I didn't get a break until two days later. One minor item the Service required was headquarters space next to the presidential suite, with extra exits, electrical wiring, and about three times the number of broadband cables as anyplace else in the station. A lot of work, particularly since I couldn't mention what it was for and had to rely on personality for urgency. Personality got quite a workout dodging questions.

When Wednesday and the weekly dance rolled around, I decided I was too tired, changed my mind, then changed it back again even as I was checking the final wiring job. I settled at last on a short walkthrough. With Laxton's people due tomorrow, I needed a break and, frankly, wanted more than just a glimpse of Miriam.

The dances were the idea of a couple tour directors intent on taking advantage of the station's low gees. Enamored with microgravity, they'd originally requested use of the hangar, an idea I put to sleep immediately, along with the notion that the dances would be reserved for tourists only, with staff and mining crews left to gnash their teeth in outer darkness. Raves in Space were a solid success, not the least because they allowed tourists to mingle with the wild and strange systems engineers and orbital retrieval specialists in their natural habitat.

The music ceased as I reached the door. I waited while the dancers returned to their seats. The "dance hall" was actually the auditorium with tables added. Not small, but not your big-city ballroom either.

I pushed through the tables. Nobody recognized me; no reason they should. A lot of moneyed Turks and Ukrainians—gengineered crop kings, I gathered. A package tour, everyone a little stiff, the men in suits, the women dressed for the Sultan's coronation.

I crossed the Slav belt, the tables claimed by the Russians that Irwin liked to hire. They recognized me, all right, and were eager for me to sit down and drink a toast. I'd done that once and learned my lesson. They'd kept me there half the night, trying to teach me songs in Russian between shots of vodka (the hall serves only wine and beer, but they bring their own).

I'd just spotted Miriam when Blazik from Supplies caught me: "Whatzis IID jazz, anyway? What's going on over there?"

"IID? What about it?"

"Room off IID. They been driving me nuts. Gimme fifty yards of this. Two dozen that. And they all got work orders signed by you."

"Oh, that room? That's nothing. It's like gargoyle-mafia-helicopter-amoeba, y'know? Hey there, Mimi! Yeah, I'm comin' … Check back with me on that, Blaze. Tomorrow, yeah …"

The kiss that greeted me made me glad I'd changed my mind. "I missed you!" she cried.

"I missed you too." I'd seen her whizzing by more than once, always with a wave and a laugh, always with Doug. The casual observer might have thought they'd taken over the Rock by force majeure and were inspecting their conquest. Maybe they had.

Doug sat smiling broadly, as if he'd gone to great lengths to arrange this meeting and was pleased with the outcome. Burt Zogby and his wife Jays (I never knew what that was short for) shared the table.

I gestured Miriam close. "Doug treatin' you right? You sure? He's from one of them Box States, y'know. All farmers round there. Don't know how to look after a woman."

"Box States!" Doug threw his head back and let out a long, loud peal of laughter. "Don't you worry, Colonel Gid. I went through Bama once. They done learned me how to treat womens down there."

"Bama?" said Zogby. "They got women there?"

"Oh yeah. Plenty of 'em. There was this roadhouse with a dirt floor and a mattress—"

"Hey!" Miriam slapped his hand. "Be nice!"

"Yeah, Doug." That was Jays. She was from Tennessee and thus almost civilized. "Leave Bama alone."

The music started back up. It was Zydette, not my favorite—if I want synthesized accordions, I'll listen to Norte. Miriam grabbed my arm. "Dance with me!"

"Oh no!"

"He's put women in the clinic doing that, and this at half a gee," Burt Zogby explained.

"Yeah, but they were kinda sick already …" My smile faded at the sight of Burt and Jays staring past me with barely-concealed expressions of horror.

Lorne Mills was approaching the table. A Lorne new to me, one I couldn't recall seeing before, dressed in a set of shimmering, multicolored, tourist-shop tights that outlined every curve of her body from collarbone to calf. A pair of four-inch heels threw her butt out and chest forward. Her face bore enough in the way of cosmetics to make her look like a deep-sea creature, and her hair was slicked up into what I call the "dropped from a fifty-story building" style.

She strode to Doug without a glance at the rest of us. His smile didn't so much as waver as she bent to whisper in his ear. With a shrug and a wink at Miriam, he got to his feet. Lorne's eyes swept past Miriam without pausing, as if her chair were empty of anything more than a beer spill or the odd stale peanut.

"So Mimi!" Jays said brightly. "What do your folks think about you coming to the Rock?"

"Oh, my dad was out of his mind. Some kind of explosion happened at the Cape when he was a kid, and he kept saying—"

My perch on the adjoining empty table gave me a clear view of Doug and Lorne sweeping in and out among the other couples. At first things merely looked intense, Lorne speaking through gritted teeth while Doug maintained his smile. An eddy in the tide of dancers whirled them out of sight.

"… my aunt. She calls it 'espace.' 'Miriam, what will you do in espace?' I couldn't get it across. She thinks I'm out here making films about comets or something …"

When they reappeared, Lorne had drawn herself up to glare at him eye to eye. Doug spoke, and she reared back, her hand flashing so quickly I nearly missed it. Doug didn't: Catching her wrist inches from his face, he laughed and shook his head.

"Hemisphere Newsnet—I never watch that. Too much south-of-the-border stuff …"

"Burt, what a thing to say!"

"You'll watch it now, right? Well, that's why they sent me here, Burtie."

There was some action at floor level that I couldn't make out clearly, though I suspected Lorne was trying to kick him. Shifting his grip, Doug grabbed her elbows and lifted her off the floor. Doug was a big boy, and as much of a build as Lorne might have, she didn't mass more than fifty-odd pounds in this acceleration. He could haul her around for a good long time without breaking a sweat, and that seemed to be just what he had in mind.

Making a show of it, he carried her to the edge of the crowd and began a circuit of the dance floor. Lorne hung there in frustration, unleashing a fruitless kick or two before bending her head and methodically cursing him out. A good thing it wasn't audible above the music.

"Say Chevy, Mimi."

"Burt, stop that—"

"Ah, I think it's cute. C'mon, Mimi."

"Don't worry, Jays. He can't make me say that. No way I'm just going to pop out and say Chayvay—" Covering her mouth with both hands, Miriam let out a little scream. I turned to Burt. Instead of laughing as I'd expected, he was staring open-mouthed at the dance floor, having just caught sight of Doug and Lorne. Jays nudged him with her elbow. Miriam, bless her, paid absolutely no attention.

The tourists, under the impression it was some kind of exotic low-gee custom, clapped and whistled. The Russian miners knew better. I heard catcalls from them. I considered stepping in—staff were throwing me glances from the other tables. Lorne's temper wasn't unique; Doug was known to blow his top on occasion. Time for me to show the tin star … I was moving to get up when somebody poked my leg. "Say 'interplanetary,'" Burt demanded.

"What?"

"'Interplanetary,'" Burt repeated.

"You get."

"Please, Gid," Jays said. "Say something in Bamese."

"I will do no such damnfool thing—"

Burt cheered, and the women clapped their hands. "Very good, Gid!" Jays said. "Now let's hear 'interplanetary.' It has at least three Hs his way," she explained to Miriam.

"What's all this?"

I looked up to see Doug returning from the dance floor.

"Gid's speaking in Bamese," Miriam said.

Doug stopped to stretch, as well he might. "I do that better." Dim as the room was, one half of his face seemed more red than the other. He hadn't gotten away unscathed. "Who's for something to drink?"

"Not me—" I began, just as somebody, this being my night to get poked, touched my shoulder. It was Ziegler, the Rock's resident conspiracy nut. A valuable resource, Zee, his constant reiterations of a vast plot encompassing every event from Pearl Harbor to the last satellite shutdown balanced by the fact that he kept his eyes open. "Russians, Chief," he growled at me.

I followed his pointing finger. Across the room, a clutch of miners were tossing somebody toward the ceiling, to see how close they could get without him actually touching. "Aw—I told 'em not to do that …"

"Oh my …" Miriam clenched a hand at her throat. "Someone could be hurt that way."

"People have been hurt."

The victim's clothes caught my eye. "Zee, is that a tourist?"

"Yeah. Ukrainian."

I set out without another word. All we needed was a brawl. Damn that Irwin. Never heard of discipline; did nothing but pamper those stilyagi of his …

I got it broken up with no casualties—the tourist was somebody's cousin. After that I was required to drink at least one toast, which brought my tiredness home at flood tide. Deciding to call it a night, I looked around for Miriam, finding her on the dance floor. As I watched, Doug, hands circling her waist, lifted her high. She threw her head back, hair streaming as they whirled together.

I passed Lorne on the way out. Sitting alone, staring at the dancers, finger tapping the rim of an empty glass.

"It's a half-gee." I considered telling Laxton that you needed a rotational axis of over a hundred-meters-plus for full gee equivalent without ill effects, but decided to let it go. "Less than a day and you'll be right at home."

"Wasn't expecting it."

"You always miss something."

Laxton gave me a glance that said maybe I always did. He was as tall and muscular as I'd expected, balding, but in a way that didn't hurt his looks. A closed face, cold blue eyes. I couldn't guess his age.

The Secret Service detail had arrived two hours earlier, six agents (though it seemed like more) along with two White House staffers. That pair—Matt and Jennie—seemed harried to the point of hysteria, while the agents moved in smoothly and quietly, as if they'd been born on the Rock.

We were walking up A, the main corridor, about to pass III. The place was bustling, as it had been since I'd announced the news over the PA. The excitement was palpable among both staff and tourists, the atmosphere crackling as I'd never before known it.

"Little empty, isn't it?" Laxton paused to gaze down the length of cross-corridor III. Lots of doors and windows, not many lights.

"We're just gettin' started. Year or two, we'll be filled up and cuttin' more."

He nodded and moved on. "You had a list of people we can consult, Director?"

"That's right. Files too—"

"We have their files."

"I got 'em handy. Shoot 'em to you soon's your system's up."

"It's up."

I suppressed a frown. He hadn't laid eyes on his office yet. It was nice to be so sure. "Right away, then."

"I appreciate it. All reliable, I assume."

"Sure. But hey, that's true of all my people—"

"Really." He came to a stop and without a change in tone or expression informed me that John Doe was wanted for a hit-and-run in Costa Rica, while another was a suspect in a still-open murder investigation in Oregon, and somebody else had successfully overcome a crack habit.

I took a deep breath. Fortunately, none were on my list. "Sorry we don't meet your standards."

"Oh, you're pretty good. A group of two hundred plus, there's always problems. I've seen worse. Our range as law enforcement officers is narrow, and they're outside it. We're concerned with one thing: threats against the President. And the sources of those threats are well understood: untreated chronic schizophrenics, schizoid misfits, and …" He paused. I followed his gaze. Miriam was approaching, an intent expression on her face.

"Ms. Espinosa," Laxton called out. "Could I see you a moment?"

"I'm on my way." She was dressed in a black, loosely draped jumpsuit that worked better for her than the tights had for Lorne. Drawing near, she reached out and pinched my sleeve. "Gid, why are you wearing a turtleneck?"

I'm one of those people who like it hot. Eighty and up is comfortable, anything under, freezing. I can live with the Rock's mid-70s average, but some days it gets to me, and this was one of those days. "Only thing I had clean."

"You didn't care what history would think?"

I shrugged. "I did not."

"Ms. Espinosa …"

She faced him, hands clasped before her. "Agent Laxton."

"You're free this afternoon? Good. You know where my office is? I'd like you to drop by in half an hour or so."

"Sure," Miriam said. "But since I have you …" Her recorder appeared. "Are you enhanced, Agent Laxton?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Our audience is fascinated by the topic of bioenhancements. They can't get enough of it. Do you understand that? Neither do I. But there it is."

"I'm afraid I'm not free to answer."

"Uh-huh. Then how many of your agents are enhanced?"

"That's classified too."

"But … more than a few."

"Most of them, Ms. Espinosa. Let's continue this at the office."

"As you wish." Crossing her eyes at me, Miriam moved on just as a voice called her name. Doug, hands on hips, stood glaring straight through me at Laxton. I'd noticed that he'd grown a little protective of Miriam lately. "Hey, suit—" he called out as she joined him. Miriam waved him to silence.

If Laxton heard, he didn't show it. "Politicals, Director. People with a political gripe. Say, a Latina victimized by—"

"Her people are from the Philippines." The low-voiced argument faded down the hall, Doug's voice loud enough to underline a few choice references to "bureaupunks."

"My mistake. Who was victimized during the Diamondback disturbances and may well have a chip on her shoulder, as many do."

"Excuse my skepticism at a government agent lecturing me about the Expulsions." Virtually nobody on government payroll, federal through local, had made a single move against the Diamondback mobs.

"I understand," Laxton said. "Some of us acted better than others. Some stood on the barricades in Houston stopping the trucks from getting through. Some of us just stood around."

I dropped my eyes. Gorton, known to history as the "semi-president," had sat out the Expulsions at Camp David in preference to any move that might be construed as leadership. The Diamondbacks controlled a lot of votes, and you could find people who claimed that the disturbances had come at an awfully convenient time for the Gorton administration.

By its very nature, the Secret Service is a nonpartisan organization, but men being political animals, everyone has a line beyond which he cannot remain aloof, and the Expulsions violated that line for many Service personnel. They didn't speak out, they didn't protest, they did nothing but hover. All of them, on duty and off. Staring at Gorton in his bathrobe when he got up, in his jogging shorts as he ran, in the old work shirt worn to make him look like a man of the people. It must have been quite an ordeal for someone as spineless as Gorton to be forever leading a silent parade of some of the most foreboding-looking individuals on the planet. After three days of it, he fired them and brought in the Marines as replacements.

I knew what Laxton was telling me. He was one of the stand-ups. He had nothing to be ashamed of. I'd spent a large part of my adult life demonstrating, to myself as much as anyone else, that I was not an example of the kind of country the Diamondbacks had made it seem. I wondered how much harder it had been for Laxton.

He resumed walking. "You get along with her quite well, don't you?"

"Good policy to be friendly with the press."

"That reporter from Gaianet a year ago."

"Him?" The guy invaded my office after somebody mentioned the Rock's small effect on the Earth's magnetic field, screaming that we were "violating Mother Gaia's aura." "She will reject you," he screeched. "She will thrust you from her womb!" I had rejected him, and thrust him from the Rock. "I try. Don't always succeed."

"It doesn't strike you as odd—her showing up when she did, getting close to not only the station chief, but the engineer in charge of the laser project?"

I glanced behind me. Mimi and Doug had vanished. "Where'd you hear that?"

"I have sources." His blue eyes studied me as if deciding what size box would do and what could best be trimmed if I didn't fit. Finally he smiled. "I just need to talk to her, Director. That's all."

We'd reached that point where A ceases being a corridor and changes its nature to "tunnel," its unfinished walls stretching the six-hundred-odd feet to Little Europe. He took in the distant lights. "I was annoying just then. Deliberately. But we have to be. The nature of the mission. You understand me, I'm sure."

"You've got an edge, and you can't lose it."

"Exactly!" He looked pleased, an authentic expression at last. "I can't claim we won't be trouble. I'd be lying. If we aren't the biggest pains in the ass you've ever encountered, we would not be doing our jobs. But it's not personal. And I can tell you this, Gid: It'll be worth it. You're in for a tough five days, but you'll be proud when it's finished."

"Don't let me slow you down, Roy."

He gestured with his chin. "This is about as far as you go, isn't it?"

The first and only time I went to Little Europe, they acted as if I were ringing a leper's bell. An honor guard of steering officials pretending English was as dead as Latin while their security glowered and the tourists tittered. The message could not have been clearer. "You could put it that way."

"How do you tolerate it?" Another agent, wearing a suit identical to Laxton's, appeared at his elbow.

"I don't tolerate it, I revel in it. Everything they send me, be it complaint, demand, or threat, goes right down the chute. They didn't box me in—they boxed themselves out."

I couldn't tell if Laxton's nod was directed at me or the agent whispering in his ear. "I'm wanted," he told me.

"Go right ahead. I'll schedule a general meeting early."

"We'll be talking."

I watched them go, sorting out conflicting impressions, trying to shake the feeling that my measure had been taken. That ceased when I caught sight of Lorne.

The Rock's safety office is located on the main corridor to make it easy for tourists to find, should they have a question or need reassurance. At the moment, Lorne was standing at the door watching Laxton pass, a smug look on her face. I was glad she'd come out. I required a word with her.

I called to her as she turned to go inside. For a moment it seemed that she'd just keep moving, but at last she paused. She held a coffee mug and looked her age this morning.

"That's our presidential bodyguard," I told her.

"I know."

"He's a toughie. Doesn't miss a single thing. Somebody could cause a mess of trouble fixin' him wrong."

She made a face. "You have a point?"

"The point is you'd best drop it, whatever it is."

"Who the hell are you to talk to me like that?"

I considered asking if she needed a fax of the station's organizational chart, but that would be playing it her way. "You know what I heard this mornin'? I heard that Miriam Espinosa pulled a train last night for the entire Russian mining team. Now where'd that come from, Lorne?"

"Ooh … You got some nice friends, Gid."

"It was Dolly told that story."

Lorne went bright red. Dolly, a food service tech, was one of Lorne's ladies-in-waiting. But if I believed embarrassment would shut Lorne Mills down, I was much mistaken.

I thought of Doug the night before as she lunged at me. "Now you look here: Your interference with my personal life is to cease and desist this instant. You have sided with that brownie slut against one of your own staff, and that is as far as you go. My boyfriends are mine, and I will decide when somebody can start picking through my trash."

Spilled coffee dripped from her hand. With a snarl, she splattered the rest across the corridor. "I wasn't finished with that son-of-a-bitch yet!"

I shook my head. "Lorne, I do hate it for you, but—"

"Piss off, you hick."

The door slammed in my face. A thin door, like the others on the station, one that would crack readily with one swift kick. But that would be playing it her way too. Instead, I took a deep breath and started down the corridor.

One of Laxton's people, a blond who looked as if she'd never shared the same universe as guns or terrorists, approached me with the wave of a handset. "Director, I'm doing traffic analysis, and I have a question or two …"

I wondered how this one had been enhanced. "Fire away."