is real luxury."
    Even Amanda seemed impressed. "I've never been in one of the hotel's rooms 
before."
    Suddenly Fuchs's smile dissolved into a suspicious scowl. "He might have the 
rooms bugged, you know."
    "Who? Martin?"
    Fuchs nodded gravely, as if afraid to speak.
    "Why would he bug the rooms?"
    "To learn what we plan to say to him, what our position will be in the 
negotiation, what our bottom figure will be." There was more, but he hesitated 
to tell her. Pancho had hinted that Humphries videotaped his own sexual 
encounters in the bedroom of his palatial home. Would the man have cameras 
hidden in this bedroom?
    Abruptly, he strode to the phone console sitting on an end table and called 
for the registration desk.
    "Sir?" asked the clerk's image on the wallscreen. A moment earlier it had 
been a Vickrey painting of nuns and butterflies.
    "This suite is unacceptable," Fuchs said, while Amanda stared at him. "Is 
there another one available?"
    The clerk grinned lazily. "Why, yessir, we have several suites unoccupied at 
the moment. You may have your pick."
    Fuchs nodded. Humphries can't have them all bugged, he thought.
 
"I'm glad you decided to meet me in person," Martin Humphries said, smiling from 
behind his wide desk. "I think we can settle our business much more comfortably 
this way."
    He leaned back, tilting the desk chair so far that Fuchs thought the man was 
going to plant his feet on the desktop. Humphries seemed completely at ease in 
his own office in the mansion he had built for himself deep below the lunar 
surface. Fuchs sat tensely in the plush armchair in front of the desk, feeling 
uneasy, wary, stiffly uncomfortable in the gray business suit that Amanda had 
bought for him at an outrageous price in the hotel's posh store. He had left 
Amanda in the hotel; he did not want her in the same room as Humphries. She had 
acquiesced to his demand, and told her husband that she would go shopping in the 
Grand Plaza while he had his meeting.
    Humphries waited for Fuchs to say something. When he just sat there in 
silence, Humphries said, "I trust you had a good night's sleep."
    Suddenly Fuchs thought of hidden cameras again. He cleared his throat and 
said, "Yes, thank you."
    "The hotel is comfortable? Everything all right?"
    "The hotel is fine."
    The third person in the room was Diane Verwoerd, sitting in the other chair 
in front of the desk. She had angled it so that she faced Fuchs more than 
Humphries. Like her boss, she wore a business suit. But while Humphries's dark 
burgundy suit was threaded with intricate filigrees of silver thread, Verwoerd's 
pale ivory outfit was of more ordinary material. Its slit skirt, however, 
revealed a good deal of her long slim legs.
    Silence stretched again. Fuchs looked at the holowindow behind Humphries's 
desk. It showed the lush garden outside the house, bright flowers and graceful 
trees. Beautiful, he thought, but artificial. Contrived. An ostentatious display 
of wealth and the power to flaunt one man's will. How many starving, homeless 
people on Earth could Humphries help if he wanted to, instead of creating this 
make-believe Eden for himself here on the Moon?
    At last Verwoerd said crisply, all business, "We're here to negotiate the 
final terms of your sale of Helvetia Limited to Humphries Space Systems."
    "No, we are not," said Fuchs.
    Humphries sat up straighter in his chair. "We're not?"
    "Not yet," Fuchs said to him. "First we must deal with several murders."
    Humphries glanced at Verwoerd; for just that instant he seemed furious. But 
he regained his composure almost immediately.
    "And just what do you mean by that?" she asked calmly.
    Fuchs said, "At least three prospectors' ships have disappeared over the 
past few weeks. Humphries Space Systems somehow acquired the claims to the 
asteroids that those prospectors were near to."
    "Mr. Fuchs," said Verwoerd, with a deprecating little smile, "you're turning 
a coincidence into a conspiracy. Humphries Space Systems has dozens of ships 
scouting through the Belt."
    "Yes, and it's damned expensive, too," Humphries added.
    "Then there is the out-and-out murder of Niles Ripley on Ceres by a 
Humphries employee," Fuchs went on doggedly.
    Humphries snapped, "From what I hear, you took care of that yourself. 
Vigilante justice, wasn't it?"
    "I stood trial. It was declared justifiable self-defense."
    "Trial," Humphries sniffed. "By your fellow rock rats."
    "Your employee murdered Niles Ripley!"
    "Not by my orders," Humphries replied, with some heat. "Just because some 
hothead on my payroll gets himself into a brawl, that's not my doing."
    "But it was to your benefit," Fuchs snapped.
    Coolly, Verwoerd asked, "How do you come to that conclusion, Mr. Fuchs?"
    "Ripley was the key man in our habitat construction program. With him gone, 
the work is stopped."
    "So?"
    "So once you acquire Helvetia, the only organization capable of finishing 
the project will be HSS."
    "And how does that benefit me?" Humphries demanded. "Finishing your 
silly-assed habitat doesn't put one penny into my pocket."
    "Not directly, perhaps," said Fuchs. "But making Ceres safer and more 
livable will bring more people out to the Belt. With your company in control of 
their supplies, their food, the air they breathe, even, how can you fail to 
profit?"
    "You're accusing me"
    Verwoerd interrupted the budding argument. "Gentlemen, we're here to 
negotiate the sale of Helvetia, not to discuss the future of the Asteroid Belt."
    Humphries glared at her again, but took in a breath and said grudgingly, 
"Right."
    Before Fuchs could say anything, Verwoerd added, "What's done is done, and 
there's no way of changing the past. If an HSS employee committed murder, you 
made him pay the full price for it."
    Fuchs searched for something to say.
    "Now we should get down to business," said Verwoerd, "and settle on a price 
for Helvetia."
    Humphries immediately jumped in with, "My original offer was based on your 
total assets, which have gone down almost to nothing since the fire in your 
warehouse."
    "Which was deliberately set," Fuchs said.
    "Deliberately set?"
    "It was no accident. It was arson."
    "You have proof of that?"
    "We have no forensics experts on Ceres. No criminal investigators."
    "So you have no proof."
    "Mr. Fuchs," Verwoerd said, "we are prepared to offer you three million 
international dollars for the remaining assets of Helvetia Limited, 
whichfranklyamounts to the good will you've generated among the miners and 
prospectors, and not much more."
    Fuchs stared at her for a long, silent moment. So sure of herself, he 
thought. So cool and unruffled and, yes, even beautiful, in a cold, distant way. 
She's like a sculpture made of ice.
    "Well?" Humphries asked. "Frankly, three million is pretty much of a gift. 
Your company's not worth half that much, in real terms."
    "Three hundred million," Fuchs murmured.
    "What? What did you say?"
    "You could make your offer three hundred million. Or three billion. It 
doesn't matter. I'm not going to sell to you."
    "That's stupid!" Humphries blurted.
    "I won't sell to you at any price. Never! I'm going back to Ceres and 
starting all over again."
    "You're crazy!"
    "Am I? Perhaps so. But I would rather be crazy than give in to you."
    "You're just going to get yourself killed," Humphries said.
    "Is that a threat?"
    Again Humphries looked at Verwoerd, then turned back to Fuchs. He smiled 
thinly. "I don't make threats, Fuchs. I make promises."
    Fuchs got to his feet. "Then let me make a promise in return. If you want to 
fight, I can fight. If you want a war, I'll give you a war. And you won't like 
the way I fight, I promise you that. I've studied military history; it was 
required in school. I know how to fight."
    Humphries leaned back in his desk chair and laughed.
    "Go ahead and laugh," Fuchs said, pointing a stubby finger at him. "But 
consider: you have a great deal more to lose than I do."
    "You're a dead man, Fuchs," Humphries snapped.
    Fuchs nodded agreement. "One of us is."
    With that, he turned and strode out of Humphries's office.
    For several moments, Humphries and Verwoerd sat there staring at the doorway 
Fuchs had gone through.
    "At least he didn't slam the door," Humphries said with a smirk.
    "You've made him angry enough to fight," Verwoerd said, with a troubled 
frown. "You've backed him into a corner and now he feels he has nothing to lose 
by fighting."
    Humphries guffawed. "Him? That little weasel? It's laughable. He knows how 
to fight! He's studied military history!"
    "Maybe he has," she said.
    "So what?" Humphries replied testily. "He's from Switzerland, for god's 
sake! Hardly a martial nation. What's he going to do, smother me in Swiss 
cheese? Or maybe yodel me to death."
    "I wouldn't take it so lightly," said Verwoerd, still looking at the empty 
doorway.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 17
 
    "Piracy?" Hector Wilcox's eyebrows rose almost to his silver-gray hairline.
    Erek Zar looked uncomfortable, unhappy, as the two men strolled along the 
lane through the park just outside the IAA office building. Spring was in the 
air, the trees were beginning to bud, the local St. Petersburg populace was 
thronging the park, glad to see the sun. Women were sunbathing on the grass, 
their long dark coats thrown open to reveal their lumpy, thick bodies clad only 
in skimpy bikinis. It's enough to make a man take a vow of celibacy, Wilcox 
thought, eying them distastefully.
    Zar was normally a placid, cheerful, good-natured paper shuffler whose most 
urgent demands were for an extra day off here and there so he could nip off to 
his family in Poland for a long weekend. But now the man's ruddy, round face was 
dead serious, flushed with emotion.
    "That's what he's charging," Zar said. "Piracy." Wilcox refused to have his 
postprandial constitutional destroyed by an underling suddenly gone bonkers. 
"Who is this person?"
    "His name is Lars Fuchs. Tomasselli brought the matter to me. Fuchs is 
accusing Humphries Space Systems of piracy, out in the Asteroid Belt."
    "But that's ridiculous!"
    "I agree," Zar said swiftly. "But Tomasselli's taken it seriously and opened 
an official file on it."
    "Tomasselli," said Wilcox, as if the word smelled bad. "That excitable 
Italian. He saw a conspiracy when Yamagata made that takeover offer to Astro 
Corporation."
    "The takeover was never consummated," Zar pointed out, "mainly because 
Tomasselli got the GEC to go on record as opposing it."
    "And now he's taking accusations of piracy seriously? Against Humphries 
Space Systems?"
    Nodding unhappily, Zar said, "He claims there's some evidence to 
substantiate the accusation, but as far as I can see it's all circumstantial."
    "What on earth does he expect me to do about it?" Wilcox grumbled mildly. He 
was not the kind of man who lost his self-control. Not ever. You didn't get as 
far up on the intricate chain of command of the International Astronautical 
Authority as he had by recklessly blowing off steam.
    "It's an open file now," Zar said, apologetically.
    "Yes. Well, I suppose I'll have to look it over." Wilcox sighed. "But, 
really, piracy? In the Asteroid Belt? Even if it's true, what can we do about 
it? We don't even have an administrator on Ceres, for goodness' sake. There 
isn't an IAA presence anywhere in the Belt."
    "We have two flight controllers at Ceres."
    "Bah!" Wilcox shook his head. "What do they call themselves out there? Rock 
rats? They pride themselves on their independence. They resisted the one attempt 
we made to establish a full-fledged office on Ceres. So now they're crying to us 
about piracy, are they?"
    "It's only one person making the accusation: this man Fuchs."
    "A maniac, no doubt," said Wilcox.
    "Or a sore loser," Zar agreed.
 
 
 
 
 
 
WLTZING MATILDA
 
    Big George's stomach rumbled in complaint.
    He straightened upno easy task in the spacesuit and looked around. 
Waltzing Matilda hung in the star-strewn sky over his head like a big dumbbell, 
its habitat and logistics modules on opposite ends of a kilometer-long buckyball 
tether, slowly rotating around the propulsion module at the hub.
    Been too many hours since you've had a feed, eh? he said to his stomach. 
Well, it's gonna be a few hours more before we get any tucker, and even then 
it'll be mighty lean.
    The asteroid on which George stood was a dirty little chunk of rock, a dark 
carbonaceous 'roid, rich in hydrates and organic minerals. Worth a bloody 
fortune back at Selene. But it didn't look like much: just a bleak lump of dirt, 
pitted all over like it had the pox, rocks and pebbles and outright boulders 
scattered across it. Not enough gravity to hold down a feather. Ugly chunk of 
rock, that's all you are, George said silently to the asteroid. And you're gonna 
get uglier before we're finished with ya.
    Millions of kilometers from anyplace, George realized, alone in this cold 
and dark except for the Turk sittin' inside Matilda monitoring the controls, 
squattin' on this ugly chunk of rock, sweatin' like a teen on his first date 
inside this suit and me stomach growlin' 'cause we're low on rations.
    And yet he felt happy. Free as a bloomin' bird. He had to make a conscious 
effort not to sing out loud. That'd startle the Turk, he knew. The kid's not 
used to any of this.
    Shaking his head inside the fishbowl helmet, George returned to his work. He 
was setting up the cutting laser, connecting its power pack and control module, 
carefully cleaning its copper mirrors of clinging dust and making certain they 
were precisely placed in their mounts, no wobbles. It was all hard physical 
work, even though none of the equipment weighed anything in the asteroid's 
minuscule gravity. But just raising your arms in the stiff, ungainly suit, 
bending your body or turning, took a conscious effort of will and more muscular 
exertion than any flatlander could ever appreciate. Finally George had 
everything set, the laser's aiming mirrors pointing to the precise spot where he 
wanted to start cutting, the power pack's superconducting coil charged and 
ready.
    George was going to slice out chunks of the asteroid that Matilda could 
carry back to Selene. The prospector who'd claimed the rock wouldn't make a 
penny from it until George started shipping the ores, and George was far behind 
schedule because the wonky laser kept malfunctioning time and again. No ores, no 
money: that was the way the corporations worked. And no food, George knew. It 
was a race now to see if he could get a decent shipment of ores off toward 
Selene before Matilda's food locker went empty.
    As he worked, a memory from his childhood school days back in Adelaide 
returned unbidden to his mind; a poem by some Yank who'd been in on the Yukon 
gold rush nearly two centuries ago:
 
Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear, And the icy 
mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could hear; With only the howl 
of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold, A half-dead thing in a 
stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold; While high overhead, 
green, yellow and red, the North Lights swept in bars?
    Then you've a hunch what the music meant...hunger and night and the stars.
 
George nodded solemnly as he checked out the laser's focus. Hunger and night and 
the stars, all right. We've got plenty of that. And a stark, dead world, too, 
aren't you? he said to the impassive asteroid. Come to think of it, you've 
prob'ly got some gold tucked away inside you, huh? Strange kinda situation when 
water's worth more'n gold. Price of gold's dropped down to its value as an 
industrial metal. Jewelers must be going bonkers back Earthside.
    "George?" the Turk's voice in his helmet speaker startled him.
    "Huh? What'sit?"
    The kid's name was Nodon. "Something is moving out at the edge of our 
radar's resolution range."
    "Moving?" George immediately thought that maybe this asteroid had a smaller 
companion, a moonlet. But at the extreme range of their search radar? Not bloody 
likely.
    "It has a considerable velocity. It is approaching very fast."
    That was the longest utterance the kid had made through the whole flight. He 
sounded worried.
    "It can't be on a collision course," George said.
    "No, but it is heading our way. Fast."
    George tried to shrug inside the spacesuit, failed. "Well, keep an eye on 
it. Might be another ship."
    "I think it is."
    "Any message from 'im?"
    "No. Nothing."
    "All right," said George, puzzled. "Say hullo to him and ask his 
identification. I'm gonna start workin' the ores here."
    "Yes, sir." The kid was very respectful.
    Wondering whator whowas out there, George thumbed the activator switch and 
the laser began to slash deeply into the asteroid's rocky body. In the airless 
dark there was no sound; George couldn't even feel a vibration from the big 
ungainly machine. The dead rock began to sizzle noiselessly along a pencil-slim 
line. The cutting laser emitted in the infrared, but even the guide beam of the 
auxiliary laser was invisible until the cutting raised enough dust to reflect 
its thin red pointing finger.
    Be a lot easier if we could get nanomachines to do this, George thought. 
I've got to twist Kris Cardenas's arm when we get back to Ceres, make her see 
how much we need her help. Little buggers could separate the different elements 
in a rock, atom by atom. All we'd hafta do is scoop up the piles and load 'em on 
the ship.
    Instead, George worked like a common laborer, prying up thick, house-sized 
slabs of asteroidal rock as the laser's hot beam cut them loose, clamping them 
together with buckyball tethers, and ferrying them to Matilda's bulky propulsion 
module, which was fitted with attachment points for the cargo. By the time he 
had carried three such loads, using the jetpack of his suit to move the big 
slabs, feeling a little like Superman manhandling the massive yet weightless 
tonnages of ores, he was soaked with perspiration.
    "Feels like a bloody swamp in this suit," he complained aloud as he started 
back toward the asteroid. "Smells like one, too."
    "It is a ship," said Nodon.
    "You're sure?"
    "I can see its image on the display screen."
    "Give 'em another hail, then. See who they are." George didn't like the idea 
of another ship in the vicinity. It can't be coincidence, he told himself.
    He landed deftly on the asteroid about fifty meters from where the laser was 
still slicing up the rock. Why would a ship be heading toward us? Who are they?
 
Dorik Harbin sat at the controls of Shanidar, his dark bearded face impassive, 
his darker eyes riveted on the CCD display from the ship's optical sensors. He 
could see the flashes of laser-heated rock spurting up from the asteroid and the 
glints of light they cast on the Waltzing Matilda, parked in orbit around the 
asteroid. The information from Grigor had been accurate, as usual. There was the 
ship, precisely where Grigor had said it would be.
    Death was no stranger to Dorik Harbin. Orphaned from birth, he was barely as 
tall as the assault rifle the village elders gave him when Harbin had dutifully 
marched with the other preteens to the village down the road, where the evil 
people lived. They had killed his father before Harbin had been born and raped 
his pregnant mother repeatedly. The other boys sometimes sniggered that Dorik 
was conceived by one of the rapists, not the father that the rapists had hacked 
to death.
    He and his ragamuffin battalion had marched down to that evil village and 
shot everyone there: all of them, men, women, children, babies. Harbin even shot 
the village dogs in a fury of vengeance. Then, under the pitiless eyes of the 
hard-faced elders, they had set fire to each and every house in that village. 
Dousing the bodies with petrol where they lay, they burned the dead, too. Some 
of them were only wounded, pretending to be dead to escape the vengeance they 
had reaped, until the flames ignited their clothing.
    Harbin still heard their screams in his sleep.
    When the blue-helmeted Peacekeeper troops had come into the region to pacify 
the ethnic fighting, Harbin had run away from his village and joined the 
national defense force. After many months of living in the hills and hiding from 
the Peacekeepers' observation planes and satellites, he came to the bitter 
conclusion that the so-called national defense force was nothing more than a 
band of renegades, stealing from their own people, looting villages and raping 
their women.
    He ran away again, this time to a refugee camp, where well-clad strangers 
distributed food while men from nearby villages sold the refugees hashish and 
heroin. Eventually Harbin joined those blue-helmeted soldiers; they were looking 
for recruits and offered steady pay for minimal discomfort. They trained him 
well, but more importantly they fed him and paid him and tried to instill some 
sense of discipline and honor in him. Time and again his temper tripped him; he 
was in the brig so often that his sergeant called him "jailbird."
    The sergeant tried to tame Harbin's wild ferocity, tried to make a reliable 
soldier out of him. Harbin took their food and money and tried to understand 
their strange concepts of when it was proper to kill someone and when it was 
not. What he learned after a few years of service in the miserable, pathetic, 
deprived regions of Asia and Africa was that it was the same everywhere: kill or 
be killed.
    He was picked for a hurry-up training course and sent with a handful of 
other Peacekeeper troops to the Moon, to enforce the law on the renegade 
colonists of Moonbase. They even allowed the specially-selected troopers dosages 
of designer drugs which, they claimed, would enhance their adaptation to low 
gravity. Harbin knew it was nothing more than a bribe, to keep the "volunteers" 
satisfied.
    Trying to fight the tenacious defenders of Moonbase from inside a spacesuit 
was a revelation to Harbin. The Peacekeepers failed, even though the lunar 
colonists took great pains to avoid killing any of them. They returned to Earth, 
not merely defeated but humiliated. His next engagement, in the food riots in 
Delhi, finished him as a Peacekeeper. He saved his squad from being overrun by 
screaming hordes of rioters, but killed so many of the "unarmed" civilians that 
the International Peacekeeping Force cashiered him.
    Orphaned again, Harbin took up with mercenary organizations that worked 
under contract to major multinational corporations. Always eager to better 
himself, he learned to operate spacecraft. And he quickly saw how fragile 
spacecraft were. A decent laser shot could disable a vessel in an eyeblink; you 
could kill its crew from a thousand kilometers away before they realized they 
were under attack.
    Eventually he was summoned to the offices of Humphries Space Systems, the 
first time he had returned to the Moon since the Peacekeepers had been driven 
off. Their chief of security was a Russian named Grigor. He told Harbin he had a 
difficult but extremely rewarding assignment for a man of courage and 
determination.
    Harbin asked only, "Who do I have to kill?"
    Grigor told him that he was to drive the independent prospectors and miners 
out of the Belt. Those working under contract to HSS or Astro were to be left 
untouched. It was the independents who were to be "discouraged." Harbin grimaced 
at the word. Men like Grigor and the others back at Selene could use delicate 
words, but what they meant was anything but refined. Kill the independents. Kill 
enough of them so that the rest either quit the Belt or signed up with HSS or 
Astro Corporation.
    So this one had to die, like the others.
    "This is Waltzing Matilda," he heard his comm speaker announce. The face on 
his display screen was a young male Asian, head shaved, eyes big and nervous. 
His cheeks seemed to be tattooed. "Please identify yourself."
    Harbin chose not to. There was no need. The less he spoke with those he must 
kill, the less he knew about them, the better. It was a game, he told himself, 
like the computer games he had played during his training sessions with the 
Peacekeepers. Destroy the target and win points. In this game he played now, the 
points were international dollars. Wealth could buy almost anything: a fine home 
in a safe city, good wines, willing women, drugs that drove away the memories of 
the past.
    "We are working this asteroid," the young man said, his shaky voice a little 
higher-pitched than before. "The claim has already been registered with the 
International Astronautical Authority."
    Harbin took in a deep breath. The temptation to reply was powerful. It 
doesn't matter what you have claimed or what you are doing, he answered 
silently. The moving finger has written your name in the book of death, nor all 
thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line; nor all thy tears 
wash out a word of it.
    By the time he'd made his eighth ore-ferrying trip, George felt dead tired. 
And starving.
    He turned off the laser and said into his helmet microphone, "I'm comin' 
in."
    The Turk replied only, "Copy that."
    "I'm sloshin' inside this suit," George said. "The power pack needs 
rechargin', too."
    "Understood," said Nodon.
    George unhooked the power pack and toted it in his arms back to Matilda's 
airlock. It was twice his size, and even though it weighed virtually nothing he 
was careful handling it; a mass that big could squash a man no matter what the 
ambient gravity. The law of inertia had not been repealed.
    "What's our visitor doin'?" he asked as he sealed the lock's outer hatch and 
started pumping air into it.
    "Still approaching on the same course."
    "Any word from 'im?"
    "Nothing."
    That worried George. By the time he had wormed his way out of the 
ripe-smelling suit and plugged the big power pack into the ship's recharging 
unit, though, his first priority was food.
    He half-floated up the passageway to the galley.
    "Spin 'er up a bit, Nodon," he hollered to the bridge. "Gimme some weight 
while I chow down."
    "One-sixth g?" the Turk's voice came back down the passageway.
    "Good enough."
    A comfortable feeling of weight returned as George pulled a meager 
prepackaged snack from the freezer. Should've loaded more food, he thought. 
Didn't expect to be out here this long.
    Then he heard a scream from the bridge. The air-pressure alarm started 
hooting and the emergency hatches slammed shut as the ship's lights went out, 
plunging George into total darkness.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 18
 
    Amanda was aghast. "You refused to sell at any price?"
    Fuchs nodded grimly. Some of the blazing fury he had felt during his meeting 
with Humphries had burned off, but still the smoldering heat of anger burned 
deep in his guts. Only one thing was certain: he was going to fight. On the way 
from Humphries's office to their hotel suite Fuchs had made up his mind once and 
for all. He was going to wipe the smug smile from Humphries's face, no matter 
what it cost.
    Amanda was in the sitting room of their suite when Fuchs barged through the 
door, angry and impatient. He saw the expectant look on her face and realized 
she'd been waiting for him all the while; she'd never gone shopping or done 
anything other than wait for his return.
    "I couldn't do it," Fuchs said, so low that he wasn't sure she'd heard him. 
He cleared his throat, repeated, "I couldn't sell to him. Not at any price."
    Amanda sank into one of the small sofas scattered about the room. 
"Lars...what do you expect to do now?"
    "I don't know," he told her. That wasn't quite true, but he wasn't sure of 
how much he could tell her. He sat in the chair next to Amanda and took her 
hands in his. "I told him I was going back to Ceres and start over."
    "Start over? How?"
    He tried to smile for her, to hide his true thoughts. "We still have 
Starpower. We can go back to prospecting, I suppose."
    "Live aboard the ship again," she murmured.
    "I know it's a step backward." He hesitated, then found the courage to say, 
"You don't have to come with me. You can stay on Ceres. Or ... or wherever you 
would prefer to live."
    "You'd go without me?" She looked hurt.
    Fuchs knew that if he told her his real plans, his true goal, Amanda would 
be terrified. She would try to talk him out of it. Or worse, once she realized 
that he was unshakable, she would insist on staying with him every step of the 
way.
    So he temporized. "Amanda, dearest... it wouldn't be fair for me to ask you 
to live that way again. I've made a mess of things, it's up to me to"
    "Lars, he'll kill you!"
    She was truly frightened, he saw.
    "If you go back to the Belt by yourself," Amanda said urgently, "he'll have 
someone track you down and murder you."
    Fuchs remembered Humphries's words: You're a dead man, Fuchs.
    "I can take care of myself," he said grimly.
    Amanda thought, I've got to go with him. Martin won't strike at Lars if 
there's a possibility of hurting me.
    Aloud, she said to her husband, gently, soothingly, "I know you can take 
care of yourself, darling, but who's going to take care of me?" And she reached 
up to stroke his cheek.
    "You'd go with me?"
    "Of course."
    "You want to go with me?" He was filled with joyful wonder at the idea.
    "I want to be with you, Lars," Amanda said softly, "wherever you go."
    To herself, though, she said, It's me that Martin wants. I'm the cause of 
all this. I'm the reason my husband is in such danger.
    And Fuchs was saying to himself, She wants to be away from Humphries. She's 
afraid of him. She's afraid that if I'm not near enough to protect her, he'll 
steal her away from me.
    And the embers of his anger burst into flaming rage again.
 
 
 
 
 
 
WALTZING MATILDA
 
    The emergency lights came on, dim but better than utter darkness. George 
groped through the shadows along the narrow passageway from the galley to the 
closed hatch of the bridge. He tapped the code on the bulkhead keypad and the 
hatch popped open slightly.
    At least there's proper air pressure in the bridge, George thought as he 
pushed the hatch all the way open. Hatch wouldn't have opened otherwise.
    Nodon was sitting in the command pilot's chair, eyes wide with shock or 
fright, hands racing along the console keyboard. The regular lights came back 
on, but they seemed weaker than usual.
    "What th' fook happened, mate?" George asked, sliding into the copilot's 
chair.
    "I got an electric shock," said Nodon. "A spark jumped from the panel and 
the lights went out."
    George could see the kid was checking out all the ship's systems. The 
control panel's displays flickered almost too quickly for the eye to register as 
Nodon raced through one system diagnostic after another.
    The kid's good, George thought. I made the right decision when I hired him.
    Nodon was a skinny youngster who'd claimed to be twenty-five, but George 
figured the kid was barely out of his teens. No real experience, outside of 
working on computers back on Ceres, but he had an intensity, a bright eager 
desire to succeed, that made George pick him as his crewman for this mining job. 
George called him "Turk" but Nodon was actually a Mongol, with the decorative 
spiral tattoos on both his cheeks to prove it. He claimed he'd been born on the 
Moon, of miners who'd fled Earth when the Gobi Desert engulfed the grasslands of 
their ancestral homeland. He was all bone and sinew, skin the color of old 
parchment, head shaved bald, big expressive deep brown eyes. He'd look damned 
handsome if it weren't for those bloody scars, George thought. He was trying to 
grow a moustache; so far it was nothing more than a few wisps that made his 
upper lip look dirty.
    Sitting tensely in the command chair, flicking through diagnostics almost 
faster than George could follow, Nodon wore only a comfortable sleeveless mesh 
shirt over a pair of ragged shorts.
    "The power generator is off-line," he said. "That's why the lights went 
out."
    "We're on batteries now?" George asked.
    "Yes, and"
    The alarms hooted again and George felt his ears pop. The airtight hatch 
slammed shut once more.
    "Jeezus God!" George shouted. "The bugger's shootin' at us!"
 
Dorik Harbin scowled at his display screens. His first shot should have taken 
out the ship's habitat module, but they'd increased their spin just a split 
second before he'd fired. He'd hit something, he was certain of that, but it 
wasn't a fatal hit.
    It had taken a few minutes for the big laser to recharge; this had given 
Harbin enough time to choose his target carefully. He had the full schematics of 
Waltzing Matilda on one of the screens, courtesy of Humphries Space Systems. 
Their intelligence data was well-nigh perfect. Harbin knew where to find the 
ships he went after, and what each ship's layout was.
    Not much of a challenge to a soldier, he thought. But then, what soldier 
wants challenges? When you put your life on the line, the easier the job the 
better. For just the flicker of a moment he thought about the fact that he was 
shooting at unarmed civilians. Perhaps there was a woman aboard that ship, 
although the HSS intelligence data didn't indicate that. What of it? he told 
himself. That's the target and you're being paid to destroy it. It's a lot 
easier than killing people face to face, the way you had to in Delhi.
    That had been a mess, a fiasco. One battalion of mercenary troops trying to 
protect a food warehouse against a whole city. That idiot commander! Stupid 
Frenchman. Harbin still saw the maddened faces of the ragged, half-starved 
Indians, bare hands against automatic rifles and machine guns. Still, they 
nearly swarmed us down. Only when he was foolish enough to let one of the women 
get close enough to knife him did his blood-rage surge and save him. He shot her 
point-blank and led a howling murderous charge that sent the mob running. He 
stopped firing into their backs only when his automatic rifle finally jammed 
from overheating.
    He pushed the nightmare images out of his mind and concentrated on the job 
at hand. By the time he was ready to fire again, Matilda's spin had moved the 
hab module enough so that it was partially shielded by the big slabs of ores the 
miners had hung on their central propulsion module. But their main comm antenna 
was in his sights. He squeezed off a shot. The laser's capacitors cracked loudly 
and he saw a flash of light glance off the rim of the antenna. A hit.
    Now to get the auxiliary antennas, he said to himself. I'll have to move in 
closer.
 
"Shooting at us?" Nodon's voice went high with sudden fright.
    "Fookin' bastard," George growled. "Get into your suit. Quick!"
    Nodon bolted from his chair and went to the hatch. He tapped out the 
keyboard code swiftly and the hatch swung open all the way.
    "The air pressure is falling," he called over his shoulder as George 
followed him down the passageway toward the airlock.
    George was thinking, If we had the bloody laser on board we could give the 
bastard a taste of his own medicine. But the laser was sitting on the asteroid 
and its power pack was recharging; at least, it had been until the generator had 
been hit.
    As they scrambled into their suits, George said, "We'd better power down the 
ship. Save the batteries."
    Nodon was already pulling his bubble helmet over his head. "I'll go to the 
bridge and do it," he said, his voice muffled by the helmet.
    "Turn off everything!" George yelled after his retreating back. "Let 'em 
think we're dead!"
    He added silently, It won't be far from wrong, either.
    Nodon returned from the bridge as George was closing the neck seal of his 
helmet. Leaning toward the kid so their helmets touched, he said, "Don't even 
use the suit radio. Play dead."
    The kid looked worried, but he forced a sickly grin as he nodded back to 
George.
    They got to the airlock and went out together. George grasped Nodon's suited 
arm and, without using his jetpack, pushed off toward the big slabs of ores 
attached to Matildas fusion engine. Get into the shadow of those chunks, he 
thought. Huddle up close to 'em and maybe this fookin' killer won't see us.
    Perspective is tricky in microgravity. Once George and his young crewman got 
to the nearest of the slabs, it seemed as if they were lying on a huge hard bed, 
side by side, looking up at the slowly-revolving shape of their habitation 
module as it swung on its long tether.
    The other ship glided into George's view. It was small, little more than a 
hab unit set atop a fusion engine and a set of bulbous propellant tanks. It 
looked almost like a cluster of mismatched grapes. Then he recognized the bulky 
shape of a high-power laser hanging just below the hab module. This ship was 
meant to be a destroyer, nothing else.
    The guide beam from the ship's auxiliary laser played over Matilda's 
habitation module. George watched as the smaller ship maneuvered leisurely, the 
evil red spot of the guide beam sliding away from the hab unit. For a moment it 
was lost in the depth of space, but then George's heart clutched in his chest. 
The red spot was moving across the slab to which he and Nodon were clinging.
    He knows we're here! George thought, sweat breaking out on his face. He's 
gonna slice us!
    But the red spot slid across the slab more than ten meters below their 
boots. It stopped on the bell-shaped nozzle of their fusion engine, then walked 
slowly up to the throat of the nozzle. A light flashed there. George blinked 
against the sudden, unexpected glare.
    Nodon bumped his helmet against George's. "The engine!" he whimpered.
    Another flash. This time George saw shards of metal fly off the rocket 
nozzle, glinting briefly in the pale sunlight as they spun out of sight, into 
the endless darkness.
    Again the laser fired. This time it hit the piping that fed cryogenic 
hydrogen into the nozzle's cooling capillaries. Fookin' bastard knows his 
business, George thought grimly. He's disabled the engine with three bloody 
shots.
    The attacking ship maneuvered leisurely, drifting out of George's sight, 
beyond the edge of the slab on which he and Nodon hid. For moments that seemed 
like hours, the two men lay there unmoving. What are we gonna do? George 
wondered. How can we get home without the main engine?
    In the darkness, George felt Nodon's helmet touch his again. "Do you think 
he's gone?" the young man asked.
    Before George could answer, he caught another glint in the corner of his 
eye. Pushing slightly away from the slab, he saw that their attacker was 
punching holes in their propellant tanks. Thin cold jets of cryogenic hydrogen 
and helium-three hissed noiselessly into the vacuum, brief whitish wisps of gas 
that dissipated into the emptiness of space in an eyeblink.
    "We're movin'," George muttered, even though Nodon could not hear him. Like 
a child's balloon when he lets the air out of it, the gases escaping from the 
punctured tanks were pushing Matilda slowly away from the asteroid.
    "We're gonna get a fookin' tour of the solar system," George said aloud. 
"Shame we'll be too dead to enjoy the sights."
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 19
 
    I'm surprised he hasn't had us thrown out of this hotel already," Fuchs said 
morosely.
    Pancho Lane   tried   to   smile   encouragingly.   Lars  and Amanda both 
looked so down, so bewildered was the word for it, Pancho decided. Overrun by 
events and their own emotions. "Hey, don't worry about the hotel," she said, 
trying to sound cheerful. "Astro'll pay for it if Humphries reneges."
    Fuchs was still in the light gray business suit he'd worn for his meeting 
with Humphries. Amanda was wearing a pale turquoise knee-length frock, modest 
enough, but she still made Pancho feel gawky and shapeless, as usual. Mandy 
didn't mean to, but whenever Pancho was near her she felt like a beanpole 
standing beside a vid star.
    "We're going back to Ceres," Amanda said. "Back to prospecting."
    The two of them were sitting glumly on the sofa set beneath a hologram of 
Valles Marineris on Mars: the grandest Grand Canyon in the solar system.
    "What about Helvetia, Ltd.?" Pancho asked. "You're not gonna let Humphries 
muscle you out of business, are you?"
    Fuchs grunted. "What business? Our inventory went up in flames."
    "Yeah, but the insurance oughtta cover enough of it to get you started 
again."
    Fuchs shook his head wearily.
    "You got a lot of good will out there on Ceres," Pancho urged. "Shouldn't 
oughtta let that go to waste."
    Amanda's brows rose hopefully.
    "Don't want to let Humphries get a monopoly, do you, Lars ol' buddy?"
    "I'd prefer to strangle him," Fuchs growled.
    Pancho leaned back in her chair, stretched her long lean legs. "Tell you 
what: Astro'll advance you the credit to restock your warehouse, up to the limit 
that the insurance will pay you."
    Fuchs looked at her. "You can do this?"
    "I'm learnin' how to play the board of directors. I got a clutch of 'em on 
my side. They don't want Humphries to monopolize the Belt any more'n you do."
    Amanda asked, "Is your group strong enough to let you do what you just 
offered to do?"
    Nodding, Pancho replied, "Take my word for it."
    Turning to her husband, Amanda said hopefully, "Lars, we could start 
Helvetia all over again."
    "With a smaller inventory," he grumbled. "The insurance won't cover 
everything we lost."
    "But it's a start," Amanda said, smiling genuinely.
    Fuchs did not smile back. He looked away from his wife. Pancho thought there 
was something going on inside his head that he didn't want Mandy to see.
    "I'm going back to prospecting," he said, his eyes focused on the far wall 
of the sitting room.
    "But"
    "I'll take Starpower back as soon as the current lease on her is finished."
    "But what about Helvetia?" Amanda asked.
    He turned toward her once more. "You'll have to run Helvetia. You can stay 
on Ceres while I take the ship out."
    Pancho studied them. There was something going on between them, some hidden 
agenda someplace, that she couldn't fathom.
    "Lars," said Amanda, in a very soft voice, "are you certain that this is 
what you want to do?"
    "It's what I must do, darling." His voice sounded implacable.
 
Pancho invited them both to dinner at the Earthview Restaurant, off the hotel's 
lobby.
    "Strictly a social evening," she told them. "No talk about Humphries or 
Ceres or any kind of business at all. Okay?"
    They agreed, halfheartedly.
    So naturally they talked about business through the entire meal. Pancho's 
business.
    The standing joke about the Earthview was that it was the finest restaurant 
within four hundred thousand kilometers. Which was perfectly true: the two other 
eateries in Selene, up in the Grand Plaza, were mere bistros. Two levels beneath 
the lunar surface, the Earthview featured sweeping windowalls that displayed 
holographic views from the Moon's surface. It was almost like looking through 
real windows at the gaunt, cracked floor of the giant crater Alphonsus and its 
worn, slumped ringwall mountains. But the Earth was always in that dark sky, 
hanging like a splendid glowing jewel of sparkling blue and glowing white, ever 
changing yet always present.
    The Earthview prided itself on having a human staff, no robots in sight. 
Pancho always felt that a truly top-rate restaurant should use tablecloths, but 
the Earthview used glittering placemats made of lunar honeycomb metal, thin and 
supple as silk.
    None of them had changed clothes for dinner. Fuchs was still wearing his 
gray suit, Amanda her turquoise knee-length dress. Pancho, who favored coveralls 
and softboots, had started the day in a business outfit of chocolate-brown 
slacks, pale yellow sweater, and light tan suede vest. Amanda had loaned her a 
light auburn Irish lace stole to "dress up your outfit."
    Once their handsome young waiter had brought their drinks and taken their 
dinner order, an awkward silence fell over their table. They had agreed not to 
talk business. What other topic of conversation was there?
    Pancho sipped at her margarita and watched the waiter's retreating back. 
Nice buns, she thought. Wonder if he's married?
    "So what have you been doing lately, Pancho?" Amanda finally said, more to 
break the silence than any other reason.
    "Me? I'm followin' up on something Dan Randolph talked about years ago: 
scoopin' fusion fuels from Jupiter."
    Fuchs's ears perked up. "Fusion fuels?"
    "Yeah. You know, helium-three, tritium, other isotopes. Jupiter's atmosphere 
is full of 'em."
    "That's a steep gravity well," said Amanda.
    "Tell me about it," Pancho said. "You know I've been approached by some nuts 
who want to go skimmin' Jupiter's atmosphere as a stunt? They even brought a 
network producer with 'em."
    "Insanity," Fuchs muttered.
    "Yeah, sure." Pancho pronounced the word shore. "But then there's a gaggle 
of scientists who wanta set up a research station in orbit around Jupiter. Study 
the moons and all."
    "But the radiation," Amanda said.
    "Tight orbit, underneath the Jovian Van Allen belts. Might be doable."
    "Astro would fund this?"
    "Hell no!" Pancho blurted. "Universities gotta come up with the funding. 
We'll build the sucker."
    "And use it as a platform for mining Jupiter's atmosphere," Amanda added.
    Pancho smiled at her. Sometimes I forget how smart she is, Pancho thought. I 
let her sweet face and nice boobs fool me.
    Then she looked at Fuchs. He sat with his drink untouched before him, his 
eyes staring off into some private universe. Whatever he's thinking about, 
Pancho realized, he's a zillion kilometers from here.
 
 
 
 
 
 
WALTZING MATILDA
 
    Once they got back inside the ship, it took George and Nodon hours to patch 
the holes punched through the hull by the attacker's laser and check out all the 
systems. They were both dead tired by the time they were able to take off their 
spacesuits and clump wearily, fearfully to the bridge.
    George took the command chair, Nodon slipped into the chair at his right.
    "You run a diagnostic on the power generator," said George. "I'll check the 
nav computer and see where th' fook we're headin'." They worked in silence for 
another twenty minutes. At last Nodon said, "I can repair the generator. He 
knocked out one set of electrodes. We have spares."
    George nodded. "Okay, then. If you can get the generator back on line we 
won't hafta worry about electrical power for the life support systems."
    Nodding, Nodon said, "That is good news."
    "Right. Now here's the bad news. We're up shit's creek without a paddle."
    Nodon said nothing. He held his bony face impassive, but George saw that 
even his shaved pate was sheened with perspiration. It sure isn't the 
temperature in here, George told himself. In fact, the bridge felt decidedly 
chilly.
    With a heavy sigh, George said, "He knocked enough holes in the propellant 
tanks to send us jettin' deeper into the Belt."
    "And the main engine is beyond repair."
    "Prob'ly."
    "Then we will die."
    "Looks that way, mate. Unless we can get some help."
    "The comm system is down. He must have lasered the antennas."
    George nodded. "So that's what the soddin' bastard was doing."
    "He was very thorough."
    Sitting there, staring at the control panel with half its telltale lights 
glowering red, George tried to think.
    "We're okay on life support," he mused aloud.
    "Once the generator is running again," Nodon corrected. "Otherwise the 
batteries will run out in . . ." He glanced at the displays ". . . eleven 
hours."
    "Better fix the generator, then. That's our first priority."
    Nodon started to get up from his seat. He hesitated, asked, "And our second 
priority?"
    "Figurin' out if we can nudge ourselves into a trajectory that'll bring us 
close to Ceres before we starve to death."
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 20
 
    Amanda would have preferred to stay in Selene for just a few days more, but 
Fuchs insisted that they start back for Ceres as soon as possible. He learned 
from Pancho that an Astro ship was due to depart for Ceres the next day, 
carrying a load of equipment that Helvetia had ordered before the warehouse 
fire. "We'll go back on that ship," Fuchs told his wife. "But it's a freighter. 
It won't have passenger accommodations," Amanda protested.
    "We'll go back on that ship," he repeated. Wondering why her husband was so 
insistent on returning as quickly as possible, Amanda reluctantly packed her 
travel bag while Fuchs called Pancho to beg a ride.
    The next morning they rode the automated little tractor through the tunnel 
that led out to Armstrong Spaceport and climbed aboard the spindly-legged 
shuttlecraft that would lift them to the Harper. The ship was in lunar orbit, 
but rotating at a one-sixth g spin. Fuchs felt grateful that he would not have 
to endure weightlessness for more than the few minutes of the shuttlecraft's 
flight.
    "Newest ship in the solar system," said her captain as he welcomed them 
aboard. He was young, trim, good-looking, and stared openly at Amanda's ample 
figure. Fuchs, standing beside her, grasped his wife's arm possessively.
    "I'm afraid, though, that she's not built for passenger service," the 
captain said as he led them down the habitat module's central passageway. "All I 
can offer you is this cabin."
    He slid an accordion-pleated door back. The cabin was barely large enough 
for two people to stand in.
    "It's kind of small," the captain said, apologetically. But he was smiling 
at Amanda.
    "It will do," said Fuchs. "The trip is only six days."
    He stepped into the compartment, leading Amanda.
    The captain, still out in the passageway, said, "We break orbit in thirty 
minutes."
    "Good," said Fuchs. And he slid the door shut.
    Amanda giggled at him. "Lars, you were positively rude to him!"
    With a sardonic grin back at her, he said, "I thought his eyes would fall 
out of his head, he was staring at you so hard."
    "Oh, Lars, he wasn't. Was he?"
    "He most certainly was."
    Amanda's expression became sly. "What do you think he had on his mind?"
    His grin turned wolfish. "I'll show you."
 
    Even though they took place in the tropical beauty of La Guaira, on the 
Caribbean coast of Venezuela, the quarterly meetings of Astro Manufacturing 
Corporation's board of directors had turned into little less than armed 
confrontations. Martin Humphries had built a clique around himself and was 
working hard to take control of the board. Opposing him was Pancho Lane, who had 
learned in her five years on the board how to bring together a voting bloc of 
her own.
    As chairman of the board, Harriett O'Banian tried her best to steer clear of 
both groups. Her job, as she saw it, was to make Astro as profitable as 
possible. Much of what Humphries wanted to do was indeed profitable, even though 
Pancho opposed virtually anything Humphries or one of his people proposed.
    But now Pancho was proposing something that might become an entirely new 
product line for Astro, and Humphries seemed dead set against it.
    "Scoop gases from the atmosphere of Jupiter?" Humphries was scoffing. "Can 
you think of anythingany idea at allthat carries more risk?"
    "Yeah," Pancho snapped. "Lettin' somebody else get a corner on the fusion 
fuels market."
    Red-haired Hattie O'Banian was no stranger to outbursts of temper. But not 
while she chaired the board. She rapped on the long conference table with her 
knuckles. "We will have order here," she said firmly. "Mr. Humphries has the 
floor."
    Pancho slumped back in her chair and nodded unhappily. She was seated almost 
exactly across the table from Humphries. O'Banian had to exert some self-control 
to keep from smiling at her. Pancho had come a long way since her first awkward 
days on the board. Underneath her west Texas drawl and aw-shucks demeanor, she 
had a sharp intelligence, quick wit, and the ability to focus on an issue with 
the intensity of a laser beam. With Hattie's help, Pancho had learned how to 
dress the part of a board member: today she wore a trousered business suit of 
dusky rose, touched off with accents of jewelry. Still, Hattie thought, her 
lanky, long-legged tomboy image came through. She looked as if she wanted to 
reach across the table and sock Humphries between the eyes.
    For his part, Humphries seemed perfectly at ease in a casual cardigan suit 
of deep blue and a pale lemon turtleneck shirt. He wears clothes well, Hattie 
thought, and hides his thoughts even better.
    "Martin," said O'Banian. "Do you have anything else to add?"
    "I certainly do," Humphries said, with a crafty little smile. He turned his 
gaze to Pancho for a moment, then looked back at O'Banian. "I am opposed to 
fly-by-night schemes that promise a jackpot at the end of the rainbow but are in 
reality fraught with technical risks. And human dangers. Sending a ship to 
Jupiter in a crazy attempt to scoop hydrogen and helium isotopes from that 
planet's atmosphere is utter madness, pure and simple."
    Half a dozen board members nodded agreement. O'Banian noticed that a couple 
of them were not usually on Humphries' side in these quarrels.
    "Ms. Lane? Do you have anything more to say in support of your proposal?"
    Pancho sat up ramrod straight and looked squarely at Humphries. "I sure do. 
I've presented the facts, the engineering analysis, the cost estimates and the 
profit probabilities. The numbers show that scooping fusion fuels is within the 
capabilities of existing technology. Nothing new needs to be invented."
    "A ship that dives into Jupiter's atmosphere to collect its gases?" blurted 
one of the older men down the table. He was paunchy, bald, red-faced.
    Pancho forced a smile at him. "A ship that's being teleoperated from Jupiter 
orbit. It's well within existing capabilities."
    "There's no base in the Jupiter system for a remote operating team; we'd 
have to set it up it ourselves."
    "That's true," Pancho said evenly. "I didn't say it was existing 
state-of-the-art hardware. But it is within existing capabilities. We just have 
to build it and test it."
    "At what cost?" asked the gray-haired woman sitting two chairs down from 
Pancho.
    "You have all the cost figures in my presentation," Pancho said. Then, 
turning to O'Banian, she asked, "Can I finish my say without bein' interrupted, 
please?"
    O'Banian nodded. Raising her voice slightly, she said, "Let's give Pancho 
the same courtesy we gave Martin, everyone."
    Pancho said, "Thanks, y'all. Earth needs energy sources that won't put 
greenhouse gases into the atmosphere. Fusion is the answer, and fusion based on 
helium-three is the most efficient fusion system that's been built so far. 
There's trillions of dollars per year waitin' for the company that can supply 
fusion fuels for Earth. And don't forget that Selene, the Mars bases, Ceres, and 
lots of other facilities off Earth will buy fusion fuels, too. Not to mention 
the market for spacecraft propulsion."
    "Selene sells us deuterium-three," said the red-faced bald man. "They scoop 
it up out of the ground."
    Pancho countered, "There's not enough deuterium on the Moon to satisfy the 
potential market demand."
    "But going all the way out to Jupiter . . . that will make the price too 
damned high, won't it?"
    "Not once we get the facilities runnin'. It'll be a long-haul cargo run, a 
pipeline operation. We won't hafta undercut Selene's price; we'll just offer a 
million times more fusion fuels than Selene can dig up."
    The man mumbled to himself, unconvinced.
    Pancho looked back to O'Banian, but before the chairwoman could say 
anything, she went on, "One more thing. If we don't do this, Humphries Space 
Systems will."
    Humphries shot up from his chair and pointed an accusing finger at Pancho. 
"That's a deliberate insult!"
    "That's the truth and you know it!" Pancho fired back.
    The board room erupted with angry voices.
    O'Banian banged on the table, hard. "Quiet! All of you."
    "Do I still have the floor?" Pancho asked, once the commotion calmed down. 
Humphries was glaring at her from across the table.
    O'Banian threw an irritated look at Pancho. "As long as you refrain from 
personal attacks on other board members," she answered stiffly.
    "Okay," said Pancho. "But it seems to me like we got a problem here. Mr. 
Humphries here is in a position to block new ideas and then take 'em back to his 
own corporation and run with 'em."
    "You're accusing me of unethical behavior!" Humphries barked.
    "Damn right," said Pancho.
    "Wait! Quiet!" O'Banian demanded. "I will not have this meeting break down 
into a personal quarrel."
    The oldest member of the board, a frail-looking gentleman who hardly ever 
said a word, spoke up. "It seems to me," he said in a whispery voice, "that we 
do indeed have a conflict of interest here."
    "That's nonsense," Humphries snapped.
    "I'm afraid that the point has to be considered," O'Banian said. She tried 
to make it as mild and noncommittal as possible, but she was not going to let 
this point pass without a full discussion. She deliberately kept her eyes away 
from Pancho, afraid that her gratitude would show.
    The discussion wrangled on for nearly two hours. Each board member demanded 
to have his or her say, whether or not the same sentiment had already been 
expressed by someone else. O'Banian sat patiently through it all, watching their 
egos on parade, trying to figure out how she could bring this to a vote. Throw 
Humphries off the board? Gladly. But there weren't enough votes for that. The 
best she could hope for was to pull his fangs.
    Humphries was no fool. He too listened to the board members' repetitious 
ramblings, clearly impatient, obviously calculating his odds. By the time it was 
his turn to speak in his own defense, he had come to a decision.
    Rising to his feet, he said slowly, calmly, "I'm not going to dignify the 
accusation that Ms. Lane made by trying to defend myself against it. I think the 
facts speak for themselves"
    "They sure do," Pancho muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.
    Humphries kept his temper, barely. "Therefore," he continued, "I will 
withdraw my opposition to this Jupiter concept."
    O'Banian realized she had been holding her breath. She let it out with a 
gush, surprised at how displeased she felt. She had hoped that Humphries would 
do the gentlemanly thing and resign from the board.
    "But let me tell you this," Humphries added, with an upraised finger. "When 
the costs mount up and the whole idea collapses around our heads, don't say I 
didn't warn you."
    O'Banian took another breath, then said, "Thank you, Martin, on behalf of 
the entire board."
    But Humphries's clique on the board still opposed the Jupiter project. The 
best they would agree to was to allow Pancho to seek a partner that would share 
at least one quarter of the project's costs. Failing that, the board would not 
allow the program to be started.
    "A partner?" Pancho groused. O'Banian threw her a sharp warning look. If 
Pancho complained openly that no one would join Astro in such a partnership, it 
merely proved Humphries's point that the idea was impractically far-fetched.
    "I think you might open up a dialogue with some of the major utilities 
corporations," O'Banian suggested. "After all, they have the most to gain from 
an assured supply of fusion fuels."
    "Yeah," Pancho mumbled. "Right."
    As the meeting broke up and the board members made their way out of the 
conference room, muttering and chattering to one another, Humphries came up to 
O'Banian.
    "Are you satisfied?" he asked, in a low, confidential voice.
    "I'm sorry it had to come to this, Martin," she replied.
    "Yes, I can see how sorry you are." He glanced across the room, to where 
Pancho was talking to the old red-faced man as they filed out of the room. 
"Clever work, using Pancho as your stalking horse."
    O'Banian was genuinely shocked. "Me? Using...?"
    "It's all right," Humphries said, smiling thinly. "I expect sneak attacks 
now and then. It's all part of the game."
    "But, Martin, I had no idea"
    "No, of course you didn't. Well, go ahead with this Jupiter nonsense, if you 
can find some idiot foolish enough to go along with you. Once it flops I'll be 
able to use it to get you off the board. And that damned grease monkey, too." 
 
 
 
 
 
WALTZING MATILDA
 
    "What spooks me," George was saying, "is how the fookin' bastard knew where 
our antennas were."
    He and Nodon were taking off their spacesuits, dog-tired after a five-hour 
EVA. They had patched the laser-punched holes in the propellant tanks, but most 
of the hydrogen and helium had already leaked away. Their communication 
antennas, even the backups, were slagged and useless.
    "He must have had complete specs on this ship," Nodon said, as he lifted off 
the torso of his hard-shell suit and placed it carefully on its rack. "Every 
detail."
    "Every fookin' detail," George agreed. He sat on the tiny bench in front of 
the suit racks, filling it so completely that Nodon sat on the deck to start 
removing his boots. George felt too weary even to bend over and pull his boots 
off.
    Piece by piece they finished unsuiting at last, then made their way to the 
galley. George mused aloud, "Y'know, somebody must've given him the specs for 
this ship."
    "Yes," Nodon agreed, trailing along behind him. The passageway was too 
narrow for them to proceed side by side.
    "But who? This is a piece of private property, its specs aren't public 
knowledge. You can't look 'em up in a fookin' net site."
    Nodon scratched his lean, bristly chin, then suggested, "Could he have 
access to the manufacturer's records?"
    "Or to the maintenance files at Ceres, maybe," George muttered.
    "Yes, that is possible."
    "Either way," said George, with growing conviction, "it has to be somebody 
in Humphries Space Systems. Their people do the maintenance on it."
    "Not Astro?"
    "Naw. HSS offered me a bargain price if I signed up for the maintenance 
contract."
    "Then it must be someone in HSS," Nodon agreed.
    "But why? Why did the bastard attack us?"
    "To invalidate the claim to the asteroid, certainly."
    George shook his head irritatedly. "There's millions of rocks in the Belt. 
And Humphries is the richest shrewdie in the fookin' solar system. What's he 
need a lousy asteroid claim for?"
    "Perhaps not him," Nodon said. "Perhaps someone in his corporation."
    "Yeah." George nodded. "Maybe."
    With a resigned shrug, Nodon said, "It is all academic, anyway."
    "Whatcha mean, mate?"
    Tapping a lean finger against the small wallscreen that displayed the 
galley's contents, Nodon pointed out, "We have enough food for only another 
twenty-two days. Perhaps as much as forty days, if we cut our daily ration to 
starvation level."
    George grunted at him. "No sense starvin' ourselves. We're gonna die 
anyway."
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 21
 
    Through the week-long trip on the Harper, Amanda sensed a strangeness in her 
husband, something odd, different, something she couldn't put her finger on. He 
seemednot distant, exactlycertainly not distant: Lars spent almost the entire 
journey in bed with her, making love with a fierce intensity she had never known 
before. And yet, even in the midst of their passion there was something 
withdrawn about him; something that he was hiding from her. She had always been 
able to read his thoughts before: one look at the set of his jaw and she knew. 
He had never held anything back from her. But now his face was impassive, his 
expression guarded. His deepset blue eyes showed her nothing.
    It frightened Amanda to realize that Lars was keeping a secret from her. 
Perhaps more than one.
    Once they arrived back at their quarters on Ceres and began unpacking their 
travel bags, Amanda decided to confront the issue directly.
    "Lars, what's the matter?"
    He was stuffing a handful of socks and underwear into his bureau drawer. 
"The matter?" he asked, without looking up at her. "What do you mean?"
    "Something's on your mind and you're not sharing it with me." Straightening 
up, he came back toward her at the bed. "I'm thinking of everything that we have 
to do. The insurance, restocking the warehouse, getting Starpower back."
    Amanda sat on the bed, next to her opened bag. 'Yes, of course. And what 
else?"
    His eyes shifted away from her. "What else? Isn't that enough?"
    "There's something more, Lars. Something that's been bothering you since we 
left Selene."
    He looked down at her, then turned his attention to his travel bag again, 
started rummaging through it, muttering about his shaving kit.
    Amanda put her hand atop his, stopping him. "Lars, please tell me."
    He straightened up. "There are some things you shouldn't know, dear."
    "What?" She felt shocked. "What things?"
    He almost smiled. "If I told you, then you would know."
    "It's about Martin, isn't it? You've been this way ever since your meeting 
with him."
    Fuchs took a deep breath. She could see his chest expand and then deflate 
again. He pushed his bag aside and sat next to her on the bed.
    "All through our trip back here," he said, his voice heavy, low, "I've been 
trying to think of a way that we can stop him from gaining complete control of 
the Belt."
    "So that's it."
    He nodded, but she could see that there was still more. His eyes looked 
troubled, uncertain.
    "He wants that. He wants complete control of everyone and everything out 
here. He wants absolute power."
    Amanda blurted, "What of it? Lars, we don't have to fight against him. We 
can't! You're only one man. You can't stop him."
    "Someone has to do it."
    "But not you! Not us! We can cash in the insurance money and go back to 
Earth and forget about all this."
    With a slow shake of his head, Fuchs said, "Perhaps you can forget about it. 
I can't."
    "You mean you won't."
    "I can't."
    "Lars, you're obsessed with a foolish macho delusion. This isn't a battle 
between you and Martin. There's nothing to fight about! I love you. After all 
these years, don't you know that? Don't you believe it?"
    "It's gone beyond that," Fuchs said grimly.
    "Beyond ...?"
    "He's killed people. Friends of ours. Ripley. The men and women aboard the 
ships that have disappeared. He's a murderer."
    "But what can you do about it?"
    "I can fight."
    "Fight?" Amanda felt truly frightened now. "How? With what?"
    He held up his thick-fingered hands and slowly clenched them into fists. 
"With my bare hands, if I have to."
    "Lars, that's crazy! Insane!"
    He snapped, "Don't you think I know it? Don't you think it horrifies me down 
to the bottom of my soul? I'm a civilized man. I'm not a Neanderthal."
    "Then why . . . ?"
    "Because I must. Because there's an anger in me, a fury that won't let go of 
me. I hate him! I hate his smug certainty. I hate the idea that he can push a 
button and men are murdered millions of kilometers away while he sits in his 
elegant mansion and dines on pheasant. And fantasizes about you!"
    Amanda's heart sank. I'm the cause of all this, she realized all over again. 
I've turned this sweet, loving man into a raging monster.
    "I'd like to smash his face in," Fuchs growled. "Kill him just as he's 
killed so many others."
    "The way you killed that man in the Pub," she heard herself say.
    He looked as if she had slapped him in the face.
    Shocked at her own words, Amanda said, "Oh, Lars, I didn't mean"
    "You're right," he snapped. "Absolutely right. If I could kill Humphries 
like that, I'd do it. In a hot second."
    She reached up and stroked his cheek as gently, soothingly as she could. 
"Lars, darling, pleaseall you're going to accomplish is getting yourself 
killed."
    He pushed her hand away. "Don't you think I'm already marked for murder? He 
told me he would have me killed. You're a dead man, Fuchs. Those were his exact 
words."
    Amanda closed her eyes. There was nothing she could do. She knew that her 
husband was going to fight, and there was nothing she could do to stop him. She 
knew he would get himself killed. Worse, she saw that he was turning into a 
killer himself. He was becoming a stranger, a man she didn't know, didn't 
recognize. That frightened her.
 
"And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" asked Carlos Vertientes.
    He's a handsome devil, Pancho thought. Aristocratic Castilian features. Good 
cheekbones. Neat little salt-and-pepper beard. He really looks like a professor 
oughtta, not like the slobs and creeps back in Texas.
    She was strolling along the Ramblas in Barcelona with the head of the 
university's plasma dynamics department, the tall, distinguished physicist who 
had helped Lyall Duncan build the fusion propulsion system that now powered most 
of the spacecraft operating beyond the Moon's orbit. Vertientes looked truly 
elegant in a dove-gray three-piece suit. Pancho was wearing the olive green 
coveralls she had traveled in.
    Barcelona was still a vibrant city, despite the rising sea level and 
greenhouse warming and displacement of so many millions of refugees. The Ramblas 
was still the crowded, bustling, noisy boulevard where everyone went for a 
stroll, a sampling of tapas and good Rioja wine, a chance to see and be seen. 
Pancho liked it far better than sitting in an office, even though the crowd was 
so thick that at times they had to elbow their way past clusters of people who 
were walking too slowly. Pancho preferred the chatting, strolling crowd to an 
office that might be bugged.
    "Your university's a shareholder in Astro Corporation," Pancho said, in 
answer to his question.
    Vertientes's finely-arched brows rose slightly. "We are part of a global 
consortium of universities that invests in many major corporations."
    He was slightly taller than Pancho, and slim as a Toledo blade. She felt 
good walking alongside him. With a nod, she replied, "Yup. That's what I found 
out when I started lookin' up Astro's stockholders."
    He smiled dazzlingly. "Have you come to Barcelona to sell more stock?"
    "No, no," Pancho said, laughing with him. "But I do have a proposition for 
youand your consortium."
    "And what might that be?" he asked, taking her arm to steer her past a knot 
of Asian tourists posing for a street photographer.
    "How'd you like to set up a research station in orbit around Jupiter? Astro 
would foot three-quarters of the cost, maybe more if we can jiggle the books a 
little."
    Vertientes's brows rose even higher. "A research station at Jupiter? You 
mean a manned station?"
    "Crewed," Pancho corrected.
    He stopped and let the crowd flow around them. "You are suggesting that the 
consortium could establish a mannedand womannedstation in Jupiter orbit at 
one-quarter of the actual cost?"
    "Maybe less," Pancho said.
    He pursed his lips. Then, "Let's find a cantina where we can sit down and 
discuss this."
    "Suits me," said Pancho, with a happy grin. waltzing matilda
    George looked sourly at the screen's display.
    "Four hundred and eighty-three days?" he asked. He was sitting in the 
command pilot's chair, on the bridge; Nodon sat beside him.
    Nodon seemed apologetic. "That is what the navigation program shows. We are 
on a long elliptical trajectory that will swing back to the vicinity of Ceres in 
four hundred and eighty-three days."
    "How close to Ceres?"
    Nodon tapped at the keyboard. "Seventy thousand kilometers, plus or minus 
three thousand."
    George scratched at his beard. "Close enough to contact 'em with our suit 
radios, just about."
    "Perhaps," said Nodon. "If we were still alive by then."
    "We'd be pretty skinny."
    "We would be dead."
    "So," George asked, "what alternatives do we have?" Nodon said, "I have gone 
through all the possibilities. We have enough propellant remaining for only a 
short burst, nowhere nearly long enough to cut our transit time back to Ceres to 
anything useful."
    "But the thruster's bunged up, useless."
    "Perhaps we could repair it."
    "Besides, if we use the propellant for thrust we won't have anything left 
for the power generator. No power for life support. lights out."
    "No," Nodon corrected. "I have reserved enough of the remaining propellant 
to keep the power generator running. We are okay there. We won't run short of 
electrical power."
    "That's something," George huffed. "When our corpses arrive back in Ceres 
space the fookin' ship'll be well lit."
    "Perhaps we can repair the rocket thruster," Nodon repeated.
    George scratched at his beard again. It itched as if some uninvited guests 
had made their home in it. "I'm too fookin' tired to go out again and look at 
the thruster. Gotta get some shut-eye first."
    Nodding his agreement, Nodon added, "And a meal."
    Surveying the depleted list on the galley inventory screen, George muttered, 
"Such as it is."
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 22
 
    Amanda looked up from her screen and smiled as Fuchs entered their one-room 
apartment. He did not smile back at her. He had spent the morning inspecting the 
ruins of Helvetia's warehouse. The fire had turned the rock-walled chamber into 
an oven, melting what it did not burn outright. Before it consumed all the 
oxygen in the cave and died out, it reduced all of Fuchs's stock, all that he 
had worked for, all that he had planned and hoped for, to nothing but ashes and 
twisted stumps of melted metal. If the airtight hatches hadn't held, the fire 
would easily have spread down the tunnels and killed everyone in Ceres.
    Fuchs trembled with rage at the thought. The murdering vermin didn't worry 
about that. They didn't care. So everyone in Ceres dies, what is that to 
Humphries? What does it matter to him, so long as he gets his way and removes 
the thorn in his side?
    I am that thorn, Fuchs told himself. I am only a little inconvenience, a 
minor nuisance in his grandiose plans for conquest.
    Thinking of the blackened, ruined warehouse, Fuchs said to himself, This 
thorn in your side will go deeper into your flesh, Humphries. I will infect you, 
I will inflame you until you feel the same kind of pain that you've inflicted on 
so many others. I swear it!
    Yet by the time he trod back to his home, coughing in the dust stirred up by 
his strides, he felt more weary than angry, wondering how he had come to travel 
down this path, why this weight of vengeance had fallen onto his shoulders. It's 
not vengeance, he snarled inwardly. It's justice. Someone has to stand for 
justice; Humphries can't be allowed to take everything he wants without being 
accountable to anyone.
    Then he slid back the door to his quarters and saw Amanda's beautiful, 
radiant smile. And the anger surged back in full fury. Humphries wants her, too, 
Fuchs reminded himself. The only way he'll get Amanda is over my dead body.
    Amanda got up from her desk and came to him. He took her in his arms, but 
instead of kissing him, she rubbed her fingers against his cheek.
    "You have a smudge on your face," she said, still smiling. "Like a little 
boy who's been out playing in the streets."
    "Soot from the warehouse," he said bleakly.
    She pecked him on the lips, then said, "I have some good news."
    "Yes?"
    "The insurance money was deposited in Helvetia's account this morning. We 
can get started again without borrowing from Pancho."
    "How much?"
    Amanda's smile faded a fraction. "Just a tad less than half of what we 
applied for. About forty-eight percent of our actual loss."
    "Forty-eight percent," he muttered, heading for the lav.
    "It's more hard cash than we had when we started Helvetia, darling."
    He knew she was trying to cheer him. "Yes, that's true, isn't it?" he said 
as he washed his face. His hands were grimy with soot, too, he saw.
    He let the dryer blow over his face, noisy and rattling, remembering the 
luxury of having actual cloth towels at the hotel in Selene. We could do that 
here, Fuchs told himself. Vacuum clean them on the surface just as they do at 
Selene. It would save us electrical power, if we could keep the dust from up on 
the surface out of the laundry.
    "Any word from Starpower?" he asked as he stepped back into the main room.
    "She's on the way in," Amanda said. "She'll be here when the lease is up, at 
the end of the month."
    "Good."
    Amanda's expression turned grave. "Lars, do you think it's a good idea for 
you to take Starpower out? Can't you hire a crew and stay here?"
    "Crews cost money," he said. "And we'd have to share whatever we find with 
the crew. I can handle the ship by myself."
    "But you'll be alone...."
    He knew what she meant. Ships had disappeared out in the Belt. And he was 
marked for murder by Humphries.
    "I'll be all right," he said. "They won't know where I'm going."
    Amanda shook her head. "Lars, all they have to do is tap into the IAA's net 
and they'll see your tracking beacon. They'll know exactly where you are."
    He almost smiled. "Not if the tracking beacon is coming from a drone that I 
release a day or so after I've left Ceres."
    She looked totally surprised. "But that would be a violation of IAA 
regulations!"
    "Yes, it would. It would also make my life much safer."
 
The work of cleaning up the charred mess of his warehouse took several days. It 
was hard to find men or women to do the menial labor; they demanded the same 
level of pay they could get working someone's computer systems or crewing one of 
the prospecting ships. So Fuchs hired all four of the teenagers on Ceres. They 
were eager to have something to do outside of their school hours, happy to be 
away from their lesson screens, happier still to be earning spendable money. 
Still, Fuchs did most of the labor himself, since the kids could only work a 
couple of hours each day.
    After several days, though, the four youngsters failed to show up for work. 
Fuchs phoned each of them and got a variety of lame excuses.
    "My parents don't want me working."
    "I got too much studying to do."
    Only one of them hinted at the truth. "My father got an e-message that said 
he could lose his job if he let me work for you."
    Fuchs didn't have to ask who the father worked for. He knew: Humphries Space 
Systems.
    So he labored alone in the warehouse cave, finally clearing out the last of 
the charred debris. Then he started putting together new shelving out of 
discarded scraps of metal from the maintenance bays.
    One evening, as he scuffed wearily along the dusty tunnel after a long day 
of putting up his new shelving, Fuchs was accosted by two men wearing HSS 
coveralls.
    "You're Lars Fuchs, aren't you?" said the taller of the pair. He was young, 
not much more than a teenager himself: his dirty-blond hair was cropped close to 
his skull, and his coverall sleeves were rolled up past his elbows. Fuchs saw 
tattoos on both his forearms.
    "I am," Fuchs answered, without slowing down.
    They fell in step with him, one on either side. The shorter of the two was 
still a couple of centimeters taller than Fuchs, with the chunky build of a 
weightlifter. His hair was long and dark, his face swarthy.
    "I've got a piece of friendly advice for you," said the taller one. "Take 
your insurance money and leave Ceres."
    Still shuffling along the tunnel, Fuchs said, "You seem to know something 
about my business."
    "Just get out of here, before there's trouble," the other one said. His 
accent sounded Latino.
    Fuchs stopped and looked them up and down. "Trouble?" he asked. "The only 
trouble that happens here will be trouble that you start."
    The taller one shrugged. "Doesn't matter who starts it. What matters is, 
who's still standing when it's over."
    "Thank you," said Fuchs. "Your words will be useful evidence."
    "Evidence?" They both looked startled.
    "Do you think I'm a fool?" Fuchs said sharply. "I know what you're up to. 
I'm wearing a transmitter that is sending every word you say to IAA headquarters 
in Geneva. If anything happens to me, you two have already been voiceprinted."
    With that, Fuchs turned on his heel and strode away from the two toughs, 
leaving them dumbfounded and uncertain. Fuchs walked carefully, deliberately, 
stirring up as little dust as possible. He didn't want them to think he was 
running away from them; he also didn't want them to see how his legs were 
shaking. Above all, he didn't want them to figure out that his transmitter was a 
total bluff, invented on the spot to allow him to get away from them.
    By the time he got home, he was still trembling, but now it was with anger. 
Amanda flashed a welcoming smile at him from the computer desk. Fuchs could see 
from the wallscreen that she was ordering inventory to stock the warehouse. Most 
of the machinery and electronic gear she ordered came from Astro Corporation. 
Now, he saw, she was dealing with foodstuffs and clothing, which came from other 
companies. He went to wash up as she stared wistfully at the latest Earthside 
fashions.
    By the time he came back into the room, she was finished with the computer. 
She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him warmly.
    "What would you like for dinner?" she asked. "I just ordered a shipment of 
seafood from Selene and I'm famished."
    "Anything will do," he temporized as he disengaged from her and sat at the 
computer desk.
    Amanda went to the freezer as she asked, "Will you be ready by the time the 
supplies start arriving?"
    Working the computer, his eyes on the wallscreen display, Fuchs barely 
nodded. "I'll be ready," he muttered.
    Amanda saw that he was studying the specifications for handheld lasers.
    Frowning slightly, she said, "That looks like the laser that that Buchanan 
fellow killed Ripley with."
    "It is," Fuchs said. "And he tried to kill me with it, too."
    "I've already ordered six of them, with an option for another half-dozen 
when they're sold."
    "I'm thinking of ordering one for myself," said Fuchs.
    "For Starpower?"
    He looked up at her. His face was grim. "For myself," he said. "As a 
sidearm."
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 23
 
    Starpower swung lazily in the dark star-choked sky above Ceres. Strange, 
Fuchs noted as he climbed aboard the shuttlecraft, that the sky still seems so 
black despite all those stars. Other suns, he thought, billions of them blazing 
out their light for eons. Yet here on the rubble-heap surface of Ceres the world 
seemed dark, shadowy with menace.
    Shaking his head inside the fishbowl helmet, Fuchs clambered up the ladder 
and ducked through the shuttlecraft's hatch. No sense taking off the suit until 
I'm inside Starpower, he told himself. The shuttle flight would take mere 
minutes to lift him from the asteroid's surface to his waiting ship.
    The shuttle's hab module was a bubble of glassteel. Two other prospectors 
were already aboard, waiting to be transferred to their spacecraft. Fuchs said a 
perfunctory hello to them through his suit radio.
    "Hey, Lars," one of them asked, "what are you gonna do about the habitat?"
    "Yeah," chimed in the other one. "We put up good money to build it. When's 
it going to be finished so we can move in?"
    Fuchs could see their faces through their helmets. They weren't being 
accusative or even impatient. They looked more curious than anything else.
    He forced a weak smile for them. "I haven't had a chance to recruit a new 
project engineer, someone to replace Ripley."
    "Oh. Yeah. Too bad about the Ripper."
    "You did a good thing, Lars. That sonofabitch murdered the Ripper in cold 
blood."
    Fuchs nodded his acknowledgment of their praise. The voice of the IAA 
controller told them the shuttlecraft would lift off in ten seconds. The 
computer counted off the time. The three spacesuited men stood in the hab 
module; there were no seats, nothing except a tee-shaped podium that held the 
ship's controls, which weren't needed for this simple flight, and foot loops in 
the deck to hold them down in microgravity.
    Liftoff was little more than a gentle nudge, but the craft leaped away from 
Ceres's pitted, rock-strewn surface fast enough to make Fuchs's stomach lurch. 
Before he could swallow down the bile in his throat, they were in zero-g. Fuchs 
had never enjoyed weightlessness, but he put up with it as the IAA controller 
remotely steered the shuttle to the orbiting ship of the other two men before 
swinging almost completely around the asteroid to catch up with Starpower.
    Fuchs thought about hiring a replacement for Ripley. The funding for the 
habitat was adequate, barely. He had put the task on Amanda's list of action 
items. She'll have to do it, Fuchs said to himself. She'll have to use her 
judgment; I'll be busy doing other things.
    Other things. He cringed inwardly when he thought of the angry words he had 
flung at Humphries: I've studied military history.... I know how to fight. How 
pathetic! So what are you going to do, go out and shoot up Humphries spacecraft? 
Kill his employees? What will that accomplish, except getting you arrested 
eventually, or killed? You think too much, Lars Fuchs. You are quick to anger, 
but then your conscience frustrates you.
    He had thought long and hard about searching out HSS vessels and destroying 
them. Hurt Humphries the way he's hurt me. But he knew he couldn't do it.
    After all his bold words, all his blazing fury, the best he could think of 
was to find an asteroid, put in a claim for it, and then wait for Humphries's 
hired killers to come after him. Then he'd have the evidence he needed to make 
the IAA take official action against Humphries.
    If he lived through the ordeal.
    Once the shuttle made rendezvous with Starpower and docked at the 
spacecraft's main airlock, Fuchs entered his ship and began squirming out of the 
spacesuit, grateful for the feeling of gravity that the ship's spin imparted. 
The bold avenger, he sneered at himself. Going out to offer yourself as a 
sacrificial victim in an effort to bring Humphries down. A lamb trying to trap a 
tiger.
    As he entered the bridge, still grumbling to himself, the yellow message 
waiting signal was blinking on the communications screen.
    Amanda, he knew. Sure enough, the instant he called up the comm message, her 
lovely face filled the screen.
    But she looked troubled, distraught.
    "Lars, it's George Ambrose. His ship's gone missing. All communications 
abruptly shut off several days ago. The IAA isn't even getting telemetry. 
They're afraid he's dead."
    "George?" Fuchs gaped at his wife's image. "They've killed George?"
    "It looks that way," said Amanda.
 
Amanda stared at her husband's face on the wallscreen in their quarters. Grim as 
death, he looked.
    "They killed George," he repeated.
    She wanted to say, No, it must have been an accident. But the words would 
not leave her lips.
    "He had George killed," Fuchs muttered. "Murdered."
    "There's nothing we can do about it," Amanda heard herself say. It sounded 
more like a plea than a statement, even to her own ears.
    "Isn't there?" he growled.
    "Lars, please . . . don't do anything . . . dangerous," she begged.
    He slowly shook his head. "Just being alive is dangerous," he said.
 
    Dorik Harbin studied the navigation screen as he sat alone on the bridge of 
Shanidar. The blinking orange cursor that showed his ship's position was exactly 
on the thin blue curve representing his programmed approach to the supply 
vessel.
    Harbin had been cruising through the Belt for more than two months, totally 
alone except for the narcotics and virtual reality chips that provided his only 
entertainment. A good combination, he thought. The drugs enhanced the electronic 
illusion, allowed him to fall asleep without dreaming of the faces of the dead, 
without hearing their screams.
    His ship ran in silence; no tracking beacon or telemetry signals betrayed 
his presence in space. His orders had been to find certain prospectors and 
miners and eliminate them. This he had done with considerable efficiency. Now, 
his supplies low, he was making rendezvous with a Humphries supply vessel. He 
would get new orders, he knew, while Shanidar was being restocked with food and 
propellant.
    I'll have them flush my water tanks, too, and refill them, Harbin thought 
idly as he approached the vessel. After a couple of months recycled water begins 
to taste suspiciously like piss.
    He linked with the supply vessel and stayed only long enough for the 
replenishment to be completed. He never left his own ship, except for one brief 
visit to the private cabin of the supply vessel's captain. She handed him a 
sealed packet that Harbin immediately tucked into the breast pocket of his 
jumpsuit.
    "Must you leave so soon?" the captain asked. She was in her thirties, Harbin 
judged, not really pretty but attractive in a feline, self-assured way. "We have 
all sorts of, um . . . amenities aboard my ship."
    Harbin shook his head. "No thank you."
    "The newest recreational drugs."
    "I must get back to my ship," he said curtly.
    "Not even a meal? Our cook"
    Harbin turned and reached for the cabin's door latch.
    "There's nothing to be afraid of," the captain said, smiling knowingly.
    Harbin looked at her sharply. "Afraid? Of you?" He barked out a single, 
dismissive laugh. Then he left her cabin and went immediately back to his own 
ship.
    Only after he had broken away from the supply vessel and was heading deeper 
into the Belt did he open the packet and remove the chip it contained. As he 
expected, it contained a list of ships to be attacked, together with their 
planned courses and complete details of their construction. Another death list, 
Harbin thought as he studied the images passing across his screen.
    Abruptly, the specification charts ended and Grigor's lean melancholy face 
appeared on the screen.
    "This has been added at the last moment," Grigor said, his dour image 
replaced by the blueprints of a ship. "The ship's name is Starpower. We do not 
have a course for it yet, but that data will be sent to you via tight-beam laser 
as soon as it becomes available."
    Harbin's eyes narrowed. That means I'll have to get to the preplanned 
position to receive the laser beam and loiter there until they send the 
information. He did not like the idea of waiting.
    "This is top priority," Grigor's voice droned over the image of Starpower's 
construction details. "This must be done before you go after any other ships."
    Harbin wished he could talk back to Grigor, ask questions, demand more 
information.
    Grigor's face appeared on the screen again. "Destroy this one ship and you 
might not need to deal with any of the others. Eliminate Starpower and you might 
be able to return to Earth for good."
 
 
 
 
 
WALTZING MATILDA
 
    I have good news," Nodon said as George pushed through the hatch into the 
bridge. "While you were EVA I wired the backup laser into the comm system."
    George squeezed into the right-hand seat. "The backup laser?"
    "From our supply stocks. Back in the storage section."
    "And it works?"
    Nodon beamed happily. "Yes. The laser can carry our communications signals. 
We can call for help now."
    Breaking into a guarded smile, George asked, "We'll hafta point it at Ceres, 
then."
    "The pointing is the problem," Nodon said, his happiness diminishing. "At 
the distance we are from Ceres, the beam disperses only a dozen kilometers or 
so."
    "So we hafta point it straight onto the optical receivers, then."
    "If we can."
    "And the fookin' 'roid rotates in about nine hours or so, right?"
    "I believe so," Nodon said. "I can look it up."
    "So that means we'd hafta hit their optical receivers bung on at just the 
right time when they're pointin' toward us."
    "Yes," said Nodon.
    "Like  playin'  a fookin'  game  o'  darts  over a  distance  of thousands 
of kilometers."
    "Hundreds of thousands."
    "Fat chance." Nodon bowed his head. For a moment George thought he might be 
praying. But then he looked up again and asked, "What of the engine? Can you 
repair the thruster?"
    George grunted. "Oh, sure. Yeah."
    "You can?"
    "If I had a repair shop available and a half-dozen welders, pipefitters and 
other crew."
    "Oh."
    Heaving a weary sigh, George said, "We'll hafta depend on the laser, pal. 
The fookin' engine's a lost cause."
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 24
 
    Lars Fuchs didn't spend more than five minutes deciding what he was going to 
do. He called up the flight history data on Waltzing Matilda. Sure enough, Big 
George and his crewman had been working a fair-sized carbonaceous asteroid, 
according to the data they had telemetered back to the IAA. They had started 
mining it, then all communications from their ship had abruptly cut off. Efforts 
by the IAA controllers on Ceres to contact them had proved fruitless.
    Evidence, Fuchs thought as he studied the flight data on his main comm 
screen. If I can locate Waltzing Matilda and find evidence that the ship was 
attacked, deliberately destroyed, then I can get the authorities Earthside to 
step in and do a thorough investigation of all these missing ships.
    Sitting alone on the bridge of Starpower, he tapped the coordinates of the 
asteroid George had been working into his navigation computer. But his hand 
hovered over the key that would engage the program.
    Do I want the IAA to know where I'm going? He asked himself. The answer was 
a clear no. Whoever is destroying the prospectors' and miners' ships must have 
exact information about their courses and positions. They can use the telemetry 
data that each ship sends out automatically to track the ships down.
    I must run silently, Fuchs concluded. Not even Amanda will know where I am. 
The thought of the risk bothered him; the reason for sending out the telemetry 
signal was so the IAA would know where each ship was. But what good is that? 
Fuchs asked himself. When a ship gets in trouble, no one comes out to help. The 
Belt is too enormous. If I run into a problem I'm on my own. All the telemetry 
data will do is tell the IAA where I was when I died.
    It took the better part of a day for Fuchs to take out Starpower's telemetry 
transmitter and install it into the little emergency vehicle. Each ship carried 
at least one escape pod; six people could live in one for a month or more. An 
example of so-called safety regulations that looked important to the IAA and 
were in fact useless, ridiculous. An escape pod makes sense for spacecraft 
working the Earth/Moon region. A rescue ship can reach them in a few days, often 
in a matter of mere hours. But out here in the Belt, forget about rescue. The 
distances were too large and the possible rescue ships too few. The prospectors 
knew they were on their own as soon as they left Ceres.
    Fuchs grinned to himself as he thought about all the other uses the 
emergency vehicles had been put to: extra storage capacity; extra crew quarters; 
micrograv love nest, when detached from the spinning ship so the pod could be 
weightless.
    But you, he said silently as he installed the telemetry transmitter into 
Starpower's escape pod, you will be a decoy. They will think you are me, while I 
head silently for George's asteroid.
    Once he returned to the bridge and sat in the command chair, he thought of 
Amanda. Should I tell her what I'm about to do? He wanted to, but feared that 
his message would be overheard by Humphries's people. It's obvious that they 
have infiltrated the IAA, Fuchs thought. Perhaps the flight controllers on Ceres 
are secretly taking money from him.
    If something happens to the escape pod, Amanda will think I've been killed. 
How can I warn her, let her know what I'm doing?
    Then he felt an icy hand grip his heart. What would Amanda do if she thought 
I was dead? Would she mourn me? Try to avenge me? Or would she run to Humphries? 
That's what he wants. That's why he wants me dead. Will Amanda give in to him if 
she thinks I'm out of the way?
    He hated himself for even thinking such a thought. But he could not escape 
it. His face twisted into an angry frown, teeth clenched so hard it made his 
jaws ache, he banged out the keyboard commands that ejected the pod into a long, 
parabolic trajectory that would send it across the Belt. It took an effort of 
will, but he did not send a message back to his wife.
    I'm alone now, Fuchs thought as he directed Starpower toward the asteroid 
where Big George had last been heard from.
 
Diane Verwoerd was reading her favorite Bible passage: the story of the crooked 
steward who cheated his boss and made himself a nice feather bed for his 
retirement.
    Whenever she had qualms about what she was doing, she called up Luke 
16:1-13. It reassured her. Very few people understood the real message of the 
story, she thought as she read the ancient words on the wallscreen of her 
apartment.
    The steward was eventually fired when his boss found out about his cheating. 
But the key to the tale was that the steward's thefts from his master's accounts 
were not so huge that the master wanted vengeance. He just fired the guy. And 
all through the years that the steward had been working for this master, he had 
put away enough loot so he could live comfortably in retirement. A sort of 
golden parachute that the boss didn't know about.
    Verwoerd leaned back languidly in her recliner. It adjusted its shape to the 
curves of her body and massaged her gently, soothingly. It had originally 
belonged to Martin Humphries, but she had shown him an advertisement for a newer 
model, which he had immediately bought and then instructed her to get rid of 
this one. So she removed it from his office and installed it in her own 
quarters.
    With a voice command she ordered the computer to show her personal 
investment account. The numbers instantly filled the wallscreen. Not bad for a 
girl from the slums of Amsterdam, she congratulated herself. Over the years 
you've avoided the usual pitfalls of prostitution and drug dependency and even 
steered clear of becoming some rich fart's mistress. So far, so good.
    She spoke to the computer again, and the list of asteroids that she 
personally owned the claims for appeared on the screen. Only a half dozen of the 
little rocks, but they were producing ores nicely and building up profits 
steeply. Taxes would take a sizeable chunk of the money, but Verwoerd reminded 
herself that no government can tax money that you don't have. Pay the taxes and 
be glad you owe them, she told herself.
    Of course, Martin thought that HSS owned the claims to those asteroids. But 
with so many others in his clutches, a mere half-dozen was down below his radar 
horizon. Besides, whenever he wanted to check on anything, he always asked his 
trusted assistant to do it. So he'll never find out about this little pilfering 
until after I've left his employment.
    She cleared the list from the screen, and the verses from Luke came up 
again.
    I'll be able to retire very comfortably in a couple of years, Verwoerd told 
herself. It will all work out fine, as long as I don't get too greedyand as 
long as I keep Martin at arm's length. The moment I give in to him, my days as 
an HSS employee are numbered.
    She looked at her reflection in the mirror across the room and smiled to 
herself. Maybe I'll give him a little fling, once I'm ready to retire. Once he 
fires me, I'll get severance pay. Or at least a nice little going-away present 
from Martin. He's like that.
    Turning from her own image back to the words from the Bible, she frowned 
slightly at the final verse:
 
No man can serve two masters; for either he will hate the one, and love the 
other, or else he will hold to one, and despise the other. You cannot serve God 
and Mammon.
 
Perhaps, thought Diane Verwoerd. But I'm not really serving Martin Humphries. 
I'm working for him. I'm getting rather wealthy off him. But I'm serving only 
myself, no one else.
    Still, she cleared the wallscreen with a single sharp command to the 
computer. The Bible passage disappeared, replaced by a reproduction of a Mary 
Cassat painting of a mother and child.
 
 
 
 
 
 
DOSSIER: JOYCE TAKAMINE
 
    You had to have an education to be considered for a job at Selene. The lunar 
nation was hiring engineers and technicians, not fruit pickers. Joyce's passport 
to the Moon was a battered old palmcomp that her father had given her. Through 
it she could access virtually any class in any university on the net. She 
studied every night; even when she was so tired from picking that she could 
barely find the strength to open the palmcomp's scuffed plastic lid.
    The other pickers complained that the flickering light kept them from 
sleeping, so Joyce moved outside the barracks and kept doggedly at her studies 
out in the open, under the stars. When she looked up at the Moon and saw 
Selene's beacon light, it seemed to her as if that laser's bright beam was 
calling to her.
    Once a guy she briefly slept with stole her palmcomp; just walked off with 
it, as if he owned it. In a panicked fury, Joyce tracked him down at the next 
camp and nearly took his head off with a two-by-four. The owner's guards let her 
go, once she told them the whole story. They had no use for thieves; especially 
stupid ones who let a scrawny oriental girl cold cock them.
    In three years, Joyce got her degree in computer systems analysis from 
California Coast University. She applied for an advertised job at Selene. She 
didn't get it. Four hundred and twenty-seven other people, most of them just as 
desperate and needy as Joyce, had applied for the same position.
    The same day that she was turned down by Selene she got the message that 
both her parents had died in a freeway pileup during the earthquake that 
destroyed the shantytowns up in the hills above the drowned ruins of San 
Francisco.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 25
 
    Nothing.
    Fuchs scowled at the display screens that curved around his command chair, 
then looked out through the bridge's windows. No sign of Waltzing Matilda. 
Nothing here but the lumpy irregular shape of an asteroid tumbling slowly in the 
barren emptiness, dark and pitted and strewn with small boulders and rocks.
    This was the last position that the IAA had for Big George's ship. Matilda's 
telemetering had cut off here, at this location. But the ship was nowhere in 
sight.
    Almost without consciously thinking about it, he put Starpower into a tight 
orbit around the little asteroid. Was George really here? He wondered. If he was 
he probably didn't linger very
    Then he saw an area on the 'roid where neat rectangular slabs had been cut 
out of the rock. George had been here! He had started to mine the asteroid. 
Turning up the magnification on his telescope to max, Fuchs saw that there was 
still some equipment standing on the surface. He left in a hurry, Fuchs 
realized, too much of a hurry to pick up all his gear.
    It was a cutting laser, Fuchs saw, still standing silently at the edge of 
one of the cut-out rectangles. I must retrieve it, he said to himself. It could 
be evidence.
    The easiest way to get it would be to suit up and go EVA. But with no one 
else in the ship, Fuchs decided against that. Instead, he maneuvered Starpower 
into an orbit that matched the asteroid's own spin, the tip of his tongue 
apprehensively between his teeth, then slowly, carefully, brought the big ship 
to within a dozen meters of the rocky surface.
    Using the manipulator arms on Starpower's equipment module, Fuchs snatched 
the laser up off the asteroid and tucked it inside the cargo bay. He was soaked 
with perspiration by the time the job was done, but proud of his piloting.
    Mopping his forehead, Fuchs resisted the temptation to call Ceres and ask if 
they had any fresh data on George's ship. No! he scolded himself. You must 
remain silent.
    Maybe that's what George is doing, he thought. Gone silent, so no one can 
find him. Obviously he left in a big hurry. Most likely he was attacked, perhaps 
killed. But if he got away, now he's staying silent to keep his attacker from 
finding him again.
    But what do I do now? Fuchs wondered.
    He left the bridge and went to the galley. The brain needs nourishment, he 
said to himself. I can't think well on an empty stomach. He realized that his 
coverall shirt was sticky with perspiration. Honest work, he told himself. But 
it doesn't smell good.
    But by the time he washed up and ate a packaged meal, he still had no clear 
idea of what he should do next.
    Find George, he thought. Yes, but how?
    Back to the bridge he went and called up the search and rescue program from 
the computer files. "Aha!" he said aloud. Expanding spiral.
    Standard operational procedure for a search mission was to fly an expanding 
spiral out from the last known position of the lost spacecraft. The one thing 
that worried Fuchs, though, was that George might have gone batting off at a 
high angle from the ecliptic. While the major planets orbited within a few 
degrees of the ecliptic path, plenty of asteroids roamed twenty or thirty 
degrees above or below that plane. Suppose George had gone angling away at high 
thrust? Fuchs knew he'd never find him then.
    As it was, the Belt was so huge that even if George stuck close to the 
ecliptic, he could be halfway to hell by now. A few days at high thrust could 
push a ship all the way back to Earth. Or out past Jupiter.
    Still, there was nothing more that Fuchs could do but fly his expanding 
spiral, and sweep with his radar at high angles above and below his position 
while he moved away from the asteroid.
    He set the course, then got into his spacesuit to slither down the long 
buckyball cable that connected Starpower's habitation unit with the equipment 
module. The hollow cable was big enough for a person to squeeze through, but it 
was not pressurized. You had to wear a suit, and that made crawling along the 
kilometer-long cable a long, arduous chore. Still, Fuchs had nothing else to do, 
and he wanted to see the laser that George had left behind.
 
Dorik Harbin was searching, too.
    He had picked up Starpower's telemetry signals within hours of Fuchs's 
leaving Ceres and tracked the departing ship from a safe distance.
    Before the day was out, however, the telemetry signal had abruptly cut off. 
Harbin debated moving close enough to the ship to sight it visually, but before 
he could make up his mind to do that, the telemetry came back on and showed that 
Starpower was moving again, cutting diagonally across the Belt at high thrust.
    Where could he be going? Harbin asked himself. He must have a specific 
destination in mind, going at that velocity.
    He matched Starpower's course and speed, staying far enough behind the 
departing spacecraft that he wouldn't be spotted. Even if Fuchs was cautious 
enough to probe behind him with radar, the beam would be so scattered by his own 
engine's exhaust that he'd never see me, Harbin knew. He stayed within the 
shadow of Fuchs's exhaust cloud and trailed Starpowerhe thought. Actually he 
was following Fuchs's escape pod.
    Again he thought of Grigor's comment: destroy Starpower and all this hunting 
and killing might be finished. I'll get my money and a considerable bonus, 
Harbin thought. I can go back to Earth and find a safe area and live like an 
emir for the rest of my life.
    Where would the best place be, on Earth? I want a warm climate, safe from 
the rising sea levels, no earthquakes, stable government. A wealthy country, not 
one where half the population is starving and the other half plotting 
revolution. Canada, perhaps. Or Australia. They have very tight restrictions of 
immigration, but with enough money a man can go wherever he wants. Maybe Spain, 
he thought. Barcelona is still livable, and Madrid hasn't had a food riot in 
years.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 26
 
    Hiring reliable people was Amanda's biggest headache. She worried about her 
husband sailing all alone out into the Belt, trying like so many others to 
strike it rich. Or was he? Her greatest fear was that Lars was out seeking 
revenge on Humphries by attacking HSS ships. Even if he didn't get killed he'd 
become an outlaw, a pariah. She tried to force such thoughts out of her mind as 
she worked at restarting their supply business on the insurance money from the 
fire.
    Labor was at a premium on Ceres. Most of the people who came out to the Belt 
went prospecting, intent on finding a rich asteroid and becoming wealthy from 
its ores. Even the experienced hands who had learned from bitter experience that 
most prospectors barely broke even, while the big corporations raked in the 
profits from selling ores, still went out time and again, always seeking the 
"big one" that would make their fortunes. Or they worked as miners, taking the 
ores from asteroids either as corporate employees or under contract to one of 
the big corporations. Miners didn't get rich, but they didn't starve, either.
    Amanda had taken courses in economics at college. She understood that the 
more asteroids were mined, the more plentiful their metals and minerals, the 
lower their value. A corporation like Astro or HSS could afford to work on a 
slim profit margin, because they handled such an enormous volume of ores. A lone 
prospector had to sell at market prices, and the price was always far below 
their starry-eyed dreams.
    She frowned as she dressed for another day of work. Then why is Lars out 
there, prospecting? He knows the odds as well as anyone does. And why hasn't he 
sent any messages to me? He warned me that he wouldn't, but I thought that after 
a few days he'd at least tell me he's all right.
    The answer was clear to her, but she didn't want to believe it. He's not 
prospecting. He's out there on some insane kind of mission to get even with 
Martin. He wants to fight backone man against the most powerful corporation in 
the solar system. He'll get himself killed, and there's nothing I can do about 
it.
    That was what hurt her the most, that feeling of utter impotence, the 
knowledge that there was no way she could protect, or even help, the man she 
loved. He's gone away from me, she realized. Not merely physically; Lars has 
moved away from me, away from our marriage, away from our relationship. He's let 
his anger override our love. He's after vengeance now, no matter what it costs.
    Fighting back the tears in her eyes, she booted up her computer and took up 
where she'd left off the previous night, searching for people willing to work in 
the warehouse. In her desperation she had even sent a call to Pancho, back 
Earthside. Now, as the wallscreen sprang to life, she saw that Pancho had 
replied.
    "Show Pancho Lane's message," she commanded the computer.
    Pancho's angular, mocha-skinned face grinned at her. She appeared to be in 
an office somewhere in the tropics. Probably Astro's corporate headquarters in 
Venezuela.
    "Got your sad story, Mandy. I can 'preciate how tough it is to get reliable 
people to work in your warehouse. Wish I could ship you a couple of my folks, 
but nobody with a decent job here is gonna go peacefully out to Ceres unless 
they got asteroid fever and think they're gonna become zillionaires in six 
weeks."
    Hunching closer to the camera, Pancho went on, "Lemme warn you about one 
thing, though: some of the people who might agree to work for you could be HSS 
plants. Screen ever'body real careful, kid. There's skunks in the woodworks, I 
bet."
    Amanda shook her head wearily. As if I didn't have enough to worry about, 
she thought.
    Pancho leaned back again and said, "I'm off to Lawrence, Kansas. Got a 
meeting with an international consortium of universities to work out a deal to 
build a research station in Jupiter orbit. Might be some college kids looking 
for jobs. Lord knows there's enough unemployment around. I'll see what I can 
find for you. In the meantime, watch your butt. That ol' Humper still wants to 
take over Astro, and you'n'Lars are standing in his way."
    With a cheerful wave, Pancho signed off. Amanda felt like crawling back into 
bed and staying there until Lars returned.
    If he returned at all.
 
How long should I search? Fuchs asked himself. It's been three days now, and no 
sign of George. No sign of anything.
    He had known, intellectually, that the Belt was almost entirely empty space. 
Even in his freshman astronomy course he remembered it being compared to a big, 
empty theater that contained only a few specks of dust floating in its vast 
volume. Now he felt the reality of it. Staring out the windows in the bridge of 
Starpower, studying the screens that displayed the radar scans and telescopic 
views, he saw that there was nothing out there, nothing but empty space, 
darkness and eternal silence.
    He thought of how Columbus's crew must have felt, alone out in the middle of 
the Atlantic without even a bird in sight; nothing but empty sea and emptier 
sky.
    Then the comm unit chirped.
    Fuchs was startled by the unexpected noise. He turned in the command chair 
and saw that the communications display showed an incoming message had been 
received on the optical comm system.
    An optical signal? Puzzled, he commanded the comm computer to display the 
message.
    The screen flashed into a harsh jumble of colors while the speakers rasped 
with hisses and squeaks. Only random noise, Fuchs thought. Probably a solar 
flare or a gamma burster.
    But the other sensors showed no evidence of a solar flare and, once he 
though about it, Fuchs wondered if a gamma-ray burst would not have registered 
on the optical receiver.
    He ordered the navigation program to move Starpower back to the area where 
the optical signal had been detected. Turning a ship of Starpower's mass was no 
simple matter. It took time and energy. But at last the nav computer reported it 
was done.
    Nothing. The comm system remained silent.
    It was a fluke, Fuchs told himself. An anomaly. Still, something must have 
caused it, and he felt certain that it wasn't an internal glitch in the 
communications equipment. Nonsense, snapped the reasoning part of his brain. 
You're convinced because you want it to be a signal. You're letting your hopes 
overbalance your good sense.
    Yes, that's true, Fuchs admitted to himself. But he ordered the nav system 
to move Starpower along the vector that the spurious signal had come from.
    Hoping that his gut feeling was closer to the mark than his rational mind, 
Fuchs followed that course for an hour, then two, then
    The comm screen lit up with a weak, grainy picture of what looked to Fuchs 
like a bald, emaciated Asian.
    "This is the Waltzing Matilda. We are disabled and unable to control our 
course. We need help urgently."
    Fuchs stared at the streaky, weak image for several slack-jawed moments, 
then flew into a flurry of activity, trying to pin down Matilda's location and 
move his own ship to her as quickly as possible while getting off a signal to 
her on every channel his comm system could transmit on.
 
Dorik Harbin was furious.
    It's a decoy! he raged. A stupid, sneaking decoy! And you fell for it. You 
followed it like an obedient puppy halfway to hell!
    He had maneuvered Shanidar slightly away from the exhaust wake of what he'd 
thought was Starpower more out of boredom than any intelligent reason. He'd been 
following the ship's telemetry signals for several days, intent on finding where 
it was heading. His standing orders from Grigor were to wait until a ship takes 
up orbit around a particular asteroid, then destroy it. Harbin knew without 
Grigor telling him that HSS then claimed the asteroid for itself.
    But after several days his quarry showed no indication of searching for an 
asteroid. It simply puttered along at low thrust, like a tourist boat showing 
off the local sights. Except there were no tourists out here and no sights to 
show; the Belt was cold and empty.
    Now Harbin could see clearly in his screens that what he'd been following 
was not Starpower at all but a crew emergency vehicle, a miserable escape pod.
    This was no accident. Fuchs had deliberately set him up while he went off in 
some other direction. Where? Grigor would not be happy to learn that he'd 
failed. Harbin swore to himself that he would find Fuchs and destroy the cunning 
dog.
    If he reversed his course it would cost so much of his propellant that he'd 
need another topping off within a few days. And the nearest HSS ship was at 
least three days off. Harbin searched his sensor screens. What he needed was a 
fair-sized rock close enough . . .
    He found one, an asteroid that had enough mass for the maneuver he had in 
mind. Too small for a slingshot move, but Harbin eased close to the 
twelve-kilometer-long rock and put Shanidar into a tight orbit around it. He 
checked his nav computer twice before setting up the program. At precisely the 
proper instant he fired his thrusters, and Shanidar shot away from the unnamed 
asteroid in the direction Harbin wanted, at a fraction of the propellant loss 
that a powered turnaround would have cost.
    Now he sped back toward the region where Starpower had fired off its decoy. 
That was easy to calculate: it had to be where
    Starpower's telemetry signals went off for a few hours. That's when the 
clever dog transferred his transmitter to the escape pod. He's been running 
silent ever since.
    Or maybe not, Harbin reasoned. He might be communicating with Ceres on 
another channel. Or perhaps signaling some other ship.
    So Harbin kept all his communications receivers open as he raced back to the 
area where Fuchs had fooled him into following the decoy.
    Chance favors the prepared mind. After two days of running at full thrust, 
Harbin picked up the distant, weak signal of Fuchs answering Waltzing Matilda's 
distress call.
    So that's where he's going. Harbin nodded to himself, satisfied that now he 
could destroy Starpower and finish the job on Waltzing Matilda.
 
 
 
 
 
 
WALTZING MATILDA
 
    George had drifted to sleep in the copilot's chair, leaving Nodon to monitor 
the control console. There wasn't much to monitor. They were still drifting 
helplessly, alone, slowly starving.
    "I have a signal!" Nodon exulted. His shout roused George from a dream about 
dining with a beautiful woman in the Earthview restaurant back in Selene. Groggy 
with sleep, George knuckled his eyes, wondering which was more important in his 
dream, the woman or the tucker. "What signal?" he mumbled.
    Nodon was quivering with excitement. "Look!" He pointed a bony, shaking 
finger at the comm screen. "Look!"
    George blinked several times. By crikes, there was Lars Fuchs's dour, 
dead-serious face on the screen. George had never seen anyone more beautiful.
    "I have received your distress call and am proceeding at full thrust to your 
position. Please home on my beacon and keep repeating your signal so my nav 
system can maintain an accurate track on you."
    Nodon's fingers were already dancing across the keyboard on the control 
console.
    "Ask 'im how long it'll take him to reach us," George said. "I have already 
fed the data into the computer." Nodon tapped a few more keystrokes. "Ah. Here 
is the answer. Fifty-two hours."
    "A little more'n two days." George broke into a shaggy smile. "We can hold 
up for two more days, can't we mate?"
    "Yes! Certainly!"
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 27
 
    Harbin listened intently to the messages that Fuchs was beaming out. Coldly, 
he thought, If the fool kept himself restricted to laser signals I wouldn't have 
been able to detect him. Radio signals expand through space like a swelling 
balloon. Like a flower opening up to the sun. A blossom of death, he realized. 
He knew that he had to conserve his propellant supply; it was already low enough 
to be of concern. Not a danger, not yet, but he couldn't roar out to his prey at 
full thrust, not if he wanted to have enough propellant to get back to an HSS 
tanker. But there was no rush. Let Fuchs rescue whoever is left alive on 
Matilda. I'll simply cruise toward them and intercept Starpower on its way back 
to Ceres.
    He kept his communications receivers open, and soon heard Fuchs reporting 
excitedly back to Ceres that he had located Waltzing Matilda and its two crewmen 
were still alive. Not for long, Harbin thought.
    Then a new thought struck him. It was not all that unusual for a 
prospector's ship to disappear out in the lonely vastness of the Belt. He had 
destroyed several of them; others had failed without his help. A single ship 
like Waltzing Matilda could wink out of contact, never to be heard from again, 
and no one would know the cause. Of course, there were grumbles about piracy 
here and there, but no one really took that seriously.
    On the other hand, if Matilda's crew is alive, they will be able to tell 
what actually happened to them. They'll inform the IAA that they were 
deliberately attacked and left for dead. I can't allow them to survive.
    But on the other other hand, Harbin mused on, how will it look if the ship 
that rescues Matilda's crew also disappears? That will raise the rumbles of 
piracy to the level of a major investigation.
    He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. I'm out here alone; I can't 
call back to Grigor or anyone else for instructions. I've got to make the 
decision here and now.
    It took him less than a minute to decide. Let Starpower rescue Matilda's 
crew and then destroy the lot of them. Perhaps I can kill them before they can 
blab their whole story to Ceres or the IAA.
 
Amanda's heart clutched in her chest when she answered the incoming message 
signal on her computer and Lars's image took shape on her wallscreen.
    He looked tense; there were dark circles under his eyes. But his normally 
severe, gloomy face was smiling widely.
    "I've found them! George and his crewman. They're alive and I'm going to 
pick them up."
    "What happened to them?" Amanda asked, forgetting that her husband was too 
far away for interactive conversation.
    "Their ship is disabled," Fuchs was saying, "but they are both uninjured. 
That's all I know at the moment. I'll send more information after I've taken 
them aboard my ship."
    The screen went blank, leaving Amanda awash in a thousand questions. But 
none of them mattered to her. Lars is all right and he's not doing anything 
dangerous. He's going to rescue George and his crewman and then he'll come back 
here, back to me.
    She felt enormously relieved.
    The airlock compartment felt cramped, crowded once George and his crewman 
came through the hatch in their bulky spacesuits. And as soon as they started 
pulling off their suits, Fuchs nearly gagged from the stench.
    "You both need showers," he said, as delicately as he could manage.
    George grinned sheepishly through his wildly tangled beard. "Yeah. Guess we 
don't smell so sweet, eh?"
    The Asian said nothing, but looked embarrassed. He was only a youngster, 
Fuchs saw.
    As Fuchs led them along the passageway to the lav, George said cheerfully, 
"Hope you've got a full larder."
    Fuchs nodded, resisting the urge to hold his nose. Then he asked, "What 
happened to you?"
    Shooing the silent Nodon into the shower stall, George answered, "What 
happened? We were attacked, that's what happened."
    "Attacked?"
    "Deliberately shot to pieces by a bloke with a high-power laser on his 
ship."
    "I knew it," Fuchs muttered.
    Nodon discreetly stepped into the shower stall before peeling off his 
coveralls. Then they heard the spray of water, saw tendrils of steamy air rising 
from the stall.
    "I guess we're not the first to be chopped," said George. "Lady of the Lake. 
Aswan . . . four or five others, at least."
    "At least," Fuchs agreed. "We'll have to inform the IAA of this. Maybe now 
they'll start a real investigation."
    "Dinner first," George said. "Me stomach's growlin'."
    "A shower first," Fuchs corrected. "Then you can eat."
    George laughed. "Suits me." Raising his voice, he added, "If we can get a 
certain Asian bloke out of the fookin' shower stall."
 
Harbin was glistening with perspiration as he exercised on the ergonomics bike. 
Shanidar was cruising at one-sixth g, the same grav level as the Moon, but 
Harbin's military upbringing unsparingly forced him to maintain his conditioning 
to Earth-normal standards. As he pedaled away and pumped at the hand bars, he 
watched the display screen on the bulkhead in front of him.
    It was a martial arts training vid, one that Harbin had seen dozens of 
times. But each time he picked up something new, some different little wrinkle 
that he had overlooked before or forgotten. After his mandatory twenty klicks on 
the bike, he would rerun the vid and go through its rigorous set of exercises.
    But his mind kept coming back to the central problem he faced. How can I 
prevent Fuchs from informing Ceres of what happened to Waltzing Matilda? He's 
already sent one brief message to his wife. Once he beams out their whole story 
the IAA will launch a full investigation.
    He almost smiled. If that happens, my career in piracy is finished. Grigor's 
superiors might even decide that it would be safer to terminate me than to pay 
me off.
    It's imperative, then, that I silence Starpower as quickly as possible. But 
how? I can't jam their transmissions; I don't have the proper equipment aboard.
    I could accelerate, get to them at top speed, knock them out before they get 
a message back to Ceres. But then I'd be too low on fuel to get back to a 
tanker. I'd have to signal Grigor to send a tanker to me.
    And what better way to be rid of me than to let me drift alone out here 
until I starve to death or the recyclers break down? That way Grigor and his HSS 
bosses get total silence, for free.
    With a grim shake of his head, Harbin decided he would continue on his 
present course and speed. He'd catch up to Starpower and destroy the ship. Fuchs 
would die. Harbin only hoped that he could finish the job before Fuchs told 
Ceres what was going on.
    That's in the lap of the gods, he thought. It's a matter of chance. A 
quatrain from the Rubaiyat came to him:
 
Ah, Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of 
Things entire, Would not we shatter it to bitsand then Re-mould it nearer to 
the Heart's Desire!
 
Yes, Harbin thought. That would be pleasant, to shatter this world to bits and 
rebuild it into something better. To have a woman to stand beside me, to love 
me, to be my heart's desire.
    But that is fantasy, he told himself sternly. Reality is this godforsaken 
emptiness, this dreary ship. Reality is studying ways to kill.
    With a deep, heartfelt breath, he said silently, Reality is this damned 
bike, going nowhere but taking all my energy to get there.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 28
 
    Fuchs sat in the galley, nearly stunned with amazement as he watched George 
wolf down enough food to feed an ordinary man for a week. The crewman, Nodon, 
ate more sparingly but still put away a good pile of rations.
    "... then after he slagged our antennas," George was saying through a 
mouthful of veggieburger and reconstituted potatoes, "he zapped the fookin' 
thruster nozzle and for good measure popped our propellant tanks."
    "He was very thorough," Fuchs said.
    George nodded. "I figure he musta thought we were still inside the hab 
module. Nodon and me played doggo until he left. By then, old Matilda was 
driftin' in the general direction of Alpha Centauri."
    "He assumed you were dead."
    "Or as good as."
    "You've got to tell all this to the IAA," said Fuchs. "If we'd'a had our 
cutting laser on board I would've shot back at th' bastard. He caught us with 
the laser sittin' on the 'roid and our power pack bein' recharged."
    "I have your laser," Fuchs said. "It's in the cargo bay." Nodon looked up 
from his food. "I will check it out."
    "You do that," George agreed. "I'll call up the IAA people in Selene."
    "No," said Fuchs. "We'll call IAA headquarters on Earth. This story must be 
told to the top people, and quickly."
    "Okay. Soon's I polish off some dessert. Whatcha got in the freezer?"
    Turning to Nodon, Fuchs said, "I'm carrying a cutting laser, too. It's 
stored in the cargo bay, along with yours."
    The Asian asked softly, "Do you want me to connect them both to power 
sources?"
    Fuchs saw calm certainty in the young man's hooded brown eyes. "Yes, I think 
it might be wise to have them both operational."
    George caught their meaning as he got up and stepped to the freezer. "How're 
you gonna fire 'em from inside the cargo bay, mate?"
    "Open the hatches, obviously," said Fuchs.
    "Better wear a suit, then."
    Nodon dipped his chin in silent agreement.
    "You both think he'll be back, then," said Fuchs.
    "Perhaps," Nodon answered.
    "Better to be ready if and when," George said, as he scanned the inventory 
list on the freezer's display screen. "I don't wanna be caught with me pants 
down again. Could be fatal."
 
Diane Verwoerd could see that her boss was getting cold feet. Martin Humphries 
looked uncomfortable, almost nervous, as she entered the spacious living room of 
his mansion.
    "How do I look?" he asked her, something he never did ordinarily.
    He was dressed in a full-fledged tuxedo, complete with a bow tie and plaid 
cummerbund. She smiled, suppressing the urge to tell him he looked like a chubby 
penguin.
    "You look very debonair," she said.
    "Damned silly business. You'd think that after a couple of centuries they'd 
figure out something better to wear for formal occasions."
    "I'm impressed that you knotted the tie so perfectly."
    He frowned at her. "It's pre-tied and you know it. Don't be cute."
    Verwoerd was wearing a floor-length sheath of glittering silver, its long 
skirt slit nearly to the hip.
    "Stavenger didn't invite me to the damned opera out of the goodness of his 
heart," Humphries complained as they headed for the door. "He wants to pump me 
about something and he thinks I'll be off my guard in a social setting."
    "Cocktails and dinner, and then H Trovatore," Verwoerd murmured. "That's 
enough to relax you to the point of stupefaction."
    "I hate opera," he grumbled as he opened the door.
    Stepping out into the garden behind him, Verwoerd asked, "Then why did you 
accept his invitation?"
    He glared at her. "You know why. Pancho's going to be there. Stavenger's got 
something up his sleeve. He may be officially retired but he still runs Selene, 
the power behind the throne. He lifts an eyebrow and everybody hops to do what 
he wants."
    As they walked through the lush shrubbery and trees that filled the grotto, 
Verwoerd said, "I wonder what it is that he wants now?"
    Humphries threw a sour glance at her. "That's what I pay you to find out."
 
The cocktail reception was out in the open, under the dome of the Grand Plaza 
next to the amphitheater that housed all of Selene's theatrical productions. 
When Humphries and Verwoerd arrived, Pancho Lane was standing near the bar deep 
in earnest conversation with Douglas Stavenger.
    Nearly twice Humphries's age, Doug Stavenger still looked as young and 
vigorous as a thirty-year-old. His body teemed with nanomachines that kept him 
healthy and youthful. Twice they had saved him from death, repairing damage to 
his body that ordinarily would have been lethal.
    Stavenger was not an ordinary man. His family had founded the original 
Moonbase, built it from a struggling research station into a major manufacturing 
center for nanomachine-built spacecraft. Stavenger himself had directed the 
brief, sharp battle against the old U.N. that established the lunar settlement's 
independence from Earthside government. He had chosen the name Selene.
    Towing Verwoerd on his arm, Humphries pushed through the chatting crowd of 
tuxedoed men and bejeweled, gowned women to join Stavenger and Pancho. He nearly 
pushed himself between them.
    "Hello, Martin," Stavenger said, with an easy smile. He was handsome, his 
face somewhere between rugged and pretty, his skin slightly lighter than 
Pancho's, a deep golden tan. It always surprised Humphries to see that Stavenger 
was considerably taller than himself; the man's compact, broad-shouldered build 
disguised his height effectively.
    Without bothering to introduce Verwoerd, Humphries said, "It looks like you 
got half of Selene to come out tonight."
    Stavenger laughed lightly. "The other half is performing in the opera."
    Humphries noticed the way the two women eyed each other from crown to toe, 
sizing up one another like a pair of gladiators entering the arena.
    "Who's your friend?" Pancho asked. Her gown was floor-length, too, and as 
deeply black as the men's tuxes. Her short-cropped hair was sprinkled with 
something glittery. The diamond necklace and bracelet that she wore probably 
came from asteroidal stones, Humphries guessed.
    "Diane Verwoerd," Humphries said, by way of introduction, "Pancho Lane. You 
already know Doug, here, don't you?"
    "By reputation," Verwoerd said, smiling her brightest. "And it's good to 
meet you, at last, Ms. Lane."
    "Pancho."
    Stavenger said, "Pancho's trying to talk me into investing in a research 
station to be set up in Jupiter orbit."
    So that's it, Humphries said to himself.
    "Selene's made a pocketful of profits out of building spacecraft," Pancho 
said. "You can make even more from bringing fusion fuels back from Jupiter."
    "She makes a good case," Stavenger said. "What do you think of the idea, 
Martin?"
    "I'm on record against it," Humphries snapped. As if he doesn't know that, 
he growled inwardly.
    "So I'd heard," Stavenger admitted.
    Three-note chimes sounded. "Time for dinner," Stavenger said, offering 
Pancho his arm. "Come on, Martin, let's talk about this while we eat."
    Humphries followed him toward the tables that had been set up on the 
manicured grass outside the amphitheater. Verwoerd walked beside him, convinced 
that the four of them would be talking about this Jupiter business all through 
the opera, even the Anvil Chorus.
    Which was all right with her. She loathed Il Travotore.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 29
 
    With Nodon working in the cargo bay, Fuchs finally got George out of the 
galley and into the bridge.
    "You must tell everything that happened to the IAA," Fuchs said, setting 
himself in the command chair.
    George took the copilot's seat; overflowed it, actually. He may have been 
hungry, Fuchs thought, but he hasn't lost much weight.
    "Be glad to, mate," George said amiably. "Just get 'em on the horn."
    Fuchs instructed the comm computer to call Francesco Tomasselli at IAA 
headquarters in St. Petersburg. "Oh-oh," said George.
    Fuchs saw that he was pointing at the radar display. A single blip showed in 
the upper right corner of the screen. "He's here," George said.
    "It could be a rock," Fuchs heard himself say, even though he didn't believe 
it. "It's a ship."
    Fuchs tapped on his command keyboard. "A ship," he agreed, after a few 
moments. "And it's on an intercept course."
    "I'd better get into a suit and back to the cargo bay with Nodon. You suit 
up, too."
    As he followed George down to the airlock compartment where the spacesuits 
were stored, Fuchs heard the comm unit's synthesized voice said, "Signer 
Tomasselli is not available at this time. Do you want to leave a message?"
 
Fifteen minutes later he was back in the bridge, feeling like a medieval knight 
in armor, wearing the cumbersome spacesuit.
    The blip was centered in the radar display now. Fuchs peered through the 
window, but could see nothing in the dark emptiness out there.
    "He still approaching?" George's voice rasped in his helmet earphones.
    "Yes."
    "We got your laser connected to the main power supply. Ours is down, 
something's buggered it up."
    "But the one is working?"
    "Yeah. Swing the ship around so we can get a clear view of 'im."
    "George," Fuchs said, "suppose it's not the ship that attacked you?"
    A half-moment of silence, then, "You think somebody else just happened to 
drop by? Not bloody likely."
    "Don't shoot at him unless he fires on us first," Fuchs said.
    George grumbled, "You sound like some bleedin' Yank. 'Don't fire until you 
see the whites of their eyes.'"
    "Well, we shouldn't"
    The comm screen suddenly flashed brightly, then went blank. With gloved 
fingers Fuchs tapped out a diagnostic command.
    "I think he's hit our main antenna," he said to George.
    "Turn the bloody ship so I can shoot back!"
    The air pressure alarm started shrilling, and Fuchs heard the safety hatch 
at his back slam shut.
    "He's punctured the hull!"
    "Turn, dammit!"
    Hoping the controls still worked, Fuchs heard a startled voice in his head 
say, Mein gott, we're in a space battle!
    This might work out after all, Harbin told himself.
    His first shot had disabled Starpower's main communications antenna. And 
just in time, too. Fuchs had already put in a call to the IAA back Earthside.
    His second shot had holed their habitation module, he was certain. They were 
swinging their ship around, trying to protect the hab module by moving it behind 
their cargo bay. Harbin studied the schematics of Starpower while he waited for 
his laser to recharge.
    No sense wasting time or energy. Hit the propellant tanks, drain them dry 
and then leave them to drift helplessly deeper into the Belt.
    He shook his head, though. No, first I've got to disable their antennas. All 
of them. They could scream their heads off to the IAA while I'm puncturing their 
tanks. They could tell the whole story before they drift away and starve to 
death. If they had any sense, they'd be broadcasting on all frequencies now. 
They must be panicked, too terrified to think clearly.
    You have much to be terrified of, Harbin said silently to the people aboard 
Starpower. The angel of death is breathing upon you.
 
"What's he doin'?" George asked.
    "He's hit us several times," Fuchs replied into his helmet microphone. "He 
seems to be concentrating on the hab module."
    "Goin' for the antennas, just like he did to us."
    "The antennas?"
    "So we can't call for help."
    Fuchs knew that was wrong. What good would it do us to call for help? It 
would take ten minutes or more for our signal to reach Ceres. How could anyone 
possibly help us?
    "I can see him!" Nodon shouted.
    "Now we can shoot back at 'im," George said excitedly. "Hold us steady, 
dammit."
    Working the reaction jets that controlled the ship's attitude,
    Fuchs's mind was racing. He's not worried about our calling for help, he 
realized. He doesn't want us to tell anyone that we're under attack. He wants us 
to simply disappear, another ship mysteriously lost out in the Belt. If we get a 
distress call off then everyone will know that ships are being deliberately 
destroyed. Everyone will know that Humphries is killing people.
    He called up the comm system diagnostics. Every last antenna was gone, 
nothing but a string of baleful red lights glowering along the display screen.
    What can we do? Fuchs asked himself. What can we do?
 
George blinked at the sweat that stung his eyes maddeningly.
    "Are you ready?" he shouted at Nodon, even though the spacesuited crewman 
was hardly three meters from him. They were standing on either side of the bulky 
cutting laser, a collection of tubes and vanes and piping that looked too 
complicated to possibly work correctly. Yet George saw Nodon nod, tight-lipped, 
inside his bubble helmet.
    "Ready," he said.
    George glanced at the control board, leaning slightly canted against the 
curving bulkhead of the cargo bay. All the lights in the green, he saw. Good. 
Looking up through the open cargo bay hatch he could see the distant speck of 
the attacking ship, a cluster of gleaming sunlit crescents against the dark 
depths of infinity.
    "Fire!" George said, leaning on the red button so hard he forced himself up 
off the metal deck. He raised a gloved hand to the overhead and pushed gently, 
felt his boots touch the deck plates again.
    The cutting laser was a continuous wave device, designed to slice through 
rock. Its aiming system was so primitive that George had to sight the thing by 
eye. Its infrared beam was invisible, and the red beam of the low-power guide 
laser disappeared in the emptiness of space. In the vacuum of the cargo bay 
there was no sound, not even a vibration that George could feel.
    "Are we hitting him?" Nodon asked, his voice pitched high.
    "How the fook should I know?" George snapped. "I'm not even sure the fookin' 
kludge is workin'."
    "It's working! Look at the panel." It's working, all right, George saw. But 
is it doing any good?
 
The first hint that Starpower was firing back at him came when Harbin's control 
board suddenly sprung a half-dozen amber warning lights. Without hesitation, he 
hit the maneuvering jets to jink Shanidar sideways. It ruined his own shot, but 
it moved him out of harm's way. Temporarily.
    Frowning at the displays, Harbin saw that one of his propellant tanks had 
been ruptured. He looked up at Starpower hanging out there and saw the big hatch 
of the ship's cargo bay was open. They must have a laser in there, probably a 
cutting laser they use for mining. And they're shooting at me with it.
    He maneuvered Shanidar away from the open cargo hatch while checking his 
ship's systems. Fortunately, the propellant tank they holed was almost empty 
anyway. Harbin could afford to jettison it. Yet as he did, he began to worry 
that they might hit remaining tanks before he had the chance to finish them off.
    Staring at the dumbbell shape of Starpower rotating slowly against the 
distant, uncaring stars, Harbin's chiseled features twisted into a cruel smile.
    "Kill or be killed," he whispered to himself.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 30
 
    It took only a few days of running Helvetia Ltd. by herself for Amanda to 
come to the conclusion that she didn't need to hire a replacement for Niles 
Ripley. I can do the systems management job myself, she realized.
    With the habitat more than halfway finished, what was needed was a general 
overseer, a straw boss who understood the various engineering fields that 
contributed to the ongoing construction program. Amanda had learned a good deal 
of the technical skills in her training and experience as an astronaut. The only 
question in her mind was whether she had the strength, the backbone, to boss a 
gaggle of construction technicians.
    Most of them were men, and most of the men were young and full of 
testosterone. In general, men outnumbered women in Ceres by six to one. The 
balance on the construction project actually was better: three men to each woman 
on the team, Amanda saw as she carefully reviewed the personnel files.
    Sitting at her desk, she thought, If Lars were here there would be no 
problem. But if Lars were here he would take over the task, or hire someone to 
do it. Shaking her head, Amanda told herself, It's up to you, old girl. You've 
got to do this for Lars, for all the people living here in Ceres.
    Looking into the mirror over the dresser of their one-room quarters, Amanda 
realized, No. Not merely for them. You've got to do this for yourself.
    She got to her feet and surveyed herself in the mirror. It's the same old 
problem: the men will see me as a sex object and the women will see me as 
competition. That has some advantages, of course, but in this case the drawbacks 
outweigh the advantages. Time for baggy sweaters and shapeless slacks. Minimal 
makeup and keep your hair pinned up.
    I can do it, she told herself. I can make Lars proud of what I accomplish.
    She set a goal for herself: I'll handle this project so well that when Lars 
returns he'll want me to stay with it to completion.
    Despite her best control, though, she could not avoid hearing a fearful 
voice in her mind that said, if Lars returns.
 
"He's coming closer!" Nodon shouted.
    Wincing inside his bubble helmet, George hollered, "I can see that! And I 
can fookin' hear you, too. No need to yell."
    The two spacesuited men tugged at the big aiming mirrors of the cutting 
laser, clumsy in their suits as they tried to slew the coupled pair of copper 
slabs on their mounting. The mirror assembly moved smoothly enough; pointing it 
precisely was the problem. It had been designed for slicing ore samples out of 
asteroids, not hitting pinpoint targets that were moving.
    "Lars, you've gotta rotate us so we can keep 'im in our sights," George 
called to the bridge.
    "I'm doing my best," Fuchs snapped. "I've got to do it all by hand. The 
steering program wasn't designed for this."
    George tried to squint along the output mirrors' focusing sight and bumped 
the curving front of his helmet against the device. Cursing fluently, he sighted 
the laser as best he could.
    "Hold us there," he said to Fuchs. "Bastard's coming straight at us now."
    "Tell me when to fire," Nodon said, hunching over the control board.
    "Now," George said. "Fire away."
    He strained his eyes to see if the beam was having any effect on the 
approaching ship. We can't miss him, not at this range, George thought. Yet 
nothing seemed to be happening. The attacking ship bored in closer. Suddenly it 
jerked sideways and down.
    "He's maneuvering!" Nodon stated the obvious.
    "Shut down the laser," George commanded. To Fuchs, up on the bridge, he 
yelled, "Turn us, dammit! How'm I gonna hit him if we can't keep the fookin' 
laser pointin' at him?"
 
Another string of red lights sprang up across Harbin's control panel. The 
propellant tanks. He's sawing away at them.
    He was in his spacesuit now. Once he'd realized that Star-power was shooting 
back at him he'd put on the suit before bringing Shanidar back into the battle.
    His steering program was going crazy. The swine had hit a nearly-full tank, 
and propellant spurting from the rip in it was acting as a thruster jet, pushing 
him sideways and down from the direction he wanted to go. He had to override the 
unwanted thrust manually; no time to reprogram the steering to compensate for 
it. Besides, by the time he could reprogram the stupid computer, the tank would 
be empty and there'd be no more thrust to override.
    In a way, though, the escaping propellant helped. It jinked Shanidar in an 
unexpected burst, making it difficult for the enemy to keep their laser trained 
on him.
    But I can't afford to lose propellant! Harbin raged silently. They're 
killing me.
    The amphetamines he sometimes took before going into battle were of no use 
to him now. He was keyed up enough, stimulated to a knife-edge of excitement. 
What he needed was something to calm him down a little, stretch out time without 
dulling his reflexes. He had a store of such medications aboard his ship. But 
inside his spacesuit, his cache of drugs was out of reach, useless to him.
    I don't need drugs, he told himself. I can beat them on my own.
    He called up the highest magnification his optical sensors could give and 
focused on the area where he'd briefly seen the red telltale light of their 
guide laser. That's where the danger is. If I can see the beam of their aiming 
laser, they can hit me with the infrared cutter.
    Swiftly, he came to a plan of action. Fire the thrusters so that I jet up 
and across their field of view. As soon as I see the light of their guide laser 
I fire at them. I can get off a pulse and then be up past their field of view 
before they can fire back. Once I've disabled their laser I can chop them to 
pieces at my leisure.
 
With the semicircle of display screens curving around him, Fuchs saw the 
attacking spacecraft spurt down and away from them, a ghostly issue of gas 
glinting wanly in the light of the distant Sun. He could see a long thin slit 
slashed across one of the ship's bulbous propellant tanks.
    "You've hit him, George!" Fuchs said into his helmet microphone. "I can see 
it!"
    George's reply sounded testy. "So swing us around so's I can hit 'im again!"
    Fuchs tapped at the control keyboard, wishing he was more adept at 
maneuvering a spacecraft. Starpower was not built for graceful turns. Pancho was 
right, he remembered. We turn slow and ugly.
 
In the cargo bay, George stared out at emptiness.
    "Where the fook is he?" he wailed.
    "Still below your line of sight," came Fuchs's answer in his earphones.
    "So turn us toward him!"
    Nodon said, "The cooling system needs more time to recover. We have 
inadequate coolant flow."
    "Just need a few seconds, mate," said George, "once we get 'im back in our 
sights."
    He stepped up to the lip of the cargo hatch and looked down in the direction 
he had last seen the attacking vessel.
    "There he is!" George saw. "Comin' our way again."
    The attacker was zooming up swiftly. George turned back toward the laser. 
"Fire her up!" he yelled to Nodon.
    "Firing!" Nodon shouted back.
    A blinding flash of light stunned George. He felt himself toppling head over 
heels and then something slammed into him so hard it spun him like an unbalanced 
gyroscope. Through blurry, tear-filled eyes he saw a spacesuited arm fly past, 
geysering blood where it had been severed, just above the elbow, rotating over 
and over as it dwindled out of his view. He heard someone bellowing in pain and 
rage and realized it was himself.
 
I'm a dead man, Harbin told himself.
    Strangely, the knowledge did not seem to frighten him. He sat back in his 
spacesuit, relaxed now that the tension of battle had drained out of him.
    They've killed me, he thought. I wonder if they know it.
    His plan to silence the enemy's laser had worked, after a fashion. He'd 
popped up into their field of view and fired off a full-energy burst as soon as 
he saw the red dot of their guide laser. They couldn't have revved up their 
laser in time to hit him, he was certain of that.
    Not unless they already had their laser cooking and he'd walked right into 
their beam. Which is exactly what had happened.
    Harbin knew he had knocked out their laser with his one quick shot. But in 
doing so he had sailed Shanidar across the continuous beam of their mining 
laser. It had carved a long gash through two of the remaining propellant tanks 
and even sliced deeply into the habitation module itself.
    I'll have to stay inside this damned suit, he growled to himself. For how 
long? Until the air runs out. Hours, perhaps a day or so. No longer than that.
    He pulled himself out of the command chair, thinking, Of course, I could tap 
into the ship's air tanks. If the recycler hasn't been damaged, the air could 
last for months, even a year or more. I'd starve before I asphyxiated.
    But what would be the point? I'm drifting, too low on propellant to reach a 
tanker or any other help. Leaning forward slightly so he could check the control 
displays through his suit helmet, he saw that the ship's power generator was 
unscathed. He would have enough electrical power to keep his systems going. He 
could even patch the hab module's hull, bring the air pressure back to normal, 
and get out of the suit.
    To what avail? To drift helplessly through the Belt until I starve.
    You could call the nearest tanker and ask for a retrieval, he told himself. 
The computer has their positions in its memory and you could contact them with a 
tight-beam laser signal.
    Would they come to my rescue? Not before they checked with HSS headquarters. 
Grigor will not be happy to learn that I failed to eliminate Starpower. By now 
Fuchs and his friends are probably screaming their heads off to the IAA. Would 
Grigor tell them to rescue me, or would he decide that it's better if I just 
quietly die?
    Quietly. Harbin smiled. That's the key. Do not go gentle into that good 
night, he quoted silently. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
    On a clear channel, he put through a call to Grigor.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 31
 
    George awoke to see Fuchs and Nodon staring down at him, Fuchs looking grim, 
irritated. Nodon was wide-eyed with fright. Strange to see him with those fierce 
carvings in his face looking so scared, George thought.
    "So I'm not in heaven, then," he said, trying to grin. His voice sounded 
strained, terribly weak. "Not yet," Fuchs growled.
    George realized he was lying in one of Starpower's privacy cubicles, his 
spacesuit removed. Either they've got me tied down or I'm so fookin' feeble I 
can't move. "What happened?" he asked.
    Nodon glanced at Fuchs, then licked his lips and said, "The laser blast 
shattered our laser. The mirror assembly broke loose and . . . and took off your 
arm."
    He said the last words all in a rush, as if ashamed of them. George looked 
down, surprised at how much effort it took to twist his head, and saw his left 
arm ended just short of the elbow. The stump was swathed in plastic 
spray-bandage.
    He felt more fuddled than shocked. Just the barest tendril of pain, now that 
he thought about it. Not scared. No worries. They must have me doped up pretty 
good.
    "The rest of your arm is in the freezer," Fuchs said. "We're heading back to 
Ceres at high thrust. I will alert Kris Cardenas." George closed his eyes and 
remembered seeing the spacesuited arm spiraling out the cargo hatch.
    He looked at Nodon. "You shut off the bleedin', huh?"
    The younger man bobbed his head up and down.
    "And closed off the suit arm," George added.
    Fuchs said, "He also went out EVA and recovered your arm. I thought for a 
few minutes that we would lose him altogether."
    "Did you now?" George said, feeling stupid, muffled. "Thanks, mate."
    Nodon looked embarrassed. He changed the subject. "You must have hit the 
other ship a damaging blow. It left at high speed."
    "That's good."
    "We'll be in Ceres in another fourteen hours," said Fuchs.
    "That's good." George couldn't think of anything else to say. Somewhere, in 
a deep recess of his mind, he knew that he should be screaming. Prosthetics be 
damned, I've lost my fookin' arm!
    But the drugs muted his emotional pain as well as the physical. Nothing 
really seemed to matter. All George wanted was for them to leave him alone and 
let him sleep.
    Fuchs seemed to understand, thank god. "You rest now," he said, his tight 
slash of a mouth turned down bitterly. "I have a long report to send to the IAA 
as soon as we can repair one of the antennas."
 
"Not this Fuchs person again," complained Hector Wilcox.
    Erek Zar and Francesco Tomasselli were sitting in front of Wilcox's desk, 
Zar looking decidedly uncomfortable, Tomasselli almost quivering with righteous 
indignation.
    Wilcox's office was imposing, as befitted the Counsel General of the 
International Astronautical Authority. Slim, sleek, impeccably clothed in a 
somber charcoal business suit and dapper pearl-gray tie that nicely set off his 
silvery hair and trim moustache, Wilcox looked every centimeter the successful 
administrator, which he believed himself to be. He had arbitrated many a 
corporate wrangle, directed teams of bureaucrats to generate safety regulations 
and import duties on space manufactures, and climbed the slippery slope of the 
IAA's legal department until he sat at its very top, unchallenged and hailed by 
his fellow bureaucrats as an example of patience, intelligence andabove 
allendurance.
    Now he had a charge of piracy to deal with, and it unsettled him to his very 
core.
    "He sent in a complete report," Tomasselli said, lean and eager, his dark 
eyes flashing.
    Zar interrupted. "Fuchs claims his ship was attacked."
    "He reports," Tomaselli resumed, laying emphasis on the word, "not only that 
his own ship was attacked, but another as well, and one of the men seriously 
injured."
    "By a pirate vessel."
    Zar's ruddy, fleshy face colored deeper than usual. "That's what he claims."
    "And the evidence?"
    "His ship is damaged," Tomasselli said before Zar could open his mouth. "He 
is bringing the injured man to Ceres."
    "Which ships are we talking about?" Wilcox asked, clear distaste showing on 
his lean, patrician face.
    Zar put out a hand to silence his underling. "Fuchs's ship is named 
Starpower. The other ship that he claims was attacked is Waltzing Matilda."
    "Is that one on its way to Ceres, too?"
    "No," Tomasselli jumped in. "They had to abandon it. The three of them are 
coming in on Starpower: Fuchs and the two men from Waltzing Matilda."
    Wilcox gave the Italian a sour look. "And Fuchs has charged Humphries Space 
Systems with piracy?"
    "Yes," said both men simultaneously.
    Wilcox drummed his fingers on his desktop. He looked out his window at the 
St. Petersburg waterfront. He wished he were in Geneva, or London, or anywhere 
except here in this office with these two louts and this ridiculous charge of 
piracy. Piracy! In the twenty-first century! It was ludicrous, impossible. Those 
rock rats out in the Asteroid Belt have their private feuds and now they're 
trying to drag the IAA into it.
    "I suppose we'll have to investigate," he said gloomily.
    "Fuchs has registered a formal charge," said Tomasselli. "He has requested a 
hearing."
    Which I will have to preside over, Wilcox said to himself. I'll be a 
laughingstock, at the very least.
    "He should arrive at Ceres in a few hours," Zar said.
    Wilcox looked at the man's unhappy face, then turned his gaze to the eager, 
impetuous Tomasselli.
    "You must go to Ceres," he said, pointing a long, manicured finger at the 
Italian.
    Tomasselli's eyes brightened. "I will conduct the hearing there?"
    "No," Wilcox snapped. "You will interview this man Fuchs and the others with 
him, and then bring the three of them back here, under IAA custody. Bring two or 
three Peacekeeper troopers with you."
    "Peacekeepers?" Zar asked.
    Wilcox gave him a wintry smile. "I want to show that the IAA is taking this 
situation quite seriously. If these men believe they have been attacked by 
pirates, then they should have some visible protection, don't you agree?"
    "Oh! Yes, of course."
    Tomasselli said, "One of the men is seriously injured, and all three of them 
have been living in low gravity for so long that they could not return to Earth 
unless they spend several weeks in reconditioning exercises."
    Wilcox let a small hiss escape his lips, his only visible sign of 
displeasure so far. Yet he knew that his control was on the fragile brink of 
crumbling into towering anger.
    "Very well, then," he said icily. "Bring them to Selene."
    "I will conduct the hearing there?" Tomasselli asked eagerly.
    "No," Wilcox replied. "I will conduct the hearing there."
    Zar looked stunned. "You'll go to Selene?"
    Drawing himself up on his dignity, Wilcox replied, "I have not risen this 
far in the service of the International Astronautical Authority by avoiding the 
difficult tasks."
    It was a bald-faced he, but Wilcox almost believed it to be true, and Zar 
was willing to accept whatever his superior told him.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 32
 
    George could tell from the look on Dr. Cardenas's face that the news was not 
good.
    Fuchs and Nodon had rushed him to Ceres's minuscule infirmary as soon as 
they had landed, Nodon carrying the insulated plastic box that held George's 
severed arm. Half the population of the asteroid had also tried to crowd into 
the infirmary, some out of morbid curiosity, most because they heard that Big 
George had been injured and they knew and liked the red-haired Aussie. Cardenas 
had firmly shooed all of the bystanders into the tunnel outside, except for 
Amanda.
    Fuchs embraced his wife, and she threw her arms around his neck and kissed 
him solidly.
    "You're all right, Lars?" she asked.
    "Yes. Fine. Not a scratch."
    "I was so worried!"
    "It's George who was hurt. Not me."
    Cardenas put George through the diagnostic scanners, then took the container 
from Nodon and disappeared into the lab that adjoined the infirmary, leaving 
George sitting up on one of the three infirmary beds, surrounded by Amanda, 
Fuchs, and Nodon. "You really were attacked by another ship?" Amanda asked, 
still not quite believing it could be possible.
    George held up the stump of his left arm. "Wasn't termites did this," he 
said.
    "I've sent in a full report of the attack to IAA headquarters," said Fuchs.
    Amanda replied, "They've sent a confirmation back. One of their 
administrators is coming out here to bring you and George and," she glanced at 
Nodon, whom she'd just met, "and you, Mr. Nodon, to Selene for a hearing before 
the chief of the IAA legal department."
    "A hearing!" Fuchs exulted. "Good!"
    "At Selene."
    "Even better. We'll beard Humphries in his own den."
    "Can George travel?" Amanda asked.
    "Why not?" George asked back.
    That was when Cardenas came back into the infirmary, her expression dark and 
grave.
    George immediately saw the situation. "Not good news, eh?"
    Cardenas shook her head. "The arm's deteriorated too far, I'm afraid. Too 
much damage to the nerves. By the time we get you back to Selene, the 
deterioration will be even worse."
    "Can't you stitch it back on here?" George asked.
    "I'm not that good a surgeon, George. I'm not even a physician, really, I'm 
just pretending to be one."
    George leaned back on the bed. It was hard to tell what was going on behind 
his shaggy, matted beard and overgrown head of hair.
    "They have regeneration specialists at Selene. With some of your stem cells 
they'll be able to regrow your arm in a few months."
    "Can you do it with nanomachines?" Amanda asked.
    Cardenas shot her a strangely fierce look: part anger, part guilt, part 
frustration.
    "Regeneration could be done with nanotherapy," she said tightly, "but I 
couldn't do it."
    Fuchs said, "But you are an expert in nanotechnology. A Nobel laureate."
    "That was long ago," Cardenas said. "Besides, I swore that I wouldn't engage 
in any nanotech work again."
    "Swore? To whom?"
    "To myself."
    "I don't understand."
    Cardenas was obviously struggling with herself. After a few heartbeats she 
said, "This isn't the time to tell you the sad story of my life, Lars."
    "But"
    "Go to Selene. They have regeneration experts there, George. They'll grow 
your arm back for you."
    George shrugged good-naturedly. "Long as they don't grow it back before our 
hearing." He waved his stump. "I want those IAA bludgers t'see what the bastards 
did to me."
    Fuchs patted George's good shoulder. "And I want Humphries to be there to 
see it."
 
Fuchs and Amanda spent that night making love. No words, no talk about what had 
happened or discussions about what the future might bring. Nothing but animal 
heat and passion.
    Lying beside her afterward, their room lit only by the dimmed numerals of 
the digital clock, Fuchs realized he had made love to Amanda as if he would 
never see her again. He had learned something in that battle out in space: His 
first brush with imminent death had taught him that he had to live life as if it 
would end in an instant.
    I have no future, he told himself in the silence of their darkened room. As 
long as I'm in this war against Humphries I cannot hope for anything. I must 
live moment by moment, expecting nothing, ready to accept whatever comes next 
and deal with it. Only then can I escape the fear; only by shutting out the 
future can I cope with the present.
    Briefly he thought about the frozen zygotes they had waiting in Selene. If 
I'm killed, Fuchs reflected, at least Amanda will be able to bear our childif 
she wants to.
    Amanda, lying beside him, pretended to sleep. But she was thinking too. What 
can Lars accomplish by this hearing with the IAA? Even if they find Humphries 
responsible for the attacks on all those ships, what can they do about it? 
Whatever happens, it will only make Martin even more enraged against Lars.
    If only Lars would give this up, forget this war of his. But he won't. He'll 
keep on fighting until they kill him. He'll keep on fighting until he's as 
murderous and hateful as they are. He'll never stop, no matter how I beg him. 
He's moving away from me, becoming a stranger to me. Even in bed, he's not the 
same person anymore.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 33
 
    So he's getting a hearing with the IAA," Humphries said as he mixed himself 
a vodka and tonic.
    The bar in his palatial home was a sizable room that also served as a 
library. Bookshelves ran up to the ceiling along two walls, and a third wall had 
shelves full of video disks and cyberbook chips stacked around a pair of 
holowindows that showed slowly-changing views of extraterrestrial scenery.
    Humphries paid no attention to the starkly beautiful Martian sunset or the 
windswept cloud deck of Jupiter. His mind was on Lars Fuchs.
    "The hearing will be held in the IAA offices here in Selene," said Diane 
Verwoerd. Seated on a plush stool at the handsome mahogany bar, she nursed a 
long slim glass of sickly greenish Pernod and water.
    Verwoerd was the only other person in the room with Humphries. She was still 
in her office clothes: a white sleeveless turtle-neck blouse under a maroon 
blazer, with dark charcoal slacks that accentuated her long legs. Humphries had 
already changed to a casual open-necked shirt and light tan chinos.
    "Is he bringing his wife with him?" Humphries asked as he stepped out from 
behind the bar.
    "Probably." Verwoerd swiveled on her stool to follow him as he paced idly 
along the rows of leather-bound books. "You don't know for certain?"
    "I can find out easily enough," she said.
    Humphries muttered, "He wouldn't leave her alone on that rock."
    "It didn't do you any good the last time he brought her here."
    He shot her a venomous look.
    "We have something else to worry about," Verwoerd said. "This man Harbin."
    Humphries's expression changed. It didn't soften: it merely went from one 
object of anger to another.
    "That's why you wanted to talk to me alone," he said.
    She raised a brow slightly. "That's why I agreed to have a drink with you, 
yes."
    "But not dinner."
    "I have other plans for dinner," she said. "Besides, you should be thinking 
about Harbin. Thinking hard."
    "What's the situation?"
    She took a sip of her drink, then placed the glass carefully on the bar. 
"Obviously, he failed to eliminate Fuchs."
    "From what I've heard, Fuchs nearly eliminated him."
    "His ship was damaged and he had to break off his attack on Starpower. 
Apparently Fuchs was expecting him; at least, that's what Harbin believes."
    "I don't care a termite fart's worth for what he believes. I'm paying him 
for results and he's failed. Now I'm going to have the idiotic IAA to deal 
with."
    Humphries kicked at an ottoman that was in his way and sat heavily on the 
sofa facing the bar. His face was an image of pure disgust.
    "You have Harbin to deal with, too."
    "What?" He looked up sharply at her. "What do you mean?"
    "He knows enough to hurt you. Badly."
    "He's never seen me. He dealt entirely with Grigor."
    With deliberate patience, Verwoerd said, "If Harbin tells the IAA what he's 
been doing, do you think they'll lay the blame in Grigor's lap or yours?"
    "They can't"
    "Don't you think they're intelligent enough to realize that Grigor would 
never authorize attacks on prospectors' ships unless you ordered them?"
    Humphries looked as if he wanted to throw his drink at her. It's dangerous 
being the messenger, Verwoerd told herself, when you bring bad news.
    "You'll have to eliminate Harbin, then," he said. "Maybe Grigor, too."
    And then me? Verwoerd asked herself. Aloud, she replied, "Harbin's thought 
of that possibility. He claims he's sent copies of his ship's log to a few 
friends on Earth."
    "Nonsense! How could he"
    "Tight-beam laser links. Coded data. It's done every day. It's the way he 
communicated with our own tankers out there in the Belt."
    "Send messages all the way back to Earth?"
    Verwoerd took up her drink again. "It's done every day," she repeated.
    "He's bluffing," Humphries mumbled.
    She got off the stool and stepped toward the sofa where he was sitting. 
Nudging the ottoman into position with one foot, she sat on it and leaned toward 
him, arms on her knees, drink in both hands.
    "Even if he's bluffing, it's too big a risk to take. Eliminating him won't 
be easy. He's a trained fighter and he's tough."
    "He's coming here to Selene on an HSS vessel, isn't he?" Humphries pointed 
out. "The crew can get rid of him."
    Verwoerd sighed like a schoolteacher facing a boy who hadn't done his 
homework. "Then you'd have half a dozen people who'd have something on you. 
Besides, I don't think the entire crew could take him. As I said, he's trained 
and he's tough. Things could get quite messy if we try to take him out."
    "Then what do you recommend?" he asked sullenly.
    "Let me deal with him. Personally."
    "You?"
    She nodded. "Keep Grigor out of this. Harbin is most likely worried that we 
want to take him out, especially since he failed with Fuchs and he knows enough 
to hang us all. Let me show him that it's not that way. I'll offer him a bonus, 
send him back to Earth with a fat bank account."
    "So he can blackmail me for the rest of his life."
    "Yes, of course. That's exactly what he'll think. And we'll let him go on 
thinking that until he's living it up on Earth and his guard is down."
    A crooked smile slowly curled across Humphries's lips.
    "Delilah," he murmured.
    Verwoerd saw that he was satisfied with her plan. She took a long swallow of 
the licorice-flavored Pernod, then agreed, "Delilah."
    Humphries's smile turned sardonic. "Are you going to fuck him, too?"
    She made herself smile back. "If I have to."
    But she was thinking, You don't know whose hair is going to get trimmed, 
Martin. And there's more than one way to screw a man; even you.
 
Fuchs had dreaded this moment. He knew it had to come, though. There was no way 
around it. The IAA official was due to arrive at Ceres in another few hours.
    He started packing his travel bag for the trip to Selene. When Amanda took 
her bag from the closet and laid it on the bed beside his, he told her that he 
was going without her.
    "What do you mean?" Amanda asked, obviously startled by his decision.
    "Precisely what I said. George, Nodon and I are going. I want you to remain 
here."
    She looked puzzled, hurt. "But, Lars, I"
    "You are not going with me!" Fuchs said sharply.
    Shocked at his vehemence, Amanda stared at him open-mouthed as if he had 
slapped her in the face.
    "That's final," he snapped.
    "But, Lars"
    "No buts, and no arguments," he said. "You stay here and run what's left of 
the business while I'm in Selene."
    "Lars, you can't go without me. I won't let you!"
    He tried to stare her down. This is the hardest part, he realized. I've got 
to hurt her, there's no other way to do this.
    "Amanda," he said, trying to sound stern, trying to keep his own doubts and 
pain out of his voice, out of his face. "I have made up my mind. I need you to 
remain here. I'm not a little boy who must bring his mother with him wherever he 
goes."
    "Your mother!"
    "Whatever," he said. "I'm going without you."
    "But why?"
    "Because that's what I want," he said, raising his voice. "I know that you 
think I'd be safer if you were with me, that Humphries won't attack me if he 
believes you might be hurt, too. Poppycock! I don't need your protection. I 
don't want it."
    She burst into tears and fled to the lavatory, leaving him standing by the 
bed in agony.
    If he's going to try to kill me, it won't matter to him whether Amanda's 
with me or not. The closer I get to hurting him, the more desperate he becomes. 
She'll be safer here, among friends, among people who know her. He wants to kill 
me, not her. I'll face him without her. It will be better that way.
    He was certain he was right. If only he couldn't hear her sobbing on the 
other side of the thin door.
 
Hector Wilcox felt extremely uneasy about going to the Moon. His flight from the 
spaceport at Munich had been terrifying, despite all the reassurances of the 
Astro Corporation employees. Their stout little Clippership looked sturdy enough 
when he boarded it. The flight attendant who showed him to his seat went on at 
length about the ship's diamond structure hull and the reliability records that 
Clipperships had run up. All well and good, Wilcox thought.
    He strapped himself firmly into his seat and, fortified by several whiskies 
beforehand and a medicinal patch plastered on the inside of his elbow to ward 
against spacesickness, he gripped the seat's armrests and listened with growing 
apprehension to the countdown.
    Takeoff terrified him. It was like an explosion that jolted every bone in 
his body. He felt squashed down in his seat, then before he could utter a word 
of complaint he was weightless, floating against the straps of his safety 
harness, his stomach rising up into his throat despite the medicine patch. 
Swallowing bile, he reached for the retch bags tucked into the pouch on the seat 
back in front of him.
    By the time the Clippership had docked with the space station, Wilcox was 
wishing that he'd insisted on holding the damnable hearing on Earth. There were 
plenty of smiling, uniformed Astro personnel to help him out of the Clippership 
and into the transfer vehicle that would go the rest of the way to the Moon. 
Groaning in zero gravity, Wilcox allowed them to haul him around like a helpless 
invalid and tuck him into a seat on the transfer ship that was far less 
comfortable then the Clippership's had been.
    At least there was some feeling of gravity when the transfer vehicle started 
its high-thrust burn Moonward. But that dwindled away all too soon, and for the 
next several hours Wilcox wondered if he was going to survive this journey.
    Gradually, though, he began to feel better. His stomach didn't feel so 
queasy; the pressure behind his eyes eased off. If he didn't turn his head or 
make any sudden moves, zero gravity was almost pleasurable.
    Once they landed at Selene's Armstrong spaceport, the light lunar gravity 
gave Wilcox a renewed sense of up-and-down. He was able to unstrap and get out 
of his chair without help. He stumbled at first, but by the time he had been 
checked through customs and rented a pair of weighted boots, he felt almost 
normal.
    The soothing elegance of the Hotel Luna's lobby helped Wilcox to feel even 
more at home. Quiet luxury always pleased him, and although the lobby was 
slightly tatty here and there, the general tone and atmosphere of the place was 
reassuring. The local IAA flunkies had taken the best suite in Selene's only 
hotel for him. Spare no expense, Wilcox thought as he looked around the 
sumptuous sitting room, so long as it's coming out of the taxpayers' pocketbook 
and not mine. An assistant manager brought him to the suite, unpacked his bags 
for him, and even politely refused the tip Wilcox preferred. The hotel staff had 
prepared everything for him, including a well-stocked bar. One good jolt of 
whisky and Wilcox felt almost normal again.
    There was a tap on the door, and before Wilcox could say a word, the door 
slid open and a liveried servant pushed in a rolling table laden with covered 
dishes and a half-dozen bottles of wine.
    Surprised, Wilcox began to protest, "I didn't order"
    Then Martin Humphries walked into the suite, all smiles.
    "I thought you'd appreciate a good meal, Hector," said Humphries. "This is 
from my own kitchen, not the regular hotel fare." Gesturing toward the bottles, 
he added, "From my own cellar, too."
    Wilcox broke into a genuinely pleased smile. "Why, Martin, for goodness' 
sake. How kind of you."
    As the waiter silently set out their dinner, Humphries explained, "We 
shouldn't be seen in a public restaurant together, and I couldn't invite you 
down to my home without it seeming improper...."
    "Quite so," Wilcox agreed. "Too many damnable snoops willing to believe the 
worst about anyone."
    "So I decided to bring dinner to you. I hope you don't mind."
    "Not at all! I'm delighted to see you again. How long has it been?"
    "I've been living here in Selene for more than six years now."
    "Has it been that long?" Wilcox brushed his moustache with a fingertip. 
"But, eh ... aren't we running the risk of seeming impropriety? After all, with 
the hearing coming up"
    "No risk at all," Humphries said smoothly. "This man is a loyal employee of 
mine, and the hotel people can be relied on to be discreet."
    "I see."
    "You can't be too careful these days, especially a man in such a high 
position of trust as you are."
    "Rather," said Wilcox, smiling as he watched the waiter open the first 
bottle of wine.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 34
 
    Dorik Harbin looked around the spare one-room apartment. Good enough, he 
thought. He knew that in Selene, the lower the level of your living quarters, 
the more expensive. It was mostly nonsense: you were just as safe five meters 
below the Moon's surface as you were at fifty or even five hundred. But people 
let their emotions rule them, just as on Earth they paid more for an upper floor 
in a condo tower, even though the view might be nothing more than another condo 
tower standing next door.
    He had been tense during the flight in from the Belt. After leaving the 
crippled Shanidar with an HSS tanker, he had received orders from Grigor to 
report to Selene. They provided him with a coffin-sized berth on an HSS 
freighter that was hauling ores to the Moon. Harbin knew that if they were going 
to assassinate him, this would be the time and place for it.
    Apparently Grigor and his superiors believed his claim that he had sent 
complete records of Shanidar's campaign of destruction to several friends on 
Earth. Otherwise they would have gotten rid of him, or tried to. Harbin had no 
friends on Earth or anywhere else. Acquaintances, yes, several people scattered 
here and there that he could trust a little. No family; they had all been killed 
while he was still a child.
    Harbin had sent a rough ship's log from Shanidar to three persons he had 
known for many years: one had been the sergeant who had trained him in the 
Peacekeepers, now retired and living in someplace called Pennsylvania; another, 
the aged imam from his native village; the third was the widow of a man whose 
murder he had avenged the last time he had visited his homeland.
    The instructions he had sent with the logsa request, really were to give 
the data to the news media if they learned that Harbin had died. He knew that if 
Grigor received orders to kill him, no one on Earth would likely hear of his 
death. But the faint possibility that Shanidar's log might be revealed to the 
public was enough to stay Grigor's hand. At least, Harbin estimated that it was 
so.
    It would have been easier to keep his murder quiet if they'd killed him on 
the ship coming in, Harbin thought. The fact that he was now quartered in this 
one-room apartment in Selene told him that they did not plan to kill him. Not 
yet, at least.
    He almost relaxed. The room was comfortable enough: nearly spacious, 
compared to the cramped quarters of a spacecraft. The freezer and cupboards were 
well stocked; Harbin decided to throw everything in the recycler and buy his own 
provisions in Selene's food market.
    He had his head under the sink, checking to see if there were any unwanted 
attachments to his water supply, when he heard a light tap at his door.
    Grigor, he thought. Or one of his people.
    He got to his feet, closed the cabinet, and walked six steps to the door, 
feeling the comfortable solidity of the electrodagger strapped to the inside of 
his right wrist, beneath the loose cuff of his tunic. He had charged the battery 
in the dagger's hilt as soon as he had entered the apartment, even before 
unpacking.
    He glanced at the small display plate beside the door. Not Grigor. A woman. 
Harbin slowly slid the accordion door back, balanced on the balls of his feet, 
ready to spring aside if this woman pointed a weapon at him.
    She looked surprised. She was almost Harbin's own height, he saw: slim, with 
smoky dark skin and darker hair curling over her shoulders. She wore a 
sleeveless sheer sweater that revealed little but suggested much. Form-fitting 
slacks and soft, supple-looking boots.
    "You are Dorik Harbin?" she asked, in a silky contralto voice.
    "Who are you?" he countered.
    "Diane Verwoerd," she said, stepping into the room, forcing Harbin to swing 
back from the doorway so she could enter. "I'm Martin Humphries's personal 
assistant."
    Diane looked him up and down and saw a tall, lean, hard-looking man with a 
fierce dark beard and a world of suspicion in his cold blue eyes. Strange, 
startling eyes, she thought. Dead man's eyes. Killer's eyes. He was wearing 
ordinary coveralls that looked faded from long use, but clean and crisp as a 
military uniform. A strong, muscled body beneath the clothes, she judged. An 
impressive man, for a hired killer.
    "I was expecting Grigor," Harbin said.
    "I hope you're not disappointed," she said, heading for the couch across the 
room.
    "Not at all. You said you are Mr. Humphries's personal assistant?"
    She sat and crossed her long legs. "Yes."
    "Will I meet him?"
    "No. You will deal with me."
    He did not reply. Instead, Harbin went to the refrigerator and took out a 
bottle of wine. She watched him open it, then search in the cabinet above the 
sink for wine glasses. Is he using this time to think of what he should say? 
Verwoerd asked herself. Finally he pulled out two simple tumblers and splashed 
some wine into them.
    "I arrived only a few hours ago," he said, handing her one glass, then 
pulling up the desk chair to sit facing her. "I don't know where things are 
yet."
    "I hope this room is comfortable for you," she said.
    "It will do."
    She waited for him to say more, but he simply studied her with those icepick 
blue eyes. Not undressing her. There was nothing sexual in it. He was . . . she 
tried to find the right word: controlled. That's it: he's completely under 
control. Every gesture, every word he speaks. I wonder what he looks like 
beneath the beard, Verwoerd thought. Is he the ruggedly handsome type, or does 
the beard hide a weak chin? Ruggedly handsome, she guessed.
    The silence stretched. She took a sip of the wine. Slightly bitter. Perhaps 
it will improve after it's breathed a while. Harbin did not touch his wine; he 
simply held the glass in his left hand and kept his eyes riveted on her.
    "We have a lot to discuss," she said at last.
    "I suppose that's true."
    "You seem to be afraid that we want to get rid of you."
    "That's what I would do if I were in your position. I'm a liability to you 
now, isn't that so?"
    He's brutally frank, she thought. "Mr. Harbin, please let me assure you that 
we have no intention of causing you harm."
    He smiled at that, and she saw strong white teeth behind the dense black 
beard.
    "In fact, Mr. Humphries has told me to give you a bonus for the work you've 
done."
    He gave her a long, hard look, then said, "Why don't we stop this fencing? 
You wanted me to kill Fuchs and I failed. Now he's here in Selene ready to 
testify that you're behind the attacks on prospectors' ships. Why should you pay 
me a bonus for that?"
    "We'll pay for your silence, Mr. Harbin."
    "Because you know that if you kill me the ship's log will go to the news 
media."
    "We have no intention of killing you." Verwoerd nodded toward his untouched 
glass. "You can drink all the wine you want."
    He put the tumbler down on the thinly carpeted floor. "Ms. Verwoerd"
    "Diane," she said, before she had a chance to think about it.
    He tilted his head slightly. "Diane, then. Let me explain how this looks to 
me."
    "Please do." She noted that he did not tell her to use his first name.
    "Your corporation hired me to scare the independent prospectors out of the 
Belt. I knocked off several of their ships, but this man Fuchs caused a fuss. 
Then you instructed me to get rid of Fuchs, and this I failed to do."
    "We are disappointed, Mr. Harbin, but that doesn't mean there's any reason 
for you to fear for your safety."
    "Doesn't it?"
    "We'll handle this hearing. In a way, it's an opportunity for us to deal 
with Fuchs in a different manner. Your part of this operation is finished. All 
we want to do is pay you off and thank you for your work. I know it wasn't 
easy."
    "People like you don't come to people like me for easy jobs," Harbin said.
    He's not afraid, Verwoerd saw. He's not frightened or disappointed or angry. 
He's like a block of ice. No visible emotions. No, she corrected herself. He's 
more like a panther, a lithe, deadly predator. Every muscle in his body under 
control, every nerve alert and ready. He could kill me in an instant if he 
wanted to.
    She felt strangely thrilled. I wonder what he would be like if I could break 
through that control of his. What would it be like to have all that pent-up 
energy inside me? Not now. Later, she commanded herself. After the hearing is 
over. If we come out of the hearing okay, then I can relax with him. If we 
don't... I'd hate to be the one sent to terminate him. If it comes to that, 
we'll need a team of people for the job. A team of very good people.
    Then she thought, Why think about terminating him? Use him!
    Can I make him loyal to me? she asked herself. Can I use him for my personal 
agenda? Smiling inwardly, she thought, It could be fun. It could be very 
pleasurable.
    Aloud, she said, "There is one more task you could do for us before 
you...eh, retire."
    "What is that?" he asked, his voice flat, his eyes riveted on hers.
    "You'll have to go to Ceres. I can arrange a high-thrust flight for you. But 
it must be very quiet; no one is to know. Not even Grigor."
    He stared at her for long, intense moment. "Not even Grigor?" he muttered.
    "No. You will report directly to me."
    Harbin smiled at that, and she wondered again how he would look without his 
beard.
    "Do you ever shave?" she asked.
    "I was going to, when you knocked at my door."
    Hours later, sticky and sweaty in bed beside him, Diane grinned to herself. 
Being Delilah was thoroughly enjoyable.
    Harbin turned to her and slid a hand across her midriff. "About this 
business on Ceres," he said, surprising her.
    "Yes?"
    "Who do I have to kill?"
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 35
 
    Much to Hector Wilcox's misgiving, Douglas Stavenger inserted himself into 
the hearing. Two days before the hearing was to begin, Stavenger invited Wilcox 
to dinner at the Earthview restaurant. Wilcox knew it was not a purely social 
invitation. If the youthful founder of Selene wanted to be in on the hearing, 
there was nothing the IAA executive could do about it without raising hackles.
    Stavenger was very diplomatic, of course. He offered a conference room in 
Selene's offices, up in one of the towers that supported the dome of the Grand 
Plaza. The price of his hospitality was to allow him to sit in on the hearing.
    "It'll be pretty dull stuff, mostly," Wilcox warned, over dinner his second 
night on the Moon.
    "Oh, I don't think so," said Stavenger, with the bright enthusiasm of a 
youth. "Anything involving Martin Humphries is bound to be interesting."
    So that's it, Wilcox said to himself as he picked at his fruit salad. He's 
following Martin's trail.
    "You know, Mr. Humphries won't be present at the hearing," he said.
    "Really?" Stavenger looked surprised. "I thought that Fuchs was accusing him 
of piracy."
    Wilcox frowned his deepest. "Piracy," he sneered. "Poppycock."
    Stavenger smiled brightly. "That's what the hearing is for, isn't it? To 
determine the validity of the charge?"
    "Oh, yes, of course," said Wilcox hastily. "To be sure."
 
Fuchs had not slept well his first two nights in Selene, and the night before 
the hearing began he expected to be too jumpy to sleep at all, but strangely, he 
slept soundly the whole night through. Pancho had come up to Selene and treated 
him to a fine dinner at the Earthview Restaurant. Perhaps the wine had something 
to do with my sleeping, he told himself as he brushed his teeth that morning.
    He had dreamed, he knew, but he couldn't remember much of his dreams. Amanda 
was in them, and George, and some vague dark looming danger. He could not recall 
any of the details.
    When his phone chimed he thought it must be Pancho, ready to pick him up and 
go with him to the hearing room.
    Instead, the wallscreen showed Amanda's beautiful face. Fuchs felt a rush of 
joy that she had called. Then he saw that she looked tired, concerned.
    "Lars, darling, I'm just calling to wish you well at the hearing and to tell 
you that I love you. Everything here is going quite well. The prospectors are 
giving us more business than we can handle, and there hasn't been a bit of 
trouble from any of the HSS people."
    Of course not, Fuchs thought. They don't want to raise any suspicions while 
this hearing is going on.
    "Good luck in the hearing, darling. I'll be waiting for you to call and tell 
me how it turned out. I miss you. I love you!"
    Her image winked out, the wallscreen went blank. Fuchs glanced at the clock 
on his bed table, then swiftly ordered the computer to reply to her message.
    "The hearing begins in half an hour," he said, knowing that by the time 
Amanda heard his words the meeting would almost be starting. "I'm sorry I didn't 
bring you with me. I miss you, too. Terribly. I'll call as soon as the hearing 
ends. And I love you, too, my precious. With all my heart."
    The phone chimed again. This time it was Pancho. "Rise and shine, Lars, ol' 
buddy. Time to get this bronco out of the chutes."
 
Fuchs was disappointed that Humphries did not show up for the hearing. On 
thinking about it, though, he was not surprised. The man is a coward who sends 
others to do his dirty work for him, he thought.
    "Hey, look," Pancho said as they entered the conference room. "Doug 
Stavenger's here."
    Stavenger and half a dozen others were sitting in the comfortable wheeled 
chairs arranged along one wall of the room. The conference table had been moved 
to the rear wall and set out with drinks and finger foods. A smaller table was 
at the other side of the room, flanked by two chairs already occupied by men in 
business suits. One of them was overweight, ruddy, red-haired; the other looked 
as lean and jittery as a racing greyhound. They each held palmcomps in their 
laps. The wallscreen behind the table showed the black and silver logo of the 
International Astronautical Society. Two clusters of chairs had been arranged in 
front of the table. George and Nodon were already seated there. Fuchs saw that 
the other set was fully occupied by what he presumed to be HSS personnel.
    "Good luck, buddy," Pancho whispered, gesturing Fuchs toward the chairs up 
front. She went back to sit beside Stavenger.
    Wondering idly who was paying for the food and drink that had been set out, 
Fuchs took the chair between Big George and Nodon. He had barely sat down when 
one of the men seated up front announced, "This hearing will come to order. Mr. 
Hector Wilcox, chief counsel of the International Astronautical Authority, 
presiding."
    Everyone got to their feet, and a gray-haired distinguished-looking 
gentleman in a Saville Row three-piece suit came in from the side door and took 
his place behind the table. He put a hand-sized computer on the table and 
flicked it open. Fuchs noticed that an aluminum carafe beaded with condensation 
and a cut crystal glass rested on a corner of the table.
    "Please be seated," said Hector Wilcox. "Let's get this over with as 
efficiently as we can."
    It begins, Fuchs said to himself, his heart thudding under his ribs, his 
palms suddenly sweaty.
    Wilcox peered in his direction. "Which of you is Lars Fuchs?"
    "I am," said Fuchs.
    "You have charged Humphries Space Systems with piracy, have you not?"
    "I have not."
    Wilcox's brows shot toward his scalp. "You have not?"
    Fuchs was amazed at his own cheek. He heard himself say, "I do not charge a 
corporation with criminal acts. I charge a person, the man who heads that 
corporation: Martin Humphries."
    Wilcox's astonishment turned to obvious displeasure.
    "Are you implying that the acts you call piracywhich have yet to be 
established as actually occurringwere deliberately ordered by Mr. Martin 
Humphries?"
    "That is precisely what I am saying, sir."
    On the other side of the makeshift aisle, a tall, dark-haired woman rose 
unhurriedly to her feet.
    "Your honor, I am Mr. Humphries's personal assistant, and on his behalf I 
categorically deny this charge. It's ludicrous."
    Big George hopped to his feet and waved the stump of his arm over his head. 
"Y'call this ludicrous? I di'n't get this pickin' daisies!"
    "Order!" Wilcox slapped the table with the flat of his hand. "Sit down, both 
of you. I will not have outbursts in this hearing. We will proceed along calm, 
reasoned lines."
    Verwoerd and George resumed their seats.
    Pointing a bony finger at Fuchs, Wilcox said, "Now, sir, if you have 
evidence to sustain a charge of piracy, let us hear it. We'll look into the 
responsibility for such acts after we ascertain that they have actually 
happened."
    Fuchs slowly rose, feeling a trembling anger in his gut. "You have the 
transcription of the battle between my ship, Starpower, and the ship that 
attacked us. You have seen the damage inflicted on Starpower. Mr. Ambrose, here, 
lost his arm in that battle."
    Wilcox glanced over his shoulder at the ruddy-faced IAA flunky, who nodded 
once. "Noted," he said to Fuchs.
    "That same ship earlier attacked Mr. Ambrose's ship, Waltzing Matilda, and 
left him and his crewman for dead."
    "Do you have any evidence for this, other than your unsupported word?" 
Wilcox asked.
    "Waltzing Matilda is drifting in the Belt. We can provide approximate 
coordinates for a search, if you wish to undertake it."
    Wilcox shook his head. "I doubt that such a search will be necessary."
    "Earlier," Fuchs resumed, "several others vessels were attacked: The Lady of 
the Lake, Aswan, The Star"
    Verwoerd called from her chair, "There is no evidence that any of those 
ships were attacked."
    "They disappeared without a trace," Fuchs snapped. "Their signals cut off 
abruptly."
    With a smile, Verwoerd said, "That is not evidence that they were attacked."
    "Quite so," said Wilcox.
    "In most of those cases, the asteroids that those ships claimed were later 
claimed by Humphries Space Systems," Fuchs pointed out.
    "What of it?" Verwoerd retorted. "HSS ships have laid claim to many hundreds 
of asteroids. And if you examine the record carefully, you will see that four of 
the six asteroids in question have been claimed by entities other than HSS."
    Wilcox turned toward the lean assistant on his left. The man nodded hastily 
and said, "Three of them were claimed by a corporation called Bandung Associates 
and the fourth by the Church of the Written Word. None of these entities are 
associated with HSS; I checked thoroughly."
    "So what this hearing boils down to," Wilcox said, turning back to Fuchs, 
"is your assertion that you were attacked."
    "For that I have evidence, and you have seen it," Fuchs said, boiling 
inside.
    "Yes, yes," said Wilcox. "There's no doubt that you were attacked. But 
attacked by whom? That's the real question."
    "By a ship working for HSS," Fuchs said, feeling he was pointing out the 
obvious. "Under the orders of Martin Humphries."
    "Can you prove that?"
    "No employee of HSS would take such a step without the personal approval of 
Humphries himself," Fuchs insisted. "He even had one of my people killed, 
murdered in cold blood!"
    "You are referring to the murder of a Niles Ripley, are you not?" asked 
Wilcox.
    "Yes. A deliberate murder to stop our construction of the habitat we're 
building"
    Verwoerd interrupted. "We concede that Mr. Ripley was killed by an employee 
of Humphries Space Systems. But it was a private matter; the killing was neither 
ordered nor condoned by HSS. And Mr. Fuchs personally dispatched the killer, in 
a violent act of vigilantism."
    Wilcox fixed Fuchs with a stern gaze. "Frontier justice, eh? It's too bad 
that you executed him. His testimony might have supported your case."
    Feeling exasperated, Fuchs said, "Who else would benefit from all these 
criminal acts?"
    With a wry smile, Wilcox said, "I was hoping you could tell me, Mr. Fuchs. 
That's why we've gone to the expense and trouble of holding this hearing. Who is 
responsible here?"
    Fuchs closed his eyes briefly. I don't want to bring Amanda into this. I 
don't want to make this seem like a personal feud between Humphries and me.
    "Do you have anything else to offer, Mr. Fuchs?"
    Before he could reply, George got to his feet again and said, very calmly, 
"Everybody on Ceres knows that Humphries is tryin' to squeeze Fuchs out of the 
Belt. Ask anybody."
    "Mr..." Wilcox glanced down at his computer screen. "Ambrose, is it? Mr. 
Ambrose, what 'everybody knows' is not evidence in a court of law. Nor in this 
hearing."
    George sat down, mumbling to himself.
    "The fact is," Fuchs said, struggling to keep from screaming, "that someone 
is killing people, someone is attacking prospectors' ships, someone is 
committing terrible crimes in the Asteroid Belt. The IAA must take action, must 
protect us..." He stopped. He realized he was begging, almost whining.
    Wilcox leaned back in his chair. "Mr. Fuchs, I quite agree that your 
frontier is a violent, lawless place. But the International Astronautical 
Authority has neither the power nor the legal authority to serve as a police 
force across the Asteroid Belt. It is up to the citizens of the Belt themselves 
to provide their own protection, to police themselves."
    "We are being systematically attacked by Humphries Space Systems personnel!" 
Fuchs insisted.
    "You are being attacked, I grant you," Wilcox responded, with a sad, 
condescending smile. "Most likely by renegades from among your own rough and 
ready population. I see no evidence linking Humphries Space Systems to your 
problems in any way, shape or manner."
    "You don't want to see!" Fuchs raged.
    Wilcox stared at him coldly. "This hearing is concluded," he said.
    "But you haven't"
    "It's finished," Wilcox snapped. He stood up, grabbed his computer, clicked 
its lid shut and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Then he turned and strode out 
of the room, leaving Fuchs standing there, frustrated and furious.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 36
 
    Straining to keep a satisfied smile off her face, Diane Verwoerd led the 
squad of Humphries employees out of the hearing room, leaving Fuchs and his two 
friends standing there in helpless, confused frustration.
    Out in the corridor she made polite small talk with Douglas Stavenger and 
Pancho Lane as they left, looking disappointed at the outcome of the hearing. 
Verwoerd knew that Pancho was Humphries's chief opponent on the board of Astro 
Corporation, and that Humphries would not be satisfied until he had full control 
of Astro. Which means, she told herself, that once we've finally gotten rid of 
Fuchs, Pancho is next.
    She hurried to the power stairs that led down to her office. Once there, 
alone, she put through a tight-beam laser call to Dorik Harbin. He should be 
arriving at Ceres in another hour or so, she knew.
    It took nearly twenty minutes before his face appeared on her wallscreen: 
smolderingly handsome without the beard, his chin firm and hard, his eyes icy 
blue, intent.
    "I know you can't reply to this before you land," she said to Harbin's 
image. "But I wanted to wish you good luck and tell you that... well, I'm 
counting the minutes until you get back here to me."
    She took a deliberate breath, then added, "I've made arrangements with the 
HSS people at Ceres. The drugs you need will be there, waiting for you."
    Verwoerd cut the connection. The screen went dark. Only then did she smile. 
Keep him personally bound to you, she told herself. Use his weaknesses; use his 
strengths. He's going to be very valuable, especially if you ever have to 
protect yourself from Martin.
    She turned and studied her reflection in the mirror on the far wall of her 
office. Delilah, she said to herself, and laughed.
    "So whattawe do now?" George asked as he, Fuchs and Nodon made their way 
down the power stairs.
    Fuchs shook his head miserably. "I don't know. This hearing was a farce. The 
IAA has given Humphries a free hand to do whatever he wants."
    "Looks that way," George agreed, scratching at his beard.
    Nodon said nothing.
    "Amanda," Fuchs said. "I must tell her what's happened. I must tell her that 
I've failed."
 
Harbin looked over the eight men that had been assigned to his command. A ragtag 
bunch, at best. Roughnecks, hoodlums, petty thugs. Not one of them had a scrap 
of combat training or true military discipline. But then, he remembered, this 
isn't really a military operation. It's a simple theft, nothing more.
    He had spent the high-g flight from Selene studying the plan and background 
information Diane had given him, but he had expected reliable men to work under 
him, not a gaggle of hooligans. Steeling himself to his task, Harbin silently 
repeated the mantra that the workman does not blame his tools, and the warrior 
must fight with what he has at hand. The first task is to instill these morons 
with some purpose other than cracking skulls and making money.
    Harbin assumed that none of the louts assigned to him gave a damn about what 
had happened to the hotheaded Tracy Buchanan, but the doctrine that his old 
sergeant had drilled into him asserted that it was beneficial to a unit's 
cohesion and teamwork to build group solidarity in any way possible.
    So he said to them, "You remember what that man Fuchs did to Trace 
Buchanan?" It was purely a rhetorical question.
    They nodded unenthusiastically. Buchanan had been a bully and a fool; he did 
not have friends, only associates who were afraid to make him angry. None of 
them mourned the late Mr. Buchanan.
    But Harbin felt he had to whip up some enthusiasm among his eight 
underlings. He had brought them together in the cramped little office at the HSS 
warehouse: eight men who had been flown to Ceres specifically because they could 
follow orders and weren't strangers to mayhem.
    "Okay," Harbin told them. "Tonight we even the score. Tonight we hit Fuchs's 
warehouse and clean it out once and for all."
    "I got a better idea," said Santorini.
    Harbin felt the old anger simmering inside him. Santorini had the 
intelligence of a baboon. "What is it?"
    "You wanna get even with Fuchs, why don't we do his wife?"
    The others all grinned at the thought.
    Are these the best that Diane could hire? Harbin asked himself. Or did 
somebody in her office merely scrape a few barroom floors and send these 
specimens here to Ceres?
    "Our orders are to leave her strictly alone," he said sharply. "Those orders 
come from the top. Don't even go near her. Understand? Anybody who even looks in 
her direction will be in deep shit. Is that clear?"
    "Somebody up there likes her," one of the lunks said.
    "Somebody up there's got the hots for her," agreed the goon next to him.
    Harbin snarled, "That somebody will fry your testicles and then feed them to 
you in slices if you don't follow orders. Our job is to hit the warehouse. We go 
in, we do the job, and then we leave. If we do it right you can all go back to 
Earth with a big fat bonus in our accounts."
    "Plenty of slash back home."
    "Yeah, 'specially if you got money."
    Harbin let them think about how they were going to enjoy their bonuses. Get 
them away from thinking about Fuchs's wife. Diane had been very specific about 
that. She is not to be harmed or even threatened. Not in any way, shape, or 
form.
    The warehouse was something else.
 
"Where the hell have you been?" Humphries snapped.
    Verwoerd allowed herself a small smile. "I took a long lunch. A victory 
celebration."
    "The whole damned afternoon?"
    Humphries was sitting in the mansion's dining room, alone at one end of the 
long rosewood table, the remains of his dinner before him. He did not invite his 
assistant to sit down with him.
    "I expected you here as soon as the hearing ended."
    "You got the news without me," she said coolly. "In fact, you knew how the 
hearing would turn out before it ever started, didn't you?"
    His frown deepened. "You're pretty damned sassy this evening."
    "Fuchs is on his way back to Ceres," she said. "By the time he gets there he 
won't have a warehouse. His company will be broke, he'll be ruined, and you'll 
be king of the Asteroid Belt. What more do you want?"
    She knew what he wanted. He wanted Amanda Cunningham Fuchs. For that, 
though, it won't be enough to ruin Fuchs, she thought. We'll have to kill the 
man.
    Humphries's frown dissolved slowly, replaced by a sly smile. "So," he asked, 
"what are you doing for sex now that you've sent your soldier boy off to Ceres?"
    Verwoerd tried to keep the surprise off her face. The sneaking bastard has 
been keeping me under surveillance!
    "You bugged his quarters," she said coldly.
    Grinning, Humphries said, "Would you like to see a replay?"
    It took her a moment to get her emotions under control.
    Finally she managed to say, "He's an interesting man. He quotes Persian 
poetry."
    "In bed."
    Still standing, Verwoerd stared down at him for a long moment, then conceded 
the point with a curt nod, thinking, He probably has my apartment bugged, too! 
Does he know about Bandung Associates?
    But Humphries seemed more amused than annoyed. "I have a proposition for 
you."
    Guardedly, she asked, "What kind of a proposition?"
    "I want you to bear my child."
    She could feel her eyes go round. "What?"
    Laughing, Humphries leaned back in the cushioned dining room chair and said, 
"You won't go to bed with me, the least you can do is carry my child for me."
    She pulled out the chair closest to her and sank slowly into it.
    "What are you saying?" she asked.
    Almost offhandedly, Humphries said, "I've decided to have a child. A son. My 
medical experts are picking the best possible egg cells for me to inseminate. 
We're going to clone me. My son will be as close to me as modern biological 
science can make him."
    "Human cloning is outlawed," Verwoerd murmured.
    "In most nations on Earth," Humphries conceded. "But even on Earth there are 
places where a man of means can have himself cloned. And here in Selene, 
wellwhy not?"
    Another little Martin Humphries, Verwoerd thought. But she said nothing.
    "The cloning procedure is still a bit dicey," he went on, as casually as a 
man discussing the stock market, "but my people should be able to produce some 
viable fertilized eggs and get a few women to carry them."
    "Then why do you want me?"
    He waved a hand. "You're a very good physical specimen; you ought to make a 
good home for my clone. Besides, it's rather poetic, don't you think? You won't 
have sex with me, but you'll bear my son. That boy-toy of yours isn't the only 
one with a poetic soul."
    "I see," Verwoerd said, feeling slightly numbed by his cheerful arrogance.
    "What I need is several wombs to carry the zygotes to term. I've decided 
you'd be perfect for the job. Young, healthy, and all that."
    "Me."
    "I've gone through your medical records and your family history," Humphries 
said. "You might say that I know you inside out."
    She was not amused.
    "You carry my son to term," he said, his smile fading, his tone more 
commanding. "You'll get a very sizable bonus. I'll even transfer a couple more 
of my asteroids to your Bandung Associates."
    The pit of her stomach went hollow.
    "Did you think you could embezzle three very profitable asteroids from me 
without my finding out about it?" Humphries asked, grinning with satisfaction.
    Verwoerd knew it was hopeless. She felt glad that she had Dorik on her side.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 37
 
    As they pulled up their convoy of four minitractors to the entrance of the 
Helvetia warehouse, Harbin saw that there were only two people on duty there, 
and one of them was a woman, gray-haired and grandmotherly, but with a hard, 
scowling face. She was stocky, stumpy, built like a weight-lifter.
    "What do you guys want?" she demanded as Harbin got down from the lead 
tractor.
    "Don't give us a hard time, grandmother," he said gently. "Just relax and do 
what you're told."
    A face-to-face job like this was far different from shooting up spacecraft 
in the dark emptiness of the Belt. That was like a game; this was blood. Be 
still, he commanded silently. Don't make me kill you. But he felt the old rage 
building up inside him: the manic fury that led to death.
    "What are you doing here?" the woman repeated truculently. "Who the hell are 
you assholes?"
    Working hard to keep his inner rage under control, Harbin waved his 
undisciplined team into the Helvetia warehouse. They all wore breathing masks, 
nothing unusual in the dusty tunnels of Ceres. They also wore formfitting shower 
caps that had been ferried in all the way from Earth; with the caps on, no one 
could see a man's hair color or style. Harbin also made certain none of his crew 
had any name tags or other identification on themselves. If Tracy Buchanan had 
taken that simple precaution he would undoubtedly still be alive now, Harbin 
thought.
    "What's this goddam parade of tractors for?" the woman demanded.
    She was wearing a breathing mask, too. So was the skinny kid standing a few 
paces down the shadowy aisle of tall shelves.
    "We're here to empty out your warehouse," Santorini said, strutting up to 
her.
    "What the hell do you mean?" the woman asked angrily, reaching for the phone 
console.
    Santorini swatted her to the floor with a backhand smack. The kid back in 
the stacks threw up his hands in the universal sign of surrender.
    "Come on," Santorini said, waving to the rest of them.
    Harbin nodded his approval. They started to move in. The kid stood 
absolutely still, frozen in terror from the look on his ashen face. Santorini 
kicked him in the stomach so hard he bounced off the shelving and collapsed 
groaning to the floor.
    "How's that for martial arts?" Santorini shouted over his shoulder as the 
others revved up the minitractors and trundled into the warehouse, raising 
billows of black dust.
    Swaggering little snot, Harbin thought, looking at the woman Santorini had 
knocked down. Her lip was bloody, but the look in her eyes proclaimed pure 
malevolent fury. She struggled to her feet, then lurched toward the phone 
console.
    Harbin grabbed her by one shoulder. "Be careful, grandmother. You could get 
hurt."
    The woman growled and swung her free fist into Harbin's temple. The blow 
surprised more than hurt him, but it triggered his inner anger.
    "Stop it," he snarled, shaking her.
    She aimed a kick at his groin. Harbin twisted sideways to catch it on his 
hip but it still hurt. Without thinking he slid the electro-dagger out of its 
sheath on his wrist and slit her throat.
    The old woman gurgled blood and collapsed to the floor like a sack of wet 
cement.
    Fuchs's black mood of frustration and anger deepened into an even darker pit 
of raging fury as he and Nodon boarded the Astro Corporation ship Lubbock Lights 
bound for Ceres. They had said a lingering goodbye to George at the Pelican Bar 
the night before.
    "I'll be back at the Belt as soon's me arm grows back," George had promised 
several times, over many beers.
    Pancho had bought all their rounds, drinking with them in gloomy 
comradeship.
    Now, with a thundering headache and a towering hatred boiling inside him, 
Fuchs faced the four-day journey back to Ceres with the exasperation of a caged 
jungle beast.
    When the message came in from Amanda he nearly went berserk.
    He was in his privacy compartment, a cubicle barely large enough to hold a 
narrow cot, trying to sleep. Each time he closed his eyes, though, he saw Martin 
Humphries sneering at him. And why not? Fuchs raged at himself. He has gotten 
away with murder. And piracy. No one can stop him; no one will even stand up to 
him except me, and I'm powerless: a pitiful, impotent, useless fool.
    For hours he tossed on the cot, clad only in a pair of shorts, sweating, his 
hair matted, his jaw stubbled with a two-day growth of beard. Stop this 
fruitless nonsense! he raged at himself. It's useless to pound your head against 
a wall. Think! Prepare! If you want revenge on Humphries you must out-think him, 
you must make plans that are crystal clear, a strategy that will crush him once 
and for all. But each time he tried to think clearly, logically, his anger rose 
like a tide of red-hot lava, overwhelming him.
    The phone buzzed. Fuchs sat up on the cot and told the computer to open the 
incoming message.
    Amanda's face filled the screen on the bulkhead at the foot of the cot. She 
looked tense, even though she tried to smile.
    "Hello, dear," she said, brushing at a stray lock of hair that had fallen 
across her forehead. "I'm fine, but they've looted the warehouse."
    "What? Looted?"
    She couldn't hear or see him, of course. She had sent the message a good 
fifteen minutes earlier.
    "They killed Inga. Out of pure bloodthirsty spite, from what Oscar told me. 
You remember him, Oscar Jiminez. He's the young boy I hired to help handle the 
stock."
    She's terrified, Fuchs realized, watching the lines of strain on her face, 
listening to her ramble on.
    "They came in during the night shift, when only Inga and Oscar were there, 
about nine or ten of them, according to Oscar. They beat him and slit Inga's 
throat. The man who did it laughed about it. Then they emptied the warehouse. 
Every box, every carton, every bit of stock we had. It's all gone. All of it."
    Fuchs's teeth were grinding together so furiously his jaw began to ache. 
Amanda was trying hard to keep from crying.
    "I'm perfectly fine," she was saying. "This all happened late last night. 
The morning shift found Inga on the floor in a pool of blood and Oscar tied and 
gagged all the way in the rear of the warehouse. Andand that's the whole story. 
I'm all right, no one's bothered me at all. In fact, everyone seems to be very 
protective of me today." She brushed at her hair again. "I suppose that's all 
there is to say, just at this moment. Hurry home, darling. I love you."
    The screen went blank. Fuchs pounded a fist against the unyielding bulkhead 
and roared a wordless howl of frustration and rage.
    He leaped off the cot and ripped open the flimsy sliding door of his 
cubicle. Still clad in nothing but his shorts he stormed up the ship's 
passageway to the bridge.
    "We must get to Ceres as fast as possible!" he shouted to the lone crewwoman 
sitting in the command chair.
    Her eyes popped wide at the sight of him.
    "Now! Speed up! I have to get to Ceres before they murder my wife!"
    The woman looked at Fuchs as if he were a madman, but she summoned the 
captain, who came onto the bridge wrapped in a knee-length silk robe, rubbing 
sleep from his eyes.
    "My wife is in danger!" Fuchs bellowed at the captain. "We must get to Ceres 
as quickly as possible!"
    It was maddening. Fuchs babbled his fears to the captain, who finally 
understood enough to put in a call to IAA mission control for permission to 
increase the ship's acceleration. It took nearly half an hour for a reply to 
come back from IAA headquarters on Earth. Half an hour while Fuchs paced up and 
down the bridge, muttering, swearing, wondering what was happening at Ceres. The 
captain suggested that they both put on some clothes, and went back to his 
quarters. Nodon appeared, then left without a word and returned minutes later 
carrying a pair of coveralls for Fuchs.
    Tugging them on and sealing the Velcro closures, Fuchs asked the crewwoman 
to open a communications channel to Ceres. She did so without hesitation.
    "Amanda," he said, "I'm on the way. We are asking for permission to 
accelerate faster, so I might be able to reach you before our scheduled arrival 
time. I'll let you know. Stay in your quarters. Ask some of the people who work 
for us to act as guards at your door. I'll be there as soon as I can, darling. 
As soon as I can."
    By the time the captain returned to the bridge, face washed, hair combed, 
and wearing a crisp jumpsuit with his insignia of rank on the cuffs, the answer 
arrived from IAA control.
    Permission denied. Lubbock Lights will remain at its current velocity vector 
and arrive at Ceres in three and a half more days, as scheduled.
    Trembling, Fuchs turned from the robotlike IAA controller's image on the 
screen to the uniformed captain.
    "I'm sorry," said the captain, with a sympathetic shrug of his shoulders. 
"There's nothing I can do."
    Fuchs stared at the man's bland, scrubbed face for half a moment, then 
smashed a thundering right fist into the captain's jaw. His head snapped back 
and blood flew from his mouth as he buckled to the deck. Turning on the 
gape-mouthed crew woman, Fuchs ordered, "Maximum acceleration. Now!"
    She glanced at the unconscious captain, then back at Fuchs. "But I can't"
    He ripped an emergency hand torch from its clips on the bulkhead and 
brandished it like a club. "Get away from the controls!"
    "But"
    "Get out of that chair!" Fuchs bellowed.
    She jumped to her feet and stepped sideways, slipping along the curving 
control panel, away from him.
    "Nodon!" Fuchs called.
    The young Asian stepped through the open hatch. He glanced nervously at the 
captain lying on the deck, then at the frightened crewwoman.
    "See that no one enters the bridge," Fuchs said, tossing the hand torch to 
him. "Use that on anyone who tries to get in here."
    Nodon gestured the woman toward the hatch as Fuchs sat in the command chair 
and studied the control board. Not much different from Starpower or the other 
vessels he'd been on.
    "What about the captain?" the crewwoman asked. He was groaning softly, his 
legs starting to move a little.
    "Leave him here," said Fuchs. "He'll be all right."
    She left and Nodon swung the hatch shut behind her.
    "Lock it," Fuchs ordered.
    The captain sat up, rubbed at the back of his neck, then looked up blearily 
at Fuchs sitting at the controls.
    "What the hell do you think you're doing?" the captain growled.
    "I'm trying to save my wife's life," Fuchs answered, pushing the ship's 
acceleration to its maximum of one-half normal Earth gravity.
    "This is piracy!" the captain snapped.
    Fuchs swung around in the command chair. "Yes," he said tightly. "Piracy. 
There's a lot of it going around, these days."
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 38
 
    "He's what?" Hector Wilcox did not believe his ears.
    Zar looked stunned as he repeated, "He's taken over the Lubbock Lights. He's 
accelerating at top speed to Ceres. Our flight controllers have ordered him to 
cease and desist, but he's paying no attention to them."
    Wilcox sagged back in his desk chair. "By god, the man's committed an act of 
piracy."
    "It would seem so," Zar agreed cautiously. "According to our people on 
Ceres, someone broke into Fuchs's warehouse and cleaned out everything. They 
murdered one of the people working there. A woman."
    "His wife?"
    "No, an employee. But you can understand why Fuchs wants to reach Ceres as 
quickly as he can."
    "That doesn't justify piracy," Wilcox said sternly. "As soon as he arrives 
at Ceres, I want our people there to arrest him."
    Zar blinked at his boss. "They're only flight controllers, not policemen."
    "I don't care," Wilcox said sternly. "I won't have people flouting IAA 
regulations. This is a matter of principle!"
    Diane Verwoerd had spent most of the morning combing her apartment for bugs. 
She found none, which worried her. She felt certain that Humphries had bugged 
her place; how else would he know what she was doing? Yet she could find no 
hidden microphones, no microcameras tucked in the ventilator grills or anywhere 
else.
    Could Martin have been guessing about Bandung Associates? She had thought 
she'd covered her trail quite cleverly, but perhaps naming her dummy corporation 
after the city in which her mother had been born wasn't so clever, after all.
    Whatever, she decided. Martin knows that I've winkled him out of several 
choice asteroids and he's willing to let that passif I carry his cloned baby 
for him.
    She shuddered at the thought of having a foreign creature inserted into her 
womb. It's like the horror vids about alien invaders we watched when we were 
kids, she thought. And she had heard dark, scary stories about women who carried 
cloned fetuses. It wasn't like carrying a normal baby. The afterbirth bloated up 
so hugely that it could kill the woman during childbirth, they said.
    But the rational part of her mind saw some possible advantages. Beyond the 
monetary rewards, this could put me in a position of some power with Martin 
Humphries, she told herself. The mother of his clone. That puts me in a rather 
special position. A very special position, actually. I might even gain a seat on 
his board of directors, if I play my cards well.
    If I live through it, she thought, shuddering again.
    Then she thought of Harbin. Beneath all that steely self-control was a 
boiling hot volcano, she had discovered. If I play him correctly, he'll sit up 
and roll over and do any other tricks I ask him to perform. A good man to have 
at my side, especially if I have to deal with Martin after the baby is born.
    The baby. She frowned at the thought, wondering, Should I tell Dorik about 
it? Eventually, I'll have to. But not now. Not yet. He's too possessive, too 
macho to accept the fact that I'll be carrying someone else's baby while I'm 
letting him make love to me. I'll have to be very careful about the way I handle 
that little bit of news.
    She walked idly through her apartment, thinking, planning, staring at the 
walls and ceilings as if she could make the electronic bugs appear just by sheer 
willpower. Martin's snooping on me. She felt certain of it. He certainly got his 
jollies watching me do it with Dorik.
    With a reluctant sigh she decided she would have to call in some expert help 
to sweep the apartment. The trouble is, she told herself, all the experts I know 
are HSS employees. Can I get them to do the job right?
    Then she thought of an alternative. Doug Stavenger must know some experts 
among Selene's permanent population. I'll ask Stavenger to help me.
 
Both of the IAA flight controllers were waiting at the cave that served as a 
reception area at Ceres's spaceport when Fuchs returned. He had left Lubbock 
Lights in orbit around the asteroid, turned the ship back to its captain, and 
ridden a shuttlecraft down to the surface. The two controllers left their posts 
in the cramped IAA control center and went to the reception area to meet him.
    As Fuchs stepped out of the pressurized tunnel that connected the 
shuttlecraft to the bare rock cave, the senior controller, a thirtyish woman of 
red hair and considerable reputation among the men who frequented the Pub, 
cleared her throat nervously and said:
    "Mr. Fuchs, the IAA wants you to turn yourself in to the authorities to face 
a charge of piracy."
    Fuchs ignored her and started for the tunnel that led to the underground 
living quarters. She glanced at her partner, a portly young man with a round 
face, high forehead, and long ponytail hanging halfway down his back. They both 
started after Fuchs.
    He said, "Mr. Fuchs, please don't make this difficult for us."
    Kicking up clouds of dark gray dust as he shuffled into the tunnel, Fuchs 
said, "I will make it very easy for you. Go away and leave me alone."
    "But, Mr. Fuchs"
    "I have no intention of turning myself in to you or anyone else. Leave me 
alone before you get hurt."
    They both stopped so short that swirling clouds of dust enveloped them to 
their knees. Fuchs continued shambling down the tunnel, heading for his quarters 
and his wife.
    He was no longer the raging, bellowing puppet yanked this way and that by 
strings that Martin Humphries controlled. His fury was still there, but now it 
was glacially cold, calm, calculating. He had spent the hours in transit to 
Ceres calculating, planning, preparing. Now he knew exactly what he had to do.
    There was no guard at his door. Hands trembling, Fuchs slid it open. And 
there was Amanda sitting at the work desk, her eyes wide with surprise.
    "Lars! No one told me you had arrived!" She jumped out of her chair and 
threw her arms around his neck.
    "You're all right?" he asked, after kissing her. "No one has tried to harm 
you?"
    "I'm fine, Lars," she said. "And you?"
    "I've been charged with piracy by the IAA. They probably want me to turn 
around and return to Selene for a trial."
    She nodded gravely. "Yes, they sent me a message about it. Lars, you didn't 
need to take over the ship. I'm quite all right."
    Despite everything, he grinned at her. Feeling her in his arms, most of his 
fears dissolved. "Yes," he breathed, "you're more than all right."
    Amanda smiled back at him. "The door's still open," she pointed out.
    He stepped away from her, but instead of closing the door, went to the desk. 
The wallscreen showed a form letter from their insurance carrier. Fuchs scanned 
it as far as the line telling them that their policy had been terminated, then 
blanked the screen.
    "I've got to go to the warehouse," he said. "Nodon will be waiting there for 
me."
    "Nodon?" Amanda asked. "George's crewman?"
    "Yes," said Fuchs as he called up Helvetia's personnel file. "He was with us 
at the farce of a hearing in Selene."
    "I know."
    Looking up at her, he asked, "Which of these people witnessed Inga's 
murder?"
    "Oscar Jiminez," Amanda said, pulling up the room's other chair to sit 
beside him.
    "I must speak to him," Fuchs said. He got up from his chair and went to the 
door, leaving Amanda sitting there alone.
    Nodon was waiting for him at the warehouse. Feeling uneasy, irritable, Fuchs 
called Jiminez and two other Helvetia employees, both men, both young. When they 
all arrived at the warehouse's little office area, the place felt crowded and 
suddenly warm from the press of their bodies. Jiminez, skinny and big-eyed, 
stood between the two other men.
    "In a day or two," Fuchs told them, "we're going to the HSS warehouse and 
take back the material they stole from us."
    The men looked nervously at one another. "And we're going to administer 
justice to the men who murdered Inga," he added.
    "They've gone," Jiminez said, in a voice pitched high with tension.
    "Gone?"
    "The day after the raid on our warehouse," said one of the older men. "Nine 
HSS employees left on one of their ships."
    "Where is it bound?" Fuchs demanded. "Selene?"
    "We don't know. Maybe it's going to Earth."
    "We'll never get them once they reach Earth," Fuchs muttered.
    "They brought in another bunch on the ship that took them away," said the 
other man, a trim-looking welterweight with a military buzz cut and jewelry 
piercing his nose, both eyebrows and earlobes.
    "I suppose they are guarding the HSS warehouse," Fuchs said, glancing at 
Nodon, who remained silent, taking it all in.
    The young man nodded.
    "Very well, then," Fuchs said. He took a deep breath. "This is what we're 
going to do."
 
 
 
 
 
 
DOSSIER: JOYCE TAKAMINE
 
    "It's not what you know," he told her, time and again. "It's who you know."
    Joyce "graduated" from picking to helping run one of the big farm management 
companies. Armed with her degree in computer analysis, she had worked up the 
courage to ask the young man running the company's local office for a job. He 
offered to discuss the possibilities over dinner, in his mobile home. They ended 
the evening in his bed. She got the job and lived for the next two years with 
the young man, who constantly reminded her about "the great American know-who."
    When Joyce took his advice and left him for an older man who happened to be 
an executive with Humphries Space Systems, the young man was shocked and 
disillusioned.
    "But it's what you've been telling me to do all along," Joyce reminded him.
    "Yeah," he admitted, crestfallen. "I just didn't think you'd take my advice 
so literally."
    Joyce stayed with the executive only long enough to win a position at HSS's 
corporate offices in Selene. She left the tired old Earth at last, and moved to 
the Moon.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 39
 
    Two days passed.
    Amanda spent the time trying to find out what her husband was up to, to no 
avail. It was clear to her that Lars was planning something; he was putting 
together some scheme to fight back against Humphries. But he would not tell her 
a word of it.
    Lars is a different man, she knew. I hardly recognize him. He's like a caged 
animal, pacing, waiting, planning, looking for a way to break free. He's dead 
set on wreaking vengeance on the people who looted his warehouse and killed 
Inga, but he won't reveal his thinking to me.
    In bed he relaxed a little, but still he kept his own counsel. "The only law 
out here is the law we enforce for ourselves," he said in the darkness as he lay 
next to her. "If we don't fight back he'll turn us all into his slaves."
    "Lars, he's hired trained mercenaries. Professional killers," Amanda 
pleaded.
    "Scum," her husband answered. "I know how to deal with scum."
    "They'll kill you!"
    He turned to her, and she could feel the heat radiating from his body. 
"Amanda, my darling, they are going to kill me anyway. That's what he wants. 
Humphries wants me dead and he won't be satisfied until I'm killed and you're at 
his mercy."
    "But if you'd only"
    "Better for me to strike at him when and where he doesn't expect it," Fuchs 
said, reaching for her. "Otherwise, we just wait here like sheep ready to be 
slaughtered."
    "But what are you going to do? What do you"
    He silenced her with a finger on her lips. "Better that you don't know, my 
darling. You can't be any part of this."
    Then he made love to her ardently, furiously. She reveled in his passion, 
but she found that not even the wildest sex could divert him from his aim. He 
was going to attack HSS, attack Humphries, extract vengeance for the killings 
that had been perpetrated. He was going to get himself killed, she was certain.
    His singlemindedness frightened Amanda to the depths of her being. Nothing 
can move him a centimeter away from this, she realized. He's rushing toward his 
own death.
 
The morning of the third day she found an incoming message from IAA headquarters 
on Earth. A ship had been dispatched to Ceres, carrying a squad of Peacekeeper 
troops. Their assignment was to arrest Lars Fuchs and return him to Earth for 
trial on a charge of piracy.
    Fuchs smiled grimly when she showed him the message.
    "Piracy." He practically spat the word. "He destroys ships and loots and 
murders and they say I have no proof. Me they accuse of piracy."
    "Go with them," Amanda urged. "I'll go with you. You can tell them that you 
were in a state of emotional distress. Surely they'll understand"
    "With Humphries pulling the strings?" he snapped. "They'll hang me."
    It was hopeless, Amanda admitted.
    Fuchs sat in the empty Helvetia warehouse, going over his plan with Nodon.
    "It all hinges on the people you've recruited," he said.
    Nodon dipped his chin once in acknowledgment.
    The two men were sitting at the desk just off the entrance to the warehouse, 
in a pool of light from a single overhead fluorescent shining in the otherwise 
darkened cave. The shelves were empty. No one else was there. Beyond the 
entrance, the tunnel led in a slight downward slope toward the living quarters 
and life support equipment; in the other direction, to the HSS warehouse and the 
reception area where incoming personnel and freight arrived and outgoing flights 
departed.
    "You're certain these men are reliable?" Fuchs asked for the twelfth time 
that evening.
    "Yes," Nodon replied patiently. "Men and women both; most of them are from 
families I have known for many years. They are honorable persons and will do 
what you command."
    "Honorable," Fuchs murmured. Honor meant that a person would take your money 
and commit mayhem, even murder, to earn that pay. I'm hiring mercenary killers, 
he told himself. Just as Humphries has. To fight evil you have to do evil things 
yourself.
    "They understand what they must do?"
    Nodon allowed himself a rare smile. "I have explained it all to them many 
times. They may not speak European languages very well, but they understand what 
I have told them."
    Fuchs nodded, almost satisfied. Through Nodon he had hired six Asians, four 
men and two women. Pancho had allowed them to ride to Ceres on an Astro 
freighter, and now they waited aboard the half-finished habitat orbiting the 
asteroid. As far as Pancho or anyone else was concerned, they had been recruited 
to restart construction of the habitat. Only Fuchs and Nodonand the six 
themselvesknew better.
    "All right," Fuchs said, struggling against the surge of doubts and worries 
that churned in his guts. "At midnight, then."
    "Midnight," Nodon agreed.
    With a sardonic smile, Fuchs added, "We've got to get this over and done 
with before the Peacekeeper troops arrive."
    "We will," Nodon said confidently.
    Yes, Fuchs thought, this will be over and done with in a few hours, one way 
or the other.
 
The nearest thing to a restaurant on Ceres was the Pub, where mechanical food 
dispensers standing off in one corner offered packaged snacks and even 
microwavable full meals, of a sort.
    Fuchs made a point of taking Amanda out to dinner that night. The Pub was 
usually noisy but this particular evening the crowd was hushed; everyone seemed 
tense with expectation.
    That worried Fuchs. Had news of his planned attack leaked out? Humphries's 
people could be waiting for him; he could be leading his men into a trap. He 
mulled over all the possibilities as he picked listlessly at his dinner.
    Amanda watched him with worried eyes. "You haven't been eating right ever 
since you came back from Selene," she said, her tone more concerned than 
accusatory.
    "No, I suppose I haven't." He tried to make a careless shrug. "I sleep well, 
though. Thanks to you."
    Even in the dim lighting he could see her cheeks flush. "Don't try to change 
the subject, Lars." But she was smiling as she spoke.
    "Not at all. I merely"
    "Do you mind if I sit with you?"
    They looked up and saw Kris Cardenas holding a dinner tray in both hands.
    "No, of course not," said Amanda. "Do join us."
    Cardenas put her tray on their table. "The place is crowded tonight," she 
said as she sat on the vacant chair between them.
    "But awfully quiet," Amanda said. "It's as if everyone here is attending a 
funeral."
    "The Peacekeepers are due to arrive tomorrow," Cardenas said, jabbing a fork 
into her salad. "Nobody's happy with the thought."
    "Ah, yes," said Fuchs, feeling relieved. "That's why everyone is so morose."
    "They're worried it's the first step in a takeover," Cardenas said.
    "Takeover?" Amanda looked startled at the idea. "Who would take control of 
Ceres? The IAA?"
    "Or the world government."
    "The world government? They don't have any authority beyond geosynchronous 
Earth orbit."
    Cardenas shrugged elaborately. "It's their Peacekeepers that arrive 
tomorrow."
    "Looking for me," Fuchs said unhappily.
    "What do you intend to do?" Cardenas asked.
    Looking squarely at Amanda, Fuchs said, "I'm certainly not going to fight 
the Peacekeepers."
    Cardenas chewed thoughtfully for a few moments, swallowed, then said, "We 
did at Selene."
    Shocked, Amanda asked, "What are you suggesting, Kris?"
    "Nothing. Nothing at all. I'm just saying that six Peacekeeper troops in 
their nice little blue uniforms aren't enough to force you to go back Earthside 
with them, Lars. Not if you don't want to go"
    "You mean we should fight them?" Amanda said, her voice hollow with fright.
    Cardenas leaned closer and replied, "I mean that I could name a hundred, a 
hundred and fifty rock rats here who'd protect you against the Peacekeepers, 
Lars. You don't have to go with them if you don't want to."
    "But they're armed! They're trained soldiers!"
    "Six soldiers against half the population of Ceres? More than half? Do you 
think they'd fire on us?"
    Amanda looked at Fuchs, then back to Cardenas. "Wouldn't they just send more 
troops, if these six were turned away?"
    "If they tried that, I'm willing to bet that Selene would step in on our 
side."
    "Why would Selene?"
    "Because," Cardenas explained, "if the world government takes over Ceres, 
Selene figures they'll be next. They tried it once, remember."
    "And failed," Fuchs said.
    "There are still nutcases Earthside who think their government should 
control Selene. And every human being in the whole solar system."
    Fuchs closed his eyes, his thoughts spinning. He had never had the faintest 
inkling that Selene could become involved in his fight. This could lead to war, 
he realized. An actual war, bloodshed and destruction.
    "No," he said aloud.
    Both women turned toward him.
    "I will not be the cause of a war," Fuchs told them.
    "You'll surrender to the Peacekeepers tomorrow, then?" Cardenas asked.
    "I will not be the cause of a war," he repeated.
 
After dinner, Fuchs led Amanda back to their quarters. She leaned heavily on his 
arm, yawning drowsily.
    "Lord, I don't know why I feel so sleepy," she mumbled.
    Fuchs knew. He had worried, when Cardenas sat at their table, that he 
wouldn't be able to slip the barbiturate into his wife's wine. But he had gotten 
away with it, Kris hadn't noticed, and now Amanda was practically falling asleep 
in his arms.
    She was far too gone to make love. He helped her to undress; by the time she 
lay her head on the pillow she was peacefully unconsciousness.
    For a long time Fuchs gazed down at his beautiful wife, tears misting his 
eyes.
    "Good-bye, my darling," he whispered. "I don't know if I will ever see you 
again. I love you too much to let you risk your life for my sake. Sleep, my 
dearest."
    Abruptly he turned and left their apartment, carefully locking the door as 
he stepped out into the tunnel. Then he headed for the warehouse and his waiting 
men.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 40
 
    Oscar Jiminez was clearly worried as Fuchs led Nodon and four others of his 
employees up the tunnel toward the HSS warehouse.
    "There's only six of us," he said, his voice low and shaky as he shuffled 
along the dusty tunnel beside Fuchs. "I know it's after midnight, but they've 
probably got at least ten guys in the warehouse."
    Fuchs and Nodon carried hand lasers, fully charged. The others held clubs of 
asteroidal steel, pulled from the empty Helvetia warehouse shelves. All of them 
wore breathing masks to filter out the dust they were raising as they marched 
purposefully up the tunnel.
    "Don't worry," Fuchs assured him calmly. "You won't have to fight. If all 
goes as I've planned, there won't be a fight."
    "But then why"
    "I want you to identify the man who murdered Inga."
    "He won't be there," the teenager said. "They took off. I told you."
    "Perhaps. We'll see."
    "Anyway, they were wearing breathing masks and some kind of hats. I couldn't 
identify the guy if I saw him."
    "We'll see," Fuchs repeated.
    Fuchs stopped them at one of the safety hatches that stood every hundred 
meters or so along the tunnel. He nodded to one of the men, a life support 
technician, who pried open the cover of the hatch's set of sensors.
    Fuchs motioned his men through the open hatch as the technician fiddled with 
the sensors.
    "Got it," he said at last.
    An alarm suddenly hooted along the tunnel. Fuchs twitched involuntarily even 
though he had expected the blaring noise. The technician scurried through the 
hatch just before it automatically slammed shut.
    "Hurry!" Fuchs shouted, and he started racing up the tunnel.
    A half-dozen bewildered HSS men were out in the tunnel in front of the 
entrance to their warehouse, looking up and down as if searching for the source 
of the alarm. They were clad in light tan coveralls bearing the HSS logo; none 
of them wore breathing masks.
    "Hey, what's going on?" one of them yelled as he saw Fuchs and the others 
rushing toward them, raising billows of dust.
    Fuchs pointed his laser at them. It felt clumsy in his hand, yet reassuring 
at the same time.
    "Don't move!" he commanded.
    Five of the six froze in place. Two of them even raised their hands above 
their heads.
    But the sixth one snarled, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" and 
started to duck back inside the warehouse entrance.
    Quite deliberately, Fuchs shot him in the leg. The laser cracked once, and 
the man yowled and went down face-first into the dust, a smoking charred spot on 
the thigh of his coveralls. A part of Fuchs's mind marveled that there was no 
recoil from the laser, no smoke or smell of gunpowder.
    They herded the six men inside the warehouse, two of them dragging their 
wounded companion. Two more HSS men were at the desktop computer, trying to 
determine what was causing the alarm signal when all the life support systems 
were solidly in the green. Completely surprised, they raised their hands above 
their heads when Fuchs trained his laser on them.
    They looked disgruntled once they realized that they were prisoners. Fuchs 
made them sit on the floor, hands on their knees.
    Four minitractors were sitting just inside the warehouse entrance. Fuchs 
detailed four of his men to rev them up; then they went through the aisles, 
pulling down anything that looked as if it had come from the Helvetia warehouse 
and loading it onto the tractors.
    "There'll be a couple dozen more of our people on their way up here," said 
the man Fuchs had shot. He sat with his companions, both hands clutching his 
thigh. Fuchs could not see any blood seeping from his wound. The laser pulse 
cauterizes as it burns through the flesh, he remembered.
    "No one will come here," he said to the wounded man. "The alarm sounded only 
in this section of the tunnel. Your friends are sleeping peacefully in their 
quarters."
    Finally the laden tractors were parked out in the tunnel, heaped high with 
crates and cartons that bore the Helvetia imprint.
    "I think that's everything," said one of Fuchs's men.
    "Not quite," Fuchs said. Turning to Jiminez, he asked, "Do you recognize any 
of these men?"
    The youngster looked frightened. He shook his head. "They were wearing 
breathing masks, like I told you. And funny kind of hats."
    "This one, maybe?" Fuchs prodded the shoulder of the man he had shot.
    "I don't know!" Jiminez whined.
    Fuchs took a deep breath. "All right. Take the tractors back to our 
warehouse."
    Jiminez dashed out into the tunnel, plainly glad to get away.
    "You think you're going to get away with this?" the wounded man growled. 
"We're gonna break you into little pieces for this. We'll make you watch while 
we bang your wife. We're gonna make her"
    Fuchs wheeled on him and kicked him in the face, knocking him onto his back. 
The others scuttled away. Nodon shouted, "Don't move!" and leveled his laser at 
them.
    Frenzied with rage, Fuchs rushed to one of the storage bins lining the wall 
and yanked out a length of copper wire. Tucking his laser back into its belt 
pouch, he wrapped one end of the wire several times around the groaning, 
half-conscious man's neck, then dragged him toward the high stacks of shelving, 
coughing and sputtering blood from his broken teeth.
    The others watched, wide-eyed, while Fuchs knotted the wire at the man's 
throat, then tossed the other end of it around one of the slim steel beams 
supporting the shelving. He yanked hard on the wire and the wounded man shot up 
into the air, eyes bulging, both hands struggling to untie the wire cutting into 
his neck. He weighed only a few kilos in Ceres's light gravity, but that was 
enough to slowly squeeze his larynx and cut off his air.
    Blazing with ferocity, Fuchs whirled on the other HSS men, who sat in the 
dust staring at their leader thrashing, choking, his legs kicking, a strangled 
gargling inhuman sound coming from his bleeding mouth.
    "Watch!" Fuchs roared at them. "Watch! This is what happens to any man who 
threatens my wife. If any of you even looks at my wife I'll tear your guts out 
with my bare hands!"
    The hanging man's struggles weakened. He lost control of his bladder and 
bowels in a single burst of stench. Then his arms fell to his sides and he 
became still. The men on the floor stared, unmoving, openmouthed. Even Nodon 
watched in terrible fascination.
    "Come," Fuchs said at last. "We're finished here."
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 41
 
    Diane Verwoerd was in bed with Dorik Harbin when her phone buzzed and the 
wallscreen began blinking with priority message in bright yellow letters.
    She disentangled herself from him and sat up. "It's almost two," he 
grumbled. "Aren't you ever off-duty?"
    But Diane was already staring at the frightened face of her caller and 
listening to his breathless, almost incoherent words. Then the screen showed a 
man hanging by the neck, eyes bulging, tongue protruding from his mouth like an 
obscene wad of flesh. "Great god," said Harbin.
    Verwoerd slipped out of bed and began to get dressed. "I'll have to tell 
Martin about this personally. This isn't the kind of news you relay by phone."
    She found Humphries still awake and alone in the big mansion's game room.
    "We have troubles," she said as she entered the room. He was bent over the 
pool table, cue in hand. Humphries had spent many long hours learning how to 
shoot pool on the Moon. The one-sixth gravity only subtly affected the way the 
balls rolled or caromed. A visitor could play a few rounds and think nothing was 
different from Earth. That's when Humphries would offer a friendly wager on the 
next game.
    "Troubles?" he said, intent on his shot. He made it; the balls clicked and 
one of the colored ones rolled to a corner pocket and dropped neatly in. Only 
then did Humphries straighten up and ask, "What troubles?"
    "Fuchs raided the warehouse and killed one of the men there. Hanged him."
    Humphries's eyes widened. "Hanged him? By the neck?"
    "The others have quit," Verwoerd went on. "They want no part of this fight."
    He snorted disdainfully. "Cowardly little shits."
    "They were hired to bully people. They never thought that Fuchs would fight 
back. Not like this."
    "I suppose they expect me to pay for their transport back to Earth," 
Humphries groused.
    "There's more."
    He turned and stacked his cue in its rack. "Well? What else?"
    "Fuchs has stolen an Astro ship, the Lubbock Lights. He's left"
    "How the hell could he steal a ship?" Humphries demanded angrily.
    Verwoerd kept the pool table between them. "According to the captain"
    "The same limp spaghetti that allowed Fuchs to commandeer his ship on the 
way in to Ceres?"
    "The same man," Verwoerd replied. "He reported to the IAA that a half-dozen 
Asians boarded the ship under the pretense of loading ores. They were armed and 
took control of the ship. Then Fuchs came up from Ceres with another Oriental, 
apparently the man who was with him when he was here for the hearing. They 
packed the captain and regular crew into the shuttlecraft and sent them back 
down to Ceres."
    "Son of a bitch," Humphries said fervently.
    "By the time the Peacekeepers arrived, Fuchs was gone."
    "In one of Pancho's ships." He grinned. "Serves her right."
    Verwoerd pursed her lips, weighing the dangers of antagonizing him further 
against the pleasures of yanking his chain a little bit. "If possession is 
nine-tenths of the law," she said slowly, "then it's mostly his ship now, not 
Astro's."
    He glared at her, fuming. She kept her expression noncommittal. A smile now 
could set off a tantrum, she knew.
    He stood in angry silence for several long moments, face flushed, gray eyes 
blazing. Then, "So those pansies you hired to clean out Fuchs want to quit, do 
they?"
    "Actually, Grigor hired them," Verwoerd said. "And, yes, they want out. 
Fuchs made them watch while he hanged their leader."
    "And Amanda? She went with him?"
    With a shake of her head, Verwoerd answered, "No, she's still on Ceres. 
Apparently Fuchs's people took back most of the items that were looted from 
their warehouse."
    "He left her on Ceres? Alone?"
    "He hanged the man because he made some crack about her. Nobody's going to 
go near her, believe me."
    "I don't want anybody to go near her," Humphries snapped. "I want her left 
strictly alone. I've given orders about that!"
    "No one's harmed her. No one's threatened her."
    "Until this asshole opened his big mouth in front of Fuchs."
    "And he strung him up like a common criminal."
    Humphries leaned both hands on the rim of the pool table and hung his head. 
Whether he was overwhelmed with sorrow or anger or the burden of bad news, 
Verwoerd could not tell.
    At last he lifted his head and said crisply, "We need someone to go after 
Fuchs. Someone who isn't afraid of a fight."
    "But nobody knows where he's gone," Verwoerd said. "It's an awfully big 
area, out there in the Belt. He's not sending out a tracking beacon. He's not 
even sending telemetry data. The IAA can't find him."
    "He'll run out of fuel sooner or later," Humphries said. "He'll have to come 
back to Ceres."
    "Maybe," she said, uncertainly.
    Pointing a finger at her as if he were pointing a pistol,
    Humphries said, "I want somebody out there who can find him. And kill him. I 
want somebody who knows how to fight and isn't afraid of being shot at."
    "A professional soldier," Verwoerd said.
    Humphries smiled thinly. "Yes. Like your boy-toy."
    She had known from the moment she'd heard about Fuchs's actions that it 
would come down to this. "I agree," she said, keeping her voice even, 
emotionless. "Harbin would be perfect for this task. But..." She let the word 
dangle in the air between them.
    "But?" Humphries snapped. "But what?"
    "He'll want to be paid a lot more than he's been getting."
    He stared at her for a moment. "Are you representing him now? Are you his 
goddamned agent?"
    She made herself smile at him. "Let's just say that I know him a lot better 
than I did a few weeks ago."
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 42
 
    As they sped away from Ceres on Lubbock Lights, Fuchs familiarized himself 
with the crew that Nodon had recruited. Silent, blank-faced Asians, Mongols, 
descendents of Genghis Khan. They didn't look particularly ferocious; they 
looked more like kids, students, fugitives from some high-tech training school. 
But they apparently knew their way around a fusion-powered spacecraft.
    All the fusion ships were built along two or three basic designs, Fuchs 
knew. Lubbock Lights was a freighter, but now he had armed the vessel with three 
mining lasers taken from his own warehouse.
    Once they were well under way, accelerating through the belt at a lunar 
one-sixth g, Fuchs called his crew into the galley. The seven of them crowded 
the little space, but they stood respectfully before him, their dark eyes 
showing no trace of emotion.
    "You realize that we are outlaws now," he began, without preamble. "Pirates. 
There is no turning back."
    Nodon spoke up. "We will follow you, sir. For us there is no other choice."
    Fuchs looked from one face to another. Young, all of them. Some with facial 
tattoos, all of them pierced here and their with plain metal adornments. Already 
embittered by the way the world had treated them. Nodon had given him their 
backgrounds. They had all come from poor families who struggled to send their 
children to university where they could learn how to become rich. All six of 
them had studied technical subjects, from computer design to electrical 
engineering to environmental sciences. All six of them had been told, upon 
graduation, that there were no jobs for them. The world was crumbling, their 
home cities were being abandoned because of drought and disastrous storms that 
flooded the parched valleys and washed away the farmlands instead of nourishing 
them. All six of their families became part of the huge, miserable, starving 
army of the homeless, wandering the stark, bitter land, reduced to begging or 
stealing or giving up to die on the roadside.
    These are the statistics that I've read about, Fuchs realized. Ragged 
scarecrows who have lost their place in society, who have lost their families 
and their futures. The desperate ones.
    He cleared his throat and resumed, "One day, I hope, we will be able to 
return to Earth as wealthy men and women. But that day may never come. We must 
live as best as we can, and accept whatever comes our way."
    Nodon said gravely, "That is what each of us has been doing, sir, for more 
than a year. Better to be here and fight for our lives than to be miserable 
beggars or prostitutes, kicked and beaten, dying slowly."
    Fuchs nodded. "Very well, then. We will take what we need, what we want. We 
will not allow others to enslave us."
    Brave words, he knew. As Nodon translated them to the crew, Fuchs wondered 
if he himself truly believed them. He wondered which of these blank-faced 
strangers would turn him in for a reward. He decided that he would have to 
protect his back at all times.
    The Asians spoke among themselves in harsh whispers. Then Nodon said, "There 
is one problem, sir."
    "A problem?" Fuchs snapped. "What?"
    "The name of this ship. It is not appropriate. It is not a fortunate name."
    Fuchs thought, It's a downright silly name. Lubbock Lights. He had no idea 
who had named the ship or why.
    "What do you propose?" he asked.
    Nodon glanced at the others, then said, "That is not for us to say, sir. You 
are the captain; you must make the decision."
    Again, Fuchs looked from face to impassive face. Young as they were, they 
had learned to hide their feelings well. What's going on behind their masks? he 
wondered. Is this a test? What do they expect from me? More than a name for this 
ship. They're watching, judging, evaluating me. I'm supposed to be their leader; 
they want to see the quality of my leadership.
    A name for the ship. An appropriate, fortunate name.
    A single word escaped his lips. "Nautilus."
    They looked puzzled. At least I've broken their shell a little, Fuchs 
thought.
    He explained, "The Nautilus was a submarine used by its captain and crew to 
destroy evil ships and wreak vengeance on wrongdoers."
    Nodon frowned a little, then translated to the others. There was a little 
jabbering back and forth, but after a few moments they were all bobbing their 
heads in agreement. A couple of them even smiled.
    "Nautilus is a good name," said Nodon.
    Fuchs nodded. "Nautilus it will be, then." He had no intention of telling 
them that the vessel was fictional, or how itand its captaincame to their end.
    Amanda woke up with a headache throbbing behind her eyes. She turned and saw 
that Lars was not in bed with her. And the wall-screen showed seven messages 
waiting. Strange that there was no sound from the phone. Lars must have muted 
it, she thought.
    Sitting up in the bed, she saw that he was not in the one-room apartment. 
Her heart sank.
    "Lars," she called softly. There was no answer. He's gone, she knew. He's 
gone from me. For good, this time.
    The first message on the list was from him. Barely able to speak the 
command, her voice trembled so badly, she told the computer to put it on the 
screen.
    Lars was sitting at the desk in the warehouse, looking as grim as death. He 
wore an old turtleneck shirt, dead black, and shapeless baggy slacks. His eyes 
were unfathomable.
    "Amanda, my dearest," he said, "I must leave you. By the time you get this 
message I will be gone. There is no other way, none that I can see. Go to 
Selene, where Pancho can protect you. And no matter what you hear about me, 
remember that I love you. No matter what I have done or will do, I do it because 
I love you and I know that as long as you are near me your life is in danger. 
Good-bye, darling. I don't know if I'll ever see you again. Goodbye."
    Without realizing it, she told the computer to rerun his message. Then 
again. But by then she couldn't see the screen for the tears that filled her 
eyes.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
FOURTEEN MONTHS LATER
 
 
 
 
 
     
    CHAPTER 43
 
    She used her maiden name now: Amanda Cunningham. It wasn't that she wanted 
to hide her marriage to Lars Fuchs; everybody on Ceres, every rock rat in the 
Belt knew she was his wife. But ever since Fuchs had taken off into the depths 
of space, she had worked on her own to establish herself and to achieve her 
goals. She sold off Helvetia, Ltd., to Astro Corporation for a pittance. Pancho, 
for once, outmaneuvered Humphries and convinced the Astro board of directors 
that this was a bargain they could not refuse.
    "Besides," Pancho pointed out to the board, staring straight at Humphries 
across the table from her, "we should be competing out there in the Belt. It's 
where the natural resources are, and that's where the real wealth comes from."
    Glad to be rid of Helvetia, Amanda watched Pancho begin to develop the 
warehouse into a profitable facility for supplying, repairing and maintaining 
the ships that plied the Belt. She lived off the income from the Astro stock 
that she had acquired from the sale, and concentrated her efforts on another 
objective, one that had originally been Lars's goal: his idea of getting the 
rock rats to form some kind of government for themselves so they could begin to 
establish a modicum of law and order on Ceres. The independent-minded 
prospectors and miners had been dead-set against any form of government, at 
first. They saw laws as restrictions on their freedom; order as strangling their 
wild times when they put in at Ceres for R&R.
    But as more and more ships were attacked they began to understand how 
vulnerable they were. A war was blazing across the Belt, with HSS attacking the 
independents, trying to drive them out of the Belt, while Fuchs singlehandedly 
fought back against HSS ships, swooping out of nowhere to cripple or destroy 
them.
    In Selene, Martin Humphries howled with frustrated anger as his costs for 
operating in the Belt escalated over and again. It became increasingly expensive 
to hire crews to work HSS ships, and neither the IAA nor Harbin nor any of the 
other mercenaries that Humphries hired could find Fuchs and kill him.
    "They're helping him!" Humphries roared time and again. "Those goddamned 
rock rats are harboring him, supplying him, helping him to knock off my ships."
    "It's worse than that," Diane Verwoerd retorted. "The rock rats are arming 
their ships now. They're shooting backineptly, for the most part. But it's 
getting more dangerous out there."
    Humphries hired still more mercenaries to protect his ships and seek out 
Lars Fuchs. To no avail.
    The people who, like Amanda, actually lived on Ceresthe maintenance 
technicians and warehouse operators and shopkeepers, bartenders, even the 
prostitutesthey gradually began to see that they badly needed some kind of law 
and order. Ceres was becoming a dangerous place. Mercenary soldiers and outright 
thugs swaggered through the dusty tunnels, making life dangerous for anyone who 
got in their way. Both HSS and Astro hired "security" people to protect their 
growing assets of facilities and ships. Often enough the security people fought 
each other in the tunnels, the Pub, or the warehouses and repair shops.
    Big George Ambrose returned to Ceres, his arm regrown, with a contract to 
work as a technical supervisor for Astro.
    "No more mining for me," he told his friends at the Pub. "I'm a fookin' 
executive now."
    But he brawled with the roughest of them. Men and women alike began to carry 
hand lasers as sidearms.
    At last, Amanda got most of Ceres's population to agree to a "town meeting" 
of every adult who lived on the asteroid. Not even the Pub was big enough to 
hold all of them, so the meeting was held electronically, each individual in 
their own quarters, all linked through the interactive phone system.
    Amanda wore the turquoise dress she had bought at Selene as she sat at the 
desk in her quarters and looked up at the wallscreen. Down in the comm center, 
Big George was serving as the meeting's moderator, deciding who would talk to 
the group, and in which order. He had promised, at Amanda's insistence, that 
everyone who wanted to speak would get his or her turn. "But it's goin' t'be a 
bloody long night," he predicted.
    It was. Everyone had something to say, even though many of them repeated 
ideas and positions already discussed several times over. Through the long, long 
meetingsometimes strident, often boringAmanda sat and carefully listened to 
each and every one of them.
    Her theme was simple: "We need some form of government here on Ceres, a set 
of laws that we can all live by. Otherwise we'll simply have more and more 
violence until the IAA or the Peacekeepers or some other outside group comes in 
and takes us over."
    "More likely it'd be HSS," said a disgruntled-looking prospector, stuck on 
Ceres temporarily while his damaged ship was being repaired. "They've been 
trying to take us over for years now."
    "Or Astro," an HSS technician fired back.
    George cut them both off before an argument swallowed up the meeting. 
"Private debates can be held on another channel," he announced cheerfully, 
turning the screen over to the lean-faced, sharp-eyed Joyce Takamine, who 
demanded to know when the habitat was going to be finished so they could move up 
to it and get out of this dust-filled rathole.
    Amanda nodded sympathetically. "The habitat is in what was once called a 
Catch-22 situation," she replied. "Those of us who want it finished so we can 
occupy it, haven't the funds to get the work done. Those who have the fundssuch 
as Astro and HSShave no interest in spending them on completing the habitat."
    "Well, somebody ought to do something," Takamine said firmly.
    "I agree," said Amanda. "That's something that we could do if we had some 
form of government to organize things."
    Nearly an hour later, the owner of the Pub brought up the key question. "But 
how're we gonna pay for a government and a police force? Not to mention 
finishing the habitat. That'll mean we all hafta pay taxes, won't it?"
    Amanda was ready for that one. In fact, she was glad the man had brought it 
up.
    Noting that the message board strung across the bottom of her wallscreen 
immediately lit up from one end to the other, she said sweetly, "We will not 
have to pay taxes. The corporations can pay instead."
    George himself interjected the question everybody wanted to ask. "Huh?"
    Amanda explained, "If we had a government in place, we could finance it with 
a very small tax on the sales that HSS and Astro and any other corporation makes 
here on Ceres."
    It took a few seconds for George to sort out all the incoming calls and 
flash the image of a scowling prospector onto her wall-screen.
    "You put an excise tax on the corporations and they'll just pass it on to us 
by raising their prices."
    Nodding, Amanda admitted, "Yes, that's true. But it will be a very small 
rise. A tax of one percent would bring in ten thousand international dollars for 
every million dollars in sales."
    Without waiting for the next questioner, Amanda continued, "HSS alone 
cleared forty-seven million dollars in sales last week. That's nearly two and a 
half a billion dollars per year, which means a tax of one percent would bring us 
more than twenty-four million in tax revenue from HSS sales alone."
    "Could we finish the habitat on that kind of income?" asked the next caller.
    Amanda replied, "Yes. With that kind of assured income, we could get loans 
from the banks back on Earth to finish the habitat, just the same as any 
government secures loans to finance its programs."
    The meeting dragged on until well past one A.M., but when it was finished, 
Amanda thought tiredly that she had accomplished her objective. The people of 
Ceres were ready to vote to form some kind of a government.
    As long as Martin Humphries doesn't move to stop us, she reminded herself.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 44
 
    Lars Fuchs stood spraddle-legged behind the pilot's chair on the bridge of 
Nautilus, carefully studying the screen's display of what looked like an HSS 
freighter.
    According to the communications messages to and from the ship, she was the 
W. Wilson Humphries, the pride of Humphries Space Systems' growing fleet of ore 
carriers, named after Martin Humphries's late father. She was apparently loaded 
with ores from several asteroids, heading out of the Belt toward the Earth/Moon 
system.
    Yet Fuchs felt uneasy about approaching her. Fourteen months of hiding in 
the Belt, of taking his supplies and fuel from ships he captured, of sneaking 
quick visits aboard friendly independent ships now and then, had taught him 
wariness and cunning. He was leaner now, still built like a miniature bull but 
without a trace of fat on him. Even his face was harder, his square jaw more 
solid, his thin slash of a mouth set into a downturned scowl that seemed 
permanent.
    He turned to Nodon, who was handling the communications console on the 
bridge.
    "What's the traffic to and from her?" he asked, jabbing a thumb toward the 
visual display.
    "Normal telemetry," Nodon replied. "Nothing more at present."
    To the burly young woman in the pilot's chair Fuchs said, "Show me the plot 
of her course over the past six weeks." He spoke in her own Mongol dialect now; 
haltingly, but he was learning his crew's language. He did not want them to be 
able to keep secrets from him.
    One of the auxiliary screens lit up with thin, looping curves of yellow set 
against a sprinkling of green dots.
    Fuchs studied the display. If it was to be believed, that yellow line 
represented the course that the Humphries ship had followed over the past six 
weeks, picking up loads of ore at five separate asteroids. Fuchs did not believe 
it.
    "It's a fake," he said aloud. "If she'd really followed that plot she'd be 
out of propellant by now and heading for a rendezvous with a tanker."
    Nodon said, "According to their flight plan, they will increase acceleration 
in two hours and head inward to the Earth/Moon system."
    "Not unless they've refueled in the past few days," Fuchs said.
    "There is no record of that. No tankers in the vicinity. No other ships at 
all."
    Fuchs received brief snippets of intelligence information from the friendly 
ships he occasionally visited. Through those independent prospectors he arranged 
a precarious line of communications back to Ceres by asking them to tell Amanda 
what frequency he would use to make his next call to her. His calls were months 
apart, quick spurts of ultracompressed data that told her little more than the 
fact that he was alive and missed her. She sent similar messages back by tight 
laser beam to predesignated asteroids. Fuchs was never there to receive them; he 
left a receiving set on each asteroid ahead of time that relayed the message to 
him later. He had no intention of letting Humphries's people trap him.
    But now he felt uneasy about this supposed fat, dumb freighter. It's a trap, 
he heard a voice in his mind warning him. And he remembered that Amanda's latest 
abbreviated message had included a piece of information from Big George to the 
effect that Humphries's people were setting up decoy ships, "Trojan horses,"
    George called them, armed with laser weapons and carrying trained mercenary 
troops whose mission was to lure Fuchs into a fatal trap.
    "George says it's only a rumor," Amanda had said hastily, "but it's a rumor 
that you should pay attention to."
    Fuchs nodded to himself as he stared at the image of the ship on the display 
screen. Some rumors can save your life, he thought.
    To the woman piloting the ship he commanded, "Change course. Head back 
deeper into the Belt."
    She wordlessly followed his order.
    "We leave the ship alone?" Nodon asked.
    Fuchs allowed the corners of his mouth to inch upward slightly into a sour 
smile, almost a sneer. "For the time being. Let's see if the ship leaves us 
alone once we've turned away from it."
 
Sitting in the command chair on the bridge of W. Wilson Humphries, Dorik Harbin 
was also watching the display screens. He clenched his teeth in exasperation as 
he saw the ship that had been following them for several hours suddenly veer 
away and head back into the depths of the Belt.
    "He suspects something," said his second-in-command, a whipcord-lean 
Scandinavian with hair so light she seemed almost to have no eyebrows. She had a 
knack for stating the obvious.
    Wishing he were alone, instead of saddled with this useless crew of 
mercenaries, Harbin muttered, "Apparently."
    The crew wasn't useless, exactly. Merely superfluous. Harbin preferred to 
work alone. With automated systems he had run his old ship, Shanidar, by himself 
perfectly well. He could go for months alone, deep in solitude, killing when the 
time came, finding solace in his drugged dreaming.
    But now he had a dozen men and women under his command, his responsibility, 
night and day. Diane had told him that Humphries insisted on placing troops in 
his decoy ships; he wanted trained mercenaries who would be able to board 
Fuchs's ship and carry back his dead body.
    "I tried to talk him out of it," Diane whispered during their last night 
together, "but he won't have it any other way. He wants to see Fuchs's dead 
body. I think he might have it stuffed and mounted as a trophy."
    Harbin shook his head in wonder that a man with such obsessions could direct 
a deadly, silent war out here among the asteroids. Well, he thought, perhaps 
only a man who is obsessed can direct a war. Yes, he answered himself, but what 
about the men who do the fighting? And the women? Are we obsessed, too?
    What difference? What difference does any of it make? How did Kayyam put it?
 
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon Turns Ashesor it prospers; and anon, 
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty face Lighting a little Hour or twois gone.
 
What difference do our own obsessions make? They turn to ashes or prosper. Then 
they melt like snow upon the desert. What difference? What difference?
    He heard his second-in-command asking, "So what are we going to do? He's 
getting away."
    He said calmly, "Obviously, he doesn't believe that we're carrying ores back 
to Earth. If we turn around and chase him we'll simply be proving the point."
    "Then what do we do?" the Scandinavian asked. The expression on her bony, 
pale face plainly showed that she wanted to go after the other ship.
    "We continue to behave as if we are an ore-carrier. No change in course."
    "But he'll get away!"
    "Or come after us, once we've convinced him that we're what we pretend to 
be."
    She was clearly suspicious of his logic, but murmured, "We play cat and 
mouse, then?"
    "Yes," said Harbin, glad to have satisfied her. It didn't seem to matter to 
her which one of the two ships was the cat and which the mouse.
 
In Selene, Douglas Stavenger stood by his office window, watching the kids out 
in the Grand Plaza soaring past on their plastic wings. It was one of the 
thrills that could only be had on the Moon, and only in an enclosed space as 
large as the Grand Plaza that was filled with breathable air at normal Earthly 
pressure. Thanks to the light gravity, a person could strap wings onto her arms 
and take off to fly like a bird on nothing more than her own muscle power. How 
long has it been since I've done that? Stavenger asked himself. The answer came 
to him immediately: too blasted long. He chided himself, For a retired man, you 
don't seem to have much fun.
    Someone was prodding the council to allow him to build a golf course out on 
the floor of Alphonsus. Stavenger laughed at the idea, playing golf in space 
suits, but several council members seemed to be considering it quite seriously.
    His desk phone chimed, and the synthesized voice announced, "Ms. Pahang is 
here."
    Stavenger turned to his desk and touched the button that opened his door. 
Jatar Pahang stepped through, smiling radiantly.
    She was the world's most popular video star, "The Flower of Malaya," a tiny, 
delicate, exotic woman with lustrous dark eyes and long, flowing, midnight-black 
hair that cascaded over her bare shoulders. Her dress shimmered in the glareless 
overhead lights of Stavenger's office as she walked delicately toward him.
    Stavenger came around his desk and extended his hand to her. "Ms. Pahang, 
welcome to Selene."
    "Thank you," she said in a voice that sounded like tiny silver bells.
    "You're even more beautiful than your images on-screen," Stavenger said as 
he led her to one of the armchairs grouped around a small circular table in the 
corner of his office.
    "You are very gracious, Mr. Stavenger," she said as she sat in the chair. 
Her graceful frame made the chair seem far too large for her.
    "My friends call me Doug."
    "Very well. And you must call me Jatar."
    "Thank you," he said, sitting beside her. "All of Selene is at your feet. 
Our people are very excited to have you visit us."
    "This is my first time off Earth," she said. "Except for two vids we made in 
the New China space station."
    "I've seen those videos," Stavenger said, grinning.
    "Ah. I hope you enjoyed them."
    "Very much," he said. Then, pulling his chair a bit closer to hers, he 
asked, "What can I do, personally, to make your visit more . . . productive?"
    She glanced at the ceiling. "We are alone?"
    "Yes," Stavenger assured her. "No listening devices here. No bugs of any 
kind."
    She nodded, her smile gone. "Good. The message I carry is for your ears 
alone."
    "I understand," said Stavenger, also fully serious.
    Jatar Pahang was not only the world's most popular video star; she was also 
the mistress of Xu Xianqing, chairman of the world government's inner council, 
and his secret envoy to Stavenger and the government of Selene.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 45
 
    The art of governing, thought Xu Xianqing, is much like the art of playing 
the piano: never let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.
    It had been a long, treacherous road to the leadership of the world 
government. Xianqing had left many friends, even members of his own family, by 
the wayside as he climbed to the shaky pinnacle of political power. The precepts 
of K'ung Fu-Tzu had been his nominal moral guide; the writings of Machiavelli 
his actual handbook. During his years of struggle and upward striving, more than 
once he marveled inwardly that heor anyonebothered even to try. Why am I 
driven to climb higher and higher? he asked himself. Why do I take on such 
pains, such risks, such unending toil?
    He never found a satisfactory answer. A religious man might have concluded 
that he had been chosen for this service, but Xianqing was not a man of faith. 
Instead, he considered himself a fatalist, and reasoned that the blind forces of 
history had somehow pushed him to his present pinnacle of authority and power.
    And responsibility. Perhaps that was the true, ultimate answer. Xianqing 
understood that with the power and authority came responsibility. The planet 
Earth was suffering a cataclysm unmatched in all of human history. The climate 
was changing so severely that no one could cope with the sudden, disastrous 
floods and droughts. Earthquakes raged. Cities were drowned by rising waters. 
Farmlands were parched by shifting rainfall patterns, then washed away by savage 
storms. Millions had already died, and hundreds of millions more were starving 
and homeless.
    In many lands the bewildered, desperate people turned to fundamentalist 
faiths for help and strength. They traded their individual liberties for order 
and safety. And food.
    Yet, Xianqing knew, the human communities on the Moon and in the Asteroid 
Belt lived as if the travails of their brethren on Earth meant nothing to them. 
They controlled untold wealth: energy that Earth's peoples desperately needed, 
and natural resources beyond all that Mother Earth could provide its wretched 
and despairing children.
    The giant corporations sold fusion fuels and solar energy to the wealthy of 
Earth. They sold metals and minerals from the asteroids to those who could 
afford it. How can I convince them to be more generous, to be more helping? 
Xianqing asked himself every day, every hour.
    There was only one way that he could see: Seize control of the riches of the 
Asteroid Belt. The fools who plied that dark and distant region, the prospectors 
and miners and their corporate masters, were fighting among themselves. The 
ancient crime of piracy had reappeared out there among the asteroids. Murder and 
violence were becoming commonplace.
    The world government could send an expedition of Peacekeepers to Ceres to 
restore order, Xianqing thought. We could stop the mayhem and bring peace to the 
region. And thereby, we could gain control of those precious resources. The 
prospectors and miners would grumble, of course. The corporations would howl. 
But what could do they do in the face of a fait accompli? How could they protest 
against the establishment of law and peace along that murderous frontier?
    One thing barred such a prospect: Selene.
    The people of the lunar community had fought for their independence and won 
it. They would not sit back and allow the world government to seize the Asteroid 
Belt. Would they fight? Xianqing feared that they would. It would not be 
difficult for them to attack spacecraft that were launched from Earth. We live 
in the bottom of a gravity well, Xianqing knew. While our vessels fight their 
way into space, Selene could destroy them, one by one. Or worse yet, cut off all 
supplies of energy and raw materials from space. Earth would be reduced to 
darkness and impotence.
    No, direct military intervention in the Belt would be 
counterproductiveunless Selene could be neutralized.
    So, Xianqing decided, if I cannot be a conqueror, I will become a 
peacemaker. I will lead the effort to resolve the fighting in the Asteroid Belt 
and gain the gratitude of future generations.
    His first step was to contact Douglas Stavenger, in secret, through his 
beautiful mistress.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 46
 
    "This isn't going to work, Lars," said Boyd Nielson. Fuchs muttered, "That's 
my worry, not yours."
    "But some of those people down there are just construction workers," Nielson 
pleaded. "Some of them are friends of ours, for god's sake!"
    Fuchs turned away. "That can't be helped," he growled. "They shouldn't be 
working for Humphries."
    Nielson was an employee of Humphries Space Systems, commander of the ore 
freighter William C. Durant, yet he had been a friend of Fuchs's in the early 
days on Ceres, before all the troubles began. Fuchs had tracked the Durant as 
the ship picked its way from one asteroid to another, loading ores bound back to 
the Earth/Moon system. With a handful of his crew, Fuchs had boarded Nielsen's 
ship and taken it over. Faced with a half-dozen fierce-looking armed men and 
women, there was no fight, no resistance from Nielson or his crew. With its 
tracking beacon and all other communications silenced, Fuchs abruptly changed 
Durant's course toward the major asteroid Vesta.
    "Vesta?" Nielson had asked, puzzled. "Why there?"
    "Because your employer, the high-and-mighty Mister Martin Humphries, is 
building a military base there," Fuchs told him.
    Fuchs had heard the rumors in the brief flurries of communications he 
received from Amanda, back at Ceres. HSS people were building a new base on 
Vesta. More armed ships and mercenaries were going to use the asteroid as the 
base from which they would hunt down Lars Fuchs and kill him.
    Fuchs decided to strike them first. He ordered the compliant Nielson to 
contact Vesta and tell them that Durant had been damaged in a fight with Fuchs's 
ship and needed to put in for repairs.
    But now, as the two men stood at the command console on Durant's bridge and 
Nielson finally understood what Fuchs was going to do, he began to feel 
frightened. He was a lean, wiry redhead with a pointed chin and teeth that 
seemed a size too big for his jaw. Nielsen's crew were all locked in their 
privacy cubicles. Nodon and the other Asians were at the ship's controls. 
Nielson was not the nervous type, Fuchs knew, but as they approached Vesta he 
started to perspire visibly.
    "For the love of mercy, Lars," he protested.
    "Mercy?" Fuchs snapped. "Did they show mercy to Niles Ripley? Did they show 
mercy to any of the people in the ships they destroyed? This is a war, Boyd, and 
in a war there is no mercy."
    The asteroid looked immense in the bridge's main display screen, a massive 
dark sphere, pitted with numberless craters. Spreading across one of the biggest 
of the craters, Fuchs saw, was a tangle of buildings and construction equipment. 
Scorch marks showed where shuttlecraft had landed and taken off again.
    "Three ships in orbit," Fuchs noted, eyes narrowing.
    "Might be more on the other side, too," said Nielson.
    "They'll all be armed."
    "I imagine so." Nielson looked distinctly uncomfortable. "We could all get 
killed."
    Fuchs nodded, as if he had made a final calculation and was satisfied with 
the result.
    To Nodon, sitting in the pilot's chair, Fuchs said, "Proceed as planned."
    Turning to Nielson, "You should ask them for orbital parameters."
    Nielsen's left cheek ticked once. "Lars, you don't have to do this. You can 
get away, go back to your own ship, and no harm done."
    Fuchs glowered at him. "You don't understand, do you? I want to do harm."
 
Standing on the rim of the unnamed crater in his dustcaked spacesuit, Nguyan 
Ngai Giap surveyed the construction work with some satisfaction. Half a dozen 
long, arched habitat modules were in place. Front loaders were covering them 
with dirt to protect them against radiation and micrometeor hits. They would be 
ready for occupation on time, and he had already reported back to HSS 
headquarters at Selene that the troops could be sent on their way. The repair 
facilities were almost finished, as well. All was proceeding as planned.
    "Sir, we have an emergency," said a woman's voice in his helmet earphones.
    "An emergency?"
    "An ore freighter, the Durant, is asking permission to take up orbit. It 
needs repairs."
    "Durant? Is this an HSS vessel?" Giap demanded.
    "Yes, sir. An ore freighter. They say they were attacked by Fuchs's ship."
    "Give them permission to establish orbit. Alert the other ships up there."
    "Yes, sir."
    Only after he had turned his attention back to the construction work did 
Giap wonder how Durant knew of this facility. HSS vessel or not, this base on 
Vesta was supposed to be a secret.
 
"Freighter approaching," called the crewman on watch in Shanidar's bridge.
    Dorik Harbin hardly paid any attention. After the fruitless attempt to decoy 
Fuchs with the fake ore freighter, he had returned to the repaired and 
refurbished Shanidar, waiting for him in a parking orbit around Vesta. As soon 
as refueling was completed, Harbin could resume his hunt for Lars Fuchs. 
Shanidar's crew had been disappointed that they had put in at Vesta instead of 
Ceres, where they could have spent their waiting time at the asteroid's pub or 
brothel. Let them grumble, Harbin said to himself. The sooner we get Fuchs the 
sooner all of us can leave the Belt for good.
    He thought of Diane Verwoerd. No woman had ever gained a hold on his 
emotions, but Diane was unlike anyone he had ever known before. He had had sex 
with many women, but Diane was far more than a bedmate. Intelligent, 
understanding, and as sharply driven to get ahead in this world as Harbin was 
himself. She knew more about the intrigues and intricacies of the corporate 
world than Harbin had ever guessed at. She would be a fine partner in life, a 
woman who could stand beside him, take her share of the burden and then some. 
And the sex was good, fantastic, better than any drug.
    Do I love her? Harbin asked himself. He did not understand what love truly 
was. Yet he knew that he wanted Diane for himself, she was his key to a better 
world, she could raise him above this endless circle of mercenary killing that 
was his life.
    He also knew that he would never have her until he found this elusive madman 
Fuchs and killed him.
    "She's carrying a heavy load of ores," the crewman noticed.
    Harbin turned his attention to the approaching ore freighter in the display 
screen on his bridge. Damaged in a fight with Fuchs, her captain had said. But 
he could see no signs of damage. Maybe they're hidden by that pile of rocks 
she's carrying, he thought. More likely the frightened rabbit raced away from 
the first sign of trouble and scurried here for protection.
    Harbin's beard had grown thick again over the months he had been chasing 
Fuchs across the Belt. He scratched at it idly as a new thought crossed his 
mind. How did this ore freighter know that we are building a base here? It's 
supposed to be a secret. If every passing tugboat knows about it, Fuchs will 
hear of it sooner or later.
    What difference? Harbin asked himself. Even if he knows about it, what can 
he do? One man in one ship, against a growing army. Sooner or later we'll find 
him and destroy him. It's only a matter of time. And then I can return to Diane.
    As he watched the display screen, he noticed that the approaching freighter 
didn't seem to be braking into an orbit. Instead, it was accelerating. Rushing 
toward the asteroid.
    "It's going to crash!" Harbin shouted.
 
Maneuvering a spinning spacecraft with pinpoint accuracy was beyond the 
competence of any of Fuchs's people. Or of Nielsen's crew. But to the ship's 
computer it was child's play: simple Newtonian mechanics, premised on the first 
law of motion.
    Fuchs felt the ship's slight acceleration as Durant followed the programmed 
course. Standing spread-legged on the bridge, he saw the rugged, pitted surface 
of the asteroid rushing closer and closer. He knew they were accelerating at a 
mere fraction of a g, but as he stared at the screen it seemed as if the 
asteroid was leaping up toward them. Will we crash? he asked himself. What of 
it? came his own mind's answer. If we die that's the end of it.
    But as Durant accelerated silently toward the asteroid, its maneuvering jets 
fired briefly and the clamps holding nearly fifteen hundred thousand tons of 
asteroidal ores let go of their burden. The ship jinked slightly and slipped 
over the curve of the asteroid's massive dark rim, accelerating toward escape 
velocity. The jettisoned ores spread into the vacuum of space like a ponderous 
rock slide, pouring down slowly toward the crater where the HSS base was being 
built.
    In that vacuum, a body in motion stays in motion unless some outside force 
deflects it. In Vesta's minuscule gravity, the rocks actually weighed next to 
nothing. But their mass was still nearly fifteen hundred thousand tons. They 
fell gently, leisurely, toward the asteroid's surface, a torrent of death moving 
with the languid tumbling motion of a nightmare.
 
"Sir? Incoming call from Shanidar." The woman's voice in Giap's earphones 
sounded strained, almost frightened.
    Without waiting for him to tell her, she connected Harbin. "That ship is on 
a collision course withno, wait. It's released its cargo!"
    It was difficult to look up from inside the spacesuit helmet, but when Giap 
twisted his head back and slightly sideways, all he could see was a sky full of 
immense dark blobs blotting out the stars.
    He heard Harbin's tense, strained voice, "Break us out of orbit!"
    Then the ground jumped so hard he was blasted completely off his feet and 
went reeling, tumbling into an all-engulfing billow of black dust.
 
Aboard Shanidar, Harbin watched in horror as the rocks dropped ever-so-softly 
toward the construction site in the crater. The ore freighter was masked by them 
and heading over the curve of the asteroid's bulk. The men and women down in 
that crater were doomed, condemned to inexorable death.
    "Break us out of orbit!" he shouted to the woman in the pilot's chair.
    "Refueling isn't completed!"
    "Forget the mother-humping refueling!" he yelled. Pounding the intercom key 
on the console before him, he called to the crew, "Action stations! Arm the 
lasers! Move!"
    But he knew it was already too late.
    With nothing to impede their motion the landslide of rocks glided silently 
through empty space until they smashed into the surface of Vesta. The first one 
missed the buildings but blasted into the rim of the crater, throwing up a 
shower of rocky debris that spread leisurely across the barren landscape. The 
next one obliterated several of the metal huts dug halfway into the crater 
floor. Then more and more of them pounded in, raising so much dust and debris 
that Harbin could no longer see the crater at all. The dust cloud rose and 
drifted, a lingering shroud of destruction and death, slowly enveloping the 
entire asteroid, even reaching out toward his ship. Harbin unconsciously 
expected it to form a mushroom shape, as nuclear bombs did on Earth. Instead the 
cloud simply grew wider and darker, growing as if it fed on the asteroid's inner 
core. Harbin realized it would hang over the asteroid for days, perhaps weeks, a 
dark pall of death.
    By the time Shanidar had broken out of orbit, the ore freighter was long 
gone. The damnable dust cloud even interfered with Harbin's attempts to pick it 
up on a long-range radar sweep.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 47
 
    "He what?" Martin Humphries screamed.
    "He wiped out the base on Vesta," Diane Verwoerd repeated. "All fifty-two 
people on the surface were killed." Humphries sank back in his desk chair. He 
had been on the phone negotiating a deal to sell high-grade asteroidal 
nickel-iron to the government of China when she had burst into his office, 
tight-lipped and pale with shock. Seeing the expression on her face, Humphries 
had fobbed the Chinese negotiator off onto one of his underlings in Beijing as 
politely as possible, then cut the phone link and asked her what was the matter.
    "Wiped out the entire base?" he asked, his voice gone hollow. "One of our 
ships in orbit around Vesta got caught in the dust cloud and"
    "What dust cloud?" Humphries demanded irritably. Verwoerd sank into one of 
the chairs in front of his desk and explained as much as she knew of Fuchs's 
attack. Humphries had never seen her look so stunned, so upset. It intrigued 
him.
    "Fifty-two people killed," she murmured, almost as if talking to herself. 
"And the crew of the ship that was damaged by the dust cloud...four of them died 
when their life support system broke down."
    Humphries calmed himself, then asked, "And Fuchs got away?"
    "Yes," she said. "Harbin tried to give chase, but he was too low on fuel. He 
had to turn back."
    "So he's still out there, hatching more mischief."
    "Mischief?" She looked squarely at him. "This is more than mischief, Martin. 
This is a massacre."
    He nodded, almost smiled. "That's right. That's exactly what it was. A 
deliberate massacre."
    "You look as if you're pleased about it."
    "We can make it work in our favor," Humphries said.
    "I don't see"
    "Those rock rats have been helping Fuchs, giving him fuel and food, giving 
him information about our ships' schedules and destinations."
    "Yes," she said. "Obviously."
    "Somebody told him about the base on Vesta."
    "Obviously," Verwoerd repeated.
    "And now he's killed a couple of dozen of his own people. Rock rats. 
Construction workers. Right?"
    She took a deep breath, straightened up in the chair. "I see. You think 
they'll turn against him."
    "Damned right."
    "What if they turn against you?" Verwoerd asked. "What if they decide that 
working for HSS is too dangerous, no matter how good the pay?"
    "That's where we play our trump card," Humphries said. "Stavenger's been 
putting out feelers about arranging a peace conference. Apparently the world 
government's sticking its nose into the situation and Stavenger wants to head 
them off."
    "A peace conference?"
    "Humphries Space Systems, Astro, Selene . . . even the world government will 
send a representative. Slice up the Asteroid Belt neat and clean, so there's no 
more fighting."
    "Who'll represent the rock rats?"
    He laughed. "What do we need them for? This is strictly among the major 
players. The big boys."
    "But it's about them," Verwoerd countered. "You can't divide up the Asteroid 
Belt between HSS and Astro without including them."
    With a shake of his head, Humphries said, "You don't understand history, 
Diane. Back in the twentieth century there was a big flap in Europe over some 
country called Czechoslovakia. It doesn't even exist anymore. But at that time, 
Germany wanted to take it over. England and France met with the Germans in 
Munich. They decided what to do with Czechoslovakia. The Czechs weren't included 
in the conference. No need for them; the big boys parceled it all out."
    Verwoerd shot back, "And a year later all Europe was at war. I know more 
history than you think. You can't have a conference about parceling out the Belt 
without having the rock rats in on it."
    "Can't we?"
    "You'll be throwing them into Fuchs's arms!"
    Humphries frowned at that. "You think so?" he asked.
    "Of course."
    "H'mm. I hadn't thought of that. Maybe you're right."
    Verwoerd leaned toward him slightly. "But if you included the rock rats, got 
them to send a representative to the conference"
    "We'd be making them a party to the crime," Humphries finished for her.
    "And the only outsider, the only one who doesn't agree to the settlement, 
would be Fuchs."
    "Right!"
    "He'd be isolated," Verwoerd said. "Really alone. He'd have to give up. 
Nobody would help him and he'd be forced to quit."
    Humphries clasped his hands behind his head and leaned far back in his big, 
comfortable chair. "And he'd also have to face trial for killing all those 
people on Vesta. I love it!"
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 48
 
    Much to his surprise, George Ambrose was elected "mayor" of Ceres.
    His official title was Chief Administrator. The election came about once the 
inhabitants of Ceres reluctantly admitted that they needed some form of 
government, if only to represent them against the growing mayhem that was 
turning the Belt into a war zone. Fuchs's destruction of the Vesta base was the 
last straw; more than two dozen residents of Ceres had been killed in the 
attack.
    Amanda tried to distance herself from her estranged husband's offense by 
throwing herself into the drive to bring some form of law and order to Ceres. 
She worked tirelessly to craft a government, searching databases for months to 
find governmental organizations that might fit the needs of the rock rats. Once 
she had put together a proposed constitution, the rock rats grumbled and fussed 
and ripped it to shreds. But she picked up the pieces and presented a new 
document that addressed most of their complaints. With great reluctance, they 
voted to accept the new governmentas long as it imposed no direct taxes on 
them.
    Staffing the government was simple enough: there were enough clerks and 
technical supervisors on Ceres to handle the jobs. Many of them were delighted 
with the prospect of getting an assured salary, although Amanda made certain 
that each bureaucrat had to satisfy a strict performance review annually to hold 
onto the job.
    Then came the selection of a governing board. Seven people were chosen at 
random by computer from the permanent residents of Ceres. No one was allowed to 
refuse the "honor." Or the responsibility. Amanda was not selected by the 
computerized lottery, which disappointed her. George was, which disappointed him 
even more.
    At their first meeting, the board elected George their chief, over his 
grudging protests.
    "I won't fookin' shave," he warned them.
    "That's all right, George," said one of the young women on the board. "But 
could you just tone down your language a little?"
    Thus it was that Big George Ambrose, now the reluctant "mayor" of the rock 
rats, became their representative in the conference that took place at Selene, 
where he had once lived as a fugitive and petty thief.
    "I'm not goin' by meself," George insisted. "I'll need some backup."
    The governing board decided they could afford to send two assistants with 
George. His first real decision as the newly-elected Chief Administrator of 
Ceres was to pick the two people who would go with him. His first choice was 
easy: Dr. Kris Cardenas.
    As he tussled in his mind over who the other appointee should be, Amanda 
surprised him by volunteering for the post.
    She popped into his "office"actually nothing more than his everyday living 
quartersand told him that she wanted to be part of the delegation to Selene.
    "You?" George blurted. "How come?"
    Amanda looked away from his eyes. "I've done as much work to create this 
government as anyone. More, in fact. I deserve to go."
    George said warily, "This won't be a fookin' vacation, y'know."
    "I understand that."
    He offered her his best chair, but she shook her head and remained standing 
in the middle of his one-room residence. She seemed calm, and very determined. 
The place is pretty messy,
    George thought: bed's not made, plates in the sink. But Amanda simply stood 
there staring off into infinity, seeingwhat? George wondered.
    "Humphries is there, in Selene," he said.
    Amanda nodded, her face expressionless, frozen, as if she were afraid to 
show any emotion at all.
    "Lars won't like you goin'."
    "I know," she said, her voice almost a whisper. "I've thought it all out, 
George. I must go with you. But I don't want Lars to know. Please don't tell 
him."
    Scratching his beard, trying to sort out what she was saying, George asked, 
"How can I tell 'im? The only way I get any word to him is through you."
    "I've got to go with you, George," Amanda said, almost pleading now. "Don't 
you see? I've got to do whatever I can to put an end to this fighting. To save 
Lars before they find him and kill him!"
    George nodded, finally understanding. At least, he thought he did.
    "All right, Amanda. You can come with us. I'll be glad to have you."
    "Thank you, George," she said, smiling for the first time. But there was no 
happiness in it.
    Amanda had wrestled with her conscience for two days before asking George to 
let her go with him to Selene. She knew that Lars would not want her to be so 
near to Humphries, especially without him there to protect her. She herself did 
not fear Humphries any longer; she felt that she could handle him. Martin 
wouldn't hurt me, she told herself. Besides, George and Kris will be there to 
chaperone me.
    What worried her was Lars's reaction. He would be dead-set against her going 
to Selene, to Humphries's home territory. So, after two days of inner turmoil, 
Amanda decided to go. Without telling Lars.
 
A total of twenty-two ships made rendezvous above the ruined base on Vesta. The 
dust cloud from Fuchs's attack had finally settled, but Harbin could see nothing 
of the base, not even the crater in which it had been situated. It was all 
obliterated by a new set of overlapping craters, fresh, sharp, raw-looking 
circular scars on the asteroid's dark surface. They reminded Harbin of the scars 
left on sperm whales by the suckers of giant squids' tentacles.
    With no little bit of irony, Dorik Harbin considered his position as he 
stood on the bridge of Shanidar. A man who treasured his solitude, who had never 
wanted to be dependent on anyone else, now he was the commander of an entire 
fleet of spacecraft: attack ships, tankers, even surveillance drones that were 
spreading across the Belt seeking one infinitesimal speck in all that dark 
emptiness: Lars Fuchs.
    Although he far preferred to work alone, Harbin had been forced to admit 
that he could not find Fuchs by himself. The Belt was too big, the quarry too 
elusive. And, of course, Fuchs was aided covertly by other rock rats who gave 
him fuel and food and information while they secretly applauded his one-man war 
against Humphries Space Systems. Probably Astro Corporation was also helping 
Fuchs. There was no evidence of it, Harbin knew; no outright proof that Astro 
was supplying the renegade with anything more than gleeful congratulations on 
his continuing attacks.
    But Humphries himself was certain that Astro was behind Fuchs's success. 
Diane had told Harbin that Humphries was wild with rage, willing now to spend 
every penny he had to track down Fuchs and eliminate him, once and for all. This 
armada was the result: its cost to Humphries was out of all proportion to the 
damage that Fuchs had done, but Humphries wanted Fuchs destroyed, no matter what 
the cost, Diane said.
    Diane. Harbin reflected soberly that she had become a part of his life. I've 
become dependent on her, he realized. Even with the distance between them, she 
protected him against Humphries's frustrated anger. She was the one who had 
convinced Humphries to give Harbin command of this all-out campaign against 
Fuchs. She was the one who would be waiting for him when he returned with 
Fuchs's dead body.
    Well, he thought as he surveyed the display screens showing a scattering of 
his other ships, now I have the tools I need to finish the job. It's only a 
matter of time.
    The surveillance probes were already on their way to quarter the Belt with 
their sensors. Harbin gave the orders to his fleet to move out and start the 
hunt.
 
Satisfaction showed clearly on Martin Humphries's face as he sat down at the 
head of the long dining table in his mansion. Diane Verwoerd was the only other 
person at the table, already seated at his right.
    "Sorry I'm late for lunch," Humphries said, nodding to the servant waiting 
to pour the wine. "I was on the phone with Doug Stavenger."
    Verwoerd knew her boss expected her to ask what the call was about, but she 
said nothing.
    "Well, he's done it," Humphries said at last, just a little bit nettled. 
"Stavenger's pulled it off. We're going to have a peace conference right here at 
Selene. The world government's agreed to send their number-two man, Willi 
Dieterling."
    Diane Verwoerd made herself look impressed. "The man who negotiated the 
Middle East settlement?"
    "The very same," said Humphries.
    "And the rock rats are sending a representative?" she prompted.
    "Three people. That big Australian oaf and two assistants."
    "Who'll represent Astro?"
    "Probably Pancho," he said lightly. "She's the real power on the board these 
days."
    "It should be interesting," said Verwoerd.
    "It should be," Humphries agreed. "It certainly should."
 
Lars Fuchs scowled at his visitor. Yves St. Claire was one of his oldest and 
most trusted friends; Fuchs had known the Quebecois since their university days 
together in Switzerland. Yet now St. Claire was stubbornly refusing to help him.
    "I need the fuel," Fuchs said. "Without it, I'm dead."
    The two men stood in Nautilus's cramped galley, away from the crew. Fuchs 
had given them orders to leave him alone with his old friend. St. Claire stood 
in front of the big freezer, his arms folded obstinately across his chest. When 
they had been students together he had been slim and handsome, with a trim 
little pencil moustache and a smooth line of patter for the women, despite his 
uncouth accent. In those days his clothes had always been in the latest fashion; 
his friends joked that he bankrupted his family with his wardrobe. During his 
years of prospecting in the Belt, however, he had allowed himself to get fat. 
Now he looked like a prosperous middle-aged bourgeois shopkeeper, yet his 
carefully draped tunic of sky blue was designed to minimize his expanding 
waistline.
    "Lars," said St. Claire, "it is impossible. Even for you, old friend, I 
can't spare the fuel. I wouldn't have enough left to get back to Ceres."
    Fuchs, dressed as usual in a black pullover and baggy slacks, took a long 
breath before answering.
    "The difference is," he said, "that you can send out a distress call and a 
tanker will come out for you. I can't."
    "Yes, a tanker will come out for me. And do you know how much that will 
cost?"
    "You're talking about money. I'm talking about my life."
    St. Clair made a Gallic shrug.
    Since the attack on Vesta Fuchs had survived by poaching fuel and other 
supplies from friendly prospectors and other ships plying the Belt. A few of 
them gave freely; most were reluctant and had to be convinced. Amanda regularly 
sent out schedules for the prospectors, miners, tankers and supply vessels that 
left Ceres. Fuchs planted remote transceivers on minor asteroids, squirted the 
asteroids' identification numbers to Amanda in bursts of supercompressed 
messages, then picked up her information from the miniaturized transceivers the 
next time he swung past those rocks. It was an intricate chess game, moving the 
transceivers before Humphries's snoops could locate them and use them to bait a 
trap for him.
    Humphries's ships went armed now, and seldom alone. It was becoming almost 
impossibly dangerous to try to hit them. Now and again Fuchs commandeered 
supplies from Astro tankers and freighters. Their captains always complained and 
always submitted to Fuchs's demands under protest, but they were under orders 
from Pancho not to resist. The cost of these "thefts" was submicroscopic in 
Astro's ledgers.
    Despite everything, Fuchs was badly surprised that even his old friend was 
being stubborn.
    Trying to hold on to his temper, he said placatingly, "Yves, this is 
literally a matter of life and death to me."
    "But it is not necessary," St. Clair said, waving both hands in the air. 
"You don't need to"
    "I'm fighting your fight," Fuchs said. "I'm trying to keep Humphries from 
turning you into his vassals."
    St. Clair cocked an eyebrow. "Ah, Lars, mon vieux. In all this fighting 
you've killed friends of mine. Friends of ours, Lars."
    "That couldn't be helped."
    "They were construction workers. They never did you any harm."
    "They were working for Humphries."
    "You didn't give them a chance. You slaughtered them without mercy."
    "We're in a war," Fuchs snapped. "In war there are casualties. It can't be 
helped."
    "They weren't in a war!" said St. Clair, with some heat. "I'm not in a war! 
You're the only one who is fighting this war of yours."
    Fuchs stared at him. "Don't you understand that what I'm doing, I'm doing 
for you? For all the rock rats?"
    "Pah! Soon it will be all over, anyway. There is no need to continue 
this.... this vendetta between you and Humphries."
    "Vendetta? Is that what you think I'm doing?"
    Drawing in a deep, deliberate breath, St. Clair said more reasonably, "Lars, 
it is finished. The conference at Selene will put an end to this fighting."
    "Conference?" Fuchs blinked with surprise. "What conference?"
    St. Clair's brows rose. "You don't know? At Selene. Humphries and Astro are 
meeting to discuss a settlement of their differences. A peace conference."
    "At Selene?"
    "Of course. Stavenger himself arranged it. The world government has sent 
Willi Dieterling. Your own wife will be there, one of the representatives from 
Ceres."
    Fuchs felt an electric shock stagger him. "Amanda's going to Selene?"
    "She is on her way, with Big George and Dr. Cardenas. Didn't you know?"
    Amanda's going to Selene, thundered in Fuchs's mind. To Selene. To 
Humphries.
    It took him several moments to focus his attention again on St. Clair, still 
standing in the galley with him, a bemused little smile on his lips.
    "You didn't know?" St. Clair asked again. "She didn't tell you?"
    His voice venomously low, Fuchs said, "I'm going to take the fuel I need. 
You can call for a tanker after I've left the area."
    "You will steal it from me?"
    "Yes," said Fuchs. "That way you can make a claim to your insurance carrier. 
You're insured for theft, aren't you?"
 
 
 
 
 
 
DOSSIER: JOYCE TAKAMINE
 
    Joyce was quite content living on the Moon. She lived alone, not celibate, 
certainly, but not attached to anyone, either. She had achieved most of what she 
had dreamed of, all those long hard years of her youth.
    She was a mature woman now, lean and stringy, hardened by years of physical 
labor and cold calculation, inured to clambering up the ladder of life by 
grabbing for any rung she could reach. Now that she was at Selene, with a 
well-paying job and a secure career path, she felt that she could relax and 
enjoy life for the first time.
    Exceptshe soon felt bored.
    Life became too predictable, too routine. Too safe, she finally realized. 
There's no challenge to this. I can run my office blindfolded. I see the same 
people socially every time I go out. Selene's just a small town. Safe. 
Comfortable. Boring.
    So she transferred to the Humphries operation on Ceres, much to her 
supervisor's shock, and rode out to the Belt.
    Ceres was even smaller than Selene, dirty, crowded, sometimes dangerous. 
Joyce loved it. New people were arriving and departing all the time. The Pub was 
rowdy, raucous. She saw Lars Fuchs kill a man there, just jam a power drill into 
the guy's chest like an old-fashioned knight's spear. The guy had admitted to 
killing Niles Ripley, and he tried to shoot Fuchs right there at the bar.
    She served on the jury that acquitted Fuchs and, when the people of Ceres 
finally started to pull together a ragtag kind of government, Joyce Takamine was 
one of those selected by lottery to serve on the community's first governing 
council. It was the first time she had won anything.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 49
 
    Humphries gave a party in his mansion for the delegates to the peace 
conference. Not a large, sumptuous party; just an intimate gathering of the 
handful of men and women who would meet the next morning in a discreet 
conference room in Selene's office tower, up in the Grand Plaza. Pancho Lane was 
the first guest to arrive. Humphries greeted her in the sprawling living room of 
his home, with Diane Verwoerd at his side. Diane wore a glittering floor-length 
sheath of silver, its neckline plunging almost to her waist. Pancho was in a 
lavender cocktail dress accented with big copper bangle earrings and hoops of 
copper at her wrists and throat.
    Humphries, wearing a collarless burgundy jacket over a space-black 
turtleneck shirt and charcoal slacks, smirked to himself. Pancho had learned a 
lot in her years on the Astro board, but she was still gawky enough to show up 
at the party precisely on time, rather than fashionably late.
    Soon enough the other guests began to arrive, and Humphries's servants 
showed them into the lavishly furnished living room. Willi Dieterling came in 
with two younger men flanking him; his nephews, he told Humphries as they 
exchanged introductions.
    "May I congratulate you, sir," Humphries said, "on your successful 
resolution of the Mideast crisis."
    Dieterling smiled in a self-deprecating manner and touched his trim gray 
beard with a single finger. "I cannot take all the credit," he said softly. 
"Both sides had run out of ammunition. My major accomplishment was to get the 
arms dealers to stop selling to them."
    Everyone laughed politely.
    Dieterling went on, "With the Mediterranean threatening to flood Israel and 
the TigrisEuphrates rivers washing away half of Iraq, both sides were ready to 
cooperate."
    "Still," Humphries said as a waiter brought a tray of champagne flutes, 
"your accomplishment is something that"
    He stopped and stared past Dieterling. Everyone turned toward the doorway. 
There stood Big George Ambrose with his shaggy red hair and beard, looking 
painfully ill at ease in a tight-fitting dinner jacket. On one side of him was 
Kris Cardenas, in Selene for the first time in more than six years. On George's 
other side was Amanda, in a plain white sleeveless gown, accented with a simple 
necklace and bracelet of gold links.
    Humphries left Dieterling and the others standing there and rushed to 
Amanda.
    His mouth went dry. He had to swallow hard before he could croak out, 
"Hello."
    "Hello, Martin," said Amanda, unsmiling.
    He felt like a tongue-tied schoolboy. He didn't know what to say.
    Pancho, of all people, rescued him. "Hi, Mandy!" she called cheerfully, 
walking toward them. "Good to see ya."
    Humphries felt almost grateful as Pancho introduced Amanda, Cardenas, and 
Big George to Dieterling and his nephews. Then Doug Stavenger came in, with his 
wife, and the party was complete.
    While his guests sipped champagne and chatted, Humphries called one of the 
waiters over and instructed him to change the seating in the dining room. He 
wanted Amanda at his right hand.
    Two minutes later his butler came up to him and whispered in his ear, "Sir, 
Doctor Dieterling is supposed to be sitting at your right. Diplomatic protocol"
    "Protocol be damned!" Humphries hissed. "Rearrange the seating. Now!"
    The butler looked alarmed. Verwoerd stepped in and said, "Let me take care 
of it."
    Humphries nodded to her. She and the butler headed off to the dining room. 
Humphries turned back to Amanda. She seemed to glow like a goddess among the 
chattering mortals arrayed around her.
 
Dinner was long and leisurely. Humphries was certain that the conversation was 
sophisticated, deeply significant, a fine way for the delegates to tomorrow's 
meeting to get to know each other. Bursts of laughter showed that considerable 
wit sparkled around the table. Humphries heard not a word. All he could see was 
Amanda. She smiled now and then, but not at him. She chatted with Dieterling, 
seated on her other side, and with Stavenger, who was across the table from her. 
She said hardly a word to Humphries and he found it difficult to talk to her, 
especially with all these others surrounding him.
    After-dinner drinks were served in the library-cum-bar. As midnight tolled 
on the antique grandfather clock in the corner, the guests began to make their 
farewells. Amanda left with Cardenas and Big George. Pancho stayed until 
everyone else had gone.
    "First in, last out," she said, once she finally put her glass down on the 
bar. "I never want to miss anything."
    Humphries let Verwoerd escort Pancho to the door. He stepped behind the bar 
and poured himself a stiff single-malt, neat.
    Verwoerd returned, a subtle smile creasing her sultry lips. "She's even more 
beautiful in person than her on-screen image."
    "I'm going to marry her," Humphries said.
    Verwoerd actually laughed. "Not until you get up the nerve to speak to her, 
I should think."
    Anger flared in his gut. "Too many people around. I can't say anything 
meaningful to her in a crowd like that."
    Still smirking, Verwoerd said, "She didn't have much to say to you, either."
    "She will. I'll see to that."
    Picking up her half-finished drink from the bar, Verwoerd said, "I noticed 
that the other woman didn't have much to say to you, either."
    "Doctor Cardenas?"
    "Yes."
    "We've had our... differences, in the past. When she lived here at Selene."
    "She used to run the nanotech lab, didn't she?"
    "Yes." Kris Cardenas had been shut out of her lab because of Humphries. He 
was certain that Verwoerd knew it; the feline smile on her face told him that 
she knew and was enjoying his discomfort over it. And his inability to say more 
than a few words to Amanda. She's enjoying watching me turn myself into knots 
over the woman I love, he fumed silently.
    "It'll be interesting to see what they have to say tomorrow, if anything," 
Verwoerd mused.
    "Tomorrow?"
    "At the conference."
    "Oh, yes. The conference."
    "I'm looking forward to it," said Verwoerd.
    "You won't be there."
    Her eyes went wide for just a flash of a second, then she regained control 
of herself.
    "I won't be at the conference? Why not?"
    "Because you'll be in the medical lab. It's time for you to be implanted 
with my clone."
    Verwoerd's self-control crumpled. "Now? You're going to do that now, with 
the conference and"
    He had just made up his mind. Seeing the smug superiority on her face had 
decided him. It's time to show her who's in charge here; time to make her 
realize she's here to do my bidding.
    "Now," Humphries said, enjoying her shock and confusion. "I'm going to marry 
Amanda and you're going to carry my baby."
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 50
 
    So it boils down to this, Dorik Harbin said to himself as he read the 
message on his screen. All this effort and maneuvering, all these ships, all the 
killing, and it comes down to a simple little piece of treachery.
    He sat in his privacy cubicle and stared at the screen. Some flunky who had 
once worked for Fuchs had sold out. For a despicably small bribe he had hacked 
into Fuchs's wife's computer files and found out where Fuchs had planted 
communications transceivers. Those little electroptics boxes were Fuchs's 
lifeline, his link to information on where and when he could find the ships he 
preyed upon.
    Harbin smiled tightly, but there was no joy in it. He opened a comm channel 
to his ships and began ordering them to the asteroids where Fuchs's transceivers 
lay. Sooner or later he would show up at one of those rocks to pick up the 
latest intelligence information from his wife. When he did, there would be three 
or four of Harbin's ships waiting for him.
    Harbin hoped that Fuchs would come to the asteroid where he himself planned 
to he in wait.
    It will be good to finish this fight personally, he told himself. Once it's 
over, I'll be wealthy enough to retire. With Diane.
    Diane Verwoerd spent a sleepless night worrying about the ordeal she faced. 
I'll bear Martin's child without really being impregnated by him. I'll be a 
virgin mother, almost.
    The humor of the situation failed to ease her fears. Unable to sleep, she 
went to her computer and searched for every scrap of information she could 
locate about cloning: mammals, sheep, pigs, monkeys, apeshumans. Most nations 
on Earth forbade human cloning. The ultraconservative religious organizations 
such as the New Morality and the Sword of Islam jailed and even executed 
scientists for merely doing research in cloning. Yet there were laboratories, 
private facilities protected by the very wealthy, where such experiments were 
done. Most attempts at cloning failed. The lucky ones suffered spontaneous 
abortions early. Less lucky women died in childbirth, or gave birth to 
stillborns.
    My chances for presenting Martin with a healthy son are about one in a 
hundred, Verwoerd saw. My chances for dying are better than that.
    She shuddered, but she knew she would go through with it. Because being the 
mother of Martin Humphries's son was worth all the risk to her. I'll get a seat 
on the board of directors for this. With Dorik to protect me, there's no telling 
how far I can go.
    Humphries awoke that morning and smiled. It's all coming together nicely, he 
told himself as he got out of bed and padded into his tiled lavatory. Amanda's 
here without Fuchs. By the time the conference is over he'll be totally cut off 
from her and everybody else. I'll have the chance to show her what kind of life 
she can have with me.
    The mirror above the sink showed him a puffy-faced, bleary-eyed unshaven 
image. Will she want me? he asked himself. I can give her everything, everything 
a woman could possibly desire. But will she turn me down again? Will she stick 
with Fuchs?
    Not when the man is dead, he thought. Then she'll have no choice. The 
competition will be over.
    His hands trembled as he reached for his electric toothbrush. Frowning at 
this weakness, Humphries opened his medicine cabinet and rummaged through the 
vials lined up there in alphabetical order. A cure for every malady, he said to 
himself. Most of them were recreational drugs, cooked up by some of the bright 
researchers he kept on his payroll. I need something to calm me down, Humphries 
realized. Something to get me through this conference without losing my temper, 
without making Amanda afraid of me.
    As he pawed through the medicine cabinet, the image of Diane Verwoerd's 
troubled, frightened face flashed in his mind. I wiped her superior smile away, 
he thought, relishing the memory of her surprise and fear. He tried to remember 
how many women had carried clones of his, all to no avail. Several had died; one 
had produced a monstrosity that lived less than a day. Diane's strong, he told 
himself. She'll come through for me. And if she doesn'the shrugged. There are 
always other women for the job.
    He found the little blue bottle that he was looking for. Just one, he said 
silently; just enough to get me through the meeting on an even keel. Later on, 
I'll need something else, something stimulating. But not yet. Not this morning. 
Later, when Amanda's here with me.
 
Pancho dressed carefully for the conference in a pumpkin orange silk blouse and 
slacks with a neat patchwork jacket embellished with highlights of glitter. This 
is an important conference and I'm representing Astro Corporation, she told 
herself. Better look like a major player. She thought she would be the first one 
to show up for the conference, but when she got there Doug Stavenger was already 
standing by the big window that swept along one wall of the spacious room, 
looking relaxed in an informal cardigan jacket of teal blue.
    "Hello," he called cheerfully. Gesturing toward the side table laden with 
coffee urns and pastries, he asked, "Have you had your breakfast?"
    "I could use some coffee," Pancho said, heading for the table.
    The conference room was part of the suite of offices that Selene maintained 
in one of the twin towers that supported the expansive dome of the Grand Plaza. 
Gazing through the window down into the Plaza itself, Pancho saw the lovingly 
maintained lawn and flowering shrubbery, the fully-leafed trees dotting the 
landscape. There was the big swimming pool, built to attract tourists, and the 
outdoor theater with its gracefully curved shell of lunar concrete. Not many 
people on the walks this early in the morning, she noticed. Nobody in the pool.
    Stavenger smiled at her. "Pancho, are you seriously going to try to hammer 
out your differences with Humphries, or is this conference going to be a waste 
of time?"
    Pancho grinned back at him as she picked up a coffee cup and started to fill 
it with steaming black brew. "Astro is willing to agree to a reasonable division 
of the Belt. We never wanted a fight; it was Humphries who started the rough 
stuff."
    Stavenger pursed his lips. "I guess it all depends, then, on how you define 
the word 'reasonable.'"
    "Hey, look," Pancho said. "There's enough raw materials in the Belt to 
satisfy ever'body. Plenty for all of us. It's Humphries who wants to take it 
all."
    "Are you talking about me, Pancho?"
    They turned and saw Humphries striding through the door, looking relaxed and 
confident in a dark blue business suit.
    "Nothing I haven't said to your face, Humpy, old buddy," Pancho replied.
    Humphries raised an eyebrow. "I'd appreciate it if you referred to me as Mr. 
Humphries when the other delegates get here."
    "Sensitive?"
    "Yes. In return for your consideration I'll try to refrain from using 
phrases such as 'guttersnipe' or 'grease monkey.'"
    Stavenger put a hand to his forehead. "This is going to be a lovely 
morning," he groaned.
 
Actually, the conference went along much more smoothly than Stavenger had 
feared. The other delegates arrived, and Humphries turned his attention to 
Amanda, who smiled politely at him but said very little. He seemed almost to be 
a different person when Fuchs's wife was near: polite, considerate, earnestly 
trying to win her admiration, or at least her respect.
    Stavenger called the meeting to order, and everyone took seats along the 
polished oblong conference table. Pancho behaved like a proper corporate 
executive and Humphries was affable and cooperative. Each of them made an 
opening statement about how they wanted nothing more than peace and harmony in 
the Asteroid Belt. Willi Dieterling then said a few brief words about how 
important the resources of the Belt were to the people of Earth.
    "With so many millions homeless and hungry, with so much of our global 
industrial capacity wiped out, we desperately need the resources from the Belt," 
he pleaded. "This fighting is disrupting the supply of raw materials that we 
need to recover from the climate catastrophe that has brought civilization to 
its knees."
    Stavenger pointed out, "The people of Selene are ready to help as much as we 
can. We have industrial capacity here on the Moon, and we can help you to build 
factories and power-generation stations in Earth orbit."
    It was Big George who ended the platitudes.
    "We all want peace and brotherhood," he began, "but the painful truth is 
that people are killin' each other out in the Belt."
    Dieterling immediately replied, "The world government is prepared to offer 
Peacekeeping troops to you to help you maintain order in the Belt."
    "No thanks!" George snapped. "We can maintain order for ourselves" he 
turned to look squarely at Humphries "if the corporations'll stop sending 
killers to us."
    "Corporations, plural?" Pancho asked. "Astro hasn't sent any killers to the 
Belt."
    "You've sent your share of goons, Pancho," said George.
    "To protect our property!"
    Humphries made a hushing motion with both hands. "I presume you're both 
referring to certain actions taken by employees of Humphries Space Systems."
    "Fookin' right," George blurted.
    With all eyes on him, Humphries said calmly, "It's perfectly true that some 
of the people my corporation sent to Ceres have been . . . well, roughnecks."
    "Murderers," George muttered.
    "One man committed a murder, true enough," Humphries conceded. "But he acted 
on his own. And he was punished for it swiftly enough."
    "By Lars Fuchs, I understand," said Dieterling.
    Humphries nodded. "Now we're getting down to the crux of the problem."
    "Wait a minute," George interjected. "Let's not start dumpin' on Lars. 
Plenty of ships have been knocked off out in the Belt, and it was HSS that 
started it."
    "That's not true," Humphries said.
    "Isn't it? I was fookin' attacked by one of your butcher boys. Took me arm 
off. Remember?"
    "We went through an IAA hearing over that. No one was able to prove it was 
one of my ships that attacked you."
    "That doesn't mean it wasn't one of 'em, does it now?"
    Stavenger broke into the budding argument. "Unless we have concrete 
evidence, there's no use throwing accusations around."
    George glowered at him, but said nothing.
    "We do have concrete evidence," Humphries resumed, with a swift glance at 
Amanda, "that Lars Fuchs has attacked ships, killed men, stolen supplies, and 
now he's wiped out a base we were building on Vesta in a totally unwarranted and 
premeditated attack. He's killed several dozen people. He's the reason for all 
this violence out in the Belt and until he's caught and put away, the violence 
will continue."
    Absolute silence. Not one of the men or women seated around the conference 
table said a word in Fuchs's defense. Not even Amanda, Humphries noted with 
unalloyed delight.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 51
 
    The asteroid had no name. In the catalogue files it was merely 38-4002. 
Barely a kilometer long and half that at its widest, it was a dark carbonaceous 
body, a loose aggregation of pebble-sized chondrules, more like a beanbag than a 
solid rock. Fuchs had left one of his transceivers there weeks earlier; now he 
was returning to the asteroid to retrieve it and see what information Amanda had 
been able to beam to him.
    She's gone to Selene, he kept repeating in his mind. To a conference. To 
Humphries. Without telling me. Without mentioning a word of it. He saw St. 
Claire's face again as the man told him the news, almost smirking. Your wife 
didn't tell you? he heard St. Claire ask, again and again. She never even 
mentioned it to you? It's probably in the messages waiting for me, Fuchs told 
himself. Amanda must have put it into the latest batch of messages just before 
she left for Selene. For Humphries's home. His guts knotted like fists every 
time he thought of it.
    Why didn't she tell me beforehand? he raged silently. Why didn't she discuss 
this with me before she decided to go? The answer seemed terribly clear: Because 
she didn't want me to know she was going, didn't want me to know she would be 
seeing Humphries.
    He wanted to bellow his rage and frustration, wanted to order his crew to 
race to Selene, wanted to take Amanda off the ship that was carrying her to the 
Moon and keep her safely with him. Too late, he knew. Far too late. She's gone. 
She's there by now. She's left me.
    Nautilus's propellant tanks were full. Fuchs felt a slight pang of 
conscience about taking the hydrogen and helium fuels from his onetime friend 
St. Claire, but he had no choice. He had left St. Claire on less than friendly 
terms, but nevertheless the Quebecois waited six full hours before putting in an 
emergency call for a tanker, as Fuchs had ordered him to do.
    Shaking his head as he sat in the command chair on Nautilus's bridge, Fuchs 
wondered at how the human mind works. St. Claire knew I wouldn't harm him. Yet 
he waited the full six hours before calling for help, giving me plenty of time 
to get safely away. Is he still my friend, despite everything? Or was he afraid 
I'd come back and fire on him? Pondering the question, Fuchs decided, most 
likely St. Claire was simply playing it safe. Our friendship is dead, a casualty 
of this war. I have no friends.
    I have no wife, either. I've driven her away. Driven her into Humphries's 
territory, perhaps into his arms.
    The Asian navigator seated to one side of the bridge said to the woman who 
was piloting the ship, "The rock is in visual range." He spoke in their native 
Mongol dialect, but Fuchs understood them. It's not a rock, he corrected 
silently. It's an aggregate.
    Glad to have something else to occupy his mind, Fuchs commanded his computer 
to put the telescopic view of the asteroid on his console screen. It was 
tumbling slowly along its long axis, end over end. As they approached the 'roid, 
Fuchs called up the computer image that showed where they had planted the 
transceiver.
    He hunched forward in his chair, studying the screen, trying to drive 
thoughts of Amanda out of his mind. It showed the telescope's real-time image of 
the asteroid with the computer's grid map superimposed over it. Strange, he 
thought. The contour map doesn't match the visual image any more. There's a new 
lump on the asteroid, not more than fifty meters from where the transceiver 
should be sitting.
    Fuchs froze the image and peered at it. The asteroids are dynamic, he knew. 
They're constantly being dinged by smaller chunks of rock. An aggregate like 
this 'roid wouldn't show a crater, necessarily. It's like punching your fist 
into a beanbag chair: it just gives and reforms itself.
    But a lump? What would cause a lump?
    He felt an old, old fervor stirring inside him. Once he had been a planetary 
geochemist; he had first come out to the Belt to study the asteroids, not to 
mine them. A curiosity that he hadn't felt in many years filled his mind. What 
could raise a blister on a carbonaceous chondritic asteroid?
 
Dorik Harbin was half a day's journey distant from the carbonaceous asteroid, 
even at the 0.5 g acceleration that was Shanidar's best speed. He had dropped 
his ship into a grazing orbit around the jagged, striated body of nickel-iron 
where Fuchs had left one of his transceivers. His navigator was still sweating 
and wide-eyed with apprehension. His pale blond Scandinavian second-in-command 
had warned him several times that they were dangerously close to crashing into 
the rock.
    But Harbin wanted to be so close that an approaching ship would not spot 
him. He wished this chunk of metal was porous, like the carbonaceous rock where 
one of Fuchs's other transceivers had been found. The crew there had simply 
detached their habitation module from the rest of their ship and buried it under 
a loose layer of rubble. Then the remainder of the ship, crewed only by a pilot 
and navigator, flew out of range. If Fuchs showed up there, all he would see 
would be an innocent pile of dirt. A Trojan horse, Harbin thought grimly, that 
would disgorge half a dozen armed troops while calling all of Harbin's armada to 
close the trap.
    The Scandinavian was clearly unhappy orbiting mere meters from the scratched 
and pitted surface of the asteroid. "We are running the danger of having the 
hull abraded by the dust that hovers over the rock," she warned Harbin.
    He looked into her wintry blue eyes. So like my own, he thought. Her Viking 
ancestors must have invaded my village some time in the past.
    "It's dangerous!" she said sharply.
    Harbin made himself smile at her. "Match our orbit to the rock's intrinsic 
spin. If Fuchs comes poking around here, I don't him to see us until it's too 
late for him to get away."
    She started to protest, but Harbin cut her off with an upraised hand. "Do 
it," he said.
    Clearly unhappy, she turned and relayed his order to the navigator.
 
"Let's break for lunch," said Doug Stavenger.
    The others around the conference table nodded and pushed their chairs back. 
The tension in the room cracked. One by one, they got to their feet, stretched, 
took deep breaths. Stavenger heard vertebrae pop.
    Lunch had been laid on in another conference room, down the hall. As the 
delegates filed out into the corridor, Stavenger touched Dieterling's arm, 
detaining him.
    "Have we accomplished anything?" he asked the diplomat.
    Dieterling glanced at the doorway, where his two nephews stood waiting for 
him. Then he turned back to Stavenger. "A little, I think."
    "At least Humphries and Pancho are talking civilly to each other," Stavenger 
said, with a rueful smile.
    "Don't underestimate the benefits of civility," said Dieterling. "Without 
it, nothing can be done."
    "So?"
    With a heavy shrug, Dieterling answered, "It's clear that the crux of the 
problem is this man Fuchs."
    "Humphries certainly wants him out of the way."
    "As long as he is rampaging out there in the Belt there can be no peace."
    Stavenger shook his head. "But Fuchs started his... rampage, as you call it, 
in reaction to the violence that Humphries's people began."
    "That makes no difference now," Dieterling said, dropping his voice almost 
to a whisper. "We can get Humphries and Ms. Lane to let bygones be bygones and 
forget the past. No recriminations, no acts of vengeance. They are willing to 
make a peaceful settlement."
    "And stick to it, do you think?"
    "Yes. I'm certain of it. This war is becoming too expensive for them. They 
want it ended."
    "They can end it this afternoon, if they want to."
    "Only if Fuchs is stopped," Dieterling said. "He is the wild card, the 
terrorist who is beyond ordinary political control."
    Stavenger nodded glumly. "He's got to be stopped, then. Dammit."
 
Humphries stepped into the washroom, relieved himself of a morning's worth of 
coffee, then washed up and popped another tranquilizing pill. He thought of them 
as tranquilizers, even though he knew they were much more than that.
    As he stepped out into the corridor, Amanda came out of the ladies' room. 
His breath caught in his throat, despite the pill. She was dressed in a yellow 
pant suit that seemed faded from long use, yet in Humphries's eyes she glowed 
like the sun. No one else was in sight; the others must have all gone into the 
room where lunch was laid out.
    "Hello, Amanda," he heard himself say.
    Only then did he see the cold anger in her eyes.
    "You're determined to kill Lars, aren't you?" she said flatly.
    Humphries licked his lips before replying, "Kill him? No. Stop him. That's 
all I want, Amanda. I want him to stop the killing."
    "Which you started."
    "That doesn't matter anymore. He's the problem now."
    "You won't rest until you've killed him."
    "Not" He had to swallow hard before he could continue. "Not if you'll marry 
me."
    He had expected her to be surprised. But her eyes did not flicker, the 
expression on her utterly beautiful face did not change one iota. She simply 
turned and headed up the corridor, away from him.
    Humphries started to after her, but then he heard Stavenger and Dieterling 
coming up the hall behind him. Don't make an ass of yourself in front of them, 
he told himself sternly. Let her go. For now. At least she didn't say no.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 52
 
    As Fuchs studied the image of asteroid 38-4002, Nodon ducked through the 
hatch and stepped into the bridge. Fuchs heard him ask the pilot if the 
long-range scan showed any other ships in the area. "None," said the pilot.
    What could raise a lump on a beanbag collection of pebbles? Fuchs asked 
himself for the dozenth time. Nautilus was approaching the asteroid at one-sixth 
g; they would have to start a braking maneuver soon if they were going to 
establish an orbit around it.
    Wishing he had a full panoply of sensors to play across the asteroid's 
surface, Fuchs noted again that there were several noticeable craters on its 
surface, but none of them had the raised rims that formed when a boulder crashed 
into a solid rock. No, this is a collection of nodules, he thought, and the only 
way to build a blister like that is for something to push the pellets up into a 
mound.
    Something. Then it hit him. Or someone. He turned in his chair and looked up 
at Nodon. "Warm up laser number one," he commanded.
    Nodon's big eyes flashed, but he nodded silently and left the bridge.
    Turning back to the image of the approaching asteroid, Fuchs reasoned, If 
something natural pushed up that mound, then there should be a depression next 
to it, from where the pebbles were scooped up. But there isn't. Why not? Because 
something is buried under that mound. Because someone dug a hole in that porous 
pile of rubble and buried something in it.
    What?
    "Cut our approach velocity in half," he said to the pilot. The Asian 
complied wordlessly.
    Several minutes later, Nodon called from the cargo bay, "Laser number two is 
ready."
    "Number two?" Fuchs replied sharply. "What happened to number one?"
    "Its coolant lines are being flushed. Routine maintenance."
    "Get it on line," Fuchs snapped. "Get number three on line, too."
    "Yes, sir." Fuchs could hear Nodon speaking in rapid dialect to someone else 
down in the cargo bay.
    "Slave number two to my console," Fuchs ordered.
    He began to reconfigure his console with fingertip touches on its main 
display screen. By the time he had finished, the laser was linked. He could run 
it from the bridge.
    He put the asteroid on-screen and focused on that suspicious mound of 
rubble. He saw the red dot of the aiming laser sparkling on the dark, pebbly 
ground and walked it to the middle of the mound. Then, with a touch of a finger, 
he fired the high-power laser. Its infrared beam was invisible to his eyes, but 
Fuchs saw the ground cascade into a splash of heat, a miniature fountain of 
red-hot lava erupting, spraying high above the asteroid's surface.
    His face set in a harsh scowl, Fuchs held the cutting laser's beam on the 
spewing geyser of molten rock. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty. . . .
    The mound erupted. Half a dozen spacesuited figures scurried in all 
directions like cockroaches startled out of their nest, stumbling across the 
rough surface of the asteroid.
    "I knew it!" Fuchs shouted. The three Asians on the bridge turned toward 
him.
    Nodon called from the cargo bay, "They were waiting for us to pick up the 
transceiver!"
    Fuchs ignored them all. He swung the laser toward one of the figures. The 
man had tripped and sprawled clumsily in the minuscule gravity of the little 
asteroid, then when he tried to get up, he had pushed himself completely off the 
ground. Now he floated helplessly, arms and legs flailing.
    Fuchs walked the laser beam toward him, watched its molten path as it burned 
across the asteroid's gravelly surface.
    "Waiting to trap me, were you?" he muttered. "You wanted to kill me. Now see 
what death is like."
    For an instant he wondered who was inside that spacesuit. What kind of a man 
becomes a mercenary soldier, a hired killer? Is he like my own crew, the 
castoffs, the abandoned, so desperate that they'll do anything, follow anyone 
who can give them hope that they'll live to see another day? Fuchs watched the 
spacesuited figure struggling, arms and legs pumping frantically as he drifted 
farther off the asteroid. He certainly had no experience in micro-gravity, Fuchs 
saw. And his comrades are doing nothing to help him.
    You're going to die alone, he said silently to the spacesuited figure.
    Yet he turned off the cutting laser. His hand had touched the screen icon 
that deactivated its beam before his conscious mind understood what he had done. 
The red spot of the low-power aiming laser still scintillated on the asteroid's 
surface. Fuchs moved it to shine squarely on the flailing, contorted body of the 
mercenary.
    Kill or be killed, he told himself. It took an effort, though, to will his 
hand back to the high-power laser's firing control. He held it there, poised a 
bare centimeter above it.
    "Two ships approaching at high acceleration," called the pilot. "No, four 
ships, coming in from two different directions."
    Fuchs knew he couldn't murder the man. He could not kill him in cold blood. 
And he knew that their trap had worked.
    It all fell in on him like an avalanche. They knew where the transceivers 
were hidden. Someone had told them. Someone? Only Amanda knew where the 
transceivers were located. She wouldn't betray him, Fuchs told himself. She 
wouldn't. Someone must have ferreted out the information somehow. And then sold 
it to Humphries.
    "Six ships," called the pilot, sounding frightened. "All approaching at high 
g."
    Trapped. They were waiting for me to show up. Six ships.
    Nodon's voice came over the intercom. "Lasers one and three ready to fire."
    I'll get them all killed if I try to fight back, Fuchs realized. It's me 
that Humphries wants, not my crew.
    Suddenly he felt tired, bone tired, soul weary. It's over, he realized. All 
this fighting and killing and what has it gained me? What has it gained anyone? 
I've walked my crew into a trap, like a fool, like a wolf caught in the hunter's 
net. It's over. It's finished. And I've lost everything.
    With a feeling of resignation that overwhelmed him, Fuchs touched the 
communications key and spoke, "This is Lars Fuchs aboard the Nautilus. Don't 
fire. We surrender."
    Harbin heard the defeat in Fuchs's voice. And he cursed Martin Humphries for 
saddling him with this oversized armada and company of troops. I could have done 
this by myself, he thought. Given the information about where he planted his 
transceivers, I could have trapped him by myself, without all these othersall 
these witnesses.
    By himself, Harbin would have sliced Fuchs's ship into bits and killed 
everyone aboard it. Then he would have carried Fuchs's dead body back to Diane 
and her boss, so Humphries could glory in his triumph and Harbin could claim the 
immense bonus that would be rightfully his. Then he would take Diane for himself 
and leave Humphries to gloat over his victory.
    But there were more than a hundred men and women aboard this fleet that 
Humphries had insisted upon. It was nonsense to believe that each of them would 
remain quiet if Harbin killed Fuchs after the man had surrendered. It would be 
too big a story, too much temptation. Someone would cash out to the news media, 
or to spies from Humphries's competitors in Astro Corporation.
    No. Against his instincts, against his judgment, Harbin knew he had to 
accept Fuchs's surrender and bring the man and his crew back to Ceres. Then he 
smiled grimly. Perhaps once he's on Ceres something might happen to him. After 
all, the man's made many enemies there. They might even put him on trial and 
execute him legally.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 53
 
    The implantation procedure was not as draining as Diane feared it would be.
    She had insisted that all the attending personnel be women, and Selene's 
medical staff had complied with her demand. They were smiling, soothing, 
soft-spoken. After an injection of a tranquilizer, they wheeled Diane into the 
little room where the procedure would take place. The room felt cold. A plastic 
container sat on the table where the instruments were laid out, steaming icy 
white vapor. The frozen embryo was in there, Diane realized, her thoughts 
getting fuzzy from the injection.
    It's like being put on the rack by the Spanish Inquisition, she thought. The 
instruments of torture lay in a neat row beside her. Bright lights glared down 
at her. The torturers gathered around her, masked and gowned, their hands gloved 
in skin-thin plastic. She took a deep breath as they gently placed her feet in 
the stirrups.
    "Just try to relax," said a soothing woman's voice. Good advice, Diane 
thought. Just try.
    Humphries was seated up near the head of the table, one chair down from 
Stavenger. Dieterling was at his left, Pancho Lane across the table from him, 
and Big George Ambrose at his right. Humphries did not relish being next to the 
big Aussie; the shaggy redhead was intimidating even when he was doing nothing 
more than sitting quietly and listening to the others wrangle.
    Amanda was on George's other side. Humphries couldn't even glance at her 
without leaning around the Australian and being obvious about it.
    "The essence of agreement is compromise," Dieterling was saying for the nth 
time. "And compromise is impossible without trust."
    Dieterling expects the Nobel Peace Prize for his work in the Middle East, 
Humphries thought. It won't matter much what he accomplishes or fails to 
accomplish here. But he's so damned earnest. You'd think his own life hinges on 
what we're doing today.
    Pancho, across the table, eyed Humphries for a moment, then said to 
Dieterling, "Astro's willing to compromise. I've been sayin' all along that 
there's so much natural wealth out in the Belt that there's plenty for 
ever'body. What we need is an agreement about who gets what."
    Stavenger shook his head. "I don't think you can carve up the Belt the way 
Spain and Portugal divided up the New World back in the sixteenth century."
    "Yeah," Big George agreed. "What about the independents? You can't give the 
whole fookin' Belt to the corporations."
    "What is required," Dieterling said, "is an agreement to forgo the use of 
violence; an agreement to proceed peacefully and respect the rights of others."
    Humphries's phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. Ordinarily he would have been 
annoyed at the interruption, but at this point he welcomed it.
    "Please excuse me," he said, plucking the phone from his pocket. "This must 
be extremely important. I gave orders that I wasn't to be disturbed."
    Stavenger spread his hands. "This is a good time for a short break, I 
think."
    Humphries strode off to a corner of the conference room as the others all 
got up from their chairs.
    Tucking the phone's little speaker into his earlobe, Humphries flicked the 
device open and saw urgentpriority 1 printed across its tiny screen.
    "Proceed," he said softly.
    Dorik Harbin's dark bearded face formed on the screen. "Sir, we have 
captured the man Fuchs and his entire crew. We are on the way back to Ceres with 
them in custody."
    Kill him! Humphries wanted to cry. Instead, his eyes scanned the conference 
room. The others were standing at the refreshments table. Amanda was nowhere in 
sight; probably gone to the rest room, he thought.
    Knowing that his response would not reach Harbin for nearly a half-hour, 
Humphries said tightly, "Good work. Make certain you don't lose him. If he tries 
to get away, or if anyone tries to free him, take appropriate action."
    Appropriate action, Grigor had assured him, was the euphemistic code phrase 
that meant, kill the sonofabitch if he twitches an eyebrow.
    Humphries closed the phone and slipped it back into his jacket. His pulse 
was thudding in his ears; he tasted salty perspiration on his upper lip. It's 
over, he thought, trying to calm himself. It's finished. I've got him, and now 
I'm going to get Amanda!
    He stayed in the far corner of the room as the others slowly came back to 
their seats. Amanda returned, looking calm, even dignified. She's grown over the 
years, Humphries realized. She's become much more sure of herself, much more 
mature. Stavenger glanced his way, and Humphriesworking hard to suppress a grin 
and look seriousslowly walked to his own chair.
    Instead of sitting, though, he gripped the back of the chair and said, "I 
have an announcement to make."
    They all looked up at him. Even Amanda.
    "The one sticking point in our discussion today has been the one-man 
guerilla war of Lars Fuchs."
    Dieterling and several others nodded.
    "That problem has been resolved," Humphries said, looking squarely at 
Amanda. For an instant she looked startled, frightened, but she recovered 
quickly and looked squarely into his eyes.
    "Lars Fuchs is in custody. He's aboard one of my ships and heading back to 
Ceres. I presume he'll stand trial there for piracy and murder."
    Absolute silence fell across the conference table. Then Amanda slowly got up 
from her chair.
    "Excuse me, please," she said. "I must try to contact my husband." She 
turned and headed for the door.
    Pancho started to get out of her chair, but thought better of it and sat 
down again. "Okay, then," she said, as Amanda left the conference room. "We got 
nothin' in the way of making an agreement we can all live with."
    Humphries nodded, but he was thinking, There's nothing in our way except 
Fuchs. But he's not going to interfere with my plans any more. He's not going to 
live much longer.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 54
 
    "Will you release my crew once we reach Ceres?" Fuchs asked dully, 
mechanically.
    Harbin replied, "That's not up to me. That decision will be made"
    "By Martin Humphries, I know," said Fuchs. Harbin studied the man. They were 
sitting at the small table in Shanidar's galley, the only space in the ship 
where two people could converse in privacy. The hatch to the bridge was shut, by 
Harbin's orders. Fuchs had looked utterly weary, dispirited, when he had first 
been brought aboard Shanidar. The look of defeat: Harbin had seen it before. A 
man stops fighting when he becomes convinced that no hope is left; victory 
begins when the enemy's will to resist crumbles. But now, after a decent meal 
and a few hours to adjust his thinking to his new situation, Fuchs seemed to be 
regaining some spark of resistance.
    He was a powerfully-built man, Harbin saw, despite his smallish stature. 
Like a badger, orwhat was that American creature? A wolverine, he remembered. 
Small but deadly. Sharp teeth and utter fearlessness.
    For a few moments Harbin contemplated what would happen if Fuchs tried to 
attack him. He had no doubt that he could handle the man, despite Fuchs's 
apparent strength and potential ferocity. It would simplify everything if I had 
to kill him in self-defense, Harbin thought. Perhaps I can goad him into 
attacking me. His wife is apparently a sore point with him.
    But then Harbin thought, to be convincing, I'd need at least one witness. 
That would be self-defeating. With another person in the room Fuchs probably 
would be smart enough to keep his hands to himself. If I tried to goad him, the 
witness would witness that, too.
    Fuchs broke into his thoughts with, "Where is my crew? What have you done 
with them?"
    "They've been placed aboard my other ships," Harbin said. "No more than two 
to a ship. It's safer that way; they won't be tempted to try anything foolish."
    "I expect them to be treated properly."
    Harbin bobbed his head once. "As long as they behave themselves they will be 
fine."
    "And I want them released when we get to Ceres."
    Barely suppressing a smile at Fuchs's growing impudence, Harbin said, "As I 
told you, that decision will be made by higher authority."
    "I take full responsibility for everything that's happened."
    "Naturally."
    Fuchs lapsed into silence for a few moments. Then he said, "I suppose I'll 
have to speak to Humphries directly, sooner or later."
    Harbin answered, "I doubt that he'll want to speak to you."
    "About my crew"
    "Mr. Fuchs," Harbin said, getting to his feet, "the fate of your crew is 
something that neither you nor I have the power to decide."
    Fuchs rose also, barely reaching Harbin's shoulder.
    "I think it would be best," Harbin said, "if you remained in your privacy 
cubicle for the rest of the flight. We'll be at Ceres in less than thirty-six 
hours. I'll have your meals brought to you."
    Fuchs said nothing, but let Harbin lead him down the passageway to the 
cubicle they had assigned him. There was no lock on the sliding door, which was 
so flimsy that a lock would have been useless anyway. Fuchs realized that Harbin 
had been clever to break up his crew and parcel them out among the other ships 
in his fleet.
    I'm alone here, he thought as Harbin gestured him into the cubicle. The door 
slid closed. Fuchs sat heavily on the hard spring-less cot. Like Samson captured 
and blinded by the Philistines, he told himself. Eyeless in Gaza.
    At least I wasn't sold out by Amanda. She'd never be a Delilah, never betray 
me. Never.
    He desperately wanted to believe that.
 
"The essence of our agreement, then," said Stavenger, "is that both Astro and 
Humphries Space Systems disband their mercenary forces and allow the independent 
prospectors to operate without harassment."
    "And without placing any controls on the prices for ores," Humphries added, 
with a satisfied nod.
    "No price controls," Pancho agreed.
    Dieterling said, "Pardon my bluntness, but don't you feel that your refusal 
to accept price controls is blatantly selfish?"
    "Not at all," snapped Humphries.
    "Works the other way around, Willi," Pancho said, quite seriously. "Supply 
and demand works in favor of the buyer, not the seller."
    "But you buy the ores from the prospectors"
    "And sell the refined metals to you," Humphries pointed out.
    Frowning slightly, Dieterling muttered, "I'm not an economist...."
    "I think a free market works in Selene's favor," Stavenger said. "And 
Earth's."
    Pancho hunched forward in her chair. "See, if you leave the market open, 
then the more ores the prospectors locate the lower the price'll go. Supply and 
demand."
    "But Earth needs vast amounts of those raw materials," Dieterling said.
    Stavenger put a hand on the diplomat's sleeve, gently. "Doctor Dieterling, I 
don't think you have any idea of how enormous the resources in the Asteroid Belt 
are. There are trillions of tons of high-grade ores out there. Hundreds of 
trillions of tons. We've only begun to scratch the surface, so far."
    "Price controls would work in favor of the prospectors, not the ultimate 
consumers on Earth," Humphries said firmly.
    "Or Selene," added Stavenger.
 
Still worrying that uncontrolled prices for asteroidal ores would somehow work 
against Earth's best interests, Dieterling reluctantly agreed to drop the issue 
and allow Astro and HSS to draft an agreement. The International Astronautical 
Authority would be empowered to adjudicate claims against one corporation or the 
other.
    "There's one remaining problem," Stavenger pointed out, just as everyone was 
getting ready to call the conference a success.
    Humphries, halfway out of his chair, grumbled, "What now?"
    "Enforcement," Stavenger said. "There's nothing in the draft agreement about 
enforcing the peace."
    Sitting down again, Humphries asked, "You don't trust us to live up to the 
terms we agree to?"
    Pancho grinned. "I know you can trust Astro."
    "Sure we can," Stavenger replied, grinning back at her. "But I'd prefer to 
see something on paper."
    George spoke up. "We'll enforce the peace," he said.
    Everyone turned to him.
    "You?" Humphries scoffed. "The rock rats?"
    "We've got a government now, or the beginnings of one," George said. "We'll 
police Ceres. Any complaints from the prospectors, we'll handle 'em."
    "How could you"
    "Everything goes through Ceres," George explained. "That's where the ships 
get fitted out and supplied. We hold the water taps, mate. And the food 
cupboards and fuel tanks and even the foothe bleedin' oxygen for breathin'. 
We'll keep law and order for ya. It's in our own best interests."
    Dieterling turned back to Stavenger. "Could that work?"
    "We can make it work," said Kris Cardenas, sitting across the table from 
George.
    Stavenger had a strange expression on his face. "This means that the rock 
rats will have political control of the Belt."
    "Which is the way it should be," Cardenas said firmly. "We're the people who 
live there, we ought to be able to control our own destiny."
    Looking from her to Stavenger and back again, Dieterling said, "That is a 
great deal of power. The entire Asteroid Belt..."
    "We can handle it," George said, totally serious. "Like Kris here said, it's 
the way things oughtta be."
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 55
 
    The conference ended at last. As the delegates got up from the table and 
made their way to the door, Humphries remained seated, hands clasped on the 
tabletop, deep in thought.
    "Ain't you goin' home?" Pancho asked as she came around the table. "In a 
while," Humphries said. "Not right this moment." Stavenger was going through the 
doorway with Dieterling and his two nephews. Big George and Dr. Cardenas were 
already gone; George had been the first out the door, like a schoolboy racing 
away from the classroom once the bell has rung.
    "I don't think Mandy'll be comin' back here," Pancho said. Humphries made 
himself smile up at her. "We'll see."
    "Suit yourself," Pancho said.
    Humphries watched her saunter out the door, leaving him alone in the 
conference room. So we'll have peace in the Belt, he said to himself. And the 
rock rats will enforce it. Sure they will.
    He got to his feet and went to the slim little podium that had been wheeled 
into a corner of the room. The audio-visual controls on its surface were simple 
enough. With a touch of his finger, Humphries lit up the wallscreen at the other 
end of the conference room. It showed Selene's logo: the androgynous outline of 
a human being against the full Moon. Scrolling idly through the computer's 
stored images, he stopped when a map of the Belt came up: the wild tangle of 
orbits looked like a long-exposure view of a mad raceway.
    So we won't bother the independents anymore, Humphries said to himself. We 
won't call down the wrath of the rock rats and their fledgling government. We 
won't have to. All the independents will be selling to me or to Astro; there's 
no third choice. They'll all fall into line now.
    He drew in a breath, thinking, Now the fight's between Astro and HSS. Now 
the real war begins. And when it's over, I'll have Astro in my pocket and total 
control of the Belt. Total control of the whole fricking solar system and 
everyone in it!
    As if on cue, Amanda entered the conference room.
    Humphries stared at her. Somehow she looked different: still the most 
beautiful woman he had ever seen, the most desirable. Yet there was something 
else about her now, something that almost unnerved him. She looked back at him, 
her eyes steady, dry. She's not shedding any tears for her husband, Humphries 
told himself.
    "They won't let me speak to him," Amanda said, her voice so soft he could 
barely make out the words. She walked along the length of the conference table 
toward Humphries.
    "He's too far out for a two-way conversation," he said.
    "I put through a call to him and they wouldn't even accept it. They told me 
he's not allowed to receive any messages from anyone."
    "He's being held incommunicado."
    "On your orders."
    "Yes."
    "You intend to kill him, don't you?"
    Humphries evaded her unwavering blue eyes. "I imagine they'll put him on 
trial at Ceres. He's killed a lot of people."
    "Will he live long enough to face a trial?" Amanda asked, her voice flat, 
calm, not accusative so much as resigned.
    Uncomfortably nervous, Humphries shifted his weight from one foot to 
another. "He's a violent man, you know. He might try to escape custody."
    "That would be convenient, wouldn't it? Then he could be killed while trying 
to escape."
    Humphries came around the podium and stepped toward her, reaching his arms 
out to her.
    "Amanda," he said, "it's all over. Fuchs has dug his own grave and--"
    "And you're going to see that he goes into it."
    "It's not my doing!" At that moment he almost felt that it was true.
    Amanda simply stood there, unmoving, unmoved, her arms at her sides, her 
eyes focused on him, searching for something, something. He wished he knew what 
it was.
    "What do you want from me?" he asked her.
    For a moment she said nothing. Then, "I want your promise that you won't 
allow him to be harmed in any way."
    "The rock rats are going to put him on trial for murder."
    "I understand that," Amanda said. "I still want your promise that you won't 
do anything to harm him."
    He hesitated, then asked coldly, "And what will you do in exchange for my 
promise?"
    "I'll go to bed with you," Amanda said. "That's what you want, isn't it?"
    "No!" he blurted. Almost pleading, he said, "I want to marry you, Amanda. I 
love you! I want to give you...everything you've ever wanted."
    She waited a heartbeat, then said, "All I want is Lars's safety."
    "And not me?"
    "I owe it to Lars. All this has happened because of me, hasn't it?"
    He wanted to he, wanted to tell her that everything he had done he had done 
for her and for her alone. But he couldn't. Facing her, so close to her, he 
could not he.
    "You were a part of it, Amanda. But only a part. Something like this would 
have happened anyway."
    "But Lars wouldn't have been caught in the middle of it, would he?"
    "Probably not," Humphries agreed.
    "Then I'll marry you, if that's what you want. In exchange for your promise 
to leave Lars alone."
    Humphries's throat felt dry, parched. He nodded mutely.
    "Now you have everything you want, don't you?" Amanda said. There was no 
rancor in it. No trace of anger or bitterness. At last Humphries understood what 
was different about her, what had changed. She's not the innocent, naive girl 
she once was. Those blue eyes are unsmiling now, calculating.
    He couldn't find words. He wanted to make her feel better about this, wanted 
to make her smile. But he couldn't find any words.
    "That is what you want, isn't it?" Amanda insisted.
    "Not like this," he said, finding his voice. And it was the truth. "Not as 
part of a...an arrangement."
    Amanda shrugged slightly. "This is the way it is, Martin. There's nothing 
either one of us can do to change it. I'll marry you if you swear that you won't 
harm Lars."
    He licked his lips. "He'll still have to face trial on Ceres. I can't stop 
that."
    "I know," she said. "I accept that."
    "All right, then."
    "I want to hear you say it, Martin. I want your promise, here and now."
    Drawing himself up to his full height, Humphries said, "Very well. I promise 
you, Amanda, that I will do nothing to harm Lars Fuchs in any way."
    "You won't give anyone orders to hurt him."
    "I swear to you, Amanda."
    The breath seemed to sag out of her. "All right, then. I'll marry you as 
soon as a divorce can be arranged."
    Or as soon as you become a widow, Humphries thought. Aloud, he said, "Now 
it's your turn to make a promise, Amanda."
    Alarm flashed in her eyes momentarily. Then she understood. "I see. Yes, I 
promise that I will be your loving wife, Martin. This won't be merely a marriage 
of appearances."
    Before he could take her hands in his, she turned and walked out of the 
conference room, leaving him standing alone. For a few moments he felt rejected, 
wronged, almost angry. But slowly it dawned on him that Amanda had agreed to 
marry him, to love him. It wasn't the romantic perfection he had fantasized 
about over all the years, but she had promised to marry him! All right, she's 
upset about it now. I've forced her into it and she doesn't like that. She feels 
an obligation to Fuchs. But that will change. In time, she'll accept it. She'll 
accept me. She'll love me. I know she will.
    Suddenly Humphries was laughing out loud, dancing around the conference 
table like a manic teenager. "I've got her!" he shouted to the ceiling. "I've 
got everything I've ever wanted! The whole miserable solar system is in my 
grasp!"
 
Big George thought they were lucky to snag a ride aboard an HSS ship heading for 
Ceres on a high-energy trajectory.
    "We'll be there in four days," he said to Kris Cardenas as they picked meal 
packages from the galley's freezer.
    Cardenas was more skeptical about their luck. "Why is Humphries sending this 
ship to Ceres on a high-g burn? It's practically empty. We're the only 
passengers and there isn't any cargo, far as I can tell."
    Sliding his dinner into the microwave, George said, "From what the crew's 
buzzin', they're goin' out to pick up the bloke who captured Lars."
    Comprehension lit Cardenas's cornflower-blue eyes. "So that's it! A 
triumphal return for the conquering hero."
    "It isn't funny, Kris. We've gotta put Lars on trial, y'know. He's killed 
people."
    "I know," she said despondently.
    The microwave bell chimed.
    "George," she asked, "isn't there some way we can save Lars's neck?"
    "Sure," he said, pulling out the tray. "Sentence 'im to life at hard labor. 
Or maybe pop 'im into a cryonic freezer for a hundred years or so."
    "Be serious," Cardenas said.
    George sat at the galley's little table and unwrapped his steaming tray. 
"Dunno what we can do except give him as fair a trial as we can. He's made a lot 
of enemies, y'know."
    She slammed her tray back into the freezer and sat glumly beside him. "I 
wish there were some way we could save him."
    Already digging into his dinner, George tried to change the subject. "We'll 
do what we can for Lars. But, y'know, I been thinkin' ... why can't you develop 
nanomachines to take the ores outta the asteroids right there on the spot and 
refine 'em? That'd make it a snap to mine 'em."
    "It would throw almost all the miners out of work."
    "Maybe so," George admitted. "But what if we let 'em buy shares of the 
nanotech operation? That way they could become fookin' capitalists instead o' 
grubbin' away at the rocks."
 
Harbin personally escorted Fuchs from Shanidar to the underground settlement on 
Ceres. Fuchs was not handcuffed or fettered, but he knew he was a prisoner. 
Harbin brought two of his biggest men with him; he was taking no chances.
    As they rode the ungainly shuttlecraft down to the asteroid's surface, Fuchs 
spotted the still-unfinished habitat rotating lazily across the star-flecked 
sky. Will they ever finish it? He asked himself. Will they ever be able to live 
the way I wanted Amanda and me to live?
    Amanda. The thought of her sapped all the strength from him. At least she 
will be safe, Fuchs thought. Yes, came a mocking voice from within his mind. 
She'll be quite safe once she's married Humphries. The old anger surged for a 
moment, but it faded away, replaced with the hopelessness of his situation. He's 
won her and I've lost, he knew.
    As they stepped through the airlock and into the reception area, Fuchs saw a 
group of four women and three men waiting for him. He recognized them all: 
former neighbors, former friends.
    "We'll take him from here," said Joyce Takamine, her gaunt, pinched face 
blankly expressionless. She would not look Fuchs in the eyes.
    "Take him where?" Harbin demanded.
    "He's under house arrest," Takamine replied stiffly, "pending the return of 
our Chief Administrator. He's going to stand trial for piracy and murder."
    Harbin nodded his agreement and allowed them to lead Fuchs away. It's 
finished, he told himself. I've done my job. Now for the rewards.
    He led his two men to the Humphries office, only a short walk through the 
dusty tunnel. There a smiling young woman got up from her metal desk and 
personally escorted the trio to quarters deeper inside the warren of tunnels and 
cubicles. The two men had to share one room; Harbin got a private apartment. It 
was still just one room, but it was his alone. Someone had even brought his 
travel bag and placed it on the bed.
    A message from Diane was waiting for him.
    She should have looked happy, jubilant, Harbin thought, rejoicing in their 
victory, his triumph. Instead, her face looked serious, almost grave, in the 
wallscreen image.
    "Dorik, I've set up a high-g flight for you. I want you here at Selene as 
soon as you can get here. Now that you've taken Fuchs, there's a lot we have to 
do, a lot of changes in both our lives. I'll tell you all about it when you get 
here."
    The screen went blank. Harbin stared at it for a few moments, thinking, Not 
a word of congratulations. Not a syllable of warmth. Well, she's never said she 
loves me.
    He went to the bed and sat on it, suddenly tired. I never expected love, he 
told himself. Then he realized, Not until now. He opened his travel bag and 
searched through it for the pills that would bring him peaceat least for a 
little while.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 56
 
    Humphries spent the morning making arrangements for his wedding. He had his 
legal department send a notice of Amanda's divorce suit to Fuchs at Ceres. That 
ought to put the icing on his cake, he though delightedly. Maybe he'll commit 
suicide once he gets the news and spare us all the trouble of putting him on 
trial. Then he decided to buy the Hotel Luna and refurbish it so it would look 
properly gleaming for his wedding. It won't be a big affair, he thought, just a 
few dozen friends. And the most important of my business associates, of course. 
It's got to be first-class all the way. What was that old word the English used, 
long ago? Posh. That's it. I want this wedding to be small, intimate, and very 
posh.
    Amanda will probably invite Pancho, he realized. So what? I wonder how much 
family she has back on Earth. I'll bring them all up here. Why not? I'm going to 
shower her with so much kindness and luxury that she'll fall in love with me 
whether she wants to or not.
    By lunch time he was still grinning and whistling to himself. He ate at his 
desk, casually running down the past two days of activities reports. He stopped 
when he saw that Diane had authorized a high-energy flight to Ceres. The only 
passengers aboard the vessel were Ambrose and Dr. Cardenas. Why would she do 
that? he wondered.
    And then he remembered, She went through the implantation procedure 
yesterday. And she still got up and ordered a special flight for those two rock 
rats?
    His mood only slightly dimmed, he called Verwoerd on the phone.
    "I'm going to take a stroll through the garden," he said when her image 
appeared on the wallscreen. "Are you up to joining me?"
    "I'm trying to catch up on what I missed yesterday," she said guardedly.
    "That can wait. A walk in the fresh air will be good for you."
    She hesitated a fraction of a second, then capitulated. With a nod, she 
said, "I'll meet you at your front door."
    He expected that she would show some strain from the procedure she'd been 
through, but to Humphries's eye Diane Verwoerd looked no different than before 
the implantation.
    "The procedure went well?" he asked as they stepped along the brick path 
that wound through lushly thick bushes of coral pink oleanders and scarlet 
azaleas.
    She gave him a sidelong glance. "The report should be on file."
    "I've seen the report," he replied testily. "I want to know how you feel."
    "Oh," said Verwoerd. "Concerned for the mother of your son?"
    "That's right."
    She stayed silent for a few steps, then said at last, "I'm fine. Mother and 
fetus in good condition."
    "Good."
    "By the way, let me offer my congratulations."
    He couldn't help breaking into a smile. "About Amanda? Thank you."
    They passed a little bench of lunar stone. Verwoerd asked, "Now that you'll 
be able to make a baby the old-fashioned way, do you still want me to go to 
term?"
    "Of course I do," he snapped. "That's my son you're talking about."
    "Your clone."
    "I wouldn't have you abort him. I can have more than one child."
    "But this one," she patted her stomach lightly, "carries your genes and 
nobody else's."
    "Damned right."
    "He won't be exactly like you, you know," Verwoerd said, a teasing smile 
playing across her lips. "Genetically, he'll be identical, but he'll be affected 
by the enzymes of my body and"
    "I know all that," Humphries interrupted.
    "I'm sure you do."
    He glared at her. "You're downright sassy today, aren't you?"
    "And why shouldn't I be, Martin? I'm carrying your child. You're going to 
reward me very handsomely for that, aren't you?"
    "If the boy is healthy when he's born."
    "No, I don't want to wait until then. I want my payoff now. I want a seat on 
the board of directors. I've earned it. And I'll be a lot better at it than most 
of those fossils."
    Power, Humphries thought. She's after power. Aloud, he asked, "Is that all?"
    "I want money, too. I want a lot of money, Martin. I know you can afford 
it."
    He stopped walking and planted his fists on his hips. "Since when do you 
call me by my given name?"
    She smiled saucily. "I'm taking a very large risk for this fetus of yours. I 
think that works out to a first-name relationship, don't you?"
    "No, I don't."
    "Very well then, we'll keep everything strictly on a business level, Mister 
Humphries. I want ten million a year, for life."
    "Ten mil" He barked out a bitter laugh. "You're dreaming. I could get a 
hundred women to do what you're doing and it wouldn't cost me a fraction of 
that."
    Verwoerd began walking along the brick path again, slowly. Humphries had no 
choice but to follow her.
    "Yes, I'm sure you could buy a surrogate mother for your clone on the cheap. 
But I'm worth ten million. Even more, in fact."
    "Are you?" he asked sullenly, realizing now where she was heading.
    "I know a lot about you, about what you've done in the Belt. I've been a 
faithful employee, Mister Humphries, And I've kept my mouth shut. But continued 
silence will cost you ten million per year. You can set up a trust fund; I'll 
handle the details for you."
    Strangely, Humphries felt no anger. He almost admired her audacity. "So it's 
come to this," he said.
    "Yes, it has."
    With a slow, disappointed shake of his head, Humphries said, "I was afraid 
you'd get delusions of grandeur. This isn't the first time an employee of mine 
had tried to extort money from me."
    "Don't you think I'm worth ten mil per year?" she asked, rank impudence on 
her smiling lips.
    Before he could think of an appropriate reply, Verwoerd added, "And don't 
think you can conveniently get rid of me. I'm not going to have an accident, 
Martin. I have a very good insurance policy against accidents of all kinds."
    Then it dawned on him. "So that's why you're rushing Harbin back here."
    She nodded. "Dorik's my insurance policy. If you attempt any violence 
against me, he'll kill you. He's good at it. Ask Grigor; Grigor's terrified of 
him."
    "Is he?"
    "Yes. And for good reason. You should be terrified of him, too, if you think 
you can get rid of me. It's cheaper to pay the ten million, Martin. That covers 
both of us, Dorik and me together."
    "A real bargain," Humphries growled.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 57
 
    It was maddening. All day long Lars Fuchs paced his one-room apartment like 
a caged tiger, to the door, turn around, to the far wall where the wallscreen 
stood blank and mute. Again and again: the door, then past the bed where he and 
Amanda had slept together, made love together...
    He wanted to scream. He wanted to pound the walls, smash down the flimsy 
door and run through the dusty tunnels until someone shot him down and put an 
end to it all.
    He recalled the phrase the Americans used: cruel and unusual punishment. To 
be put under house arrest, to be locked in the room that had for so many years 
been his home, to know that his wife was millions of kilometers away and 
preparing to marry the man who had ruined his lifebetter to be dead, better to 
be out of this endless torture.
    He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the bureau and saw a man 
he hardly recognized, clothes wrinkled and sweat-stained, hair unkempt, jowly 
face unshaved. He stopped pacing and stared at the image in the mirror: a man 
steeped in self-pity, wallowing in defeat.
    No, he said to himself. I won't let it end this way. They've taken 
everything from me, but they won't take my self-respect. No one can do that 
except I myself.
    He tore off his sweaty clothes and stepped into the shower. When the spray 
turned on automatically, he thought about his water allotment, but then he 
decided, To hell with it; a condemned man has the right to a decent wash. But as 
the steamy mist enveloped him he thought of the times when he and Amanda had 
squeezed into the narrow stall together. It took all his strength to keep from 
crying.
    Freshly dressed and shaved, he asked the phone to call George Ambrose. Less 
than a quarter-hour later, Big George rapped once on his door and slid it back.
    "Hullo, Lars," the big Aussie said, looking slightly shamefaced. "You wanted 
to see me?"
    Fuchs saw that an armed guard stood out in the tunnel; even with his 
breathing mask on he recognized the guard as Oscar Jimenez.
    "Step in, by all means," Fuchs said, trying to sound brave. "I welcome a 
break in the monotony."
    George slid the door shut again and stood uneasily by it. "I di'n't think 
how the hours must drag for you, havin' to stay in here."
    "The only communication I've had from outside was a notice from Humphries's 
lawyers that Amanda is suing for a divorce."
    "Aw, cripes, Lars," George said, crestfallen, "I'm sorry about that."
    "I didn't contest it," Fuchs went on, almost enjoying the obvious guilt on 
George's bearded face. "What difference does it make? I'm going to be executed 
soon, am I not?"
    George's expression turned even gloomier. "Well, we're settin' up a trial 
for you. You're gonna need to have somebody to act as your defense counsel."
    "I don't want a trial." Fuchs was surprised to hear himself say it.
    "Neither do I, mate, but we've gotta have it."
    "You don't understand, George. I waive my right to a trial . . . as long as 
my crew is exonerated and allowed to go free. I take full responsibility for 
everything."
    "Let your crew go?" George scratched at his beard thoughtfully.
    "I gave the orders. They didn't know that my orders would kill the people on 
Vesta."
    "You take full responsibility?"
    "Absolutely."
    "And you admit you killed the construction team on Vesta? Deliberately?"
    "I'd do it again," Fuchs said fervently, "if the same situation arose."
    George blew out a huge breath. "Guess we won't need a trial, then."
    "You'll let my crew go free?"
    "I'll hafta run it past the rest of the council, but, yeah, I don't see any 
point in holdin' them if you're willing to take all the blame."
    "I take all the blame," Fuchs said.
    "Okay, then," said George. "I guess the only question left is whether you 
want a blindfold or not."
 
Martin Humphries didn't wait for Dorik Harbin to arrive at Selene. He ordered an 
HSS spacecraft to fly him to a rendezvous with the vessel Harbin was on. He 
grimaced when he thought about the expense, but he wanted to see this mercenary 
soldier, this hired killer, without Verwoerd involved.
    Even though he had studied Harbin's personnel file to the last detail, 
Humphries was still surprised when he finally met the man. He's like some 
prowling jungle cat, Humphries thought as soon as he entered Harbin's 
compartment. Even in the stark cramped shipboard cubicle, Harbin reminded him of 
a panther, restless energy pent beneath a sleekly muscled hide.
    He was definitely handsome, in a rugged, almost cruel way. Harbin had shaved 
off his beard and put on a long-sleeved shirt and khaki slacks for his meeting 
with Humphries. The clothes were creased so sharply they might as well have been 
a military uniform. Humphries felt decidedly civilian in his casual turtleneck 
pullover and whipcord trousers.
    They shook hands and murmured polite greetings to one another. Harbin 
invited Humphries to sit on the cubicle's sole chair, a plastic recliner, then 
sat on the edge of the bunk, rigid as if at attention. Even sitting down he 
looks as if he's ready to leap at his prey, Humphries thought.
    "I brought you a gift," Humphries said genially, pointing to the 
compartment's blank wallscreen. "Authorization for any, uh ... medications you 
might need."
    "You mean drugs," Harbin said.
    "Yes. Recreational, stimulantsanything you want, my pharmacists at Selene 
will produce them for you."
    "Thank you."
    "Think nothing of it," said Humphries.
    Then there was silence. Harbin simply sat there, appraising Humphries with 
his spooky ice-blue eyes. I've got to be very careful with this man, Humphries 
realized. He's like a vial of nitroglycerine: handle him the wrong way and he'll 
explode.
    At last Humphries cleared his throat and said, "I wanted to meet you 
personally, to congratulate you on a job well done."
    Harbin said nothing.
    "You've earned a sizable bonus."
    "Thank you."
    "That business about sending copies of your logs to several friends on 
Earth," Humphries went on, "was very clever. It shows a lot of intelligence on 
your part."
    Harbin's expression changed minutely. A hint of curiosity flickered in his 
eyes.
    "Very clever," Humphries continued. "But really unnecessary. You have 
nothing to fear from me. I'm grateful to you, and I don't turn on the people who 
do their jobs well. Ask Grigor. Ask anyone."
    Harbin seemed to think it over for a moment. Then, "I was being cautious."
    "I understand. In a way, I even agree with you. If I'd been in your 
position, I probably would have done the same thing, more or less."
    "You mentioned a bonus."
    "One million international dollars, paid to any bank you name."
    Harbin didn't move a millimeter, but he seemed somehow to stiffen, like an 
animal that suddenly senses danger.
    "I had expected more," he said.
    "Really? I think a million is very generous."
    "Diane said there would be more."
    There! Humphries cheered silently. He's brought up her name.
    "Diane? Diane Verwoerd?"
    "Your personal assistant, yes."
    "She has no authority to make you an offer that I haven't approved," 
Humphries said sternly.
    "But she told me . . ." Harbin's voice trailed off in confusion.
    Humphries made himself smile understandingly. "Diane sometimes exceeds her 
authority." With a sly wink, he went on, "That's the trouble with a woman. If 
they share your bed they start behaving as if they own you."
    "Share your bed?"
    "Didn't you know? She didn't tell you? For god's sake, the woman's carrying 
my baby."
    Harbin rose slowly to his feet. "Carrying . . . your baby?"
    Trying to keep from showing fear, Humphries sat where he was and said 
innocently, "We just found out about it a few days ago. She's pregnant, all 
right. We've been sending the happy news to all our friends. I'm surprised she 
didn't tell you."
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 58
 
    The drugs only made it worse. Harbin selected carefully among the narcotics 
available from Humphries's supplier, but he could not eradicate the thought of 
Diane betraying him. For two days after his arrival in Selene he lay in the 
apartment Humphries had provided him, trying to smother the pictures that played 
in his head. The drugs distorted his visions, twisted them and made them 
physically painful, but they did not bring the peace and oblivion that he 
sought. Just the opposite. They sharpened the knives that twisted in his flesh; 
they drove the daggers deeper inside him.
    She's been sleeping with him! She's allowed herself to get pregnant by him! 
All the time she was with me, she was mocking me, manipulating me to do what she 
wanted, what they wanted me to do. She's played me for a fool and she thought 
she could get away with it.
    At last he could stand it no longer. Close to midnight, he lurched out of 
his apartment into the corridors that honeycombed Selene, bleary-eyed, unshaven, 
still in the clothes he had slept in for the past two nights. He shambled along 
the nearly empty corridors, heading for Diane's quarters.
 
Sleeping alone in his giant bed, Humphries was awakened by the buzz of his 
private phone. Grumbling, he sat up and told the computer to put his caller 
on-screen.
    The wallscreen showed Grigor's somber lean face.
    "He's left the apartment," Grigor said without preamble.
    Humphries nodded and cut the connection. Wide awake now, he bunched the 
pillows behind him and sat back comfortably, then commanded the computer to show 
the display from the picocameras built into Diane Verwoerd's apartment. She had 
searched her quarters several times, seeking the bugs, Humphries knew. But no 
one had found the microscopic cameras built into the apartment's wiring.
    Four dark pictures quartered Humphries's bedroom wall-screen, one view of 
each room in Diane's apartment: sitting room, bedroom, kitchen, lavatory. He 
switched to infrared mode and saw that she was lying asleep in her bed. For two 
days she had searched Selene for Harbin and not found him. Humphries had 
secreted the mercenary far from her prying eyes. And fed the man with drugs that 
heightened his normal sense of betrayal, elevated his anger into homicidal fury. 
Years earlier chemists had developed hallucinogenic PCPs such as angel dust out 
of the primitive natural amphetamines. What Humphries's people were feeding 
Harbin was far more sophisticated, fine-tuned to turn him into a raging maniac.
    Now Humphries sat back in his bed and waited for the conclusion of this 
little drama that Diane Verwoerd had brought upon herself. Try to force me to 
knuckle under to you, will you? Blackmail me? Threaten me? Well, now you'll get 
what you deserve, you little slut.
 
Harbin found her door at last. He hesitated a moment, head swimming, fist poised 
to rap on the door. And give her a chance to call for help? Give her a chance to 
hide her latest lover?
    He forced the lock on the sliding door easily and stepped inside her shadowy 
living room. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, then 
he padded silently to her bedroom door. Something smelled rank, foul, and he 
realized it was his own body odor. She's done this to me, he told himself. She's 
made me into a pig.
    Like Circe, he thought, peering into the shadows to make out her sleeping 
form on the bed. The enchantress who turns men into swine.
    She was alone, he saw. He moved to the night table and switched on the lamp.
    Diane awoke slowly, blinked up at him, then smiled.
    "Dorik, where have you been? I've looked everywhere for you."
    Then she saw the murderous look on his unshaved face. She sat up and let the 
covers slip to her waist.
    "What's the matter? What's wrong? You look terrible."
    He stared down at her. How many times had he caressed those breasts? How 
many other men had shared her body?
    "Dorik, what's happened?"
    His voice, when he found it, was little more than a croak. "Are you 
pregnant?"
    The shock on her face was all the answer he needed. "I was going to tell 
you"
    "With Humphries' baby?"
    "Yes, but--"
    She got no farther. He seized her by the throat and pulled her off the bed, 
squeezing hard with both hands. She flailed her arms pitifully as he throttled 
her. Her eyes glazed, her tongue bulged out of her gagging mouth. Still crushing 
her larynx with one hand, Harbin grabbed her protruding tongue with the other, 
dug his nails into it and pulled it out of her lying mouth. Her shriek of pain 
drowned in the blood gushing from her mouth. Harbin relaxed his grip on her 
throat just enough to let her strangle on her own blood, gurgling, moaning, her 
hands sliding down his arms until her arms hung limp and dead.
 
Watching from his bed, Humphries felt his guts churn and heave. He lurched to 
his feet and staggered to the lavatory, Diane's last bubbling moans lost in his 
own retching agony. By the time he had wiped his face and stumbled back into his 
bedroom, the wallscreen showed Harbin on his knees, sobbing inconsolably, Diane 
lying on the floor beside him, her face spattered with blood, her eyes staring 
sightlessly.
    He ripped her tongue out! Humphries said to himself, gagging again. My god, 
he's a monster!
    Crawling back into bed, he switched off the camera view and called Grigor, 
who was waiting patiently in his office.
    "Diane Verwoerd's had a heart attack," Humphries said to his security chief, 
struggling to keep his voice even. "A fatal one. Get a reliable crew to her 
apartment to clean the place up and take care of the body."
    Grigor nodded once. "And Harbin?"
    "Get him tranquilized and tucked away in a safe place. Better bring a team. 
He won't trank easily."
    "Wouldn't it be better to silence him?"
    Humphries laughed bitterly. "With this hanging over him? He's silenced, 
believe it. And he's still available to do whatever I need him to do."
    "Still . . ."
    "I'll find plenty of work for him, don't worry," Humphries said. "Just keep 
him away from me. I don't want him in the same room with me, ever again." He 
thought a moment, then added, "I don't want him on the same planet with me."
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 59
 
    Lars Fuchs looked up in surprise when he heard the knock at his door. He 
shut down the drama he'd been watching Sophocles' Antigoneand called out, 
"Come in." It was George again, looking grim. Fuchs rose from his chair. "To 
what do I owe this honor?"
    "Time to go," George said.
    Even though he knew this moment was inevitable, Fuchs felt startled. His 
insides went hollow. "Now?"
    "Now," said George.
    There were two armed men outside his door, both strangers to Fuchs. He 
walked stolidly beside George up the dusty tunnel, trying to suppress the 
irritation that rasped in his lungs and throat. He couldn't do it, and broke 
into a racking cough. "Shoulda brought masks," George mumbled. "What difference 
does it make?" Fuchs asked, as he tried to bring his coughing under control.
    George hacked a bit, too, as they walked along the tunnel. Fuchs realized 
they were headed upward, toward the airlock that opened onto the surface. Maybe 
that's how they'll execute me, he thought: toss me outside without a suit.
    But they stopped short of the airlock. George ushered Fuchs into a sizable 
chamber while the two armed guards stayed out in the dust.
    Fuchs saw that his former crew were all there. They all turned toward him.
    "Nodon . . . Sanja . . . you're all right, all of you?"
    The six of them nodded and even smiled. Nodon said, "We are quite all right, 
Captain sir."
    "They're leavin'," George said. "Your ship's been refitted and fueled up. 
They're headin' out into the Belt."
    "Good," Fuchs said. "I'm glad."
    "And you're goin' with them," George added, his shaggy face deeply creased 
with a worried frown.
    "Me? What do you mean?"
    George took a heavy breath, then explained, "We're not goin' to execute you, 
Lars. You're bein' exiled. For life. Get out and don't come back. Ever."
    "Exiled? I don't understand."
    "We talked it over, me an' the council. We decided to exile you. That's it."
    "Exile," Fuchs repeated, stunned, unable to believe it.
    "That's right. Some people won't like it, but that's what we fookin' 
decided."
    "You're saving my life, George."
    "If you call flittin' out in the Belt like a bloody Flyin' Dutchman savin' 
your life, then, yeah, that's what we're doin'. Just don't ever try to come back 
here, that's all."
    For weeks Fuchs had been preparing himself mentally to be executed. He 
realized now that his preparations had been nothing short of a pitiful sham. An 
enormous wave of gratitude engulfed him. His knees felt watery; his eyes misted 
over.
    "George ... I ... what can I say?"
    "Say good-bye, Lars."
    "Good-bye, then. And thank you!"
    George looked decidedly unhappy, like a man who had been forced to make a 
choice between hideous alternatives.
    Fuchs went with his crew to the airlock, suited up, and climbed into the 
shuttlecraft that was waiting to take them to Nautilus, hanging in orbit above 
Ceres.
    Half an hour later, as he sat in the command chair on Nautilus's bridge, 
Fuchs sent a final message to Big George:
    "Finish the habitat, George. Build a decent home for yourselves."
    "We will," George answered, his red-bearded face already small and distant 
in the ship's display screen. "You just keep yourself outta trouble, Lars. Be a 
good rock rat. Stay inside the lines."
    It was only then that Fuchs began to understand what exile meant.
 
 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER 60
 
    It was the biggest social event in the history of Selene. Nearly two hundred 
wedding guests assembled in the garden outside
    Humphries's mansion.
    Pancho Lane wore a pale lavender mid-calf silk sheath that accented her 
slim, athletic figure. Sapphires sparkled at her earlobes, wrists, and her long, 
graceful throat. Her tightly curled hair was sprinkled with sapphire dust.
    "You look like a fookin' million dollars on the hoof," said Big George.
    Pancho grinned at the Aussie. He looked uncomfortable, almost embarrassed, 
in a formal suit of dead black and an old-fashioned bow tie.
    "The way I figure it," she said, "if I've got to play the part of a 
corporate bigwig, I should at least look like one."
    "Pretty damned good," said George.
    "You don't look too bad yourself," Pancho said.
    "Come on," George said. "We'd better find our seats."
    Every aspect of the wedding was meticulously controlled by Humphries's 
people. Each white folding chair set up on the garden's grass had a specific 
guest's name stenciled on its back, and each guest had been given a specific 
number for the reception line after the ceremony.
    Almost as soon as they sat down, Kris Cardenas joined Pancho and George, 
looking radiantly young in a buttercup-yellow dress that complemented her golden 
hair.
    "Amanda's really going through with it," Cardenas said, as if she wished it 
weren't true.
    "Looks that way," George replied, leaning forward in his chair and keeping 
his voice low. "Don't think she'd let things get this far and then back out, do 
you?"
    "Not Mandy," said Pancho, sitting between George and Cardenas. "She'll go 
through with it, all right."
    "I feel bad for Lars," Cardenas said.
    Pancho nodded. "That's why Mandy's marrying Humphries; to keep Lars alive."
    "Well, he's alive, at least," said George. "Him and 'is crew are out in the 
Belt someplace."
    "Prospecting?"
    "What else can they do? If he tries to put in here at Selene or anywhere on 
Earth they'll arrest 'im."
    Cardenas shook her head. "It doesn't seem fair, exiling him like that."
    "Better than killin' him," said George.
    "I suppose, but still . . ."
    "It's done," George said, with heavy finality. "Now we've got to look 
forward, to the future."
    Pancho nodded agreement.
    "I want you," George said to Cardenas, "to start figurin' out how we can use 
nanos for mining."
    Cardenas stiffened slightly. "I told you that I don't think it's a good 
idea."
    "Stuff it," George snapped. "It's a great idea and you know it. Just 
because"
    The live orchestra that Humphries had brought to Selene for the occasion 
began to play the wedding march. Everyone got to their feet and turned to see 
Amanda, in a white floor-length gown, starting down the aisle several paces 
ahead of the other women in their matching aqua gowns. Amanda walked alone and 
unsmiling, clutching a bouquet of white orchids and pale miniature roses in both 
hands.
 
It won't be that bad a life, Amanda was telling herself as she walked slowly up 
the aisle to the tempo of the wedding march. Martin isn't a monster; he can be 
positively sweet when he wants to. I'll simply have to keep my wits about me and 
stay in command of the situation.
    But then she thought of Lars and her heart melted. She wanted to cry, but 
knew she shouldn't, mustn't. A bride is supposed to smile, she thought. A bride 
is supposed to be radiantly happy.
    Martin Humphries was standing at the makeshift altar up at the head of the 
aisle. Two hundred-some guests were watching Amanda as she walked slowly, in 
measured tread, to him. Martin was beaming, looking resplendent in a tuxedo of 
deep burgundy velvet, standing there like a triumphant champion, smiling at her 
dazzlingly.
    The minister had been flown to Selene from Martin's family home in 
Connecticut. All the other members of the bridal party were strangers to Amanda.
    As the minister started to speak the words of the ceremony, Amanda thought 
of the fertilized embryos that she and Lars had left frozen in the clinic in 
Selene. The zygotes were Lars's children, his offspring. And hers.
    She glanced at Martin, who would be her legal husband in a few moments. I'll 
have sex with him, Amanda thought. Of course. That's what he wants. That's what 
he expects. And I'll give him everything he expects. Everything.
    But when I bear a child, it will be Lars's baby, not Martin's. I'll see to 
that. Martin will never know, but I will. I'll bring Lars's son into the world. 
That's what I'll do.
    When Amanda had to say, "I do," she smiled for the first time.
 
Martin Humphries stood beside the most splendidly beautiful woman in the solar 
system and knew that she would be his and his alone for as long as he wanted 
her.
    I've got everything I want, he told himself. Almost. He had seen Pancho 
among the wedding guests, standing there with that big red-headed oaf and Dr. 
Cardenas. Amanda had invited them, they were her friends. Humphries thought he 
himself would have invited Pancho, just to let her watch him take possession of 
Amanda.
    Pancho thinks the war's over. We have the rock rats under control and the 
fight between Astro and me can be channeled into peaceful competition. He almost 
laughed aloud. Amanda glanced at him. She probably thinks I'm smiling for her, 
Humphries thought. Well, I am. But there's more to it than that. Much more.
    I'll have a son with Amanda. The clones will come to term soon and I'll pick 
the best of the litter, but I'll have a natural son with Amanda, as well. The 
old-fashioned way. I'll make her forget about Fuchs. I'll drive him out of her 
memory completely, one way or the other.
    Fuchs is finished. They may have let him loose, but he's a dead man anyway. 
He can't do anything to hurt me now. He's an exile, alone and without friends to 
help him. I promised Amanda that I wouldn't harm him and I won't have to. He's 
out of my way now and the rock rats are under control. Now the real battle 
against Astro can begin. I'll take control of Astro Corporation, and the Belt, 
and the whole goddamned solar system.
    At that moment the minister asked Humphries if he would take Amanda 
Cunningham as his lawful wedded wife.
    His answer to that question, and to his own ambitions, was, "I will!"
     
 
 
 
 
 
 
    EPILOGUE
 
    Dorik Harbin writhed and groaned in his drugged sleep as he rode the fusion 
ship out to the Belt again. Humphries's psychologists had done their best with 
him, but his dreams were still tortured by visions of Diane dying at his feet. 
Their drugs couldn't erase the memory; sometimes they made it worse, distorted: 
sometimes it was Harbin's mother drowning on her own blood while he stood 
helplessly watching.
    When he awoke the visions of her death still haunted him. He heard her last 
gurgling moans, saw the utter terror in her eyes. She deserved to die, he told 
himself as he stared out the spacecraft's thick quartz port at the star-flecked 
emptiness beyond the ship's hull. She lied to me, she used me, laughed at me. 
She deserved to die.
    Yes, said the voice in his mind that he could never silence. Everyone 
deserves to die. Including you.
    He grimaced, and remembered Khayyam's quatrain:
 
One Moment in Annihilation's Waste, One Moment, of the Well of Life to taste 
    The Stars are setting and the Caravan Starts for the Dawn of NothingOh, 
make haste!
 
Deep in the Asteroid Belt, Lars Fuchs sat uneasily in the command chair of 
Nautilus, staring into the bleak emptiness outside.
    This ship is my whole world now, he told himself. This one ship and these 
six strangers who crew it. Amanda is gone; she is dead to me. All my friends, my 
whole life, the woman I loveall dead and gone.
    He felt like Adam, driven out of the garden of Eden, kept from returning by 
an angel with a flaming sword. I can never return. Never. I'll spend the rest of 
my days out here in this desert. What kind of a life do I have to look forward 
to?
    The answer came to his mind immediately. Martin Humphries has everything I 
worked for. He possesses my wife. He's driven me into exile. But I will get back 
at him. No matter how long it takes; no matter how powerful he is. I will have 
my revenge.
    Not like Adam. Not like that sniveling weakling. No, he told himself. Like 
Samson. Betrayed, blinded, chained and enslaved. Eyeless in Gaza. Yet he 
prevailed. Even at the cost of his life he had his vengeance. And I will have 
mine.
    
