Chapter 1

Andersen Sector Months X through XII International Year: 2410

OBERHEIM

The dawn came cool and pale. Looking down from the balcony he watched the white sun rise slowly, lighting the valleys and stalk forests below, the dark mountains behind. The only sound was that of transplanted birds in the distance, seeming unnatural in this altogether alien landscape. He heard his name called from within, but did not answer. Elonna came and stood in the glass doorway behind him, wrapped in a blanket.

"What's the matter, Eric?" He did not answer but only shook his head without turning. She stepped out onto the balcony beside him, opened the blanket with her arms and wrapped it about his shoulders. Her skin felt warm against him, but could not displace the emptiness and anxiety he felt.

"What's wrong?" she asked again, curling up against his chest.

"I don't know. It's too quiet." The girl turned her face to look out into the wind, her long hair flowing behind. She looked out at the sun, warm and sleepy-eyed, then drew back from him with a start.

"Eric, look!" Three black specks had just cleared the horizon, and were moving swiftly toward them. They flew in tight V formation, but their shapes could not yet be distinguished.

"Oh, damn. Elonna, get inside, down into the shelter. I'm going to try to contact the city."

She hurried inside. He looked back then moved to follow, but too late. A shaft of yellow light shot down from one of the ships, now nearly overhead, and he slumped to the balcony floor. Then they were gone.

She cried out and rushed and knelt beside him, lifting his shoulders. "Eric, no! Don't leave me here." She wept and put his head to her neck and rocked him back and forth, but he only lay there unmoving.

From behind the mountains came a blinding flash, followed after several hushed breaths by a deep rumbling in the distance. Then all was quiet and the city, too, was gone. She knelt holding him still, trying to remember what he said to do if this happened, but for a time could only cry. She heard the sound of smaller ships approaching but it did not register. Suddenly she knew she was in danger and must act.

She ran inside, quickly zipped into a coverall, grabbed a flask of water as she passed out of the room. She ran down the stairs, was out the door and flying toward the forest while a part of her was still on the balcony.

She reached the first stubble-shoots, four to six feet high, their blue branches like thick hair at an angle toward the sun. Brushing past them, she was just entering the cover of the trees when a small troop-deploying ship landed amidst the cluster of houses from which she had fled. Screams broke out but they were cut short, one by one. Her eyes welled with tears and she stumbled many times but kept going.

After what seemed an eternity she came upon the narrow path, branching left and gradually rising toward an outlying spur of the hills. But by now she could go no further. She had just strength and wits enough left to move a short way off it and collapse into a long dry rill, overhung with bushes. There for a time, dizziness and fatigue pinned her. She was too physically spent to feel much sorrow, but at intervals the knowledge of her husband's death came back to her like a hollow blow in places she could not defend. At last grief wholly overcame her.

"Oh, Eric. What am I going to do without you?" She lay there weeping. Then slowly, like a memory, his words began to come back to her.

"If you get to the deep woods and I still haven't come, you've got to hide." I'M HIDDEN ERIC. "But that won't do for long. They'll be out with heat sensors, so you've got to get to the graves." She started to rise, then fell back. ERIC, I CAN'T. "You must."

She staggered to her feet, found the path, went forward and began looking for the cluster of gray stones which marked the turnoff. She found it just as she was ready to quit.

Leaving the path once more, she picked her way through vaguely familiar landmarks till she came to two bare oblong mounds of earth. THEY DO LOOK LIKE GRAVES. She fumbled about the edge of one till she found the handle. It took all her strength to lift it, and the thick red earth on top did not move. She slid her way into the opening and lay in the shallow hole, the lid thudding to above her.

She felt for the dead-blanket, covered the length of her body with it and shivered in the darkness. The cutting whir of a search-ship overhead sounded dully around her. She clutched together like a child, hardly daring to breathe. But the ship passed over and was gone.

She was alone.

*

The night had come and though she could not see it she could feel it. The air that tricked in from the breathing hole was cold and wet, chilling her. She turned and wrestled the dead-blanket from her, reached up and tried to push back the lid.

It would not move, and for a moment she panicked. Then placing both hands together, she pushed with everything she had. The earth above her buckled, cracked and gave way. She forced her way out. She stood up, brushed away the clay-like dirt, and looked around her.

All was dark and silent. There was no moon, but through scattered openings in the interlacing canopy a few stars shone dimly. Her eyes already accustomed to the dark, she worked her way slowly back to the path, then turned to the right. Still there was no sound and she walked, tentatively at first, and stopping to look around her many times, then with greater confidence on toward the hills. She picked a light, strong shaft from among the many that lay fallen by the way. Its curved length felt reassuring in her hands. She still felt great loss, but no longer any fear. The hours in the grave had not been wasted.

The grade became steeper, and she found she was topping the first shallow hill. The way led down from it and then up again, more steeply than before. The smooth stones became larger and more numerous.

At length she felt she must rest, and sitting on a cold stone, suddenly realized that for all her newfound courage, she had no clear idea where she was trying to go. Beyond vague references to 'people in the hills', Eric's instructions ended here. Through chattering teeth she hugged her shoulders, lowered her head and tried not to cry. ERIC.

Again she rose and looked about her, stamping her feet to try to keep warm. Nothing in sight. Wait. . .what was that? Either her eyes deceived her or there was a pale resonance, little more than a shadow of light, just beyond the hill in front of her. From where she stood the path hooked left to skirt its base before finding a narrow pass between ever larger foothills. But above and to her right came the soft, inviting sheen. Torn between fear and the need for shelter, she moved cautiously a short way into the brush.

The climb was not steep, but try as she might she could not make it noiselessly. More than once she missed her footing, stumbled, and fell through thick leaves with a muted sound like walking through corn. In truth the noise of her falling was not great, and except for a short gasp on one occasion no sound escaped her lips. But in that quiet of night she was sure that it carried.

Finally reaching the hilltop, she looked down on a slight recession, in the center of which lay a small, rounded clearing. A dim lantern was hung on a post at one end, seeming lost and forlorn in the wilderness. All around it there was nothing to be seen except a broad, flat bench on which a man might rest, and no sign that it was anything more than a traveler's light, left to mark a trail, that would go on glowing for years unattended.

Still she took nothing for granted. She approached the clearing and slowly, very slowly left the cover of the trees. She made her way silently to the post and examined it closely. She heard something step through the bushes to her left and her heart was in her throat. She whirled, relaxed and nearly fainted.

The man's face and hands were black.

"Thank God," she managed, swooning still. The man, perhaps fifty, clad in camouflaged cover-suit and jacket, remained at his distance. When she had recovered herself she saw that he regarded her kindly, but made no attempt to help her stand.

"What have we here?" he said in a dry voice, with just a corner of a smile. "Another ebony wanderer? And in the middle of the night. I was just getting ready to leave."

"I guess so." Now that she was no longer moving, the cold pierced her clothes and she shivered once more.

"Well, I guess we'd better get you out of it. Have you strength to walk?"

"Yes..... How do I know I can trust you?"

"You have no choice." He left the light as it was.

He led the way, and after hesitating she walked with him for several miles without speaking, climbing ever higher into the dark, bony hills. They rested then briefly, her breath coming hard from the steep grades they had already passed. But now, leaning dizzy and pallid against a stone, she felt a strange reluctance to speak of her condition. A harsh stubbornness had been growing inside her as they went, tightening ever harder as fatigue become unbearable. The feeling frightened her, but she kept it to herself. Instead she tried to satisfy another doubt.

"Who are you?"

"I am that which I am," he said. And he gave a short, bitter laugh.

"Why are you laughing?"

"Nothing to do with you," he said. "Just making a little joke to myself." She looked down at the ground beneath her feet. "But now you must be very tired. No need to push yourself all at once. Sit down on the ground and we'll rest."

She slid to the cold earth with her back against rough stone. It was quiet, too quiet, and through the darkness the memories..... She wept quietly.

"So softness wins out after all," he said flatly. She glared at him angrily, but he was not looking at her. "Don't worry about it. Sometimes it wins in me too." He must think he's some kind of stern father, she thought. A stern, unfeeling bastard of a father.

They walked till the hills became sheer, then rested again, this time looking up at a dark face frowning down on them. "How much further?" she asked heavily.

"Not far."

"Truthfully?"

"Yes. Can you walk a little farther?"

"Yes. Just give me a minute to rest." He did, exactly. They set out again, skirting the rockface till they came to a gap between cliffs. They followed it up and in, moving through a narrow strip with high walls on either side. Finally it died into a meeting of stone.

"Where now?" she asked between gasps.

"Nowhere. We're here."

"But I don't see anything." A cold fear ran through her.

"Wouldn't be much of a hiding place if you could." He moved past her and flicked his finger between a crack in the rock. Almost at once a soft white light began to filter through a cave entrance not ten feet above them, a short distance to the right. Something like a smoky film was dissolving before it. He boosted her up to a narrow ledge that ran in front of it, and after a short, stepping climb she was there. He came behind her, gestured with his hand.

"Go on. I promise I won't bite you." Again, just a corner of a smile.

She entered the cave, found it warm and well lit. A thick, transparent tube along one wall provided the heat. Light came down from three very ordinary fixtures, hung from the ceiling some twelve feet above. This main chamber, neither large nor small, ran back into a narrow arch, the shadows of which did not seem to go much farther. There was a table, long and low, a wooden bench and two chairs. Several large packs, three strange instrument panels stood against the far wall. Something dark and small was huddled among them. To her surprise she saw that it was a child: a small boy, dressed in blue.

"Hello," she said. "What's your name?" He gave no answer, but studied her with dark, shining eyes.

"I'm afraid you won't get much out of that one. He's still a bit shook up." The man put down his pack, leaned his weapon against the edge of the table. "Found him away north this afternoon. His mother told him just to run and keep running. He did..... You want coffee?"

"Yes, please." He returned from the back a moment later with a steaming cup, and a plate of some synthesized food. "Thank you." He pulled a chair and sat down across from her, watching her eat.

"So what's YOUR name?" he said at length, and the kind older man was submerged.

"Elonna Dorsett."

"You're not all black, are you, Elonna?"

"No. My grandmother was white. Is that important?"

"Not necessarily." A pause. "So how many did you lose?"

She glared at him, then softened. "Only one. My husband."

He got up and paced, then stood squarely before her.

"So tell me this, Elonna Dorsett. What do you plan to do about it?" She hesitated.

"Anything I can." She had a strange sensation as she said the words: a sand castle on a beach, broken and swept away by the waves. But maybe if there was a stone in its center, hard and sharp and black.....

"Well, at least you're no spy." He said it matter-of-factly, as if the question had been understood between them. "And you've a bit of spunk. Not much perhaps, but a bit." He winked at her halfheartedly, the graying father once more. "You must be tired."

"Yes."

He led her to the second chamber, gave her a thin mat against the hard floor, which he placed a short distance from his own. Then he fetched the boy out from between consoles, and set him on the mat beside her. He extinguished all but a soft bluish light, and lay down himself. He turned away.

"Who are you?" she asked quietly.

"I used to be a minister." Again the short, bitter laugh. "Now I don't know who I am. Just don't call me Moses."

He said no more, and they slept.

*

"How could they do such a thing?" They sat again on opposite sides of the table, drinking coffee and eating a meager breakfast. With the night passed and the boy off playing, she hoped she would find him more talkative.

"What, the great white hopefuls? Simple. There was no one to stop them."

"But why? when they brought us here in the first place?" He chewed a stale biscuit, and for a time did not answer.

"Don't ask me to explain the Minority Homestead Act. It was created by another government, and would take a week."

"But the killing---"

"Every expansionist power needs a hate-group within its own boundaries, someone to blame for their own fears and failures. Someone for the violent but inexperienced to cut their teeth on. Hating the Jews is no longer fashionable, and there aren't enough of them here. We were obvious, so they picked us instead."

"Surely it's not that simple."

"Of course not," he said irritably. "We represented old fears and religious prejudice, the 'mark of Cain' and all that brutal bullshit. We still had money and pride when their debt-based economy crashed..... This is pointless; figure it out for yourself. I don't want to know their reasons, only what I can do about it." He fell silent, hard and cold. She said no more.

At that moment the boy came running out of the back and climbed quickly onto the bench beside her. Tears were in his eyes, and she put her arm around him. He buried his head against her, peeped out at the man, then buried it again.

"Look after him, will you? I'm going out for a while." The man rose, switched off the shield and went to the entrance.

"Wait," she called after him. "I still don't know your name."

"My name is Lawrence." He was gone.

The boy drew back and looked up at her, no longer frightened but now tired and curious.

"Well that's better. You don't have to be afraid of me." He looked at her and chewed his finger. She returned his gaze and smiled. "What's your name?"

"Johnny Harris." His leg kicked gently out over the side. She patted him on the head, then went to look for some paper.

The man went down between the high walls of the gap, coming out at the twin faces of the cliffs. Turning right, he skirted the huge southern promontory till he came a scree hill, rising still higher toward the frozen peaks beyond. Here, some two hundred yards further up, a four foot tunnel, shaded by a boulder, led deep into the mountainside. Stooping to enter, he walked till he was weary and stiff with a sharp pain in his back, then walked much farther.

*

It was late evening, darkening to full night. Two men walked through the opening with the shield still dissipating. The familiar face came first, then to her dismay the woman saw that the stranger was white. He studied her as they approached, with the same hard cold gleam as the other.

"I don't know," he said, turning to the guerrilla. "She has the looks, but not much grit, seemingly. The face is much too soft."

Lawrence said nothing, hung his coat on a peg by the wall. She half expected him to draw out a hidden knife and bury it in the white man's back. But the two stood side by side, and she realized that she was the outsider, the one in question. The tall, fair-haired man stood looking her up and down like a slave at auction. She got angry.

"What am I, a piece of meat?"

"Shut up and get us some water," said the black man. She turned on him, furious.

"How dare you talk to me like that? How dare you? And if you think you're going to turn me over to this Nazi---" She ran to the wall and grabbed the laser rifle, pointed it right at him.

But the older man just laughed grimly, and the fantasy fell apart. "You see what I mean?" he said. "She has some grit. Put away the rifle, Elonna."

"All right, but you get your own water." He did, retiring to the back while the other placed his rifle on the table and sat down. Elonna faced him angrily. "You just watch how you look at me." Then she walked to the entrance, still unshielded, with the boy and went out.

The tall man watched her go, then turned to face his friend as he came out with a filled water bottle. The guerrilla handed it to him, reactivated the shield and returned to the table. They passed the water back and forth between them.

"She is very beautiful, Lawrence. But have we the right to ask her to do this?"

"We have the right to ask. But there will be no secrets among us. She will know who we are, and fully understand the danger before we ask her to do anything. There is no hurry. I haven't fully judged her character yet myself. This will take time to set up on your end, anyway. We may not even get the chance."

"I think we will, if we are patient." A pause. "I didn't mean to stare at her like that. It's just that it's hard to tell her features beneath that coverall."

"I know that, Morgan. Still, it's a fine couple of gentlemen we've become. Myself especially, for having thought of it. But if we could eliminate Hunter....."

"No, I think it's a good plan, as far as it goes. And if we've lost a bit of humanity, it only helps us understand their mentality. I was there when they drafted the plans for these raids. I've also had a glimpse of what they've got in store for the Laurian socialists. The only way to stop them, or at least hinder them until the rest of the quadrant wakes up, sees these bastards for what they are and sends out real armies to stop them, is to strike at all points, especially the top, and be just as cold and unfeeling as they are."

The other said nothing, stared soberly at the floor.

"You're right." He got up and paced across the room, his hands behind his back. The shield went down, and the girl reentered with the boy. She addressed herself to Morgan.

"I'm sorry I was short with you. I'm sure if you're with Lawrence you have your reasons. You just caught me off guard." The men exchanged glances, but did not reply. "I'm willing to do what I can..... You must be hungry."

"No. Thank you, I must be going. I apologize too. My name is Morgan. Keep in touch, Lawrence. This will take time, but there are other things you and I can do until then. Elonna." He rose and lifted the rifle and left the room. The boy approached Lawrence and punched him in the leg. The man looked down but did not smile.

"Why so grim?" she asked, not entirely able to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

"You don't know what we're up against."

"Finding my husband dead on the balcony, I think I have a pretty good idea..... And how many did you lose?"

"I didn't have to. My family was killed in a transport accident two years ago."

... "I'm sorry."

"Then don't speak of it again."

... "Are you hungry?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm hungry. Why don't you see if you can make us something that doesn't taste like tar. I'm going to lie down. Wake me if I fall asleep."

"All right."

She went to prepare a meal. The child followed. When the food was ready she called him and they ate without talking. The only sounds were the small sounds of the boy, tapping his tray with the utensil and humming softly to himself. Once he looked up at the woman and laughed: a piece of withered leaf was caught in her dark, flowing hair. The graying man watched them, and only wished he could smile.

Then night came again, and they slept.

*

Four days had passed, with Lawrence gone much of the time. He never said where he was going, or gave any indication that something unusual was at hand. But on the fifth day, as the sun sank and the shadows grew deep around them, he said simply,

"I've got something to do tonight."

He was, if possible, tighter than ever, and at the evening meal ate little. Then he rose, ruffled the boy's head, and disappeared into the second shallow chamber of the back.

He was gone a long time, and the girl took the boy outside, and when she returned he had still not come out. Then as she knelt on the ground, playing some game with the child, a man emerged from the back and she nearly collapsed from fear.

She ran to the wall, seized the rifle and would have shot. But a familiar voice stayed her.

"Put down the rifle, Elonna, or one of these times you really will shoot." The voice, she thought, came from the stranger, a square, Russian-looking man with dark eyes and a shaved head. He was clad in the blue and black of a Cantonese army officer, the emblem of the clenched white fist sewn to his breast, a small black cross in its center. His face wore the sharp look of command but his eyes, in that moment, seemed to contradict it.

"Who are you?" she demanded. "And what have you done with Lawrence?"

"I'm right here, Elonna." The officer opened his jacket and unfastened the garment beneath, pulling it open at the neck to reveal a dark collar and chest, with tight curls of hair like thorny bushes covering his breast.

"Lawrence!" One of her hands lost its grip on the rifle. "You scared me half to death."

"I'm sorry for that. I thought you had gone out."

At that moment she realized two things: that he was going into great danger, and that she cared for him very much.

"When must you go?"

"Very soon." He resealed the uniform.

"Be careful, will you?"

"Yes." He pulled a different weapon from among the equipment against the wall, examined it carefully. "I have to go." He started for the door. She stopped him halfway and embraced him, her eyes gleaming at the corners.

"Be careful."

"I will." He pulled away and stood in the entrance. He looked back at her strangely, hesitated as if wanting to say more, then turned and was gone. He did not return that night.

*

The next day the woman was genuinely concerned. She had just begun to lose hope, when the smoky film of the entrance dissolved and opened out onto the cleft. A man stepped through, but it was not Lawrence.

"Morgan? What's wrong, where's Lawrence?"

"He's dead."

Such an empty shock. "What? What happened?"

He was trying to sabotage a missile base, with several others. His papers were challenged and he was shot. I'm sorry."

"Dead," she stammered. "Dead. Will they kill us all, one by one?" She began to weep.

"Unless we stop them."

"How, damn it! How?"

"A piece at a time."

"But you said you had a plan. For ME."

"I do."

"Well what is it? Stop treating me like a child!"

"Not now. I'll come back tomorrow after dark."

"All right. God." She could not believe it. He turned to go.

Without turning. "You'd best harden your heart, Elonna, or it will freeze inside you. I'm sorry about Lawrence.

He was gone.

*

The next day seemed endless, but at last he came. He looked over the equipment leaned against the wall, then came and sat across from her. He was at once both kinder and colder.

"I have a plan, Elonna, and them is a reasonable chance it will work. But it may be more than your mind is equipped to handle. Also. . .it is sexual in nature."

"You think I don't know that, the way you're always looking at me?"

"Listen first. Save your scorn for the enemy. You will need it all."

"I'm sorry. I'm not mad at you."

"Never, NEVER apologize. And don't ever feel pity for a man who's done you wrong. If you do at a critical time in this, we're lost."

"You're worse than he was."

"Yes, and I'm still alive." He stirred uncomfortably in the chair. "I didn't mean that. Have you got any water?"

"Yes." She sent the boy to get some.

"Try to understand, Elonna. As undersecretary to Hunter, I'm surrounded by them constantly. These guerrillas, even Lawrence, flit in and out of the fire."

"Lawrence did more than flit."

"Yes he did. And if I could change that, I would..... But I live in the midst of it. I can't afford the luxury of emotion. And I want desperately to bring them down. That they're my own people doesn't help."

She studied him more closely.

"You say they're your own people. What about us? Are we just pieces on the board?"

"Not a fair question. You don't know what we're up against." The boy handed him a filled cup.

"Lawrence was found of saying that, and he's dead."

"Yes, and I'm likely to end the same way."

"Then why do you do it?"

"Because they ARE my own people. Maybe you pity them, try to understand. I don't. There's no excuse for this, Elonna. None. It's all been played out a hundred times before.

"There lives are empty and harsh," he continued. "So they say it must be somebody's fault. Surely their God can't want them to suffer, apple of his eye as they're supposed to be. So it must be anti-God. And who is this? The blacks and other minorities, the corrupt and inept liberals, a benign socialist colony two systems away. For God's sake, we've been in Space for two hundred years, we should know better. They forget, or choose to ignore, all the lessons it's taught us: that we're only very small, and should help each other. They turn their backs on history and the simplest understanding, and still find some dark corner in which to masturbate their hatred. There's no excuse for it. None."

She was silent for a time, then spoke. "What do you want me to do?"

"Don't say yes until you've heard what it is. Lawrence cared a great deal for you, and if only for his sake, I must show some restraint."

"And what about you?"

"For myself, I would rather not ask a woman to do it. Also, it flushes me out of the inner circles for good."

"But you think it could work, and be worth it."

"Yes."

"You want me to sleep with someone and kill him." She had forgotten the boy. "Johnny, would you run off in the back and play? I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Yes, Miss Elonna." He walked reluctantly into the back.

"You want me to sleep with someone and kill him."

"Yes and no."

"What do you mean, yes and no?"

"You say it as if it's nothing. I'm not asking you to sleep with some soldier in a guardhouse and slit his throat. We're talking about Roland Hunter, the head of Internal Affairs."

"THE Hunter? The man who ordered the purges?"

"Ordered, planned and executed, and the man who makes sure there is no rebellion of conscience among the whites, no dissent of any kind. A big target, Elonna, and very wary." Again she was silent.

"Still. If you could arrange it..... I think I could do it."

"With what weapon, Elonna?"

"Well, what about a poison needle?"

"No good. You will be thoroughly searched. Thoroughly."

"All right, then. Stop turning it around. You're the one who's supposed to have a plan."

"Yes, though I'm not particularly proud of having thought of it."

"Morgan, you're forgetting what he's done to us."

"All right. Have you ever heard of Sanlen 12?"

"It's some kind of nerve poison, isn't it?"

"Yes, like's snake's venom: poison to the blood but not the stomach."

"What are you saying?"

He told her, in detail.

"But that's horrible. God, what a way to die. . .and to kill."

"You would have to want to kill him very badly, and not hesitate at the critical moment. That's why I've been such a harsh judge of your character. This is no game, and the stakes are life and death." She looked into his eyes, and knew he was in deepest earnest.

"I need time to think." The boy came back into the room.

"I'll be back tomorrow night. Think about it in the cold light of day. You must be very sure." He lifted his rifle.

"Before you go....."

"Yes."

"How would you set this up? How would you make him trust me?"

"Oh, he won't trust you, not for a minute. But he does trust me, as far as he trusts anyone. As for setting it up, that's fairly simple. Many of the cabinet ministers and high military men have taken mistresses, and not all of them white. If the Undersecretary of Affairs should happen to come across a beautiful black woman he fancies, a non-person with no rights, why shouldn't he keep her for himself? And if he's ruthless and full of ambition, as I'm supposed to be, why shouldn't he offer to share her with the Secretary, or even keep her discreetly hidden for his private use? I've been known to do such favors in the past."

"But if he hates us so much, why would he want me?"

"You don't understand men very well if you have to ask, at least not that kind of man. Power and domination are what he craves, sadism and total control. Do I have to say more?"

"No."

"I'll come back tomorrow if I can." He shouldered his weapon. "You see why it was so hard for Lawrence to ask of you. Toward the end, he had decided against it. Just so you know, the thought of sending you in with that monster..... I'm not that cold. Not yet. But they are. Good-night." He switched off the shield and left the cave.

"Good-night." She stared at the table.

*

Morgan returned two nights later. He looked tired and grim.

"Elonna. I'm sorry I couldn't make it yesterday. I almost couldn't come now. They're preparing the full offensive against Marcum-Lauries. I'm just sick thinking about it. The Laurians don't stand a chance. And they're good people." As he glanced at her briefly she saw something in his eyes that she had not expected. He looked away. "Hello, Johnny," he said absently. Without being asked, the boy ran into the back to get him some water.

"Sit down, Morgan. Don't worry about me, I'm all right. I'm even grateful for the extra day. I'm finally clear in my own mind."

"You know you don't have to do this."

"Yes. But I want to, Morgan." She handed him the cup and sat down. "Only. . .I can't do it by hating them. I've tried. I tried remembering my husband's death, but that only made me feel a terrible loss, not hatred. So I tried thinking about what they had done to Lawrence. Sometimes I think all he ever wanted was to live out his remaining years in peace. But he couldn't. They had taken even that away from him. He was no soldier, any more than Eric was. War was the last thing either wanted, and it killed them both---my husband quickly, and Lawrence slowly, from the inside. He tried to be hard and cold, but his faith in life had been shaken too deeply. Do you know what I'm saying?"

"Yes, though I think there was more to it than that."

"Maybe. I'm just trying to tell you how I feel."

Their eyes met. "Go on."

"I'm going to try to kill him, because I know something must be done. But it's not in my nature to be vindictive. I'll be as passive and yielding as I can, and then just do it."

Morgan took a deep breath. "You know there's the danger of being found out, or of being killed afterwards?"

"Yes. And I'm not just saying that."

... "Well. I admire your courage. And I'll do everything I can to protect you." He took a long, slow draught from the cup. "One thing, anyway. I won't have to be a part of their cancer anymore. I won't have to keep silent." He lowered his head in exhaustion. "Have you got anything stronger?"

"Yes. Lawrence kept some whiskey." She rose to get it.

They talked together far into the night. Then he said goodbye, and made his way stealthily back to the high-security apartment complex, and by a way known only to himself, entered the wide bedroom. The next night he returned with a dental surgeon, who implanted a small capsule filled with poison onto the bottom of her tongue, and sharpened to a cutting edge the canine tooth on the corresponding side of her mouth. They made arrangements for the boy, and set a tentative date for five days hence. That day, at least, she would come and live with him.

* * *

The flat was wide and spacious, divided into three sections. Coming through the front door, one entered the large living area, the room itself recessed to the right a foot lower than the polished hardwood walk-in. Deeply carpeted, it was furnished with long, pillowy couches and stiff upright chairs. Low tables of stainless steel and glass were spread among them. The in-wall, farthest from the walkway, consisted of a broad Earthstone hearth (a luxury), and was crowned above the mantle by a photograph of the First Minister, awarding the Medal of Valor to a tall, stern-faced soldier. A barrage of terraced and hanging plants surrounded the slanting, beamed windows of the western wall. Its opposing face was a wall-size entertainment screen, now projecting a tropical rainforest with a high, flowing waterfall in the background.

The bedroom opened off the walkway to the left, behind a thick double door of oak. The kitchen was straight ahead, and by a further passage, the workroom or den.

Elonna sat beside him on one of the couches, its deep-cushioned comfort belying the approaching danger. She moved closer, and quite unconsciously, put her head against his neck. Morgan put his arm around her and stared at nothing. She was clothed in mistress fashion, a long dress of sunburst silk and mesh.

"When will they be here, Morgan?"

"Soon, I think. Try not to worry."

"May I have another drink?"

"Sure." He started to rise.

"No, nevermind. Don't get up. I'll be all right; just don't get up." He drew her closer, warmed her shoulder with his hands.

"Remember," he said, "don't worry about looking scared. You play the part of a refugee among enemies, saving yourself by being my mistress. Your natural reactions, whatever they are, will be all right."

"Well I'm glad of that. Oh Morgan, I wish it was over."

"So do I..... Oh, also. Don't be alarmed if he speaks of your past or your family. He'll have found all that out ahead of time."

"I'm scared."

A warning light lit above the doorway.

"They're in the building."

"How many?" she asked, fighting back a surge of fear.

"I don't know. I'll try to find out." He got up and went to an intercom by the door, moved his hand across it. "Lieutenant. How many have we got tonight?"

"Six, Undersecretary."

"Thank you, Walthrop." He switched it off. "Six."

"Why so many?"

"Probably to check the rooms. I don't think they'll stay." Several seconds later the door tone sounded. He turned to Elonna. "You okay?" She took a deep breath. He opened the door.

The Secretary entered, preceded by his two bodyguards. Two uniformed soldiers followed. Morgan addressed them sternly. Another soldier remained in the hallway.

"So this is the little lovely," said Hunter civilly, nodding towards her. He gave his long officer's coat to Morgan, and the two uniformed men began to sweep the room with hand-held detectors. Her eyes drawn to him by some morbid curiosity, Elonna studied the Secretary.

In his late forties or early fifties, he was a man of average height, blonde-gray and gaunt, still retaining a taut musculature that showed itself in the square shoulders and stiffly upright posture. He had a lean, hard face with prominent cheekbones and brow. But what held her attention most---Morgan opened a bedroom door for one of the soldiers---were his eyes. Steel gray and cold, they looked out restless and insatiable. And though they did not flit, as with lesser men, they nonetheless seemed unable to rest their gaze on anything for more than a short time, as if never satisfied with what they saw, angry and bitter because of it. But when they returned again to her, she knew it would be very hard. He followed the silk dress up the long length of her body, and into her eyes. Here was something he wanted.

But even as she looked away, she felt a new determination growing out of her despair. And though for a moment she had seen him with woman's eyes, sensing the underlying weakness and need, she felt no pity for him. His self-malignation and inner violence had cost thousands of lives already. If it were at all within her power, they would cost no more.

It was at this same time that she decided upon a strategy. Morgan's plan had been to lie and act as little as possible, and to decide at the time which of three contingent courses to adopt. In this way he hoped to avoid unnecessary risk. She glanced over at him quickly, looking broken and hurt, and both understood: she had been told of this ahead of time, and though no longer shocked or capable of much fear, she felt shamefully and bitterly betrayed. She sat down again dejectedly and hung her head, without having said a word. Then let a single tear trickle down her cheek, and wiped it away.

Had they known it, this was probably the best course they could have adopted. This was not what he wanted---a broken and dispirited prisoner. He wanted something still alive, desiring freedom and capable of struggle. At once he called the soldiers to him.

"That is all. Leave the one at the door and get below."

"He has a rifle in the study," said one.

"I know that as well as you. You have your orders."

They touched their chests with a closed right fist and were gone. He seated his guards in two chairs placed on either side of the bedroom doors.

"I would like a drink, Morgan. Bring one for yourself, and for the lady. Whatever she likes." When he had left the room, Hunter moved to sit in a high-backed chair across from her. She looked up at him, puzzled.

"Please, you must not be afraid of me. Your master is a hard man because he has to be. We are not ogres." It was suddenly important to him that Morgan had never had her. "No one is going to hurt you. Please, won't you trust me?" She said nothing, continued looking down. The tall man began to re-enter the room, but Hunter waved him off. "Has Morgan been treating you well?"

"Yes, very well." There were almost tears in her eyes. "But I thought I was going to be his. I've been good."

"Of course you have." Now he let Morgan enter. On his tray were three drinks in narrow glasses. He gave one to the Secretary, who drew out a long stick (for sensing poison) and submerged it in the glass. He gave another to Elonna and took the third for himself, sitting in a chair at a small distance to one side.

"Please, drink up," said Hunter. "To your health, Elonna." She made the toast halfheartedly. "Let's have some music, Morgan. Do you have a Beethoven program?"

"Of course." He rose to put it on.

"You like Beethoven, don't you?" She nodded.

And so the time passed, with music, small talk and drinks. At intervals the Secretary asked simple questions about her health, promised she could stay here with Morgan, even hinted that the purges, ghastly but imperative, were now over, and that if she had any friends or relatives still in hiding, perhaps they could be given safe conduct off the planet.

Indeed, so much time had passed that she began to think nothing more would happen that night. But it was this very gleam of hope that he waited for.

"Will you allow us one more small inconvenience?" The tone of his voice seemed to imply that nothing more than a routine question was forthcoming, some sad necessity, painless and quickly over. But some deeper instinct warned her that the time had come.

"Yes, what is it?"

"Would you go back into the bedroom and take off your clothes? One of my guards will search you; he shouldn't be too rough. You see, I want to lie with you tonight."

Her mouth opened as if to speak, but no words would form. The final attack had come so softly and suddenly that she found she could not react. Through the liquor her blood went pale. She turned to Morgan, but he could not help her now. She had to gather herself. Somehow. Somehow. "Is that what you really want?"

"Yes, it is." She brushed back her face with her hands.

"All right." She got up slowly, did not collapse.

"Snipes."

"Yes, sir."

"Do it."

"Yes, sir." The guard took her by the arm and led her past the other, who held open the bedroom door.

"What's the matter, Morgan? Surely you knew I would want her?" Morgan said nothing. His eyes were cold and hard.

After several minutes, the Secretary got up and made his way to the bedroom. The guard, returning out of it with a nod, passed by him and shut the door. He resumed his seat beside the other and the two looked straight ahead. Several moments later the door opened again, from the inside, and Hunter's head appeared.

"Oh by the way," he said. "Don't let him into the study. You won't go anywhere will you, Morgan?" The doors closed for the last time. Morgan gripped the arms of the chair, burning up inside.

*

After several minutes he got up and began pacing back and forth, pulling angri-nervoursly at a heavy ring on his right hand. The guards watched him. Sounds still came from the bedroom at irregular intervals, horrible to hear. That they were muffled didn't help. At last he felt that he must make his move.

"May I go into the kitchen? I want another drink."

The guards exchanged glances. The larger of the two said, "Go with him." The other rose and followed him into the kitchen.

"You want one?" asked the Undersecretary gruffly.

"You know I can't."

"Of course." He looked past the standing man's shoulder. "Wait a minute. Sergeant, what's that?"

The guard half turned to look behind him. There was a flash of metal as Morgan brought the blade-tipped ring across his neck. The man staggered but made no sound, as the poison collapsed both lungs and heart. Morgan carried him by the armpits and set him down, dead, in a chair. He unclasped the pistol from the man's belt and peered out into the hallway.

At that moment there was a cry, suddenly stifled, from the bedroom. The voice belonged to a man. The bodyguard leapt up from his seat.

"Forget about it, Snipes."

"Morgan. What are you doing with that? Where's Bonnard?" Morgan fired two short bursts into his chest, then casting aside the body, broke open the door and entered the bedroom.

Elonna sat shaking on the edge of the bed, trying to dress herself. Hunter lay dead upon the floor, his face contorted wildly, his limbs drawn up like a shriveled spider. A trickle of blood could be seen at his crotch.

"Are you all right?" Morgan asked. He helped her into the coverall, swept back her tear stained hair. There was a sharp sound as the outer door was thrown open. A lone soldier rushed in, was killed by Morgan.

"Are you well enough to run?"

"Yes." She shook her head severely, trying to force herself back. "He was really very gentle at the beginning."

"Don't think about it. We've got to get you out. As soon as his pulse stopped the soldiers below knew it. Come on! We've got to get you out!"

He threw back the carpet beside the bed, lifted a trap door. They had just shut it behind them when four more soldiers burst into the room. With a shout their captain ran past the body, now half covered by the rug, and fired a laser burst into the lock. It fused and fell inward, but even as it did so the door was sealed from without by thick bars of treated steel. The captain tried to lift it, realized his mistake.

"Tarkin, Nemiah, get your men below and fan out. Block all exits." He lifted his hand-com, ordered the building and neighboring sections surrounded, called in air patrols to block the skies. He rolled back the carpet with his foot, looked with angry disgust upon the body of Hunter. Two men in white entered with a stretcher.

"Get him out of here." They lifted the body and took it away. The captain paced the floor.

*

The passage, after its beginnings beneath the trap door, was shallow and not wide, so shallow they had to lie flat and pull themselves along by staggered hand-holds above them. After perhaps a minute, though it seemed far longer, they came to the emergency ladder-tube, began to climb.

Reaching the roof, they saw the police ship and the man (one of their own) guarding it. He nodded to Morgan, ran toward the railing of converging walls as if alarmed by sounds from below. Morgan came behind and clubbed him unconscious with the butt of the rifle. He leapt up into the ship, where Elonna was already strapping herself in. Her hands would not stop shaking. He jammed the door shut, made ready to lift off. Six seconds later, they were in the air.

He started the small, fast ship forward just as the first of the air patrols drew near him. He fired twice and banked sharply left.

His shots went high and wide, and as he turned, the lead ship strafed his exposed underside. Smoke and trickling flame burst out within and the shields collapsed, but he kept the ship moving. Broken by the concussion, Elonna lay limp in her seat, only the harness keeping her in place. He steered the ship low between a gap in the oncoming hills, as unseen emplacements opened fire on his pursuit.

*

Morgan stepped wearily through the entrance of the unfamiliar cave, trying to support his broken shoulder with the opposite hand. The boy broke free from the woman's grasp and came toward him. Seeing only the man, he broke into an angry despair.

"Where's Miss Elonna?" he cried.

Morgan tried to speak, but the boy ran up to him in tears, punching and kicking.

Then Elonna passed through the narrow arch.

"No, Johnny, don't. It's all right. I'm all right."

She wiped the tears and grime from her face and knelt and hugged him deeply. The child buried himself against her.

........................................................................ .........

STALAGMITE

The day was so dark that Dobrynin began to wonder if something wasn't seriously wrong. He stopped the pede-like cruiser at the foot of the great volcano, looked up through the glass at the warping sky. Black clouds continued to roil up from countless hollow, sharp-edged peaks all across the planet.

The satellite readout only confirmed what his eyes and instincts told him. Tremors and quakes shook the ground beneath him as a heavy static storm crackled white and spindly light through the poison atmosphere. Marcum-Lauries One was caught between the pull of its two suns, which happened roughly every three hundred years. But even so, internal pressures were much too high. It boded ill for the hopes of his people if the massive, ore-laden planet stopped producing.

"Damn." Molten silicates were running down the sides of the volcano's shattered peak. He re-engaged the flexing wheel pods and headed back toward the dome.

How he hated this war. Not just for the killing. Any fool knew that life was no great gift, and death no injury. One took care of his own, forged what meaning he could, then surrendered in the end to oblivion.

But this war. This stupid, wasteful war. How many times must the same story be told? Poverty and abuse on Canton leading to discontent, the fascists coming to power, spreading their hatred in the name of God and white supremacy. And of course a remote socialist settlement, theirs, had proved the ideal target for a tune-up campaign. If they hadn't gone straight for the Khrushchev colony he would probably have laughed. Fascism must inevitably fail, just as humanist Marxism would never die. The Cantons would surely be put down, but not before many things innocent and beautiful had been maimed forever. Fascists! In spite of all that he knew he could almost hate them without thinking.

And their own tentative alliance with Soviet Space. How long would that last if the gold, tungsten and osmo-alloys stopped coming? This planet was the key, and at the moment not a very sure bet. All he could do was go back to the safety (relative safety) of the dome and wait for Percy's report, and see if the Soviet astronomers had anything intelligent to say.

He suddenly realized as he crawled in segments across a gap in the high ridge. . .that he loved this place. Yes, loved it. The wide valley that opened before him, even in turmoil, was beautiful to the point of pain. Who could not feel the beauty of its raw vastness? His wife and colleagues on the tamer Lauries II had always thought him demented. THE STORMS, THE LONG NIGHTS, they would say. But he had never minded the storms or the dark. They merely seemed to him a metaphor for life. Yes, life was a storm; that thought heartened him. Perhaps this was just another, if more severe. No, he knew better. The fascists were real and the planet was in trouble. The flux of power among the Space giants now favored the United Commonwealth, which remained neutral but refused to allow the Soviets to intervene. And the German States, God damn them. For all their greatness and determination they still retained a stubborn streak of the Nazi mentality. There was little question who they would side with if it ever came to such a choice. It was all quite hopeless. His people were just pilgrims and this, too, would never be their home.

"Yes, yes, yes. But I do not give up!"

The dome was in sight and he was drawing closer. He was there. He guided the high-gravity cruiser between two of the eight supporting struts arcing down from the huge floor, the raised structure. He waited for the lift to be lowered, crawled up onto it. The airlock was opened, and the cruiser raised inside it. The doors were shut below him and breathable air whispered around him. He opened the hatch, climbed down and greeted his son.

"Leon. Any news?" The young man seemed troubled, though he was doing his best to conceal it.

"Yes, and none of it good. Salnikov is on the communicator. I'd better let him explain it."

They walked quickly to the high wall of the dock, rose in separate tubes to a curving corridor on the primary floor. From this they entered the meeting room. A large screen at the front of it showed the dispassionate face of Vladimir Salnikov, Soviet ambassador to Marcum-Lauries Independent. They pushed past the chairs of an oval table and went to the railing before it.

"Yes, Vladimir. What have you got?"

"I've been talking with Science Central," said the ambassador. "We know what the problem is, but are not yet certain what is causing it."

"Well are you going to tell me or do I have to guess it?" If all the stars in Space had suddenly gone out, it would never show on that face.

"Easy, Nicholai. I am on your side?" Dobrynin gave a reluctant nod. "Your planet is in serious trouble. She will not engage her second orbit. She only remains at the equilibrium point between the two, and loses almost six minutes each rotation. Internal pressures, as I am sure you know, are dangerously high. If something does not change soon, she will blow herself apart. You have perhaps ninety-eight hours."

... "Why, Vladimir? Why?"

"We cannot be sure, except to say there is no natural phenomenon that would explain it." A pause.

"Is there anything else you can tell me?"

"Not for the record."

"What about off it?"

"Go to scramble," said the Soviet. "Code 4."

His son made the necessary adjustments. Salnikov began again, the words no longer corresponding to the movement of his lips.

"Can you understand me?"

"Yes."

"Have you sent out your reconnaissance?"

"Yes, toward Cantos."

"Deviate course. There is nothing there."

"Where should we go instead?"

Salnikov gave a set of coordinates: a straight line out from the planet, directly opposed to its trajectory, as it sought to cross the intersection of its figure-eight orbit, and begin to move around the second sun.

"What should we look for?"

"An enormous station, over one hundred kilometers across. You won't pick it up on laser or visual, but if you send someone out you will see it clear enough."

"What is its function?"

"We don't know, and we are not about to go in and find out. But its location is suspicious. That is all I can say."

".....okay. Thank you, Vladimir."

"Good luck, Nicholai. I think that you will need it." The screen went blank.

"Leon. go down to the lower communication room and signal all bases. I want everyone off---everyone. These domes won't hold forever. I'm going to try and reach Percy."

Without further speech his son was gone. He leaned over the railing and tried, and after twenty minutes finally succeeded, in reaching the racing ship.

The planet had been evacuated. The heads of the geological and mining crews, along with military, scientific and governmental heads from the three colonies, were huddled together in a briefing room aboard the space station 'Lynx'. Dobrynin stood behind the podium and signaled for quiet, wanting desperately to get started. If only he could get his hands to work at something. He tapped the quiet buzzer impatiently.

"Gentlemen, please. We haven't much time." Those still standing were seated, and the last rustle of voices died away. All eyes went forward.

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you the spot we're in," he began. "You all know that ML One is in trouble. What you don't know is why. I have just learned myself, and it is hard to believe. But it's true. The orbit of Marcum-Lauries is being tampered with from outside. The problem is man-made."

Expressions of shock and disbelief. TIMID FOOLS, thought Dobrynin, THAT IS ALL FOR THE GOOD. THAT WE CAN DO SOMETHING ABOUT. But there were others who said nothing: the miners, the workers. They, too, only wanted to know what could be done.

He dimmed the lights and switched a graphic onto the wall-screen behind him: a binary system, the elliptical figure-eight of the planet's orbit encircling two nearly identical suns. He pointed to the lower right junction of the crossover point.

"Here is where she lies now. Every 304.62 earth years, she completes her orbit around the first sun, in this case Lauries, and passing the equilibrium point between the two, begins to circle the second in the opposite direction. There is a period of instability as she lies between the pull of both; but nothing like this. Then slowly the pull of the first sun grows less, she engages her second orbit, and geological activity becomes more stable. All quite simple. There are several examples of it just in the part of the galaxy we know."

"So how can a man change it?" came a voice.

"One man can't, obviously. But many men, with much planning and outside help, can and have."

He expanded the graphic, receding the orbit and two suns to a lower corner. Then tracing with the pointer a straight line away from the planet's trajectory, he projected near the center of the screen a miniature (but still too large for scale) image of the enemy station that Percy had photographed in ultraviolet and sent back to them. This he enlarged, until it filled all the screen.

Again expressions of dismay, and this time few kept silent. Its already ominous outline distorted by the ultraviolet, it looked like the huge, black and irregular hull of an ancient aircraft carrier, with something like an enormous radar dish mounted securely to the corrugated deck. As he rotated the image its high, central tower was pointed directly at them.

"This is the cause of our troubles." He resolved the image with the remote, turned it once more to show three similar but lesser tower structures spread across the bottom, an irregular tripod.

"The concept of a gravity or 'tractor' beam is nothing new. It has usually been used from ship to ship, or from static base to ship. Its principals to date have either been magnetic, the creation of artificial gravity, or kinetic, scrambling an object's own momentum to bring it down. What we have here is the first case, a gravity beam, though on a scale, and utilizing principles that are altogether new. The towers at the bottom of the structure are pointed at neighboring bodies, and serve only to hold the station in place. The central tower, the one doing all the damage, is pointed directly at Marcum-Lauries. That is why she won't engage her second orbit. That's why internal pressures are ready to blow her apart. She is being pulled by three sources at once, as well as by the thrust of her own rotation..... We have eighty-six hours at the most."

He re-lighted the room, and for a time there was silence. Then as the shock wore off, the questions began to come. He answered them with growing impatience.

"I don't know how it is possible, vice-minister, but it is..... The Soviets confirm our theories..... Where would they get the money and technology? Where do you think? No we cannot be sure. But if it isn't the German States then I don't know anything. No, the Commonwealth won't help us; why should they? The Soviets are powerless to intervene."

"But if the Commonwealth knew what the Cantons were doing---"

"They would applaud it. They are in the midst of a right wing resurgence themselves. And the propaganda sent out against us has been most convincing."

"They say we kill our babies," came a grim voice near the front.

"We let the seriously handicapped and terminal disorder cases die of their own affliction. It is an act of mercy." A doctor.

"I know that as well as you," said Dobrynin. "But to them we kill our babies, just as we are atheists who believe in nothing, because we discourage religious extremes. That is all meaningless now. They will think what they will. We have no time to change their minds."

"We are overlooking the obvious," said a general, standing. "What about military action, an attack on the base? Our forces beat them back from Khrushchev well enough."

This time another answered, Ambassador Salnikov, who had just entered.

"You beat them back because you knew they were coming weeks in advance, and because they did not send their full strength against you. Indeed, it could only have been a diversion, meant to give you false confidence. Do not think you will find the station lightly guarded, General Kopek. THEY (there was something peculiar in the way he said the word) play this game to win."

"What does an ambassador know of war?" retorted Kopek angrily.

"Much more than I care to. Put away your guns and your anger, general. They will not help you here." The old man sat down with a snort.

There was a long, defeated silence. Finally one man, a co-worker and friend, raised his hand.

"Yes, Lebedev."

"What can we do to fight this thing?"

Dobrynin felt the small spark inside him that he knew to be hope.

"Well I am glad someone asked. We are not beaten yet. Stein, you are chief scientist here. What flaws do you see in the Canton scheme?"

The tall man rose, bowed his head self-consciously. "Well, governor. As we discussed before, I see two problems for the station. First, if the tripod is indeed used as an anchor---and this seems likely---and if the gravity beam is as strong as it must be to do this thing, then the pull on the station itself must be tremendous. Doubtless it is well constructed, of the hardest alloys and banding fields, for this purpose. . .and there may be other forms of cohesion as well. But even so, I would have to say it cannot maintain that kind of stress for long. We are given eighty-six hours---though I must tell you that is only an estimate, it could happen much sooner. The Cantons must also know this. I do not think they have much longer."

"And the second?"

"The second flaw is what puzzles me, and I think that herein lies our hope. Any gravity beam, no matter how refined, can be at least partially disrupted by passing another object between the sending unit and the target. This particular beam, in order to travel such a distance and affect such a large, dense mass, is extraordinarily well honed. The solar flares of Marcum and Lauries have been only mildly affected. So. If we were able to pass a large mass, say an asteroid or small moon, between the planet and the station..... During the time of disruption, should it be successful, we would not only give the planet time to engage her second orbit, but also send a huge projectile plummeting directly at them. I'm sure they are prepared for this to some degree. But a very large, solid object would be quite difficult to destroy or turn aside. They would have no choice but to shut down completely, and very soon afterward at that. Unfortunately, as we discussed, there are no asteroids or other large objects, of sufficient size, close enough at hand to be moved into position in time. Still, something of this nature seems our only real chance."

"Thank you, Thomas."

"Then what can---what will we do?" asked many voices at once.

Dobrynin stood calm, until the murmur died away.

"We will make our own asteroid."

Silence.

"May I remind you, Governor, that you do not have the authority to exercise such a plan without the consent of the Council?" This last remark came from Franz Pecci, a slight, high-ranking member of the Leadership Council whom he had never liked.

"And may I remind you, Mr. Pecci, that as governor-general of the planet I have final say on any decision which affects mining and excavation. My jurisdiction is quite clear. And if you have a better plan, I would very much like to hear it."

"We could negotiate. It seems clear that the Cantons don't want to destroy us, only exact for themselves some future profit. We have not even tried---" Dobrynin was about to answer hotly, when Vladimir Salnikov lifted his hand and strode to the front of the room. He stood beside the speaker.

"Governor Dobrynin's plan has the backing of my government. I have spoken with them and they will stand behind it. And someday, Mr. Pecci, I would very much like to know how you can be so sure what it is the Cantons want." At this the man was silent.

"What say you, Vice-Minister? Has this plan your consent?"

The vice-minister rose. "Well. I am sure the Minister will want to know all the details, and I am sure he will question the risk. But for myself, you have my approval. And I think when the Minister is briefed in full, he will agree that we have little choice."

"Thank you, Peter," said Dobrynin. "I will see that he is given a full report, and that he is kept informed throughout." He turned back to the others. "Now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me. My engineers and I have much work to do. Doctor Stein, we could use your help as well."

With that Dobrynin left the room, followed by five others. Salnikov watched them go, then lowered his head, and returned to his ship.

The charges had been laid. Two hundred kilometers beneath the surface, six old-style nuclear explosives had been set in a flat, star-shaped pattern---this, in the heart of a solidified iron and nickel flow one hundred and sixty kilometers across, rising directly from the planet's core. Ironically, the massive upheaval which caused it had occurred many thousand years before, during yet another violent passage of the planet's equilibrium point. If such a bullet could be launched at the station, it would indeed be hard to knock down, though the full effect on the planet itself could hardly be calculated. Between the force of the blast and the current instability, almost anything was possible. Dobrynin had no illusions about serious mining for at least a year---that things could ever again be the way they were before. But it had to be tried.

It has gone well enough so far, he thought. Five dead and seventeen wounded, but still, well enough. This is the hard part now. I don't mind dying, if I have to. But I don't want to.

MAYBE YOU WON'T DIE, said a voice. Yes, and maybe I will. I hope that my son understands. I hope he sees that I have no choice. BUT YOU HAVE A CHOICE. Do I? If there is a choice then I don't see it. Not without surrendering all that we have worked for. No. I cannot go back.

His son entered the room, followed by Stein and Alexander Dimitriev, his chief engineer. At his gesture they were seated at the table across from him.

"Thomas, Alexander. Now we are come to the hard part: how to detonate safely and accurately. As you know, in this, timing is everything. Everything. If we miss by only a few seconds, we doom the planet to extinction."

"Is it true that you intend to remain behind?" said Dimitriev, "and detonate the bombs yourself, from no greater distance than a thousand kilometers?"

"Father!" YOU MUST UNDERSTAND, LEON.

"Before I say yes or no, let us look at the alternatives. That is why you are here. I must know that you stand behind me."

"We could blow them by radio control." His son.

"No. With the static storms this heavy and unpredictable, they could detonate too soon, or not at all."

"What about a laser-triggered mechanism above ground?" asked Dimitriev. "A fast moving ship could activate it, then be gone." Dobrynin opened his hand toward Stein.

"I'm afraid that's not possible," he conceded. "To avoid cloud cover and volcanic discharge the ship would have to fly very high. And the way the upper atmosphere refracts light, even laser is not a sure thing. And also, there is the problem of the gravity beam itself, distorting the path of the ship."

Dimitriev turned away.

"Alexander, Leon. Listen to me. There is only one other chance that I see, and it is not a good one. We could build the laser-trigger upon a high tower, allowing me to activate it from the ground at a greater distance. But I am not sure we could construct such a tower in time. And also, it would cost more lives." He looked at his son. "Or I could detonate the bombs myself, safely and surely, by cable from Leopold Station. I wish there was another way."

"But why does it have to be you? You are needed---" His son broke off.

"Who would you have me send instead? I am most qualified, except perhaps for Stein. And this....." He spoke now with difficulty. "This is my home. It is everything I have worked for. If it is lost then I. . .I would not want to live. We have left the mainstream. I do not want to go back." The room was still, and no one spoke.

Finally Dimitriev rose and came toward him. He offered him his hand, and Dobrynin took it in both of his own.

"Good hunting, Nicholai. I am with you." He turned and left the room. Stein rose also.

"I will have an approximate time, and prep the computer, at Leopold before I go..... I think that it is possible."

"Thank you, Thomas."

The scientist bowed his head and was gone. For a moment father and son stood looking down, and neither spoke.

"Why couldn't I do it in your place?"

"You have not the skill..... Your mother needs you."

"And not you? Will you leave her alone?"

"She has always been alone. Forgive me."

"Father." He was crying now, ashamed.

"Please, Leon." His throat was thick. "You must be strong now. I need you to be strong..... There is a chance I will not die." His son left the room.

Leopold Station. He sat with the button in front of him, on a console shelf amidst computers. He studied its scopes and readouts carefully: eight minutes.

He was glad that it was far away. It did not seem real. Almost---he was thinking in Russian now---he was not afraid. Perhaps he could reach the tube and down into the shelter in time. If that would help. I MUST CONCENTRATE. He breathed deeply, and watched the counter tick away his life. Seven minutes. Six.

He heard a sound behind him. At that moment the image on one of the screens shifted slightly.

"Turn around Dobrynin."

He whirled, startled, then returned quickly to the console, made the necessary adjustments. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Putting an end to your brave little noise." Dobrynin said nothing. "This gun fires nerve pellets as well as the other, Nicholai. I can paralyze you without killing you." Pecci's voice was calm, but there was fear beneath it.

"And I can press this button and kill us both. And if I die, how will you survive? Doctor Stein says the planet will not last another hour; do you not feel the quakes? You will perish along with it." As he spoke he watched and moved his hands across the console, all the while fighting the bitter urge to detonate now: too soon.

"You lie."

"No, Franz, in this I speak the truth. Your only chance is to get down to the shelter, now, and I will forget what has passed between us." Pecci said nothing. Dobrynin knew that he must buy more time.

"It doesn't matter, does it?"

"What?" He could feel the tension of the smaller man's mind.

"It doesn't matter that since I am twenty-five I have made no serious mistake, that myself and many beside me have worked hard for thirty years to make this place our home. It does not matter that we have broken from the current. Still, we are dependent on others. We are like the stalagmite, which must be fed from above. If anything comes between us and the source, we are cut off. We cannot grow. And any puny, so-called man with a putrid hammer, can come and chisel away at our roots!" He could not contain his anger.

"I could kill you now!" cried Pecci. He raised the gun and would have shot, but at that moment Dobrynin put a hand to his ear. A faint voice, mingled with crackling static, had come suddenly into his almost forgotten ear-piece.

"Governor, can. . .hear me?" It was Stein.

"Yes, Thomas. Try to speak louder. What is it?"

".....just received. . .information on the beam. We. . .incorrect by. . . minutes."

"How many minutes?"

"Four. Must be sooner. Thirty seconds. . .now."

"Thirty seconds!" he cried. And regretted it as soon as the words had left his mouth. He quickly punched twenty-five into the counter, forgetting all other instruments.

"Yes....." Then no more was heard.

"Turn around, Dobrynin!"

"Go muck yourself!" he growled. If he was going to die, then let it be like Trotsky.

14. 13. 12.

Pecci shot him in the back and killed him.

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