In helmet, gauntlets, and apron, Brent stepped to the wardroom door. He aimed a large ion torch. Flame hissed out, blue-white. Cleland kept his eyes away from the actinic glare. Brent played the fire along first the right edge, then the left. Sparks showered. Metal glowed, sagged, coursed in thick rivulets, and congealed. "There," he said after a few minutes. "No matter how they may gimmick the lock, they aren't going anywhere without leave."

He narrowed the jet. Lightning-sharp, it cut straight through. He drew a rectangle, about ninety centimeters wide by fifteen high, some 180 centimeters off the deck. When it was almost finished, he reached with an insulated glove, caught a slumping edge, and tugged it toward him. Thus the piece clattered down on his side.

Setting the torch aside and shedding his protection, he moved closer. The rim of the hole was still hot but not molten. "All right," he said. "You can come talk. Just don't touch anything till it cools." He had told the captives over the intercom what he meant to do.

Nansen's face appeared, stiff as a winterscape. Ruszek scowled beside him. The others pressed at their backs. "Very well, Mr. Brent," the captain snapped. "Now will you explain the meaning of this?"

Brent returned his look. "You know it," he said. "I've taken command. We're going home."

"Are you insane?" Nansen's glance went to Cleland, behind and offside from the second engineer. "Are you?"

The planetologist clenched his fists. His mouth writhed.

"You are," Brent stated. "You, the great Ricardo Iriarte Nansen Aguilar, monomaniac, megalomaniac, egomaniac." His voice mildened. "Hanny Mam, Wenji, Ajit, Selim, Lajos, we're acting on your behalf. Yours and humankind's." The tone went harsh. "He'd have kept us in this orbit of the damned year after year after year, till one way or another the black hole destroyed us. It would have, the ghastly thing. Jean died to warn us. But no, Ricardo Nansen would not heed. We'd have died, and everything we've won, every treasure of knowledge and power we have to give our race and keep it forever starfaring, all would have died with us. For nothing but to serve this man's self-grandeur."

"And so you've sealed us in here," snarled Ruszek. "You brother-buggering swine, let me out and I'll serve you rightly!"

Nansen lifted a hand. "Quiet, Laps." The use of the first name emphasized the order.

Yu called past him: "You plotted, you two. You deceived us."

"We had to!" Cleland yelled.

"You betrayed your ship and your shipmates."

Cleland shrank back.

Brent turned and clasped his shoulder. "Steady, Tim. They're just swearing. They were bound to."

Sundaram spoke levelly. "You overlook the fact that a majority of us wish to stay."

"By now, all of us in here," Mokoena said.

Nansen made another hushing gesture. "What of the Tahirians?" he asked.

"They have their own arrangements," Brent told him. "We'll take them home as promised. Then we'll set course for Sol."

"Do you two shitbrains suppose you can conn the ship by yourselves?" Ruszek roared.

"She can by herself" Brent answered. "Personnel only have to instruct her where to go and how fast. I'll study up before leaving orbit, but already I know, if I keep maneuvers simple and straightforward — back to Tahir's sun, back to Sol — Envoy will do it."

Ruszek sneered. "How do you expect to make planetfall? On your ass?"

"We probably won't need the boat," said Brent, unperturbed. "Tahirian spacecraft will rendezvous with us in their system. At Sol — we'll see what we'll see. But we'll have had a year en route to learn the boat's operation and practice with virtuals and test flights. It's mainly robotic, too, after all. Piloting's not hard if you don't attempt anything risky." A whipcrack: "Like what you made Jean do, Nansen."

"Please," Cleland begged. "We want to be your friends. We are your friends."

Ruszek spat at him through the slot.

"Lajos, no," Nansen said. He pushed slightly at the mate, who took the hint and moved aside. "What are your plans for us?" the captain demanded.

"That depends on you," Brent replied. "Each of you. Listen. You have a washroom, sanitor, and galley in there. I've cut this opening so servitors can bring you food, medicine, whatever you need. Sorry about your having no hunks, but they'll push expansible mattresses through. You can clump your dirty stuff out, and it'll be cleaned and returned. You've got a screen for entertainment, education, the ship's database, the whole culture of Earth — which we're going to enrich and uplift."

Zeyd advanced to the slot. "Each of us, eh?" he murmured.

"Your choice," Brent said. "You can come home prisoners, to trial, or free and heroes."

"Trial?" Yu exclaimed from the rear. "What makes you imagine —"

"Hold, please, Wenji," Zeyd said. "Captain Brent, if I may give you that title, I would like to hear more, privately. You know I have always wanted an early return."

Brent laughed aloud. "Nice try, Selim. But I've watched your mind changing as the news came in." Starkly: "The news from hell. I'd sooner trust" — his voice warmed —"you, Lajos. You're honest. And you've hated every minute here. You long for Earth, blue sky, green grass, women, children, freedom. Think about it, Lajos."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Tears blurred Cleland's eyes.

"Then make amends," Nansen said.

"That will do," Brent clipped. "The servitors will bring your mattresses, collect your garbage, and transmit me your requests. Meals will arrive at our usual times. Or just food will, if and when you prefer to do your own cooking. Behave yourselves, and think."

Dayan came forward. "Tim," she said, "we thought better of you."

"It's for you!" Cleland cried.

"That will do," Brent repeated. "Don't listen to her, Tim." To the rest: "I'll look in on you daily or oftener, and I'm willing to talk with you here or on the intercom, if you don't abuse the privilege. At reasonable hours and in reasonable style, okay? Shipmates, think how this one man, Nansen, has forced this to happen. Think hard. Good night."

He turned to go. Cleland hesitated. "Come," Brent ordered. "Pick up the torch and that chunk, and come along."

He strode down the corridor. Cleland slouched after.

Nansen gathered his people around the table.

"First and foremost," he reminded them, "we must keep control of ourselves. Anger and anxiety will wear us down without leaving a mark on these bulkheads."

"What can?" asked Sundaram.

It was as if they were closing in. The bright murals on them had become scornful. Air felt chill.

"Suggestions?" Nansen invited. "Engineer Yu?"

"Nothing comes to mind," she sighed. "I will keep trying."

"Don't bother," Zeyd advised. "This is a mental problem. Can we work on Brent?"

"I don't believe so," Mokoena said. "Of course, I had no inkling he would go this far. But in my opinion, nobody will persuade him, now that he's in motion. He's utterly intense, driven, fearless."

"Unstable?" wondered Nansen.

"Not really, I think." Mokoena's manner became clinical. As the physician, she was also the psychologist. Though what matters most is how nature endowed her with a feeling for others, Nansen reflected. "He is insane in a way," she said. "The stress in him has snapped whatever restraints he had. But it's an emotional imbalance. He projects his traits on you, Ricardo. Otherwise he's rational. His plot and the bold, flawless execution show that."

"Those ambitions, those expectations, you call them rational?" Dayan demurred.

"He is taking a wild gamble, yes. He knows it. For him the prize is worth the stake — power, adulation, his name written huge in history."

"How?"

"It's plain to see, by hindsight. Remember how often he spoke of what we can do at Earth, armed with the technology we've acquired from the star cluster and the Tahirians. It does have tremendous military potential, doesn't it? But we'd not likely ever permit such use of it. Meanwhile, in his eyes, we have kept him here, unemployed, empty-handed, caged, while we hazarded his life for the sake of more knowledge; knowledge of nothing but academic interest. Oh, he understands full well that what he'd bring to Earth may prove puny and irrelevant. But down underneath he does not accept that understanding. For a chance at destiny, he'll risk, he'll sacrifice, anything and anyone."

Nansen nodded. "It sounds right. Earth has known many like that."

"Too blood-drenching many," Dayan said between her teeth.

"Well," Zeyd proposed, "if we can't influence him, what about the Tahirians?"

"To begin with," Nansen pointed out, "we have no parleur. And Brent has undoubtedly brought them under his authority. I wish I knew how. Poor Emil, poor Simon."

"Poor all of them," said Sundaram.

"Tim, then," Zeyd pursued. "We heard him, we saw him. He's bewildered, fighting his conscience. We can talk to him."

"Get him close to the slot," Ruszek rumbled. "I'll reach out and grab his throat."

"That would not unseal the door," Nansen said.

"Brent wouldn't surrender anyway," Dayan added. "If we get unruly, he can starve us into submission. My people learned long ago how that works."

"Argh!" Ruszek's fist thundered on the table.

"Laps, no," Sundaram urged.

Ruszek looked at the linguist as if in appeal.

"That injured shoulder is giving you much pain, isn't it?" Sundaram continued. "If the company will excuse us, I think you and I should retire to the galley for a time."

After that door had closed on the two men, their comrades heard the low sound of a mantra.

"We all need some inner peace," Nansen said. "Tomorrow we'll organize. Establish an exercise program, for one thing. Now we should try to rest."

They had not thought to ask for night clothes, other changes of garb, towels, toothbrushes, or anything else, nor did anyone now feel like putting in the request. Tomorrow would do. There was barely enough unoccupied space on the wardroom deck, if mattresses were laid side to side and end to end. With illumination quenched, though light streamed relentless in through the hole, bodies stretched out and strained to lie quietly Nansen heard Dayan breathing on his right. He stole a look. Her eyes were shut, her countenance quiet amidst the loosened red mane, but he wondered if she really slept. Himself, aching with weariness, skull filled with grit, he could not. These, his crew, his trusty folk who trusted him, how might he help them endure? How keep them what they were? Confinement as cramped and hopeless as this bred cancers of the spirit, rage, spite, selfishness, at last hatred. . . . Lovers, what about them? And those who had no lovers. . . . Mokoena, if she kept her jollity, perhaps could provide a little fun. Sundaram's serenity might help more persons than Ruszek. Given the screen, they could hold classes, learn from each other. . . . But always they would be gnawing on the dream of escape. . . . He had to get to sleep. He had to say alert and capable. It was his duty.

The servitors had set up a table in the common room. Until another galley was constructed, food must be prepared in the reserve unit on the gimbals, and would be uninspired. Nanotechnic recycling produced first-class materials but did not cook them. However, the victors were no gourmets; and first-class champagne remained unlimited.

In this triumphal hour, on the evenwatch after the coup, two bottles stood in their cooling jackets before Brent. Beethoven's "Eroica" soared from the player, on whose screen a color abstraction leaped and whirled in time with the music. An ozone tang livened the air, as if a rainstorm were drawing near.

Cleland shambled in. Brent, who sat crisply uniformed, cast him a hard glance. The planetologist was unkempt, his garments rumpled and not very clean. A smell of sour sweat hung around him.

"Attention!" Brent barked.

Cleland halted. "What?"

"You've gone slovenly again. It won't do. We're two men on the most important expedition ever made, with nine desperate prisoners to keep and a starship to bring home. We won't survive without discipline. That begins with self-discipline."

"Sorry," Cleland mumbled.

"And don't take that sullen tone, either. Nansen was right about the necessity of maintaining form, rank, respect. I am your captain, Cleland."

"Yes, . . . sir."

Brent cased. "Okay, enough. A word to the wise. We do need a little shakedown time. You don't have to go back and clean up." He smiled. "We'll pretend you did. Sit down, help me celebrate, drink to our future."

Cleland obeyed, filling a goblet, clinking it against Brent's, and sipping without enthusiasm.

"What have you been doing today, anyhow?" Brent asked.

"Wandering around," said Cleland dully. "Trying to rest. Trying to think. I didn't sleep a blink's worth after we, uh, after we'd secured them."

Brent frowned. "I'm going to have you take medication."

Cleland stared. "Can you prescribe it?"

"I can read a medical database and use a medical computer program, same as any other kind." Brent spoke sternly. "I've begun studying  —  plans, operating instructions, the captain's and chief engineer's logs. You should have. You will tomorrow. I'll prepare assignments for you. Yes, the ship can run entirely robotic, if no surprises hit along the way. We've got to be prepared. You've got to get into shape."

A servitor entered bearing a tray. It deposited the dishes between the place settings and rolled back out. The men helped themselves. Brent took a hefty bite of pork loin. Cleland picked at his vegetables.

"Eat, man," Brent said. "Keep up your strength. You'll be wanting it, and wanting your brains in working order."

Cleland drank before chewing further. Brent savored the symphony. After a while Cleland ventured, "Uh, I did call on the Tahirians. To see how they're doing. They aren't happy."

"I knew they wouldn't be," Brent replied. "This whole business goes against their grain. Can't be helped, and our three allies recognize that. But the sooner we deliver them to their planet, the better. Also our own prisoners."

Cleland's fork dropped to his plate. "Huh?"

"I haven't quite decided yet," Brent said. "But they're a dangerous lot. Smart, tough, and outraged. I wouldn't care to bet they can't find some stunt to pull on us in the course of a year."

Cleland swallowed twice before he could ask, "What... do you ... intend to do?"

Brent shrugged. "What would you? Keep them penned, clear to Tahir and then to Earth? Fourteen months at least. Not humane, is it? And, as I said, certainly dangerous."

"You promised  —  We can t-try to persuade —"

Brent nodded. "Between here and Tahir, I suppose we may as well, though we'd better plan our arguments first. But suppose they, or any of them, agree, how can we be sure they don't mean to turn on us once they're out, first chance they get?"

"One or two at a time, under guard. Cut a hole for them, reclose it when they've passed through?"

"Risky. And how can we tie ourselves down, guarding them every minute of the daycycle? No, right now my idea is, and I expect I'll stay by it, is to have the Tahirians take them over when we arrive there. The Tahirians will, if we press our case. They can land the crew someplace isolated, an island or wherever, and leave them."

Cleland gasped. "What?"

"They'll be okay. The Tahirians aren't cruel. They'll synthesize Earth-type foods and such. Their scientists will be interested, after all. But I imagine otherwise they'll leave the humans strictly alone — not to have any more of their disturbing influence — till everybody's peacefully dead of old age."

"No —"

"Don't worry about children. We won't reverse any sperm immunities."

"But this is their ship, too!" Cleland shouted.

"No." Brent's voice rang. "It's humanity's, under my command. Taking them back with us would add a completely unnecessary complication. We'll have plenty to do as is."

Cleland shuddered. "Without witnesses against us."

"Witnesses who at best misunderstand the truth. Or at worst will lie, perjure themselves, for revenge. We can't have that. It'd be treason to everything we mean to the future."

"Treason —"

"Eat, I say!" Brent exclaimed heartily. "Drink!"

"And be merry?"

"Why not? Listen, I'm open to argument. I'll welcome any better ideas you may come on. Just not tonight, please. Tonight we celebrate. We've won, we're free, we're going home."

To Cleland's surprise, later to his faint pleasure, the next hour or so passed agreeably. Brent took the initiative. Liveliness sparkled in him. His conversation ranged from witty to serious, discussed diversions and occupations for the voyage, touched on his past rather tenderly, drew hitherto unshared memories from his tablemate, speculated with considerable imagination about what they might find on Earth and what they might accomplish but avoided loftiness, recited stirring passages from literature that most people had forgotten centuries before Envoy departed. It was as if he sought to evoke what had been best in his civilization and his species.

Meanwhile, though, he drank, goblet after goblet. That was not his custom. After dessert he ordered brandy and more champagne. Cleland, not wishing to fall asleep where he sat in his own exhaustion, held back, more or less.

With alcoholic suddenness, the mood mutated. Beethoven had left the room. Brent was with Shakespeare.

" — For, as thou urgest justice, be assur'd Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir'st."

The words jarred to a stop. He looked before him, past the other man. His grip tightened on his goblet. He threw what it held down his throat. "Justice," he said. "Yes, Nansen, you'll get justice."

Whatever calm he had won drained out of Cleland. "What?"

"Simple justice, marooning Nansen. Give him his little kingdom. Let him rule over his little bootlickers."

"Do you . . . really hate him that much?"

Brent shook his head. "No. Or maybe yes. I tell you, I want to give him justice. A tyrant, a murderer, a menace to the race. But mainly, he can't see. He won't. He is a strong man, like me. I respect that part of him. . . . Hate. Justice. Yes," Brent said slowly, "that Dayan bitch, she deserves more than marooning."

Cleland's voice cracked. "Hanny?"

Brent glowered at him. "She humiliated me, the slut, deliberately, and ever since then I've felt her gloat, oh, yes. Oh, yes. Hanny, dear," he purred, "you've got a lesson coming."

"What — what —"

"When we reach Tahir. The Tahirians who take the prisoners off, they'll cooperate. They'll do whatever we ask. They'll even help. For all they know, I'll be bidding her a sweet farewell."

"No, no," Cleland wailed.

Brent grinned. "And cute little Wenji and hot big Mam, how about them, eh? How'd you like a piece of that for yourself? Hey? It'd be a lesson to the men, too. Justice."

Cleland sat dumb.

Brent observed. "Uh, just a thought," he said quickly. "Just a notion. We've a lot to do, a long way to go, before the question rises. . . . Rises," he snickered. He refilled his goblet. "Come on, we'd better drink up and turn in. A hard day's work ahead of us."

"If. . . I can sleep —"

Brent summoned a degree of sobriety. "If you can't, I'll fix that tomorrow. Trust me. Follow me, and I'll lead you further than men ever went before."

Nightwatch yielded to mornwatch. Cleland sat in his darkened cabin. The only light was from the screen in front of him. He had evoked a close-in image of the black hole. Around and down into its absolute night swept the tidal vortex of fire.

"Jean, Jean, forgive me," he whispered. "When you died, on top of everything else, I — I don't know. It seemed like I had to lash out somehow. And Al was my friend, my last human friend — I believed —"

He bit his lip. Blood trickled. "No. Now I'm feeling sorry for myself. Again."

Air stirred, a barren tiny noise among the shadows.

"What to do, Jean? What would you have done?"

Odd, how soon the answer came.