Unfortunate.

How could the nitwits possibly have gotten themselves into such a situation?

He wrote out his reply, and then read it to the AI: Sit tight. Cavalry coming. Boardman will be there in four days, six hours. Penkavic.

"I think that sums things up nicely, sir," said the AI.

"As do I, Eve, Send it."

"It is done, Captain."

"Good." Penkavic pushed himself out of his chair. "Now for the hard part."

"Explaining it to Dr. Helm?"

"Precisely."

Living well is a high-wire act without a net. It is a matter of locating one's proper place and balancing it against the programming imposed by society. We're surrounded by the wrecks of those who have crashed, the reformers, the upright, the various militants and the true believers who think the rest of us need their guidance.

— Gregory MacAllister, "The Best Revenge," Lost at Moonbase

Hours to breakup (est): 252

"Marcel," said the AI, "we have a response from the Boardman. They say they understand our problem and are on their way."

Marcel breathed an audible sigh of relief.

"They anticipate arrival in four days and six hours."

He informed Hutch, who tried to conceal the fact that she'd been holding her breath. Then he called the Star. Nicholson, who'd been delighted to hear that MacAllister was still alive, raised a fist in an unlikely gesture of exultant thanksgiving at this second piece of good news. He notified Beekman, so he could announce it to his people. When that had been done, he passed the word to the two passengers waiting on Wildside. He spoke to a woman, who commented that she was delighted help was on the way, that they'd been very lucky, and that she'd been against the mission from the start She implied that Marcel was at least partly responsible for a situation that had clearly gotten out of hand.

Captain Nicholson reached for another trank and watched his wallscreen convert itself into a hologram of a woodland scene. Thank God that at least there'd be no more deaths. Maleiva was remote from the travel lanes, and it could easily have turned out that nothing would have been close enough to come to their rescue.

Of course the damage already done was enough to ruin him. A dead passenger and a dead crewman. A wrecked lander. On a flight that violated regulations. How would he ever explain it?

It was the darkest moment in a life that had been relatively free of trouble and disappointment. But he knew that regardless of what happened now, he could not survive. He'd be hauled before a disciplinary panel, where it would be made quite plain to him and to the world what a scoundrel he was. He would be reprimanded, and he would be terminated. In the full glow of the worldwide media.

Subsequently, he could expect to be sued, held liable for any damages accruing to the families of the two victims, and for the loss of the lander. He might even be prosecuted. Not that TransGalactic would hunger and thirst after justice, but they could be expected to take every opportunity to disassociate themselves from him in an atmosphere rife with legal action.

How could he have been so dumb?

Scarcely three minutes had passed after his conversation with Clairveau when word came from the duty officer that the surviving passenger, Mr. MacAllister, desired to speak with him.

The transmission came in, audio only. "You know what's happened here?" the great man asked.

Here was the person responsible for the captain's plight. You'll be able to set up a small shrine to a lost world, he'd said. People will love it Management will admire your foresight. Your audacity. "Yes, I've heard." He tried to keep his tone level. "Are you all right, Mr. MacAllister?"

"Fine, thank you." He seemed subdued. The charming arrogance that had informed his manner was gone. "I assume you're in some difficulty as a result of this-incident."

"I don't expect any explanation I can offer will satisfy my superiors."

"No, I thought not. I wanted to apologize, Captain."

"Yes. Of course. Thank you."

"It never occurred to me that anything like this could happen."

"Nor to me. Captain Clairveau informs me you are temporarily stranded."

"Yes. I'm afraid so. Until the rescue vehicle gets here."

"It's on its way. Now, I hesitate to ask, but there's something you can do for me."

"I understand, Captain. There's no need for any of us to go publicly into the details of this unfortunate business."

"Yes. Precisely." Nicholson hesitated. There was always the possibility that someone somewhere was listening. Maybe even recording the conversation. He had no secure channel with MacAllister. "That's probably best."

When he'd signed off, the captain retired to his quarters and contemplated the dress uniform jacket he traditionally wore to meals with the passengers.

There might be a way.

He could delete the pertinent log entry and declare the flight unauthorized. That would leave Wetheral responsible.

That was not exactly to his taste, and it did not play well to his self-image. But Wetheral was dead and couldn't be harmed by any conclusion a board of inquiry might draw. Moreover, the only other living party to the conspiracy had given his word not to reveal what he knew. And he would be motivated to keep that word, since he, too, could become legally liable should the truth get out. No one else was in a position to deny that Wetheral had taken the lander down on his own. All that would be necessary was to agree on a story explaining how MacAllister and Hayes came to be on board. And that was child's play.

Maybe, he thought, he could come out of this unscathed after all.

MacAllister's associates would never have accused him of possessing an overbearing conscience. Disagree with the great man on literary standards or on a matter of historical interpretation, and one was likely to find his or her judgment and taste questioned and possibly his or her native intelligence held up to ridicule in full view of the general public. He took particular delight in neutralizing those who desperately needed to be neutralized, those overblown, self-important, arrogant half-wits who were always running about dictating behavior, morals, and theology to everyone else. And he never looked back.

Yet he stood a long time at the edge of the chasm, staring down at the Evening Star's crippled lander, thinking about the dead pilot, who had struck him as not particularly bright; and about Casey, who'd been too young to develop whatever talent she might have had. That they were dead was not directly due to any fault of his. But he

understood clearly that had he not given in to the dark impulse that had prompted him to want to visit this godforsaken place, they would be alive. It would be an exaggeration to suggest he contemplated, even for a moment, throwing himself in. But it was true that for the first time in his adult existence, he questioned whether the world was better for his being in it.

The lander was wedged tight. Below it, the chasm fell away probably another hundred meters. It was a long way down. Heaps of snow lay at the bottom, if indeed it was the bottom. And somewhere down there, beyond reach, Wetheral had come to rest.

He was still staring when he became aware that someone was speaking to him.

Hutchins.

"Mr. MacAllister," she said, "are you okay?"

"Yes." He straightened a bit. "I'm fine."

There was no way to preserve the bodies, and after a series of conferences among Nicholson, Marcel, and Hutch, it was agreed that Ton! and Casey be buried on the plain where they died.

They picked a spot about thirty meters to one side of the tower, cleared away the snow, and dug two graves. An armed party consisting of Chiang, MacAllister, and Kellie trekked to the patch of forest, cut down a couple of trees, and fashioned two makeshift coffins.