That night I walked the station, as I occasionally do. I like it in the still hours, when the corridors are empty of tourists and staff, and some of its ancient strangeness as one of the Sun's lost children returns.

I passed a window set into the wall to display a geological anomaly, this one a collision weld. I paused to take in the multicolored tapestry of melted and rehardened minerals, still furiously aboil to the untutored eye. I bent to brush away an imaginary speck of dust with my sleeve and went on. Far down III one of the security guards, out checking doors, gave me a wave.

After tomorrow, the Rock was unlikely to be the same. The visit represented another boost to the station's reputation and "salability," as they call it. I'd seen several such milestones since I'd started, first as hangar chief, then assistant ops manager, finally prince of the Rock in all but name (a thought I never allow myself in the daytime, rest assured). Our first actress, Stephanie Boyd; our first wedding; our first tourist death—that one had thrown me until a close psychologist friend explained it. This visit was another. Eventually the place would be running twenty-four hours a day, like any Terrestrial resort, and there would be no more quiet hours.

Nearing II, I heard somebody singing. It puzzled me until I remembered the private party at the restaurant, rescheduled so as not to clash with the visit. At the corner, I saw three people approaching, a middle-aged man and woman and what must have been their daughter. They were in evening clothes, the women gowned in the fashion that only the French can attain, the bulky veilleurs—the antikidnapping bracelets worn by anyone in Europe with money—encircling one wrist. The man, slightly the worse for the evening, was for some reason carrying his shoes. It was him I'd heard singing.

Their eyes lit up when they spotted me. "Le directeur!" That was one change already encompassed: For the first time in my career, people knew who I was. The newsnets saw to that. After working through everything important, they'd gotten down to me, the "legendary Gideon Cummins," who had "overseen every aspect of the station's development since Leonard Irwin first presented it to the United States" (that he'd done it to avoid bankruptcy went unmentioned). I guess legends come cheap these days.

Wasn't it exciting? Such luck, to be vacationing just now! They were so looking forward to it. The old lady (obviously German—that kind of threw me, intermarriage being illegal in most of Europe) was concerned that I wouldn't get enough sleep. Her husband said something along the lines of: No no, he must make his final rounds.

I was trying not to stare at the daughter. As she emerged from the shadows, I'd seen she was wearing a mask—not a domino or Mardi Gras mask, but a full-face affair that looked as if it were made of beaten bronze and portrayed … Well, I couldn't tell you—something on the order of what older folks back home would call a "hoodoo." I'd heard of the like, vaguely—who pays any mind to French fashions? But confronting one was something else. Here was a young girl, in an off-the-shoulder dress, her hair up in a novel but attractive style, with a face that amounted to two eyes gazing through this … thing. I felt awful silly smiling in her direction, I'll tell you.

Her father was staring pensively at the floor. When he looked up his eyes had grown clear. "Directeur—what is the intent?" He paused to take in my expression. "Vecker," he added helpfully.

On hearing the name, his wife grabbed his arm and hissed something. He sighed and rolled his eyes.

It seemed they'd gotten turned around coming out of the restaurant, don't ask me how. I got them started back to Little Europe. Passing the display, the man looked it over. "Mysteries," he cried. He swept his shoes about him. "When I was a boy, all this …" He shrugged, his expression half Gallic pique, half plain admiration. "You Yankees."

I watched until they faded into darkness. I had a vision of the girl looking back and peeling off that horror to reveal … What, exactly? The face of ancient Europa in all its twisted glory? With a shake of my head, I set off in the opposite direction.

At the ramp I noticed the hangar door open. Something stopped me from simply barreling inside. I was glad I hadn't when I caught sight of Miriam and Doug floating in the center of the hangar, embracing, Miriam's hair drifting loose as if to entwine the two of them together forever.

I watched a second or two longer than I should have, feeling numb, and sad, and perversely satisfied with the way things were turning out.

She had punched a hole in my armor. That armor that everyone has, made up of early hurts, and disappointments, and regrets, of too much time spent with the wrong people and too little searching for the right one, of the ordinary insults and abrasions that make up a life. She had pierced it but good, without intending to, with even knowing what she was doing. It would always be there, a rent matching her touch. I would feel it on my deathbed.

I left quickly, careful not to make a sound. As I went down the ramp a sudden image arose of Miriam facing that masked girl, Mimi's sweet features confronted with that horror. I tried to push the picture from my mind, but it followed me into sleep.

So it did. The shuttle slid in, kissing the restraints without a jolt. Three minutes later, pressure returned and the door swung open just as the welcoming committee, led by an honor guard of dress-uniformed Zoomies, cleared the locks. The tapes selected by the staffers—"Hail to the Chief" and other Sousa standards—blared forth.

The first one out was a cameraman, as I should have expected. Then came the President, squinting against the lights, which along with his customary half-smile gave him a more quizzical air then he might strictly have desired. The welcoming group, Lennie Irwin in the van, moved forward to meet him along the velcro padding leading to the shuttle (the President's first true experience with microgravity would occur tomorrow).

I spotted Miriam at the side airlock and behind her, lo and behold, none other than the missing Lorne Mills, magically returned in time to take up her duty station. Although she'd neglected to call (as I'd left her strict instructions to do), I felt almost friendly at the sight of her. Lorne had a mighty surprise coming as soon as this jamboree was over.

By that time, Secretary Merck and Dino had emerged. The Ferris's teenage daughter handed the President a bouquet of hothouse-grown flowers, the group moved toward the door, and I relaxed.

Just before they left my line of sight, the President spoke to Dino, who looked directly at me and pointed. When Vecker followed the gesture, I gave him the thumbs-up. And that's how I got on TV in front of two billion people.

A moment later, Dino clambered through the door. He threw his arms wide. "It went great. First-class job, people."

Burt and Shelley T. looked pleased. "Well, it ought to," I told him. "We been at it since shuttles had wings."

He stuck a cigarillo in his mouth and lit up. Last I'd heard he'd quit smoking, but it never seemed to stick. "I nearly blew it. Almost kicked off the last step. Can you imagine, one foot stuck and rest of me flailing around in midair? Oh yeah, Burt, that would have made your day."

He pointed at me. "You, I coulda shot. I look around, where is the MC! Then I think: the control room, where else?"

"I noticed."

In a quieter voice, he said, "The Service detail. That straight?"

"Inert. No big deal."

"I figured when you didn't call. The bird …" He gestured out the window. "Ready to fly?"

"Been ready. We wait any longer it'll take off on its own."

"I want you there for launch."

"I'll be right here."

"No, Gid. Out there with the big dogs."

I pointed to the board. "Right here, Dino."

"Have it your way." He shrugged. "You know, he likes that. 'Hands on the wheel,' he said. 'That Cummins keeps his hands on the wheel.' He wants to talk to you. Not during dinner, not to schmooze. He's got some things he wants to run by you. After the speech."

Somebody called him from outside. "That's me. See you at dinner … Kids, keep it up. My destiny's in your hands. I'm too old to go back to work."

Outside, the crew was checking their wagon. I noticed they wore military coveralls, even though the shuttle was ostensibly a civilian flight. "Okay," I told my people. "Close her down."

As it happened, I didn't see Dino at dinner. The next shuttle up carried, along with other essential personnel, a ninety-year-old senator who had wangled himself an invitation to Irwin's penthouse, supposedly to look into the benefits of low gees for the aged, as if that topic hadn't been researched into the ground. I discreetly offered my seat, eager both to avoid Jean Abu's Cous-cous St. Jacques and Lamb Cooked Five Hundred Ways and to get a little extra sleep. I did catch a few hours before the staffers woke me, crying about the comm center not being open yet.

"Then there's no guarantee this launch will come off?"

"Course not. Physics sets the rules in this game. Entropy and complexity always take a percentage. And that's not considering the human factor—"

"But how can you launch something without being a hundred percent sure …?"

"Happens every day. The shuttle you came up on—"

"Oh, I'm sure the Bureau …"

"You're saying the government is cutting corners on people's safety …?"

"No—I'm not sayin' that. Nothin' of the sort. I'm sayin' there's such a thing as a rainy day, no more, no less."

The one with the mustache put a concerned look on his face. "But I would think, Director, with a shot this important …"

"It was promises wrecked the old agency, son."

"The old agency …?"

"Could you clarify …"

"NASA," I told them. "If you'll excuse me …"

I left them to work the initials out, as disgusted with myself as with them. Not that I credit the superstition—I happen to know that those initials were not the last thing spoken by Grissom aboard Apollo 1 or Resnik on Challenger either. But it's never pleasant to be forced to say something against your will.

Around the corner, I found the exception to all rules awaiting me. Miriam got up, looking glorious. As I drew near, she put a fist to her hip and shook her head. "Gid—a polo shirt?"

I clapped both hands on my ribs. "Tradition, my dear. From the days of Deke and Kris. On launch mornin', you wear knits."

She smiled. "Come here, you."

Another kiss, another deep whiff of the sweet smell of her. I thought of her at the dance, and in the hangar last night. I hoped for both their sakes that Doug knew what he had.

She touched my cheek. "Thanks for standing up for me."

"My pleasure, lady. Somebody required a bring down, and I was happy to oblige. It's a shame you ever got in Lorne's sights, that's all."

"Ah, she's nothing much. You know what 'hembra' is? Same thing as macho, in the female sense. She's falto de hembra, that girl. I got her share."

"I bet you showed Laxton."

"Oh yeah. I explained the First Amendment and how it holds from here to the red limit …"

"You like that line, don't you? Red limit."

"That's a good one, huh? I got it in Chile." She pronounced it in the Latin style, Chee-lay. "At the observatory, at Las Campanas. I asked a cosmologist if there was really an edge to the universe." Her fingers made a circle, outlining the edge. "And he said, 'Well, there's the red limit.' Spooky, isn't it? The universe kind of … goes all the way out and drops off into the red …"

"How do you know it doesn't curve up?"

"Oooh, Gid—you are so contrary …"

A glint of light at her throat caught my eye. "Whoa—what's this here?"

"Oh, that?" She lifted it up for my inspection. A Lunar tektite, a glass globule thrown out by a meteor impact. They're common enough. You even find them on Earth. But occasionally you come across one shaped and colored like the most precious of stones, as this one was: a droplet of transparent light green, with small hairline cracks all through it creating an ever-changing web of light. Among them floated two pebbles, one light and one dark, like planets in a universe of aquamarine.

"You could get a better one mail order."

"Ooh …!" She slapped my hand.

"Nah, I'm foolin'. That's a good one. That one's for keeps. I suppose Doug thought the rings up here were too expensive."

"That's right."

"And we're gonna have another complete disruption when you two get hitched."

"Yes."

I smiled to hide what went deep. "Well—they say quick is best."

"It is."

"What about him runnin' all over the inner Solar System?"

"I'm going with him."

"And if Hemispheric says no?"

"I'll start my own net. We're going to Luna first. There's media up there, and they'd die to hire somebody who's interviewed the Pres. Have you been there, Gid? You have! Well, tell me. Doug wants it to be a surprise. They've got birds up there."

"Be a surprise anyway. It's not like people think." The birds are the least of it. They were introduced, along with the greenery, to create an overlay of nature to lessen the bunker effect. The original staff, a bunch of late-20th types who acted the part in spades, set up a "committee" to "study" the question of importing a biosphere. At last Pinkie Gaines, acting on her own, smuggled up a dozen songbirds. From then on it was a matter of seeing what would adapt, the result being not a cavernous jungle, as some describe it, but something new, something we don't have the proper word for yet.

Then there's the Cistercians—Trappists, to most people. A good fifth of the personnel on Luna, hard workers, disciplined and resourceful, pleased to be making a foundation on a frontier in the tradition of their order. "They tell time up there by the bells. Matins and Compline and … Nonesuch?"

"And the promenade? Did you see that?"

"Oh, they promenade every night. That's just walkin' the corridors and sayin' hi. But the Pageant—that's something else. Every Easter they shut off the lights, and the monastery choir sings, and everybody lights a candle, and they walk down the corridors to meet in the square."

"Did you carry a candle?"

A voice prevented me from replying that I hadn't actually seen the event. "Aha—I spy secrets."

"Mornin', Roy." Laxton looked, if anything, more impossibly close-shaven and stiffly turned-out than ever. I looked back at Mimi. "One thing, 'fore he gets here."

"Yes?"

"How'd you know the President was comin'?"

She smiled. "Sources."

"And you don't give up sources."

"An old guy who drank too much at a party. Wouldn't be fair. Especially when he's somebody's boss. Hello, Agent Laxton!"

"I'm here to escort you to the Presidential interview, Ms. Espinosa."

Miriam's mouth made an 'O.' "Do I look … Am I … Oh …" With a flap of a hand, she headed for the lady's room. "I will be one minute."

We watched her go. "Nice gesture, Roy."

"I asked for the job."

"Good for you." He gave me that steely smile. I went on: "Was Pasquale satisfied?"

"More or less." A hint of a frown crossed his face. "One question: procedure in case something goes wrong with the … Flashlight …?"

"Easy. We pick it up, and we throw it out."

His lips moved, echoing my final words. "I see."

The staffers raced past, looking frantic. I smiled after them before turning back to Laxton. "So—want to hear my guess?"

His eyebrows rose politely.

"The Prez, the speech, the sabotage … no such thing as coincidence in politics, Roy. You want my opinion …"

"Later, Gid."

"Hmph. You're a man of few words, Roy."

"Well, that's the thing. I'm not allowed to explain where you're wrong. I'll tell you this, though: You'll like it." His face brightened. "Ms. Espinosa—"

"Miriam."

Laxton gave me a look that on any other face I'd have taken as one of triumph. "Miriam. This way, please."

Miriam looked at me over her shoulder. "We need to finish our interview."

"Ah, I don't wanna be in no interview, anyhow."

"It's not that easy, Mr. Director." She smiled. "Wish me luck."

"To the red limit."

The plan was for the laser to be slung out following the President's speech, where Doug's team would mate it to the reactor, which had never been brought aboard, and the fuel tanks. That accomplished, the launch would occur in full view of the restaurant, where a mass brunch would be catered. When asked what I thought of the idea, I merely grunted. The Germans had done something similar with the V-2, but I saw no point in mentioning that.

Doug, suited up and wearing a prebreathing mask, entered the hangar and headed for the laser. An agent moved to stop him but was waved off by Laxton. Doug went on without acknowledging either of them.

With a rumble of voices, the doors slid open. Off-duty staff, tourists, and politicians poured in and headed for the wall netting. Many of the tourists, barely capable of getting by in microgravity, were helped along by the more experienced. I got an uncomfortable feeling at the sight of them—I'd never seen the hangar this full, with even more coming. A glance at the agents suggested they felt much the same.

Doug finished his inspection and headed for the side lock, reaching it just as Miriam emerged. They had a word or two, Doug going through a pantomime involving the mask that set her to laughing. Always make the girls laugh, Gid, my granny told me. You do that, you don't have to worry about nothin' else.

Doug left. Catching sight of me, Miriam gave me a wave. I raised a hand, a little more reserved than I might have been otherwise.

"She's waving to the legendary Gid Cummins!" Shelley T. cried.

"Where'd you hear that?"

"From her!"

"Yeah!" Burt said. "She said it to the Pres. 'Our host, the legendary Gid Cummins.'"

"Well, I'll just have to post a letter to her editor, I guess."

"Ooh, here he comes."

The crowd burst into applause as the President appeared. It took me some effort not to do the same. It's funny—I couldn't quite explain what it was I admired about him. You stop paying any mind to the political news, the absentee ballots become a chore, maybe you stop voting at all. Then somebody comes along to make it matter again.

He floated in as if he were a master of orbital living, touching each static line precisely as he passed. I understood there had been some rigorous practice out there early this morning.

At last he halted, with a bit of a jerk, it's true, at what was not quite a podium as much as a stylized framework discreetly calling attention to itself. The applause resumed, as if he'd triumphed over some major obstacle.

He waited it out, his speech rolled in his hand in his trademark fashion. Two agents stood discreetly poised at either end of the laser behind him. I had to search for Laxton, up near the ceiling where he had an unobstructed view.

The President smiled in a way that took in everyone present. About to speak, he instead paused and, raising the sheets to chest level, let them go. They floated, as things tend to do in microgravity. He shook his head. "I've wanted to do that for years."

Another round of applause rolled across the hangar. I could see we were in for a lot of that. "Shelley—start runnin' the check on the boom."

"Roger …"

The President retrieved his speech and bowed his head. Intent on his words, I didn't at first apprehend what Shelley was saying. "Eh?"

"I said, we have activity on the laser."

I stared at her, knowing exactly what she meant even as the thought that the laser's arming codes could not possibly be corrupted left my mind. "The laser itself."

"No …" The lights of the board flickered on her face as she called up various windows. "The engine."

I nodded, recalling the small reserve maneuvering reservoir. "Burt, shut her down."

"Roger."

The President was speaking about his dad telling him the story of Apollo. A glance showed very few Europeans present. I switched to PA. "Excuse me …"

It came out louder than I'd expected. The President raised his head, not even startled as far as I could see. The tourists looked about them for the source of the voice. My staff's eyes were glued to the window.

"Please clear the hangar."

That quizzical look reappeared on the President's face. My people started moving, a few remembering to drag along the nearest tourist. Laxton kicked off, aimed arrow-straight for the President. The laser clicked.

It was a nice, sharp snapping sound, easily audible throughout the hangar. You don't think of satellites making noises, operating in vacuum as they do. I stared just as stupidly as anyone else.

Burt murmured, "I'll be—" The last word was cut off by a woman's scream.

The scene before me flew apart. The two agents at the laser grabbed the President and headed for the exit, aided by a shove from Laxton. The tourists boiled like bats from their spaces at the wall, colliding with each other, the ceiling, the floor, the laser itself. I saw the agents around the President battering a path through them.

"No response, Gid—"

"Crack the OS. See what's runnin'." I uncovered the mike. "All staff. Take hold of a … of two tourists and escort them out. I repeat—"

At that moment, I caught sight of Miriam. She was being borne down by three Secret Servicemen who slammed her against the wall hard enough to send her recorder tumbling. Then they retreated, leaving her curled up in a ball behind them.

Pasquale appeared in the doorway, pistol shaking in both hands. "What's going on?"

"You leave me be, son. Burt, what gives?"

"No access … Some kind of firewall …"

"Do your best." The main door and both side locks were jammed with people battering their way out, no more than two cases of outright panic that I could see, one being subdued by an agent, the other by Dino. As soon as the hangar cleared, I'd uncase the boom, snag the laser and toss it starward. I wondered how long the machine's internal countdown would last. Maybe just long enough. "Staff—clear the doors. Stomp rump, you need to."

I wasn't the only one thinking about the laser. As I watched, Laxton shot toward it from the direction of the main exit. Something in his movements told me that the President, at least, was safe. Halting himself on an antenna, he freed the pallet straps and flicked them away. I was glad someone had thought of that. But then, not waiting for the boom, possibly ignorant that any such thing existed, he put his shoulder against the laser's side. And even as he began pushing, I knew at last who Roy Laxton was.

He was the man who would not fail. He had fumbled badly, alienating the single individual who could have told him where true danger lay. But even now, in the shambles of his mission, he was not giving up. With all possibilities gone but one, he was fulfilling his duty the only way he had left: by doing what a fool had told him, picking the threat up and throwing it out into the cold dark.

The laser began to move. Even a mass that large will shift under the pressure of a steady force, and Laxton embodied that force. I sensed beside me the presence of someone who knew how not to crowd a control room. Doug, oxygen mask dangling, gazed coolly into the hangar. I caught sight of Miriam hanging from the netting by one hand, watching the laser.

It began swinging to one side. I saw clearly that it would collide with the wall before reaching the doors, and that Laxton, unskilled in microgravity, would not be able to stop it. I grabbed the mike to get his attention above the cries of the remaining crowd. Miriam pushed away from the wall.

She'd seen the same thing I had and was setting out to do something about it. Bag swinging at her side as if she were skipping, as if the laser were simply an impediment to get out of the way so that everything could proceed as before, she grabbed a thruster and started to push. I heard a sharp intake of breath beside me.

"I'm deploying the boom," Shelley said.

"Do it."

Her fingers fumbled on the keyboard as she overrode the check sequence. The noise of the crowd was dying down. I spotted Lorne pushing her way through the stragglers at the side lock, suited up and carrying two rescue kits.

The satellite edged forward, Laxton and Mimi on either side, invisible to each other. I don't think Roy Laxton ever knew who had come to his aid. I wish he had.

The laser began to straighten out. That's it, I thought. Get them out of there, get the door open; momentum would see to the rest. I flicked up the mike. "Roy, Mimi—enough …"

I got no answer. Somebody crowded into the control room. Lorne paused at a static line ten yards behind the laser's gaping exhaust nozzle, the boom extending above her. I heard the exit door slam shut beneath me.

"Mimi—"

A storm of exhaust engulfed the hangar. I touched the emergency button at the same same moment as Doug's gloved hand. The doors unfolded, and I caught a final glimpse of the laser as it burst out into its element, the hint of a human shape clinging to one side.

It was my job and duty to see that the station was saved. And I saw that it was; I could do no other. But I would have given up station, country, world, and my own sorry hope of redemption to have been struck blind at that moment.

The fumes began to clear. I shut the doors, flinching as a figure flashed past the window: Lorne, her helmet gone, her mouth gaping and trailing blood. Someone behind me gasped as she hit the ceiling and rebounded.

I turned to shout the sole words I ever spoke in person to President Carl Vecker: "Get out of my control room!"

I unclasped the mike. "EMT on site, now."

I never did learn what it was about. My guess is that it was a rogue operation by some EU faction more embittered or fanatical or depraved than average. They may have intended to humiliate the U.S., or bring the Flashlight program to an end, or simply to send a signal. It's possible I'll never know for sure. I was told steps would be taken, but in the end it's one of those things you don't learn the truth about until the truth has decayed into something harmless.

I took my own steps. When I asked the director of EU interests (charmingly called the "chef de gare") if he had any idea what would have happened to Little Europe if our end had blown out, he refused to meet my eyes. I told him it would please me to see him depart aboard one of their tiny shuttles no later than that evening. I met the next chef when she arrived, and no longer is Little Europe an isolated patch of the Rock. They report to me, and I walk its corridors the same as I walk my own.

They found Roy Laxton. They found the laser, though by then it was an object of study at best. Flashlight had already begun, using operational military lasers, only hours after the President's speech, the speech in which he enunciated the Vecker Doctrine: that henceforward, the United States would guarantee access to space by any nation for any peaceful purpose by any means necessary.

I didn't hear the speech. I was busy explaining to the Espinosa family why they wouldn't be getting their daughter back.

I opened the doors and set the system on automatic. Doug hadn't said a word since entering the lock. He stood rigid within his suit, groping at his helmet and staring sullenly at nothing. He knew what was coming, sure enough, but it hadn't registered. Not yet.

The GTV paused while the boom deployed. Then Lorne did exactly what I was hoping she wouldn't.

"Gid? Where are you?

I raised my handset. "It's on auto, Lorne. Come on in."

"You shit."

Doug clutched his helmet in both hands, squeezing it as if it were a basketball. "I should have guessed. I mean, you let her stay, right? You did. Nobody else. Every time I ask somebody, 'the bitch still there?', it's the same answer. Still there. Cummins let her get away with it. God damn you—"

I said nothing as I watched the pod slide in. What could I tell him? Is the truth always good enough? The truth was what I had seen in her face, in the quizzical look in her eyes, had felt in the pressure of her hand. The truth was that the girl had been mine. All I had to do was ask.

It would have worked. I know it would have. Despite everything, despite all the years between us. It would have worked. But it was not my move to make, and I let you step in, but you were not good enough, and she is dead, and why can't you stay to hell and gone off my station and out of my life, you sorry-ass loser …

But that was not my move to make either. So I said nothing.

The GTV's hatch opened, and Lorne emerged. Doug gestured at her. "I slept with that bitch twice. You believe that? Two fuckin' times, and she owns me—"

Still suited up, she moved awkwardly. But when she turned to pull the large bag from the cockpit, she handled it with care.

Doug raised a fist as if to strike the window. "That had better not be what I think it is," he said in an ominously calm voice. "It had better not, Gid. You had better get on that line and tell her … She stood here, right here, at this window, and she watched Mimi go, and now she has the fuckin' nerve—"

"She went out with two rescue bubbles, Doug. That's how—"

"I didn't see that. I didn't see that, Gid."

"That's how she got hurt."

"Oh, she got hurt. Little Lorne got hurt. And Mimi? What about her?"

Lorne descended the GTV's ladder, taking her time, rung after slow rung. She can't jump around the way other people do. Doug grabbed the door handle and gave it a jerk. I had already taken the precaution of locking it.

"Doug … Before you—"

He hit me with the helmet. I wasn't expecting it, and I lost the handset as I struck the wall. A quick grab at the rail saved me from bouncing around the lock. I watched dazedly as he plucked the handset from midair and tapped out the code with glove-clumsy hands. The door slid open. Lorne was removing her helmet, the bag floating in front of her.

Rage sent Doug kicking off high, to soar above her head and clatter against the side of the GTV. He swung around, positioning himself to push off. His eyes met Lorne's, and he remained transfixed, staring down at her.

Lorne had been something of a medical celebrity after the incident. Burned, poisoned, battered, and flayed, she'd never have survived reentry. So she was treated up here, as well as could be accomplished—they'd never seen injuries that massive in a low-gravity environment before, not involving a living individual. They learned a lot from Lorne. Of course, it was no help to her. She had healed strangely, bones like crystal, scar tissue no thicker than paper. They had no idea what would happen if she was subjected to the stress of even a single gee. She was stuck here for life.

As for her face—well, let's just say that there are no plastic surgeons in LEO just yet.

I kept my distance. I could feel all the pity in the world as long as I didn't have to look at her. Ziegler ended that. "Check the film theater," he told me late one night. "You got business there."

I found a screen depicting a figure of incredible grotesquery speaking to a woman in 19th-century clothes. Lorne had spent the past weeks watching a certain type of film, over and over again—the cases were visible next to the projector: Freaks, The Elephant Man, Mask. When I shut it off, she cowered so that I wouldn't see her face.

She didn't try to hide it now. "Hello, Doug," she said in the rasp that was all she had left.

Doug stared with the empty expression of a man who had erred badly and saw no way out. He patted the skin of the spacecraft, a gesture I understood without in the least being able to explain. At last he made his move. Gripping the handholds, he descended the GTV, one foot after the other, as if in a gravity field. Reaching the deck, he paused, mouth open to speak, but could find no words. Lorne raised a hand to the black body bag floating between them. A week ago she'd appeared in my office with an orbital plot revealing that Miriam's long exile was at last drawing to a close. "I want you to be on the board for me," was what she said.

She reached into a thigh pouch and handed something to Doug, small and of a pale transparent green. He stared at it, floating as if by magic above his open palm, then reached up to take hold of it. Lorne touched his gloved hand before she turned away.

As she passed by, she gave me a folded sheet. "Need help with the suit?" I called after her.

"Thanks, Gid. I'll manage."

She looked back when Doug called out. Her eyes remained beautiful. He said something in a voice so thick I couldn't understand it. But Lorne did. "I know, Doug."

She disappeared. As I moved to follow her, Doug said he'd be out in a while.

"I'll be there," I told him. I'd wait as long as was needed, and take him for a drink or two, and help him bring it to a close at last. We remain each other's keepers, from here to the red limit.

As I left, my eyes were drawn again to the bag. It would end for me when I opened it, as I must, for identification. But then it occurred to me to unfold the slip. I, Lorne Mills, Supervisor of Night Operations, IOS, identify these human remains as those of …

Thanks, Mimi, I thought with no logic at all.

A sudden flare drew my eyes back to the hangar. The Moon was crossing the window, bright enough to make me squint. As I turned away, I could almost hear the bells ringing, and the birds, and voices echoing amidst a parade of light.