"About nine days."

"About nine days." Helm's face grew rigid. "You have any idea what that would cost?"

"Yes, sir. But I didn't think that was a consideration."

"Come on, Eliot, it's always a consideration."

"What I know," Penkavic said, striving to keep his anger under control, "is that the law, and our own regulations, require us to provide assistance to anyone in distress. We can't just ignore it. People will die."

"Do you think the Academy will reimburse us for what this will cost?"

"No," he said. "Probably not."

"Then maybe we should consider our options."

"We don't have any options, Dr. Helm."

Helm stared at him for a long moment. "No," he said, "I suppose not. All right, Eliot. Let's go off and rescue these damned fools. Maybe we'll get some decent press out of it."

After they'd finished the memorial, they trekked back to the Wild-side lander and tried to salvage what they could of the artifacts. The tables and chairs were scorched, reduced to rubbish; the scrolls had burned; the pottery had melted. They couldn't even find the pack and the garments it had contained. A couple of blowguns, some darts, and a javelin were all that had survived.

Listlessly they returned to the tower and cleaned and bagged the few remaining artifacts.

MacAllister glowered the whole time, and when Chiang asked him what was wrong, he looked over at Hutch with genuine anger. "The bottom line," he said, "is that this is all just trash. It's old trash, but that doesn't change what it is."

Hutch overheard, and in fact he'd obviously intended that she should. It was more than she could take. "You have too many opinions, MacAllister," she told him. "I've read some of your stuff. You've a talent with the language, but most of the time you don't know what you're talking about."

He'd looked at her with infinite patience. Poor woman.

They inventoried their new set of artifacts, weapons, pieces of cloth that had once been clothing, cabinets, chairs, and tables, and set them aside to wait for the rescue vehicle.

"What do we do about food?" MacAllister asked suddenly.

"We'll have to run it down," said Chiang. "Anybody here a hunter?"

MacAllister nodded. "I am. But not with this." He glanced down at his cutter. "Anyhow, I don't know whether anybody's noticed or not, but there seems to be a distinct lack of game in the neighborhood. Moreover, there might not even be anything here we can eat."

"I doubt," said Nightingale, "that the local wildlife would supply nutrition. We never ran any tests, but at least it would fill our bellies. Provided there are no toxins or other problems."

"Good," said MacAllister. "When we catch one of them, you can sample it."

"Maybe there's an easier way," said Hutch.

Kellie's dark eyes narrowed. "To do what?" she asked. "Find a better guinea pig?"

"The Star lander isn't too deep. It might be possible to go down there and retrieve the reddimeals. They'd help get us through until the Boardman arrives."

"Not worth it," said Kellie. "We're better off trying the local menu."

"I doubt it," growled MacAllister.

"Hutch," said Marcel, "it's not your fault. You have to pull yourself together." They were on the private channel.

"You know, Marcel, it just never…" Her voice was shaking and she had to stop to collect herself."… It just never occurred to me that anything like this could happen." He could hear her breathing. "I didn't ask for this. I'm a pilot. They've got me making life-and-death decisions."

"Hutch." He made his voice as gentle as he could. "You were trying to do what you were directed to do. Everybody with you is an adult. They knew what you knew. It wasn't just your decision."

"I could have canceled it after the first tremor. Put everybody in the boat and gone back to Wildside. That's what I should have done."

"And if we all had hindsight up front, everybody'd be a millionaire."

She was quiet.

"Hutch, listen to me. They're going to need you until we get through this. You have to stop feeling sorry for yourself."

"Sorry for myself? You think that's what it is?"

"Yeah. That's exactly what it is. Your job right now is to keep your people safe until we can get them back here. You can't do anything about Toni. But you can see that nothing happens to anyone else."

She broke the connection, and he took a deep breath. He understood she'd been through a horrific experience, but he had expected more of her somehow. Had the conversation continued, he'd been prepared to suggest she retire in favor of Kellie. He wondered whether he shouldn't call her back and advise her to do just that.

But, no. Not yet. If everything went well, it was just a matter of biding their time until help came. He left the bridge and wandered down to project control, where a couple of technicians were trying to analyze the impossibilium.

Bill's image formed on a nearby screen. "Marcel? You have a text message."

Wendy was lingering in the area of the assembly, although Marcel would have preferred to return to orbit to be as close as possible to the stranded team. But he was helpless to do anything other than watch, so he'd indulged the researchers and granted their wish to stay near the giant artifact. They hovered within a few meters, while every instrument the ship possessed poked, scanned, and probed the shafts.

They lacked the laboratory facilities to do extensive evaluation of the onboard samples, but they were trying to determine melting and boiling points, specific heat and thermal conductivity, density, Young's modulus, bulk and shear modulus. They wanted to define yield and ultimate strength, electrical conductivity and magnetic permeability at varying temperatures, currents, and frequencies. They wanted to know how quickly sound moved through it, and compile an index of refraction over a range of frequencies. Beekman and his peo-

pie had begun to put together a stress and strain graph. It didn't mean much to Marcel, but the researchers took turns gaping at the results.

"On-screen."

TO: NCA WENDY JAY

FROM: NCK ATHENA BOARDMAN

SUBJECT: STATUS REPORT

FOR CAPT CLAIRVEAU. WE ARE ON SCHEDULE, MINUTES FROM MAKING OUR JUMP ONBOARD LANDER WILL BE PRIMED AND READY TO GO. MARCEL, YOU OWE ME.

"Is there a reply?"

"Tell him I'll buy him lunch."

Nothing kills the appetite quite as effectively as a death sentence. -Gregory MacAllister, "In Defense of the Godly," The Incomplete MacAllister

Hours to breakup (est): 252

It was almost 1800 hours, forty-two minutes since they'd made the jump into transdimensional space, when Penkavic ordered an inspection of the lander and retired to his quarters. He had just arrived when Eve, Boardman's AI, reported all in order.

The ship had begun to quiet Many of his passengers had retired for the night The common room had pretty much emptied out, and only two or three remained in the various planning or leisure areas. A small group of technicians and climate specialists were engaged in a role-playing game in the Green Room, a contest which would probably continue well into the morning. Several biologists were still in project control arguing about stocking procedures, and a few individuals were gathered in the relatively intimate Apollo Porch, where they could look out at the stars.

Penkavic was more rattled by his confrontation with Helm than he cared to admit to himself. It wasn't just that he'd offended one of the most powerful people in the corporation. He had, after all, done the right thing, and kept both himself and Helm out of trouble. But there was a quality to Corporate's chief engineer that unsettled Penkavic, inducing a reaction that went far beyond concern over what he might or might not do to damage the captain's career. It was hard to pin down. Helm did not seem especially threatening or intimidating, but he invariably induced a sense that he and he alone understood the correct and reasonable course. In his presence, Penkavic inexplicably wanted very much to please him. Even when he disagreed strongly with the older man's conclusions.