He needed a bath.

            I rocked back and stood up. "Keep your gun on him, Gwen. I think he's a nightwalker."

            "I think so, too. Please look at this, sir, while I keep him covered." Gwen pointed at a pistol lying on the deck.

            Calling it a "pistol" dignifies it more than it deserves. It was a lethal weapon, homemade, of the category known traditionally as "nimble gun." I studied it as thoroughly as I could without touching it. Its barrel was metal tubing so light in gauge that I wondered whether or not it had ever been fired. The handgrip was plastic, ground or whittled to conform to a fist. The firing mechanism was concealed by a metal cover held in place by (believe me!) rubber bands. That it was a single-shot weapon seemed certain. But with that flimsy barrel it could turn out to be a one-shot as well; it seemed to me to be almost as dangerous to the user as to his target.

            "Nasty little thing," I said. "I don't want to touch it; it's a built-in booby trap."

            I looked up at Gwen. She had him covered with a weapon quite as lethal but embodying all the best in modem gunsmith's art, a nine-shot Miyako. "When he pulled a gun on you, why didn't you shoot him? Instead of taking a chance on disarming him? You can get very dead that way."

            "Because."

            "Because what? If someone pulls a gun on you, kill him at once. If you can."

            "I couldn't. When you told me to cover him, my purse was 'way over there. So I covered him with this." Something suddenly glinted in her other hand and she appeared to be a two-gun fighter. Then she clipped it back into her breast pocket- a pen. "I was caught flat-footed, boss. I'm sorry."

            "Oh, that I could make such mistakes! When I yelled at you to cover him, I was simply trying to distract him. I didn't know you were heeled."

            "I said I was sorry. Once I had time to get at my purse I got out this persuader. But I had to disarm him first."

            I found myself wondering what a field commander could do with a thousand like Gwen. She masses about fifty kilos and stands not much over a meter and a half high-say one hundred sixty centimeters in her bare feet. But size has little to do with it, as Goliath found out a while back.

            On the other hand there aren't a thousand Gwens anywhere. Perhaps just as well. "Were you carrying that Miyako in your purse last night?"

            She hesitated. "If I had been, the results might have been regrettable, don't you think?"

            "I withdraw the question. I think our friend is waking up. Keep your gun on him while I find out." Again I gave him my thumb.

            He yelped.

            "Sit up," I said. "Don't try to stand up; just sit up and place your hands on top of your head. What's your name?"

            He urged on me an action both unlikely and lewd. "Now, now," I reproved him, "let's have no rudeness, please. Mistress Hardesty," I went on, looking directly at Gwen, "would you enjoy shooting him just a little bit? A flesh wound? Enough to teach him to be polite."

            "If you say so. Senator. Now?"

            "Well... let's allow him that one mistake. But no second chance. Try not to kill him; we want him to talk. Can you hit him in the fleshy part of a thigh? Not hit the bone?"

            "I can try."

            "That's all anyone can ask. If you do hit a bone, it won't be out of spite. Now let's start over. What is your name?"

            "Uh... Bill."

            "Bill, what is the rest of your name?"

            "Aw, just Bill. That's all the name I use."

            Gwen said, "A little flesh wound now. Senator? To sharpen his memory?"

            "Perhaps. Do you want it in your left leg. Bill? Or your right?"

            "Neither one! Look, Senator, 'Bill' actually is all the name I've got-and make her not point that thing at me, will you, please?"

            "Keep him covered. Mistress Hardesty. Bill, she won't shoot you as long as you cooperate. What happened to your last name?"

            "I never had one. I was 'Bill Number Six' at the Holy Name Children's Refuge. Dirtside, that is. New Orleans."

            "I see. I begin to see. But what did it say on your passport when you came here?"

            "Didn't have one. Just a contractor's work card. It read 'William No-Middle-Name Johnson.' But that was just what the labor recruiter wrote on it. Look, she's wiggling that gun at me!"

            "Then don't do anything to annoy her. You know how women are."

            "I sure do! They ought not to be allowed to have firearms!"

            "An interesting thought. Speaking of firearms- That one you were carrying: I want to unload it but I'm afraid that it might explode in my hand. So we will risk your hand instead. Without getting up, turn around so that your back is toward Mistress Hardesty. I am going to push your zapgun to where you can reach it. When I tell you to-not before!-you can take your hands down, unload it, then again put your hands on your head. But listen closely to this:

            "Mistress Hardesty, when Bill turns around, take a bead on his spine just below his neck. If he makes one little suspicious move-kill him! Don't wait to be told, don't give him a second chance, don't make it a flesh wound-kill him instantly."

            "With great pleasure. Senator!"

            Bill let out a moan.

            "All right. Bill, turn around. Don't use your hands, just willpower."

            He pivoted on his buttocks, scraping his heels to do so. I noted with approval that Gwen had shifted to the steady two-handed grip. I then took my cane and pushed Bill's homemade gun along the deck to a point in front of him. "Bill, don't make any sudden moves. Take your hands down. Unload your pistol. Leave it open with its load beside it. Then put your hands back on your head."

            I backed up Gwen with my cane and held my breath while Bill did exactly what I had told him to do. I had no compunction about killing him and I felt sure that Gwen would kill him at once if he tried to turn that homemade gun on us.

            But I worried over what to do with his body. I didn't want him dead. Unless you are on a battlefield or in a hospital, a corpse is an embarrassment, hard to explain. The management was bound to be stuffy about it.

            So I breathed a sigh of relief when he finished his assigned task and put his hands back on his head.

            I reached out with my cane, reversed, and dragged that nasty little gun and its one cartridge toward me-pocketed that cartridge, then ground a heel down onto its tubing barrel, crushing the muzzle and ruining the firing mockup, then said to Gwen, "You can ease up a little now. No need to kill him this instant. Drop back to flesh-wound alert."

            "Aye aye. Senator. May I give him that flesh wound?"

            "No, no! Not if he behaves. Bill, you're going to behave, aren't you?"

            "Ain't I been behaving? Senator, make her put the safety on that thing, at least!"

            "Now, now! Yours didn't even have a safety. And you are in no position to insist on terms. Bill, what did you do with the proctor you slugged?"

            "Huh!"

            "Oh, come now. You show up here in a proctor's tunic that does not fit you. And your pants don't match your coat. I ask to see your credentials and you pull a gun-a rumble gun, for the love of Pete! And you haven't bathed in-how long? You tell me. But tell me first what you did with the owner of that tunic. Is he dead? Or just sapped and stuffed into a closet? Answer quickly or I'll ask Mistress Hardesty to give you a memory stimulant. Where is he?"

            "I don't know! I didn't do it."

            "Now, now, dear boy, don't lie to me."

            "The truth! On my mother's honor it's the simple truth!'

            THE CAT WHO WALKS THROUGH WALLS     55

            I had doubts about his mother's honor but it would have been unmannerly to express them, especially in dealing with so sorry a specimen. "Bill," I said gently, "you are not a proctor. Must I explain why I am certain?" (Chief Proctor Franco is a System-class martinet. If one of his stooges had shown up for morning roll call looking-and stinking-the way this poor slob did, the delinquent would have been lucky merely to have been shipped dirtside.) "I will if you insist. Did you ever have a pin stuck under a fingernail, then the outer end of the pin heated? It improves one's memory."

            Gwen said eagerly, "A bobby pin works better. Senator- more mass to hold the heat. I've got one right here. Can I do it to him? Can I?"

            "You mean, 'May I,' do you not? No, dear girl, I want you to continue to keep Bill under your sights. If it becomes necessary to resort to such methods, I won't ask a lady to do it for me."

            "Aw, Senator, you'll get soft-hearted and let up on him just when he's ready to spout. Not me! Let me show you-please!"

            "Well..."

            "Keep that bloodthirsty bitch away from me!" Bill's voice was shrill.

            "Bill! You will apologize to the lady at once. Otherwise I will let her do to you whatever she wishes."

            He moaned again. "Lady, I apologize. I'm sorry. But you scare it right out of me. Please don't use a bobby pin on me- I seen a guy once had that done to him."

            "Oh, it could be worse," Gwen assured him pleasantly. 'Twelve-gauge copper wire conducts the heat much better and there are interesting places in the male body to use it. More efficient. Quicker results." She added thoughtfully, "Senator, I've got some copper wire in my small case. If you'll hold this pistol for a moment, I'll get it for you."

            "Thank you, my dear, but it may not be needed; I mink Bill wants to say something."

            "It's no trouble, sir. Don't you want me to have it ready?"

            "Perhaps. Let's see. Bill? What did you do with that proctor?"

            "I didn't, I never saw him! Just two skins said they had a cash job for me. I don't make 'em, never seen 'em, they ain't with it. But there are always new ones and Fingers said they passed. He-"

            54            Robert A. Heinlein

            "Hold it. Who is 'Fingers' T

            "Uh, he's mayor of our alley. Okay?"

            "More details, please. Your alley?"

            "Man's got to sleep somewhere, ain't he? VIP like you has got a compartment with his name on it. I should be so lucky! Home is where it is-right?"

            "I think you're telling me that your alley is your home. Where is it? Ring, radius, and acceleration."

            "Uh... that's not exactly how it is."

            "Be rational. Bill. If it's inside the main cylinder, not off in one of the appendages, its location can be described that way."

            "Maybe so but I can't describe it that way because that's not how you get there. And I won't lead you the way you have to go because-" His face screwed up in utter despair and he looked about ten years old. "Don't let her hotwire me and don't let her shoot me a little bit at a time. Please! Just space me and get it over with-okay?"

            "Senator?"

            "Yes, Mistress Hardesty?"

            "Bill's afraid that, if you hurt him enough, he will tell you where he hides to sleep. Other nightwalkers sleep there, too;

            that's the point. I suspect that the Golden Rule isn't big enough to hide him from those others. If he tells you where they sleep, they'll kill him. Probably not quickly."

            "Bill, is that why you're being stubborn?"

            'Talked too much already. Space me."

            "Not while you're alive. Bill; you know things I need to know and I intend to squeeze them out of you if it takes copper wire and Mistress Hardesty's most whimsical notions. But I may not need the answer to the question I asked you. What happens to you if you tell me or show me where your alley is?"

            He was slow in answering; I let him take his time. At last he said in a low voice, "Nosies caught a skin six seven months ago. Cracked him open. Not from my alley thank Jesus. His alley was a maintenance space near a hundred ten and down at full gee.

            "So the nosies gassed it and a lot of skins died... but this skin they turned loose. Cold help that was to him. He hadn't

            THE CAT WHO WALKS THROUGH WALLS     55

            been walking twenty-four hours when he was grabbed and locked in with rats. Hungry ones."

            "I see." I glanced at Gwen.

            She gulped and whispered, "Senator, no rats. I don't like rats. Please."

            "Bill, I withdraw the question about your alley. Your hide-out. And I won't ask you to identify any other nightwalker. But I expect you to answer anything else fully and quickly. No more stalling. No waste of time. Agreed?"

            "Yes, sir."

            "Go back. These two strangers offered you a job. Tell me about it."

            "Uh, they tell me just a few minutes of razzle-dazzle; nothing to it. They want me to wear this jacket, make like a nosie. Bong the door here, ask for you. 'Message from the Manager,' that's what I have to say. Then the rest like we did-you know. When I say, 'Hey? You ain't the Senator! Or are you?', they are supposed to close in and arrest you."

            Bill looked at me accusingly. "But you messed it up. You fouled it, not me. You didn't do anything like you was supposed to. You clamped the door on me-and you shouldn't uh. And you turned out to be the Senator after all... and you had her with you." His voice was especially bitter when he referred to Gwen.

            I could understand his resentment. How is a sincere criminal, trying hard, going to get ahead in his profession if his victim fails to cooperate? Almost all crime depends on the acquiescence of the victim. If the victim refuses his assigned role, the criminal is placed at a disadvantage, one so severe that it usually takes an understanding and compassionate judge to set things right. I had broken the rules; I had fought back.

            "You've certainly had a run of bad luck. Bill. Let's check this 'Message from the Manager' you were supposed to deliver. Keep him covered. Mistress Hardesty."

            "Can I take my hands down?"

            "No." The clipboard was still on the deck, between Gwen and Bill but a bit toward me; I could reach it without crossing her line of fire. I picked it up.

            Clipped to the board was a receipt form for messages, with a place for me (or someone) to sign. Clipped beside it was the familiar blue envelope of Mackay Three Planets; I opened it.

            The message was in five-letter code groups, about fifty of them. Even the address was in code. Written in longhand above the address was "Sen. Cantor, St. Oil."

            I tucked it into a pocket without comment. Gwen queried me with her eyes; I managed not to see it. "Mistress Hardesty, what shall we do with Bill?"

            "Scrub him!"

            "Eh? Do you mean, 'Waste him'? Or are you volunteering to scrub his back?"

            "Heavens, no! Both. Neither. I am suggesting that we shove him into the refresher and leave him there until he's sanitary. Bathed, hot water and lots of suds. Hair shampooed. Clean fingernails and toenails. Everything. Don't let him out until he whiffs clean."

            "You would let him use your 'fresher?"

            "Things being the way they are, I don't expect to use it again. Senator, I'm tired of his stink."

            "Well, yes, he does put one in mind of rotten potatoes on a hot day in the Gulf Stream. Bill, take off your clothes."

            The criminal class is the most conservative group in any society; Bill was as reluctant to strip down in the presence of a lady as he had been to divulge the hideout of his fellow outcasts. He was shocked that I would suggest it, horrified that a lady would go along with this indecent proposal. On the latter point I might have agreed with him yesterday... but I had learned that Gwen was not easily daunted. In fact I think she enjoyed it.

            As he peeled down. Bill gained a bit of my sympathy; he looked like a plucked chicken, with a woebegone expression to match. When he was down to undershorts (gray with dirt), he stopped and looked at me. "All the way," I said briskly. "Then duck into the 'fresher and take the works. If you do a poor job, you'll do it over. If you stick your nose outside in less than thirty minutes, I won't bother to check you; I'll simply send you back in. Now get those drawers off-fast!"

            Bill turned his back to Gwen, took off his shorts, then scuttled sideways to the refresher in a futile effort to retain a fraction of his modesty. He sealed the door behind him.

            Gwen put her pistol into her purse, then worked her fingers, flexing and extending them. "I was getting stiff from holding it. Beloved, may I have those cartridges?"

            "Eh?"

            "The ones you took from Bill. Six, wasn't it? Five and one."

            "Certainly, if you wish." Should I tell her that I too had use for them? No, data of that sort should be shared only on a "need to know" basis. I got them out, handed them to her.

            Gwen looked them over, nodded, again took out her sweet little pistol-slid out its clip, loaded the six confiscated rounds into it, replaced the clip, jacked one into the chamber, locked the weapon and returned it to her purse.

            "Correct me if I'm wrong," I said slowly. "When I first called on you to back me, you covered him with a pocket pen. Then, after you disarmed him, you held him with an empty gun. Is that correct?"

            "Richard, I was taken by surprise. I did the best I could."

            "I was not criticizing. On the contrary!"

            "There never seemed to be a good time to tell you." She went on, "Dear, could you spare a pair of pants and a shirt? There are some right on top in your duffel bag."

            "I suppose so. For our problem child?"

            "Yes. I want to shove his filthy clothes down the oubliette, let them be recycled. The stench won't clear out of here until we get rid of them."

            "So let's get rid of them." I shoved Bill's clothes down the chute (all but his shoes), then washed my hands at the buttery's fountain. "Gwen, I don't think I have anything more to leara from this lunk. We could leave him some clothes and simply leave. Or... we could leave right away and not leave him any clothes."

            Gwen looked startled. "But the proctors would pick him up at once."

            "Exactly. Dear girl, this lad is a bom loser; the proctors will grab him before long anyhow. What do they do with night-walkers today? Have you heard any gossip?**

            "No. Nothing with the ring of truth."

            "I don't think they ship them down to Earth. That would cost the Company too much money, thus violating the Golden Rule the way it is interpreted here. There is no jail or prison in Golden Rule; that limits the possibilities. So?"

            Gwen looked troubled. "I don't think I like what I'm hearing."

            "It gets worse. Outside that door, perhaps not in sight but somewhere near, are a couple of hoodlums who mean us no good. Or who mean me no good, at least. If Bill leaves here, having flubbed the job he was hired to do, what happens to him? Do they feed him to the rats?"

            "Ugh!"

            "Yes, 'ugh.' My uncle used to say, 'Never pick up a stray kitten... unless you've already made up your mind to be owned by it.' Well, Gwen?"

            She sighed. "I think he's a good boy. Could be, I mean, if anyone had ever bothered with him."

            I echoed her sigh. "Just one way to find out."

            VI

            "Don't lock the barn after it is stolen."

            HARTLEY M. BALDWIN

            It is difficult to punch a man in the nose through a terminal. Even if one does not intend to use such direct persuasion, discussion via computer terminal can be less than satisfactory. With the flick of a key your opponent can shut you off or turn you over to a subordinate. But if you are physically present in his office, you can counter his most reasonable arguments simply by being more stupidly stubborn than he is. Just sit tight and say no. Or say nothing. You can face him with the necessity of either assenting to your (oh so reasonable) demands or having you thrown out bodily.

            The latter probably will not fit his public persona. For these reasons I decided to skip calling Mr. Middlegaff, or anyone at the housing office, and went directly to the Manager's office, in person. I had no hope of influencing Mr. Middlegaff, who clearly had had a policy handed to him, which he was now carrying out with bureaucratic indifference ("Have a Nice Day" indeed!). I had little hope of getting satisfaction from the Manager-but, at least, if the Manager turned roe down, I would not have to waste time going higher. The Golden Rule, being a privately-owned company not chartered by any sovereign state (i.e., being itself sovereign) had no authority higher than the Manager-God Almighty Himself was not even a minority partner.

            Decisions by the Managing Partner might be utterly arbitrary ... but they were utterly final. There was no possibility of years of litigation, no way a higher court could reverse his decision. The "Law's Delays" that so blemished the workings of "justice" in democratic states down dirtside could not exist here. I recalled only a few capital cases in the five years I had lived here... but in each case the Manager had sat as magistrate, then the condemned had been spaced that same day.

            In such a system the question of miscarriage of justice becomes moot.

            Add to that the fact that the profession of law, like the profession of prostitution, is neither licensed nor forbidden and the result is a judicial system having little resemblance to the crazy ziggurat of precedent and tradition that passes for "justice" dirtside. Justice in the Golden Rule might be astigmatic if not totally blind; it could not be slow.

            We left Bill in the outer foyer of the Manager's offices, with our baggage-my duffel bag and bundle, Gwen's cases, the bonsai maple (watered before we left Gwen's compartment)- with instructions to Bill to sit on the duffel bag, guard the bonsai with his life (Gwen's phrasing), and watch the rest. We went inside.

            There we each, separately, left our names at the reception desk, then found seats. Gwen opened her purse, got out a Casio game board. "What'll it be, dear? Chess, cribbage, backgammon, go, or what?"

            "You're expecting a long wait?"

            "Yes, I am, sir. Unless we build a fire under the mule."

            "I think you're right. Any ideas about how to build that fire? Without setting fire to the wagon, I mean. Oh, what the devil!-go ahead and set fire to the wagon. But how?"

            "We could use a variation on the old standard: 'My husband knows all.' Or 'Your wife has found out.' But our variation would have to be quite novel, as the basic ploy has long white whiskers." She added, "Or I can go into labor pains. That is always good for attention."

            "But you don't look pregnant."

            "Want to bet? So far no one has taken a good look at me. Just give me five minutes alone in that ladies' lounge across there and you'll be certain I'm nine months gone. Richard, this ploy I learned years ago when I was a claims investigator for an insurance company. It will always get one inside, anywhere."

            "You tempt me," I admitted, "as it would be such fun to watch you work it. But the ploy we use not only has to get us inside, but also must keep us inside under circumstances in which the bloke will listen to our arguments."

            "Dr. Ames."

            "Yes, Mrs. Ames?"

            "The Manager isn't going to listen to our arguments."

            "Please amplify."

            "I applauded your decision to go straight to the top because I saw that it would save time and tears to get all the bad news at once. We have leprosy; what has already been done to us makes that clear. The Manager intends not merely to force us to move; he means to kick us right out of Golden Rule. I don't know why but we don't have to know why-it simply is so. Realizing that, I am relaxed to it. Once you realize it, too, dear man, we can make plans. To go dirtside, or to Luna, or to Promised Land, Ell-Four, Ceres, Mars-wherever you wish, beloved. 'Whither thou goest-'"

            'To Luna."

            "Sir?"

            "For now, at least. Luna Free State isn't bad. Currently it is moving from anarchy to bureaucracy but it is not yet completely musclebound. It still has quite a lot of freedom for people who know how to deal with it pragmatically. And there is still elbow room on Luna. And in Luna. Yes, Gwen, we must leave; I suspected it earlier and know it now. Save for one thing, we could go straight to the spaceport. I still want to see the Manager. Damn it, I want to hear it from his own lying lips! Then with a clear conscience I can turn on the poison."

            "You intend to poison him, dear?"

            "A figure of speech. I plan to place him on my list, then quick Karma will do him in."

            "Oh. Perhaps I can think of a way to help it along."

            "Not necessary. Once on the list, they never last long."

            "But I would enjoy it. 'Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.' But the Revised Version reads: 'Vengeance is Gwen's... then Mine only if Gwen leaves Me any.'"

            I clucked at her. "Who was saying that I should not take me law into my own hands?"

            "But I was talking about you, sir; I didn't say a word about me. I delight in making quick Karma even quicker-it's my pet hobby."

            "My darling, you are a nasty little giri, I am happy to say. Going to kill him with hives? Or with hangnails? Maybe hiccups?"

            "I'm thinking of keeping him awake till he dies. Lack of sleep is worse than anything you listed, dear, if pushed far enough. The victim's judgment goes to pieces long before he stops breathing. He hallucinates. Including all his worst phobias. He dies in his own private hell and never escapes from it."

            "Gwen, you sound as if you had used this method."

            Gwen did not comment.

            I shrugged. "Whatever you decide, let me know how I can help."

            "I will, sir. Mmm, I think highly of drowning in caterpillars. But I don't know how to get that many caterpillars other than by having them shipped up from Earth. Except- Well, one can always arrange for them through the insomnia method. Toward the end you can cause the condemned to create his own caterpillars just by suggesting it to him." She shivered. "Schrecklich! But I won't use rats, Richard. Never rats. Not even imaginary rats."

            "My sweet and gentle bride, I'm glad to know you draw the line at something."

            "Certainly I do! Beloved, you startled me with the notion that bad manners could be judged a hanging offense. My own concern is for evil, rather than for bad manners. I think evil deeds should never go unpunished. God's arrangements for punishing evil are too slow to suit me; I want it done now. Take hijacking. Hijackers should be hanged on the spot as soon as they are caught. An arsonist should be burned at the stake on the site of the fire he started, if possible before its ashes grow cold. A rapist should be killed by-"

            I did not learn then what complex way of dying Gwen favored for rapists because a polite bureaucrat (male, gray, dandruffy, built-in risus) stopped in front of us and said, "Dr. Ames?"

            "I am Dr. Ames."

            "I am Mungerson Fitts, Assistant Deputy Administrator for Superrogatory Statistics. I'm helping out. I'm sure you understand how terribly busy the Manager's office is just now with the new addition being brought up to spin-all the temporary relocations that have to be made and all the disruptions to routine that have to be accommodated before we can all settle down in a larger and greatly improved Golden Rule." He gave me a winning smile. "I understand you want to see the Manager."

            "That's right."

            "Excellent. Because of the present emergency I am helping here in order to maintain the proud quality of Golden Rule service to our guests during alterations. I have been fully empowered to act for the Manager; you can think of me as his alter ego... because to all intents and purposes I am the Manager. This little lady-she is with you?"

            "Yes."

            "Honored, ma'am. Delighted. Now, friends, if you will please come with me-"

            "No."

            "Excuse me?"

            "I want to see the Manager."

            "But I explained to you-"

            "I'll wait."

            "I don't think you understood me. Please come with-"

            "No."

            (At this point Fitts should have grabbed me with a come-along and tossed me out on my arse. Not that it is easy to do mis to me; I trained with the Dorsai. But that is what he should have done. However, he was inhibited by custom, habit, and policy.)

            Fitts paused and looked baffled. "Uh- But you must, you know."

            "No, I don't know."

            "I'm trying to tell you-"

            "I want to see the Manager. Did he tell you what to do about Senator Cantor?"

            "Senator Cantor? Let me see, he's the Senator from, uh, from..."

            "If you don't know who he is, how do you know what to do about him?"

            "Uh, if you will just wait a moment while I consult."

            "You had better take us along-since you don't seem to be 'fully empowered' on this critical issue."

            "Uh... please wait here."

            I stood up. "No, I had better get back. The Senator may be looking for me. Please tell the Manager that I'm sorry I could not arrange it." I turned to Gwen. "Come, Madam. Let's not keep him waiting." (I wondered if Mungerson would notice that "him" was a pronoun without a referent.)

            Gwen stood up, took my arm. Fitts said hastily, "Please, friends, don't leave! Uh, come with me." He herded us to an unmarked door. "Wait just one moment, please!"

            He was gone more than a moment but nevertheless only a short time. He returned with his face wreathed with smiles (I think that is the expression). "Right this way, please!" He took us through the unmarked door, down a short passage, and into the Manager's inner office.

            The Manager looked up from his desk and inspected us, not with the familiar, fatherly expression of the too-frequent "Word from the Manager" announcements that come over every terminal. On the contrary Mr. Sethos looked as if he had found something nasty in his porridge.

            I ignored his chilly demeanor. Instead I stood just inside the door, Gwen still on my arm, and waited. I once lived with a fussy cat (is there another sort?) who, when faced with an offering of food not perfectly to his taste, would stand still and, with dignified restraint, look offended-a remarkable bit of acting for one whose face was completely covered with ftir;

            however, he did it mostly by body language. I now did this to Mr. Sethos, primarily by thinking about that cat. I stood... and waited.

            He stared at us... and at last stood up, bowed slightly and said, "Madam... will you please be seated?"

            Whereupon we both sat down. Round one to us, on points. I could not have done it without Gwen. But I did have her help and once I got my butt into his chair he was not going to get it out-until I got what I wanted.

            I sat still, kept quiet, and waited.

            When Mr. Sethos's blood pressure reached triggering level, he said, "Well? You've managed to bull your way into my office. What's this nonsense about Senator Cantor?"

            "I expect you to tell me. Have you assigned Senator Cantor to my wife's compartment?"

            "Eh? Don't be ridiculous. Mistress Novak has a one-room efficiency compartment, the smallest size in first class. The Senator from Standard Oil, if he came here, would be in a deluxe suite. Of course."

            "Mine, perhaps? Is that why you evicted me? For the Senator?"

            "What? Don't put words in my mouth; the Senator isn't aboard. We've been forced to ask a number of our guests to shift around, you among them. The new section, you know. Before it can we welded on, all compartments and spaces adjacent to ring one-thirty must be evacuated. So we have to double up temporarily to make room for our displaced guests. Your compartment will have three families in it, as I recall. For a short while, that is."

            "I see. Then it was just an oversight that I was not told where to move?"

            "Oh, I'm sure you were told."

            "I surely was not. Will you please tell me my new address?"

            "Doctor, do you expect me to carry housing assignments in my head? Go wait outside and someone will look it up and tell-you."

            I ignored his suggestion/order. "Yes, I do think you carry them in your head."

            He snorted. "There are more than one hundred eighty thousand people in this habitat. I have assistants and computers for such details."

            "I'm sure you do. But you have given me strong reason to think that you do have such details in your head... when they interest you. I'll give an example. My wife was not introduced to you. Mungerson Fitts did not know her name, so he could not have told you. But you knew without being told. You knew her name and what compartment she lived in. Did live in, I mean, until you had her locked out. Is that how you apply the Golden Rule, Mr. Sethos? By kicking out your guests without even the courtesy of warning them ahead of time?"

            "Doctor, are you trying to pick a fight?"

            "No, I'm trying to find out why you have been hassling us. Bullying us. Persecuting us. You and I both know that it has nothing to do with the temporary dislocations caused by bringing the new section up to spin and welded on; that's certain ... because the new section has been building for over three years and you've known for at least a year the date you were going to bring it up to spin... yet you had me kicked out of my compartment with less than thirty minutes' warning. My wife you treated even worse; you simply locked her out, no warning at all. Sethos, you aren't just moving us around to allow for attaching the new section. If that were true, we would have been told at least a month ago, along with temporary reassignments and with dates for moving into new permanent quarters. No, you're rousting us right out of Golden Rule habitat ... and I want to know why!"

            "Get out of my office- I'll have someone take you by the hand and lead you to your new-temporary-quarters."

            "Not necessary. Just tell me the coordinates and the compartment number. I'll wait here while you look them up."

            "By God, I believe you want to be kicked off Golden Rule!"

            "No, I've been quite comfortable here. I'll be happy to stay ... if you will tell me where we are to sleep tonight... and give us our new permanent assignment-where we'll be living once the new section is welded on and pressurized, I mean. We need a three-room suite, to replace the two-roomer I had and the one-room compartment Mrs. Ames had. Two terminals. One for each of us, just as before. And low gravity. Four-tenths gee by preference, but not more than half a gravity."

            "Would you like an egg in your beer? Why do you need two terminals? That requires additional wiring."

            "So it does and I'll pay for it. Because I'm a writer. I'll use one as a wordprocessor and for library reference work. Mrs. Ames needs the other for household routine."

            "Oho! You plan to use residential space for business purposes. That calls for commercial rates. Not residential rate."

            "What does that come to?"

            "It will have to be calculated. There is a costing factor for each type of commercial use. Retail stores, restaurants, banks, and the like cost approximately three times as much per cubic meter as does residential space. Factory space does not cost as much as retail space but may have surcharges for hazards and so forth. Warehousing is only slightly more than residential. Offhand I think you will have to pay office space rates-that's a factor of three point five-but I'll have to take it up with the chief accountant."

            "Mr. Manager, do I understand you correctly? Are you planning to charge us three and half times as much as our combined rents were together?"

            "Approximately. It might be as low as three times."

            "Well, well. I haven't concealed the fact that I'm a writer, it says so on my passport and I'm listed that way in your directory, all the past five years. Tell me why it suddenly makes a difference to you whether I use my terminal to write letters home... or to write stories?"

            Sethos gave what could have been construed as a laugh. "Doctor, Golden Rule is a business enterprise undertaken for profit. I manage it for my partners to that end. No one has to live here, no one has to do business here. What I charge people to live here, or to do business here, is controlled solely by maximizing profit to the partnership, as guided by my best judgment to that end. If you don't like it, you can take your business elsewhere."

            I was just about to shift the basis for discussion (I can see when I'm outgunned) when Gwen spoke up. "Mr. Sethos?"

            "Eh? Yes, Mistress Novak? Mrs. Ames."

            "Did you get your start pimping for your sisters?"

            Sethos turned a delicate shade of eggplant. He finally got control of himself well enough to say, "Mrs. Ames, are you being intentionally insulting?"

            "That's obvious, isn't it? I don't know that you have sisters;

            it just seems like the sort of enterprise that would appeal to you. You have injured us for no reason whatever. We come to you, asking for redress of grievance; you answer us with evasions, outright lies, irrelevant issues... and a fresh extortion. You justify this new outrage with a plonking sermon on free enterprise. Just what price did you usually charge for your sisters? And how much did you keep as your commission? Half? Or more than half?"

            "Madam, I must ask you to leave my office... and this habitat. You are not the sort we want living here."

            "I am delighted to leave," Gwen answered, not stirring, "just as quickly as you settle my account. And my husband's account."

            "Get... OUT!"

            Gwen put out her hand, palm up. "Cash first, you bald-faced swindler. The balance of our accounts plus the fare-home deposits we each made when we got here. If we leave this room without collecting, there's not a prayer that you will ever pay what you owe us. Pay up and we leave. The first shuttle down to Luna. But pay up and right now! Or you'll have to space me to shut me up. If you call in your goons, you flannel mouth, I'll scream this place down. Want a sample?" Gwen tilted her head back, cut loose with a scream that made my teeth ache.

            Sethos, too, apparently-I saw him flinch.

            He stared at her a long moment, then touched some control on his desk. "Ignatius. Close the accounts of Dr. Richard Ames and of Mistress Gwendolyn Novak, uh"-with only a momentary hesitation he correctly stated my compartment number and that of Gwen-"and deliver them to my office at once. With cash to pay them off. With receipts to chop and print. No checks. What? You listen to me. If it takes longer than ten minutes we'll hold a full-scale inspection of your department ... see who has to be fired, who merely has to be demoted." He switched off, did not look at us.

            Gwen got out her little gameboard, set it for tic-tac-toe, which suited me, it being about the intellectual level I felt able to cope with then. She beat me four straight games, even though twice I had the first move. But my head was still aching from her supersonic scream.

            I had not kept track of the exact time but it must have been about ten minutes later that a man came in with our accounts. Sethos glanced at them, passed them over to us. Mine appeared to be accurate; I was about to sign the receipt when Gwen spoke up. "What about interest on the money I had to deposit?"

            "Eh? What are you talking about?"

            "My fare back dirtside. I had to deposit it in cash, no lOUs accepted. Your bank here charges nine percent on private loans, so it ought to be paying at least savings account rates on impounded money. Although time-deposit rates would be more reasonable. I've been here more than a year, so... let me see-" Gwen took out the pocket calculator we had been using for tic-tac-toe. "You owe me eight hundred seventy-one and-call it even crowns-eight hundred and seventy-one crowns in interest. In Swiss gold that comes to-"

            "We pay in crowns, not Swiss money."

            "All right, you owe it to me in crowns."

"And we don't pay interest on return ticket mone            y; it is simply held in escrow."

I was suddenly alert. "You don't, eh? Dear, may             I borrow that widget? Let's see-a hundred and eighty thousand people... and one-way tourist fare to Maui on PanAm or Qantas is-"

"Seventy-two hundred," Gwen answered, "except we            ekends and holidays."

"So." I punched it in. "Hmm, well over a billion crowns! One two nine six followed by six zeroes. How interesting! How enlightening. Sethos old boy, you may be skimming off over a hundred million a year, tax free, simply by placing all this money you are holding for us suckers in Luna City money funds. But I don't think you use it that way-or not all of it. I think you run your whole enterprise using other people's money... without their knowledge or consent. Right?"

The flunky (Ignatius?) who had fetched our accou  nts was listening with intent interest.

Sethos growled. "Sign those receipts and get out ."

"Oh, I shall!"  

"But pay us ou            r interest," Gwen added.

I shook my hea      d. "No, Gwen. Anywhere but here we could sue him. Here he is both the law and the judge. But I don't mind, Mr. Manager, as you have given me a wonderful, salable idea for an article-Reader's Digest, probably, or Fortune. Uh, I'll title it 'Pie in the Sky, or How to Get Rich on Other People's Money: The Economics of Privately-Owned Space Habitats.' A hundred million a year swindled out of the public in Golden Rule habitat alone. Something along that line."

"You publish t            hat and I'll sue you for everything you own!"

            VII

            "You can't cheat an honest man. He has to have larceny in his heart in the first place"

            CLAUDE WILLIAM DUKENFffiLD 1880-1946

            Outside we found Bill still sitting on my duffel bag, the little tree in his arms. He stood up, an uncertain look on his face. But when Gwen smiled at him, he grinned back. I said, "Any problems. Bill?"

            "No, boss. Uh, skin tried to buy little tree."

            "Why didn't you sell it?"

            He looked shocked. "Huh? It belongs to her."

            "That's right. If you had sold it, do you know what she would have done? She would have drowned you in caterpillars, that's what she would have done. So you were smart not to risk crossing her. But no rats. As long as you stick with her, you need never be afraid of rats. Right, Mistress Hardesty?"

            "Correct, Senator. No rats, ever. Bill, I'm proud of you, not letting someone tempt you. But I want you to stop that slang-why, someone hearing you might think you were a nightwalker-and we wouldn't want that, would we? So don't say 'a skin tried to buy the tree,' just say 'a man.'"

            "Uh, matter o' fac', this skin was a slitch. Uh, a broad. Read?"

            "Yes. But let's try that again. Say 'a woman.'" "All right. That skin was a woman." He grinned sheepishly. "You sound just like the Sisters that taught us at Holy Name, back dirtside."

            "I take that as a compliment. Bill... and I am going to nag you about your grammar and your pronunciation and your choice of words even more than they ever did. Until you talk as beautifully as the Senator does. Because, many years ago, a wise and cynical man proved that the way a person talks is the most important thing about him when it comes to dealing successfully with the world. Do you understand me?" "Uh- Some."

            "You can't learn everything at once and I don't expect you to. Bill, if you bathe every day and speak grammatically, the world will decide that you are a winner and will treat you accordingly. So we'll keep trying."

            I said, "And in the meantime it is urgent to get out of this bucket."

            "Senator, this is urgent, too."

            "Yes, yes, the old 'how to housebreak a puppy' rule. I understand. But let's get moving." "Yes, sir. Straight to the spaceport?" "Not yet. Straight down El Camino Real while checking every public terminal for one that will accept coins. Do you have any coins?"

            "A few. Enough for a short call, perhaps." "Good. But keep your eyes open for a changemaker, too. Now that you and I have canceled our credit codes, we'll have to use coins."

            We picked up our burdens again and started out. Gwen said quietly, "I don't want Bill to hear this... but it's not difficult to convince a public terminal that you are using a correct credit code when you are not."

            I answered just as quietly, "We will resort to that only if honesty won't work. My darling, how many more little scams do you have tucked away?"

            "Sir, I don't know what you're talking about. A hundred meters ahead of us- Does that booth on the right have the yellow sign? Why are so few public booths equipped to receive coins?"

            "Because Big Brother likes to know who is calling whom ... and with the credit code method we are practically begging him to share our secrets. Yes, that one does have the sign. Let's pool our coins."

            The Reverend Doctor Hendrik Hudson Schultz answered his terminal promptly. His Santa Claus visage peered at me, sizing me up, counting the money in my wallet.

            "Father Schultz?"

            "In the flesh. How can I serve you, sir?"

            Instead of answering, I took out a thousand-crown note, held it in front of my face. Dr. Schultz looked at it, raised his bristling brows. "You interest me, sir."

            I tapped my ear while glancing left and right, then I signed all three of the three little monkeys. He answered, "Why, yes, I was about to go out for a cup of coffee. Will you join me? One moment-"

            Shortly he held up a sheet of paper on which he had printed in large block letters:

            OLD MACDONALD'S FARM

            "Can you meet me at Sans Souci Bargrill? That's on Petticoat Lane right across from my studio. About ten minutes, perhaps?" All the while he was talking, he was jabbing a finger at the sign he was showing me.

            I answered, "Righto!" and switched off.

            I was not in the habit of going to farm country, since full gravity is not kind to my bad leg and farms have to be at full gravity. No, that's not correct; there may be more habitats in the System that use for farming whatever fractional gee they wish (or that mutated plants prefer) than there are that use natural sunlight and full gee. As may be. Golden Rule goes the natural sunlight and full gee route for much of its fresh food. Other spaces in Golden Rule use artificial light and other accelerations for growing food-how much, I don't know. But the enormous space from ring fifty to ring seventy is open air, side to side, save for struts and vibration dampers and walkways joining the principal corridors.

            In this span of twenty rings-eight hundred meters-radii 0-60, 120-180, and 240-300 let in the sunlight; radii 60-120, 180-240, and 300-0 are farmland- of which 180-240, ring 50-70 is Old MacDonald's Farm.

            That's a lot of farmland. A man could get lost there, especially in fields where corn grows even taller than it does in Iowa. But Doc Schultz had paid me the compliment of assuming that I would know where to meet him: at a popular outdoor restaurant and bar called The Country Kitchen, right spang in the middle of the farm, ring sixty, radius 210, at (of course) full gravity.

            To reach the restaurant we had to go downstairs forward of ring fifty, then walk aft (at full gee, damn it!) to ring sixty, a distance of four hundred meters. A short distance, oh certainly-about four city blocks. Try it on a false foot with a stump that has already been used too much in walking and too much in carrying for one day.

            Gwen spotted it, in my voice, or my face, or my walk, or something-or she read my mind, maybe; I'm not sure she can't. She stopped.

            I stopped. "Trouble, dear?"

            "Yes. Senator, put down that bundle. I'll balance Tree-San on my head. Give me the bundle."

            "I'm all right."

            "Yes, sir. You surely are and I'm going to keep you that way. It is your privilege to be macho whenever you wish... and it's my privilege to go female and be vaporish and weak and unreasonable. Right now I'm about to faint. And I'll stay that way until you give me the bundle. You can beat me later."

            "Hmm. When is it my turn to win an argument?"

            "On your birthday, sir. Which this is not. Let me have the bundle. Please."

            It was not an argument I wanted to win; I handed over the bundle. Bill and Gwen went on ahead of me, with Bill walking   1 in front, breaking trail. She never lost control of the burden balanced on her head, even though the road was not corridor-smooth-a dirt road. Real dirt-a piece of totally unnecessary   swank.                                                    

            I limped slowly along behind, leaning heavily on my cane and putting almost no weight on my stump. By the time I reached the outdoor restaurant I felt fairly well recovered.

            Dr. Schultz was leaning against the bar with an elbow hooked over it. He recognized me, did not admit it until I came up to him. "Dr. Schultz?"

            "Ah, yes!" He did not ask my name. "Shall we look for a restful spot? I fmd that I enjoy the quiet of the apple orchard. Shall I ask our host to have a small table and a couple of chairs placed back in the trees?"

            "Yes. But three chairs, not two."

            Gwen had joined us. "Not four?"

            "No. I want Bill to watch our chattels, as he did before. I see an empty table over there; he can pile stuff on it and around it."

            Soon we three were settled at a table that had been moved for us back into the orchard. After consulting, I ordered beer for the Reverend and for me. Coke for Gwen, and had told the waitress to find the young man with the bundle and give him what he wanted-beer. Coke, sandwiches, whatever. (I suddenly realized that Bill might not have eaten today.)

            When she left, I dug into a pocket, pulled out that thousand-crown note, gave it to Dr. Schultz.

            He caused it to disappear. "Sir, do you wish a receipt?"

            "No."

            "Between gentlemen, eh? Excellent. Now how can I help you?"

            Forty minutes later Dr. Schultz knew almost as much about our troubles as I did, as I held nothing back. He could help us, it seemed to me, only if he knew the full background-so far as I knew it-on what had happened.

            "You say Ron Tolliver has been shot?" he said at last.

            "I didn't see it. I heard the Chief Proctor say so. Correction:

            I heard a man who sounded like Franco, and the Manager treated him as such."

            "Good enough. Hear hoofbeats; expect horses, not zebras. But I heard nothing about it on my way here, and I noticed no signs of excitement in this restaurant-and the assassination or attempted assassination of the second largest holder of partnership shares in this sovereignty should cause excitement. I was at the bar for a few minutes before you arrived. No word of it. Yet a bar is notoriously the place news hits first; there is always a screen turned on to the news channel. Hmm... could the Manager be covering it up?"

            'That lying snake is capable of anything."

            "I was not speaking of his moral character, concerning which my judgment matches yours, but solely of physical possibility. One does not cover up a shooting too easily. Blood. Noise. A victim dead or wounded. And you spoke of witnesses-or Franco did. Still, Judge Sethos controls the only newspaper, and the terminals, and the proctors. Yes, if he wished to make the effort, he could surely keep it hush-hush for a considerable period. We shall see-and that is one more item on which I will report to you after you reach Luna City."

            "We may not be in Luna City. I'll have to phone you."

            "Colonel, is that advisable? Unless our presence together during that few seconds at the bar here was noted by some interested party who knows both of us, it is possible that we have succeeded in keeping our alliance secret. It is indeed fortunate that you and I have never been associated in any fashion in the past; there is no probable way to trace me to you, or you to me. You can phone me, certainly... but one must assume that my terminal is tapped, or my studio is bugged, or both-and both have happened in the past. I suggest, rather, the mails... for other than direst emergency."

            "But mail can be opened. By the way, I'm Dr. Ames, not Colonel Campbell, please. And oh yes!-this young man with us. He knows me as 'Senator' and Mrs. Ames as 'Mistress Hardesty' from that dustup I told you about."

            "I'll remember. In the course of a long life one plays many roles. Would you believe that I was once known as 'Lance Corporal Finnegan, Imperial Marines'?"

            "I can easily believe it."

            "Which just goes to show you, as I never was. But I've worked much stranger jobs. Mail can be opened, true-but if I deliver a letter to a Luna City shuttle just before it leaves our spaceport, it is most unlikely that it will ever reach the hands of anyone interested in opening it. In the reverse direction a letter sent to Henrietta van Loon, care of Madame Pompadour, 20012 Petticoat Lane, will reach me with only minimal delay. An old, established madam has years of dealing gently with other people's secrets. One must trust, I find. The art lies in knowing whom to trust."

            "Doc, I find that I trust you."

            He chuckled. "My dear sir, I would most happily sell you your own hat were you to leave it on my counter. But you are correct in essence. As I have accepted you as my client you can trust me totally. Being a double agent would invite ulcers ... and I am a gourmand who will do nothing that could interfere with my pleasures as a trencherman."

            He looked thoughtful and added, "May I see that wallet again? Enrico Schultz."

            I handed it to him. He took out the ID. "You say this is a good likeness?"

            "Excellent, I think."

            "Dr. Ames, you will realize that the name 'Schultz' at once catches my attention. What you may not guess is that the varied nature of my enterprises makes it desirable for me to note each new arrival in this habitat. I read the Herald each day, skimming everything but noting most carefully anything of a personal nature. I can state unequivocally that this man did not enter Golden Rule habitat under the name 'Schultz.' Any other name might have slipped my mind. But my own surname? Impossible."

            "He appears to have given that name on arriving here."

            "'-appears to have-' You speak precisely." Schultz looked at the ID. "In twenty minutes in my studio-no, allow me a half hour-I could produce an ID with this face on it-and of as good quality-that would assert that his name was 'Albert Einstein.'"

            "You're saying we can't trace him by that ID."

            "Hold on; I didn't say that. You tell me this is a good likeness. A good likeness is a better clue than is a printed name. Many people must have seen this man. Several must know who he is. A smaller number know why he was killed. If he was. You left that carefully open."

            "Well... primarily because of that incredible Mexican Hat Dance that took place immediately after he was shot. If he was. Instead of confusion, those four behaved as if they had rehearsed it."

            "Well. I shall pursue the matter, both with carrot and with stick. If a man has a guilty conscience, or a greedy nature- and most men have both-ways can be found to extract what he knows. Well, sir, we seem to have covered it. But let's be sure, since it is unlikely that we shall be able to consult again. You will press ahead with the Walker Evans aspect, while I investigate the other queries on your list. Each will advise the other of developments, especially those leading into or out of the Golden Rule. Anything more? Ah, yes, that coded message- Did you intend to pursue it?"

            "Do you have any ideas on it?"

            "I suggest that you keep it and take it to the Mackay main office in Luna City. If they can identify the code, it is then just a matter of paying a fee, licit or illicit, to translate it. Its meaning will tell you whether or not I need it here. If Mackay cannot help, then you might take it to Dr. Jakob Raskob at Galileo University. He is a cryptographer in the department of computer science... and if he can't figure out what to do about it, I can suggest nothing better than prayer. May I keep this picture of my cousin Enrico?"

            "Yes, surely. But mail me a copy, please; I may need it in pursuing the Walker Evans angle-on second thought, certain to. Doctor, we have one more need I have not mentioned."

            "So?"

            "The young man with us. He's a ghost. Reverend; he walks by night. And he's naked. We want to cover him. Can you think of anyone who can handle it-and right away? We would like to catch the next shuttle."

            "One moment, sir! Am I to infer that your porter, the young man with your baggage, is the ruffian who pretended to be a proctor?"

            "Didn't I make that clear?"

            "Perhaps I was obtuse. Very well, I accept the fact... while admitting astonishment. You want me to supply him with papers? So that he can move around in Golden Rule without fear of proctors?"

            "Not exactly. I want a bit more than that. A passport. To get him out of Golden Rule and into Luna Free State."

            Dr. Schultz pulled his lower lip. "What will he do there? No, I withdraw that question-your business, not mine. Or his business."

            Gwen said, "I'm going to spank him into shape. Father Schultz. He needs to learn to keep his nails clean and not to dangle his participles. And he needs some backbone. I'm going to equip him with one."

            Schultz looked thoughtfully at Gwen. "Yes, I think you have enough for two. Madam, may I say that, while I do not yeam to emulate you, I do strongly admire you?"

            "I hate to see anything go to waste. Bill is about twenty-five, I think, but he acts and talks as if he were ten or twelve. Yet he is not stupid." She grinned. "Ah'll lam him if'n I have to bust his pesky haid!"

            "More power to you." Schultz added gently, "But suppose he does turn out to be simply stupid? Lacking the capacity to grow up?"

            Gwen sighed. "Then I guess I would cry a bit and find him some protected place, where he could work at what he can do and be whatever he is, in dignity and in comfort. Reverend, I could not send him back down to the dirt and the hunger and the fear-and the rats. Living like that is worse than dying."

            "Yes, it is. For dying is not to be feared-it is the final comfort. As we all learn, eventually. Very well, a sincere passport for Bill. I'll have to find a certain lady-see whether or not she can accept a rush assignment." He frowned. "It will be difficult to do this before the next shuttle. And I must have a photograph of him. Plague take it!-that means a trip to my studio. More lost time, more risk for you two."

            Gwen reached into her purse, pulled out a Mini Helvetia- illegal without a license most places but probably not covered by Manager's regulations here. "Dr. Schultz, this doesn't make a picture big enough for a passport, I know-but could it be blown up for the purpose?"

            "It certainly could be. Mmm, that's an impressive camera."

            "I like it. I once worked for the-an agency that used such cameras. When I resigned, I found I had mislaid it... and had to pay for it." She grinned mischievously. "Later I found it- it had been in my purse all along... but 'way down in the bottom lost in the junk." She added, "I'll run get a picture of Bill."

            I said hastily, "Use a neutral background."

            "Think I was a-hint the door? 'Scuse, please. Back in a second."

            She was back in a few minutes; the picture was coming up.

            A minute later it was sharp; she passed it to Dr. Schultz. "Will that do?"

            "Excellent! But what is that background? May I ask?" "A bar towel. Frankie and Juanita stretched it tight behind Bill's head."

            "'Frankie and Juanita,'" I repeated. "Who are they?" "The head bartender and the manager. Nice people." "Gwen, I didn't know you were acquainted here. That could cause problems."

            "I'm not acquainted here; I've never been here before, dear. I've been in the habit of patronizing The Chuck Wagon in Lazy Eight Spread at radius ninety-they have square dancing." Gwen looked up, squinting against the sunlight directly overhead-the habitat, in its stately spin, was just swinging through the arc that placed the Sun at zenith for Old MacDonald's Farm. She pointed high-well, sixty degrees up, it had to be. "There, you can see The Chuck Wagon; the dance floor is just above it, toward the Sun. Are they dancing? Can you see? There's a strut partly in the way."

            "They're too far away for me to tell," I admitted. "They're dancing." Dr. Schultz said. 'Texas Star, I think. Yes, that's the pattern. Ah, youth, youth! I no longer dance but I have been a guest caller at The Chuck Wagon on occasion. Have I seen you there, Mrs. Ames? I think not."

            "And I think 'Yes,'" Gwen answered. "But I was masked that day. I enjoyed your calling. Doctor. You have the real Pappy Shaw touch."

            "Higher praise a caller cannot hope for. 'Masked-' Perchance you wore a candy-striped gown in green and white? A full circle skirt?"

            "More than a full circle; it made waves whenever my partner twirled me-people complained that the sight made them seasick. You have an excellent memory, sir." "And you are an excellent dancer, ma'am." Somewhat irked, I interrupted. "Can we knock off this Old Home Week? There are still urgent things to do and I still have hopes that we can catch the twenty o'clock shuttle."

            Schultz shook his head. 'Twenty o'clock? Impossible, sir." "Why is it impossible? That's over three hours from now. I'm edgy about the idea of waiting for a later shuttle; Franco might decide to send his goons after us."

            "You've asked for a passport for Bill. Dr. Ames, even the sorriest imitation of a passport takes more time than that." He paused and looked less like Santa Claus and more like a tired and worried old man. "But your prime purpose is to get Bill out of this habitat and onto the Moon?"

            "Yes."

            "Suppose you took him there as your bond servant?"

            "Huh? You can't take a slave into Luna Free State."

            "Yes and no. You can take a slave to the Moon... but he is automatically free, then and forever, once he sets foot on Luna; that is one thing those convicts nailed down when they set themselves free. Dr. Ames, I can supply a bill of sale covering Bill's indentures in time for the evening shuttle, I feel confident. I have his picture, I have a supply of official stationery-authentic, by midnight requisition-and there is time to crease and age the document. Truly, this is much safer than trying to rush a passport."

            "I defer to your professional judgment. How and when and where do I pick up the paper?"

            "Mmm, not at my studio. Do you know a tiny bistro adjacent to the spaceport, one-tenth gee at radius three hundred? The Spaceman's Widow?"

            I was about to say no, but that I would find it, when Gwen spoke up. "I know where it is. You have to go behind Macy's warehouse to reach it. No sign on it."

            "That's right. Actually it's a private club, but I'll give you a card. You can relax there and get a bite to eat. No one will bother you. Its patrons tend to mind each his own business."

            (Because that business is smuggling, or something equally shady-but I didn't say it.) "That suits me."

            The Reverend Doctor got out a card, started to write on it- paused. "Names?"

            "Mistress Hardesty," Gwen answered promptly.

            "I agree," Dr. Schultz said soberly. "A proper precaution. Senator, what is your surname?"

            "It can't be 'Cantor'; I might run into someone who knows what Senator Cantor looks like. Uh... Hardesty?"

            "No, she's your secretary, not your wife. 'Johnson.' There have been more senators named 'Johnson' than any other name, so it arouses no suspicion-and it matches Bill's last name... which could be useful." He wrote on the card, handed it to me. "Your host's name is Tiger Kondo and he teaches all sorts of kill-quick in his spare time. You can depend on him."

            "Thank you, sir." I glanced at the card, pocketed it. "Doctor, do you want more retainer now?"

            He grinned jovially. "Now, now! I haven't yet determined how deeply I can bleed you. My motto is 'All the traffic will bear'-but never make the mark anemic."

            "Reasonable. Till later, then. We had better not leave together."

            "I agree. Nineteen o'clock is my best guess. Dear friends, it has been both a pleasure and a privilege. And let us not forget the true importance of this day. My felicitations, ma'am. My congratulations, sir. May your life together be long and peaceful and filled with love."

            Gwen got on her tiptoes and kissed him for that, and they both had tears in their eyes. Well, so did I.

            VIII

            'The biscuits and the syrup never come out even."

            LAZARUS LONG 1912-

            Gwen took us straight to the Spaceman's Widow, tucked in behind Macy's storerooms just as she had said, in one of those odd little comers formed by the habitat's cylindrical shape- if you didn't know it was there, you probably would never find it. It was pleasantly quiet after the crowds we had encountered at the spaceport end of the axis.

            Ordinarily this end was for passenger craft only, with freighters ganging up at the other end of the axis of spin. But positioning the new addition for bringing it up to spin had caused all traffic to be routed to the Moonward, or forward, end- "forward" because Golden Rule is long enough to have a slight tidal effect, and will have even more when the new addition is welded on. I don't mean that it has daily tides; it does not. But what it does have-

            (I may be telling too much; it depends on how much you have had to do with habitats. You can skip this with no loss.)

            What it does have is a tidal lock on Luna; the forward end points forever straight down at the Moon. If Golden Rule were the size of a shuttle craft, or as far away as Ell-Five, this would not happen. But Golden Rule is over five kilometers long and it orbits around a center of mass only a little over two thousand kilometers away. Surely, that's only one part in four hundred- but it's a square law and there's no friction and the effect goes on forever; it's locked. The tidal lock Earth has on Luna is only four times that-much less if you bear in mind that Luna is round as a tennis ball whereas Golden Rule is shaped more like a cigar.

            Golden Rule has another orbital peculiarity. It orbits from pole to pole (okay, everybody knows that-sony) but also this orbit, elliptical but almost a perfect circle, has that circle fully open to the Sun, i.e., the plane of its orbit faces the Sun, always, while Luna rotates under it. Like Foucault's pendulum. Like the spy satellites patrolling Earth.

            Or, to put it another way. Golden Rule simply follows the terminator, the day-and-night line on Luna, around and around and around, endlessly-never in shadow. (Well- In shadow at Lunar eclipses, if you want to pick nits. But only then.)

            This configuration is only metastable; it is not locked. Everything tugs at it, even Saturn and Jupiter. But there is a little pilot computer in Golden Rule that does nothing but make sure Golden Rule's orbit is always full face to the Sun-thereby giving Old MacDonald's Farm its bountiful crops. It doesn't even take power to speak of, just the tiniest nudges against the tiny deviations.

            I hope you skipped the above. Ballistics is interesting only to those who use it.

            Mr. Kondo was small, apparently of Japanese ancestry, very polite, and had muscles as sleek as a jaguar-he moved like one. Even without Dr. Schultz's tip I would have known that I did not want to encounter Tiger Kondo in a dark alley unless he was there to protect me.

            His door did not open fully until I showed Dr. Schultz's card. Then he at once made us welcome with formal but warm hospitality. The place was small, only half filled, mostly men, and the women were not (I thought) their wives. But not tarts, either. The feeling was that of professional equals. Our host sized us up, decided that we did not belong in the main room with the regulars, put us in a little side room or booth, one big enough for us three and our baggage but just barely. He then took our orders. I asked if dinner was available.

            "Yes and no," he answered. "Sushi is available. And su-kiyaki cooked at the table by my eldest daughter. Hamburgers and hot dogs can be had. There is pizza but it is frozen; we do not make it. Or recommend it. This is primarily a bar; we serve food but do not demand that our guests eat here. You are welcome to play go or chess or cards all night and never order anything."

            Gwen put a hand on my sleeve. "May I?"

            "Go ahead."

            She spoke to him at some length and I never understood a word. But his face lit up. He bowed and left. I said, "Well?"

            "I asked if we could have what I had last time ... and that is not a specific dish but an invitation to Mama-San to use her judgment with whatever she has. It also let him admit that I had been here before... which he would never have done had I not published it, as I was here with another man. He also told me that our little pet here is the best specimen of rock maple he has ever seen outside Nippon... and I asked him to spray it for me just before we leave. He will."

            "Did you tell him we were married?"

            "Not necessary. The idiom I used in speaking of you implied it."

            I wanted to ask her when and how she had learned Japanese but did not-Gwen would tell me when it suited her. (How many marriages are ruined by that itch to know "all about" a spouse? As a veteran of countless true confession stories I can assure you that unbridled curiosity about your wife's/husband's past is a sure formula for domestic tragedy.)

            Instead I spoke to Bill. "Bill, this is your last chance. If you want to stay in Golden Rule, now is the time to leave. After you have had dinner, I mean. But after dinner we are going down to the Moon. You can come with us, or stay here."

            Bill looked startled. "Did she say I got a choice?"

            Gwen said sharply, "Of course you do! You can come with us... in which case I shall require you to behave like a civilized human being at all times. Or you can remain in Golden Rule and go back to your turf-and tell Fingers you botched the job he got you."

            "I didn't botch it! He did."

            Meaning me- I said, "That does it, Gwen. He resents me. I don't want him around-much less have to support him. He'll slip poison into my soup some night."

            "Oh, Bill wouldn't do that. Would you. Bill?"

            I said, "Oh, wouldn't he? Notice how quick he is to answer? Gwen, earlier today he tried to shoot me. Why should I put up with his surly behavior?"

            "Richard, please! You can't expect him to get well all at once."

            This feckless discussion was cut short by Mr. Kondo returning to the table to arrange it for dinner... including hold-down clips for our little tree. One tenth of Earth-normal gravity is enough to hold food on a plate, hold feet against the floor- but just barely. The chairs here were fastened to the floor; there were seat belts on them if you wished to use them-I didn't but a belt does have its points if you have to cut tough steak. Tumblers and cups had lids and sidesippers. The last was perhaps the most needed adaptation; you can easily scald yourself picking up a cup of hot coffee in a tenth gee-the weight is nothing but the inertia is undiminished... and so it slops, all over you.

            As Mr. Kondo was placing flatware and sticks at my place he said quietly into my ear, "Senator, is it possible that you were present at the Solis Lacus drop?"

            I answered heartily, "I certainly was, mate! You were there, too?"

            He bowed. "I had that honor." \ "What outfit?"

            "Go for Broke, Oahu."

            "Old 'Go for Broke,'" I said reverently. "The most decorated outfit in all history. Proud, man, proud!"

            "On behalf of my comrades I thank you. And you, sir?"

            "I dropped with... Campbell's Killers."

            Mr. Kondo drew air through his teeth. "Ah, so! Proud indeed." He bowed again and went quickly into the kitchen.

            I stared glumly at my plate. Caught out-Kondo had recognized me. But when the day comes that, asked point blank, I deny my comrades, don't bother to check my pulse, don't even bother to cremate me-just haul me out with the swill.

            "Richard?"

            "Huh? Yes, dear?"

            "May I be excused?"

            "Certainly. Do you feel all right?"

            "Quite all right, thank you, but I have something to take care of." She left, headed for the passage leading to the lounges and the exit, moving in that featherlight motion that is dancing rather than walking-at a tenth gee real walking can be accomplished only by wearing grips, magnetic or otherwise-or very long practice; Mr. Kondo was not wearing grips-he glided like a cat.

            "Senator?"

            "Yes, Bill?"

            "Is she mad at me?"

            "I don't think so." I was about to add that I would be displeased with him if he persisted in-then shut up in my mind. Threatening to leave Bill behind was too much like beating a baby; he had no armor. "She simply wants you to stand tall and not blame other people for your acts. Not make excuses."

            Having delivered myself of my favorite duck-billed platitude I went back to glum self-assessment. / make excuses. Yes, but not out loud, just to myself. That's an excuse in itself, chum- whatever you've done, whatever you've been, is all, totally, one hundred percent, your own fault. All.

            Or to my credit. Yes, but damned little. Come on, be truthful.

            But look where I started... and still got all the way up to colonel.

            In the most whoreson, chancre-ridden, thieving, looting gang of thugs since the Crusades.

            Don't talk that way about the Regiment!

            Very well. But they aren't the Coldstream Guards, are they?

            Those dudes! Why, just one platoon of Campbell's-

            Dreck.

            Gwen returned, having been gone-oh, quite a time. I hadn't checked the time when she left but it was now, I saw, almost eighteen. I tried to stand-not practical with both table and chair bolted down. She asked, "Have I held up dinner?"

            "Not a bit. We ate, and threw the leavings to me pigs."

            "All right. Mama-San won't let me go hungry."

            "And Papa-San won't serve without you."

            "Richard. I did something without consulting you."

            "I don't see anything in the book that says that you have to. Can we square it with the cops?"

            "Nothing like that. You've noticed the fezzes around town all day-excursionists up from the Shriners convention in Luna City."

            "So that's what they are. I thought Turkey had invaded us."

            "If you like. But you've seen them today, wandering up and down the Lane and the Camino, buying anything that doesn't bite. I suspect that most of them are not staying overnight; they have a full program in Luna City and have hotel rooms there already paid for. The late shuttles are sure to be crowded-"

            "With drunk Turks, woofing into their fezzes. And onto the cushions."

            "No doubt. It occurred to me that even the twenty o'clock schedule is likely to be fully booked rather early. So I bought tickets for us and reserved couches."

            "And now you're expecting me to pay you back? Submit a claim and I'll pass it along to my legal department."

            "Richard, I was afraid we would not get away from here at all tonight."

            "Mistress Hardesty, you continue to impress me. What was the total?"

            "We can straighten out finances another time. I just felt that I could eat dinner in a happier frame of mind if I was sure that we could get away promptly after dinner. And, uh-" She paused, looked at Bill. "Bill."

            "Yes, ma'am?"

            "We are about to eat dinner. Go wash your hands."

            "Huh?"

            "Don't grunt. Do as I tell you."

            "Yes, ma'am." Bill got up docilely, went out.

            Gwen turned back to me. "I was antsy. Fidgety. Because of the Limburger."

            "What Limburger?"

            "Your Limburger, dear. It was part of what I salvaged from your larder, then I put it out on the cheese and fruit tray when we had lunch. There was a little hundred-gram wedge, untouched, still in its wrapping, when we finished. Rather than throw it away, I put it in my purse. I thought it might make a nice snack-"

            "Gwen."

            "All right, all right! I saved it on purpose... because I've used it in looking-glass warfare before this. It's much nicer than some of the things on the list. Why, you wouldn't believe what nasty-"

            "Gwen. I wrote the list. Stick to your muttons."

            "In Mr. Sethos's office, you will remember that I was seated almost against the bulkhead-and right by the main ventilation discharge. Quite a draft against my legs and uncomfortably warm. I got to thinking-"

            "Gwen."

            "They're all alike, all through the habitat-local control, both on heat and volume. And the louvre just snaps on. While Accounting was working up our final statement, the Manager was studiously ignoring us. I turned the volume down and the heat to neutral, and snapped off the cover. I rubbed Limburger cheese all over the vanes of the heat exchanger, and tossed the rest of the package as far back into the duct as I could manage, and put the louvre back on. Then, just before we left, I turned the heat control to 'cold' and turned the volume up." She looked worried. "Are you ashamed of me?"

            "No. But I'm glad you're on my side. Uh... you are- aren't you?"

            "Richard!"

            "But I'm even gladder that we have reservations on the next shuttle. I wonder how long it will be until Sethos feels chilly and turns up the heat?"

            What we had for dinner was delicious and I don't know the names of any of it, so I'll let it go at that. We had just reached the burping stage when Mr. Kondo came out, leaned close to my ear, and said, "Sir, come, please."

            I followed him into the kitchen. Mama-San looked up from her work, paid no more attention. The Reverend Doctor Schultz was there, looking worried. Trouble?" I asked.

            "Just a moment. Here's your pie of Enrico; I've copied it. Here are the papers for Bill; please look them over."

            They were in a worn envelope, and the papers were creased and worn and somewhat yellowed and more than somewhat soiled in places. Hercules Manpower, Inc., had hired William No-Middle-Name Johnson, of New Orleans, Duchy of Mississippi, Lone Star Republic, and had in turn sold his indenture to Bechtel High Construction Corp. (bond endorsed for space, free fall, and vacuum)-who had in turn sold the indenture to Dr. Richard Ames, Golden Rule habitat, circum Luna. Etc., etc.-lawyer talk. Stapled to the indenture was a very sincere birth certificate showing that Bill was a foundling, abandoned in Metairie Parish, with an assigned date of birth three days earlier than the date he was found.

            "Much of that is true," Dr. Schultz told me. "I was able to wheedle some old records out of the master computer."

            "Does it matter whether or not it's true?"

            "Not really. As long as it is sincere enough to get Bill out

            of here."

            Gwen had followed me in. She took the papers from me, read them. "I'm convinced. Father Schultz, you're an artist."

            "A lady of my acquaintance is an artist. I will convey your compliment. Friends, now the bad news. Tetsu, will you show

            them?"

            Mr. Kondo moved back in the kitchen; Mama-San (Mrs. Kondo, I mean) stepped aside. Mr. Kondo switched on a terminal. He punched up the Herald, cycled it for something- spot news I assume. I found myself staring at myself.

            With me, in split screen, was Gwen-a poor likeness of her. I would not have recognized her but for the sound repeating:

            "-Ames. Mistress Gwendolyn Novak. The female is a notorious confidence woman who has fleeced many victims, mostly male, around the bars and restaurants of Petticoat Lane. The self-styled 'Doctor' Richard Ames, no visible means of support, has disappeared from his address at ring sixty-five, radius fifteen, at point four gee. The shooting took place at sixteen-twenty this afternoon in Golden Rule Partner Tolliver's office-"

            I said, "Hey! That time is wrong. We were-"

            "Yes, you were with me, at the Farm. Hear the rest."

            "-according to eyewitnesses both killers fired shots. They are believed armed and dangerous; use extreme caution in apprehending them. The Manager is grief stricken at the loss of his old friend and has offered a reward of ten thousand crowns for-"

            Dr. Schultz reached over and shut it off. "It just repeats now; it's on a loop. But it appears as a spot announcement on all channels. By now, most habitants must have seen and heard it."

            "Thanks for warning us. Gwen, don't you know better than to shoot people? You're a naughty girl."

            "I'm sorry, sir. I fell into bad company."

            "Excuses again. Reverend, what in hell are we going to do? That bastich will space us before bedtime."

            "That thought occurred to me. Here, try this on for size." From somewhere about his ample person he produced a fez.

            I tried it on. "Fits well enough."

            "And now this."

            It was a black velvet eyepatch on elastic. I slipped it on, decided that I did not like having one eye covered, but did not say so. Papa Schultz had obviously put effort and imagination into trying to keep me from breathing vacuum.

            Gwen exclaimed, "Oh, goodness! That does it!"

            "Yes," agreed Dr. Schultz. "An eyepatch draws the attention of most observers so strongly that it takes a conscious effort of will to see the features. I always keep one on hand. That fez and the presence of the Nobles of the Mystic Shrine was a happy coincidence."

            "You had a fez on hand?"

            "Not exactly. It does have a former owner. When he wakes up, he may miss it... but I do not think he will wake up soon. Uh, my friend Mickey Finn is taking care of him. But you might avoid any Shriners from Temple Al Mizar. Their accents may help; they are from Alabama."

            "Doctor, I'll avoid all Shriners as much as I can; I think I should board at the last minute. But what about Gwen?"

            The Reverend Doctor produced another fez. 'Try it, dear lady."

            Gwen tried it on. It tended to fit down over her like a candle snuffer. She lifted it off. "I don't think it does a thing for me; it's not right for my complexion. What do you think?"

            "I'm afraid you're right."

            I said, "Doctor, Shriners are twice as big as Gwen in all directions and they bulge in different places. It will have to be something else. Grease paint?"

            Schultz shook his head. "Grease paint always looks like grease paint."

            "That's a very bad likeness of her on the terminal. Nobody could recognize her from that."

            "Thank you, my love. Unfortunately there are a good many people in Golden Rule who do know what I look like... and just one of them at the boarding lock tonight could lower my life expectancy drastically. Hmm. With just a little effort and no grease paint I could look my right age. Papa Schultz?"

            "What is your right age, dear lady?"

            She glanced at me, then stood on tiptoes and whispered in Dr. Schultz's ear. He looked surprised. "I don't believe it. And, no, it won't work. We need something better."

            Mrs. Kondo spoke quickly to her husband; he looked suddenly alert; they exchanged some fast chatter in what had to be Japanese. He shifted to English. "May I, please? My wife has pointed out that Mistress Gwen is the same size, very nearly, as our daughter Naomi-and, in any case, kimonos are quite flexible."

            Gwen stopped smiling. "It's an idea-and I thank you both. But I don't look Nipponese. My nose. My eyes. My skin."

            There was some more batting around of that fast but long-winded language, three-comered this time. Then Gwen said, "This could extend my life. So please excuse me." She left with Mama-San.

            Kondo went back into his main room-there had been lights asking for service for several minutes; he had ignored them. I said to the good Doctor, "You have already extended our lives, simply by enabling us to take refuge with Tiger Kondo. But do you think we can carry this off long enough to board the shuttle?"

            "I hope so. What more can I say?"

            "Nothing, I guess."

            Papa Schultz dug into a pocket. "I found opportunity to get you a tourist card from the gentleman who lent you that fez ... and I have removed his name. What name should go on it? It can't be 'Ames' of course-but what?"

            "Oh. Gwen reserved space for us. Bought tickets."

            "By your right names?"

            "I'm not certain."

            "I do hope not. If she used Ames' and 'Novak' the best you can hope for is to try to be first in line for no-shows. But I had better hurry to the ticket counter and get reservations for you as 'Johnson' and-"

            "Doc."

            "Please? On the next shuttle if this one is booked solid."

            "You can't. You make reservations for us and-phtt! You're spaced. It may take them till tomorrow to figure it out. But they will."

            "But-"

            "Let's wait and see just what Gwen did. If they aren't back in five minutes, I'll ask Mr. Kondo to dig them out."

            A few minutes later a lady came in. Father Schultz bowed and said, "You're Naomi. Or are you Yumiko? Good to see you again, anyhow."

            The little thing giggled and sucked air and bowed from the waist. She looked like a doll-fancy kimono, little silk slippers, flat white makeup, an incredible Japanese hairdo. She answered, "Ichiban geisha girr is awr. My Ingris are serdom."

            "Gwen!" I said.

            "Prease?"

            "Gwen, it's wonderful! But tell us, fast, the names you used in making our reservations."

            "Ames and Novak. To match our passports."

            "That tears it. What'll we do. Doc?"

            Gwen looked back and forth between us. "Pray tell me the difficulty?"

            I explained. "So we go to the gate, each of us well disguised-and show reservations for Ames and Novak. Curtain. No flowers."

            "Richard, I didn't quite tell you everything."

            "Gwendolyn, you never do quite tell everything. More Lim-burger?"

            "No, dear. I saw that it might turn out this way. Well, I suppose you could say that I wasted quite a lot of money. But I- Uh, after I bought our tickets-tickets we can't use now and arc wasted-I went to Rental Row and put a deposit on a U-Pushit. A Volvo Flyabout."

            Schultz said, "Under what name?"

            I said, "How much?"

            "I used my right name-"

            Schultz said, "God help us!"

            "Just a moment, sir. My right name is Sadie Lipschitz... and only Richard knows it. And now you. Please keep it to yourself, as I don't like it. As Sadie Lipschitz I reserved the Volvo for my employer. Senator Richard Johnson, and placed a deposit. Six thousand crowns."

            I whistled. "For a Volvo? Sounds like you bought it."

            "I did buy it, dear; I had to. Both rental and deposit had to be cash because I didn't have a credit card. Oh, I do have; I have enough cards to play solitaire. But Sadie Lipschitz has no credit. So I had to pay six thousand down simply to reserve it-to rent it but on a purchase contract. I tried to get him down a bit but with all the Shriners in town he was sure he could move it."

            "Probably right."

            "I think so. If we take it, we still have to complete payment on the full list price, another nineteen thousand crowns-"

            "My God!"

            "-plus insurance and squeeze. But we get the unused balance back if we turn it in here, or Luna City, or Hong Kong Luna, in thirty days. Mr. Dockweiler explained the reason for the purchase contract. Asteroid miners, or boomers rather, had been hiring cars without putting up the full price, taking them to some hideout on Luna, and refitting them for mining."

            "A Volvo? The only way you could get a Volvo to the asteroids would be by shipping it in the hold of a Hanshaw. But nineteen-no, twenty-five thousand crowns. Plus insurance and graft. Bald, stark robbery."

            Schultz said to me rather sharply, "Friend Ames, I suggest that you stop behaving like the fabled Scotsman faced by a coin-operated refresher. Do you accept what Mrs. Ames could arrange? Or do you prefer die Manager's fresh-air route? Fresh- but thin."

            I took a deep breath. "Sorry. You're right, I can't breathe money. I just hate to get clipped. Gwen, I apologize. All right where is Hertz from here? I'm disoriented."

            "Not Hertz, dear. Budget Jets. Hertz did not have a unit ten."