Drummond's reputation was known to all. But the man himself was something of a mystery. Quiet, reserved, a bit bashful. An odd choice, the captain thought.

He demonstrated how to use the e-suit. The Flickinger field had several advantages over the pressure suits of the previous century, principal among them being that it couldn't be punctured.

But someone could get so caught up in the drama of the moment that he accidentally released his tether. And the field itself wasn't entirely foolproof. It was possible with a little imagination to screw up the antiradiation shielding and fry. Or make adjustments to the oxygen-nitrogen mix and thereby render oneself incompetent or maybe dead. Consequently, Marcel insisted they were all to keep their fingers off the control unit once it had been set.

Marcel had suggested to Beekman that he, Beekman, not go. The planetologist had told him he worried too much.

Theoretically, his medical record was fine, or he wouldn't be on board. But he never really looked well. His pale complexion might have been emphasized by the black beard. But he seemed to get out of breath easily, he wheezed occasionally, and the slightest exertion brought color to his cheeks. Marcel had the authority to prevent his going, but this was Gunther's show, and the captain couldn't bring himself to deny the man an experience that promised to be the supreme moment of his professional career.

"Everybody ready?" Marcel asked. They were all standing by the airlock, Beekman and Carla obviously anxious to get started, John Drummond looking reluctant. He checked their breathers and activated their suits. Carla had some experience with cutters, so he'd assigned one to her, and he took one himself. They strapped on wristlamps. He handed out vests and waited while they put them on.

Each vest was equipped with a springlock so that a tether could be connected.

Marcel also strapped on a go-pack.

They did a radio check and went into the airlock. Marcel initiated the cycle. The inner hatch closed, and the lock began to depressurize. Beekman and Carla seemed fine. But Drummond began breathing more deeply than normal.

"Relax, John," Marcel told him on a private channel. "There's nothing to this."

"It might be the wrong time to bring this up," Drummond said, "but I have this thing about heights."

"Everybody has a thing about heights. Don't worry about it. I know this is hard to believe, but you won't notice it at all."

Carla saw what was happening and flashed an encouraging smile. She spoke to Drummond, but Marcel couldn't hear what she said. Drummond nodded and looked better. Not much, but a little.

The go lamps went on, and the outer hatch irised open. They looked across a couple of meters of empty space at the cluster of parallel shafts. They were lunar gray, gritty, occasionally pocked. As thick individually, thought Marcel, as an elephant's leg. From the perspective of the airlock, they might have been fifteen entirely separate pipes, water pipes perhaps, coming to an abrupt end a few meters to their right; but on the left they stretched into infinity. And somehow they were perfectly equidistant, apparently separated and maintained by an invisible force.

"Incredible," said Drummond, leaning forward slightly and looking both ways.

There were no markings, no decoration, no bolts or sheaths or ridges. Simply fifteen tubes, arranged symmetrically, eight on the outer perimeter, six midway, and the single central shaft.

Marcel attached a flex tether to a clip on the hull and motioned the project director forward. "All yours, Gunther," he said.

Beekman advanced to the hatch, never taking his eyes off the long gray shafts. He put his head out and drew in his breath. "My God," he said.

Marcel clipped the tether to his vest. "It'll pay out as you go, or retract as you need."

"How long is it?"

"Twenty meters."

"I meant, to the brace."

There were braces along the entire length of the assembly. The nearest was- "Almost fifty kilometers away."

Beekman shook his head. "If someone else had reported such a thing," he said, "I would have refused to believe it." He put his feet on the outer lip of the airlock. "I think I'm ready."

"Okay. Be careful. When I tell you, just push off. Don't try to jump, or I'll have to come after you." Marcel looked back at the others. "If anybody does contrive to drift away, I'll take care of the rescue. In the meantime, everyone else is to stay put. Okay?"

Okay.

"Go," he told Beekman.

Beekman hunched his shoulders. He was wearing a pair of white slacks and a green sweatshirt with the name of his university, Berlin, stenciled on it. He looked, Marcel thought, appropriately dashing. And quite happy. Ecstatic, in fact.

He leaned forward, gave himself a slight push, and cried out in sheer joy as he launched. They watched him drift awkwardly across the narrow space, one leg straight, one bent at the knee, rather like a runner caught in midstride.

Marcel stood in the hatch, letting the tether slide across his palm until he was sure Beekman wasn't traveling too fast. The project director reached out for the nearest shaft, collided with it, wrapped his arms around it, and shouted something in German. "Marcel," he continued, "I owe you a dinner."

"I want it in writing," Marcel said.

Beekman loosened his grip, found another shaft for his feet, settled down, and waved.

Carla moved up to take her turn.

Beekman and his team clambered around on the assembly while Marcel stood guard. Carla took pictures and Drummond collected sensor readings. Beekman was talking, describing what he was seeing, and taking various gauges and sensors out of his vest to answer questions for the people inside. Yes, it was magnetic. No, it did not seem to vibrate when low-frequency sound waves were applied.

Carla produced the cutter and conferred with Beekman. Marcel couldn't overhear the conversation, but they were obviously looking for the right place from which to remove a sample. The surface had

no features. The only distinguishing marks that they'd been able to see, either from the scanners or up close, were the encircling bands. And none of those was visible from here.

They made up their minds, and Carla steadied herself, took aim at one of the shafts, and brought the laser to bear.

"Careful," Marcel advised her. The field wouldn't protect her if she made a mistake.

"I will be," she said.

She switched on the cutter, the beam flashed, and the view fields in all four suits darkened.

She began to work. They were going to take off the last two meters of one of the outside shafts.

Drummond had put his instruments away and was simply holding on. He appeared to be examining the assembly very carefully, keeping his eyes away from the void. Marcel left the airlock, went over, and joined him. "How you doing?" he asked privately.

"I guess I'm a little wobbly."

"It's all right," he said. "It happens. You want to go back inside?"

"No." Drummond shook his head but kept his gaze on the assembly.

"You'll feel better in a bit. When you're ready to go back, I'll go with you."

He mumbled something. Marcel only caught"… damn fool."

"Maybe not. You might just be a little more sensible than the rest of us."

Drummond managed a smile, still looking at the metal. "Marcel," he said, "maybe I ought to go back over there before I become a problem."

"Whatever happens, John, you won't be a problem. Everything's under control."

"Okay."

Drummond did not want to make the jump. Even though there was no gravity, Marcel suspected his senses were relating to the proximity of the Wendy Jay, using that to determine what was up and down. He had maintained a position which, related to the ship, kept his head up. Now he was being asked to cross that terrible void again. People who claim there's no sense of altitude in space, Marcel thought, have never been there. He reached out to place an arm gently on his shoulder, but Drummond drew away.