"In what way?"

"They would generate a great deal of publicity. Relics from a lost

civilization. Exhibited on the ship that recovered them. What a testament to the Evening Star and its captain. And to TransGalactic. I'd expect you could anticipate a great deal of gratitude from your employers."

Nicholson made a sound halfway between a snort and a laugh. "Not likely," he said. "Baxter and the rest of those people are too wrapped up in themselves to appreciate that kind of acquisition."

"Maybe."

"Still…" The captain grew thoughtful. "It would be nice."

"It would be very easy to do." MacAllister saw that he had judged his man correctly. Nicholson was not greedy for money. A suggestion that he pirate some artifacts for himself would have gone nowhere. But the notion that upper management might see their way to appreciate him a bit more. Ah, yes. That was working nicely.

The captain fingered his glass. "I wouldn't want you to misunderstand me, Gregory. I abide strictly by the policies and procedures laid down for the safe operation of this vessel."

"As any competent commanding officer would." MacAllister refilled both glasses. "Erik, I'm sure you have certain prerogatives, conditions which in your judgment allow you to interpret procedures in a manner that would benefit TransGalactic's passengers, and the corporation itself."

"Yes," he admitted, "that's certainly true."

MacAllister gazed admiringly at the ship's schematic and let his companion consider the situation.

"You really think," said Nicholson, "that stuff is just lying around on the ground?"

"Oh, I've no doubt. Just pick it up and cart it off. That's all it would take. And I ask you, when that world is gone, gone forever beyond any power to recall, what do you suppose, say, an idol from a Maleivan chapel would be worth?"

"Oh, yes. I'd think so. You're quite right on that score."

MacAllister could see him wrestling with his fear of getting in trouble. "This would seem to be your opportunity, Erik."

"You don't think the archeological team that's down there now would object?"

"I can't imagine why they would. As I understand it, they've only got one lander. How much can you haul away in one lander?" He tried

to look thoughtful. "There's an excellent place down on B deck, near the pool, that would serve nicety as a museum."

"The hyper wing." It was an area currentfy given over to displaying the ship's various propulsion systems, especially the FTL drive. "Yes," he said. "It is tempting."

"If you wanted to do it," said MacAllister, "I'd be willing to go along. Cover the story. Give it some credential, so to speak."

"You mean you'd write one of your commentaries?"

"I'd do that, if you like."

"We could put the artifacts-"

"In the museum."

"Stage a ceremony. Would you be willing to participate? Possibly say a few words?"

"I'd be honored, Erik."

Nicholson nodded sagely. To himself, more than to MacAllister. "Let me think about it, Gregory. If there's a way to manage it, we'll go ahead."

Marcel kept the speaker on so he could follow what was happening on the surface. That gave him access to all conversations that took place on the allcom. The transmissions were relayed out of the lander either directly to Wendy or to one of the commsats.

He was uncomfortable. Living worlds were unpredictable places, and this one especially, as it drew closer to Morgan. But they should be relatively safe for the present. Beekman was certain that gravitational effects from the giant planet would not be felt until late in the process because the collision would be direct, like two vehicles hitting each other head-on. No gradual spiraling in here.

He'd been listening while Hutch and her people prowled through the tower, watching the images being transmitted back by the mi-croscan Hutch wore on her vest. The place wasn't much to look at, just bare walls and floors covered with snow and dust.

They'd cut a hole in the tower wall at ground level to preclude having to climb through the window. Hutch had posted Chiang by the newly made door to watch for signs of potential predators. She then stationed Toni at the window in the astronomer's perch, with the same responsibility.

Meantime she, Kellie, and Nightingale were trying to cut through

the door on the bottom level. They weren't talking much at the moment, but he could hear the hiss of the laser working on stone.

Beekman came in, looked at him, frowned, and sat down. "Marcel," he said, "are you all right?"

"Sure. Why?"

"You don't look happy."

Kellie's startled voice came over the speaker: "Look out with that thing, Randy."

Marcel folded his arms across his chest in a defensive posture. "Somebody's going to get killed down there," he said. "If I had my way, we'd just write the damned thing off and let it go."

Beekman had always maintained an exceedingly low opinion of the competence of Academy management. Marcel expected him to make an observation in that direction. Instead, he remarked that Marcel was probably correct, that the ground team was unlikely to find anything useful in so short a time, and that it was indeed dangerous.

"Okay." Hutch's voice. "That should do it. Give it a minute and we'll see if we can break it loose."

"You know," Beekman said, "you might remind her that they should be more careful."

"She knows who she's working with." He folded his hands behind his head. "I'd rather not become a nuisance."

"What if something happens?"

"We'll let management worry about it."

Kellie's voice: "Okay, throw some more snow on it."

"I'd feel better," said Beekman, "if we had a bona fide archeologist down there."

Marcel didn't agree. "We're probably safer with Kellie and Hutch. They might not get all the details right, but I'd rather have them in charge if trouble starts."

"Still won't open,"said Nightingale.

"Let me try."

"How big's the door?" asked Beekman.

"A little more than a meter high. Everything's on a small scale."

"I don't think we cut all the way through."

Beekman leaned down and fingered the send key.

"What are you going to tell them?" asked Marcel.

"To be careful."

"I'm not sure they'll be receptive to gratuitous advice. They've already threatened to cut me off."

Another laser ignited.

"Stay with it." Nightingale's voice. "Here. Get it here."

It went on for several more minutes. At one point Hutch cautioned someone to relax. Take it easy. We'll get through. Then Marcel heard the sound of scraping stone and some grunts. And finally cries of satisfaction.

When things got quiet again he switched over to his private channel with Hutch. "What have you got?" he asked.

"Used to be a passageway," she told him. "It's just a lot of ice and dirt now. I'm not even sure where the walls are."

Beekman got coffee for them and began to describe how preparations for the collision were going. Much of the detail was boring, but Beekman inevitably became so enthusiastic when he started talking about the Event, that Marcel pretended more interest in the details of the observations than he really felt. In fact, he didn't understand fine points like gravity wave fluctuations, and didn't much care how the planetary magnetic fields were affected. But he nodded at the right times and tried to look surprised when Beekman seemed to be springing some new piece of breakthrough data on him.

Then Hutch's voice interrupted the flow. "Marcel, are you still there?"

"I'm here. What have you got?"

"I think we're into the Astronomer's private quarters. They're in pretty good shape. Looks like a suite of rooms. With cabinets-" She stopped a moment to caution one of the others to use care.