"Nobody has any idea," said Beekman. "And we have neither time nor equipment to conduct a survey. I suggest we just gather as much evidence as we can. And keep an open mind."

"What you're telling me is that we may never get the answers to any of this."

Beekman could not have agreed more completely. "That's exactly right," he said.

Marcel sighed. "There should be something. Structures of some sort. I mean, you can't just have a lot of walled candlelit cities, and at the same time run equipment into orbit." He flipped a pen across his console. "They did check for that, right? The tower had no electrical capability? No real power source?"

He meant Hutch and her team. "She was asked to look for technology," said Beekman. "But I think they assumed there was none. I think we all assumed it."

"Well, there you go then. Maybe we were just not looking closely enough."

"I don't think that could be. I mean, this was a blowgun culture."

"Has it occurred to you," Marcel said, "that maybe the tower was a museum? Maybe our artifacts were somebody else's artifacts first."

"That would require a fairly unlikely coincidence."

"Gunther, when will we get back a reading on the skyhook's dates?"

"Shouldn't take long. We scanned the samples and sent the results. The Academy will have them by now. We asked for a quick turnaround, so we should get them in a few days." He crossed his arms. "It's really sad. I know damned well there are people back at the Academy who'd do anything to get a look at the base of the skyhook."

Marcel said nothing.

"Maybe if the lander works okay," Beekman suggested, "we could ask Hutch to take a peek. Before they come back to orbit."

"Not a chance," said Marcel. "If the lander works, we're bringing them home. No side stops."

Captain Nicholson had carefully assigned full responsibility for the lander accident to Wetheral who, he'd reported, had taken the vehicile without permission. Probably, he suggested, the passengers had offered him a substantial sum for the service. He added that they were not likely to be aware that the flight was unauthorized. Because one of the passengers was the renowned editor and essayist Gregory MacAllister, he advised Corporate to find a way to overlook the incident. If he survives, Nicholson had argued, MacAllister would be a dangerous adversary should TransGalactic assume he was in some way responsible and try to take legal action against him. If he does not, there would be little advantage to pursuing him beyond the grave. Undoubtedly Corporate could collect damages from his estate, but the cost in public relations would be enormous. Best call it an unfortunate incident.

He'd been eating a listless breakfast, trying to maintain a conversation with the frivolous guests at his table, receiving periodk updates from Clairveau. The landing party had been attacked by giant flying bugs, and they'd discovered a chapel of some sort in the forest. The important thing was that they were still on schedule to reach less. At this point, that was all that mattered.

The experience had driven a lesson home: He would never again allow himself to be talked into violating procedure. Not ever. Not for any reason. Periodically one or another of his guests jerked him back to the table With a question about the gift shop on the Starlight Deck or the collision parties planned for Saturday night. He moved his eggs around on his plate and answered as best he could.

One bad decision, allowing MacAllister to have his way, threatened to negate the solid performance of a lifetime. And it had not been his idea at all. He had in fact been pressured. Placed in a no-win situation by a pushy passenger with power and a management that wouldn't have backed him had MacAllister become offended.

It was an outrage.

His link vibrated against his wrist. He raised it casually to his ear. "Captain," said his officer of the deck. "Eyes only for you. From Corporate."

This would be management's first response to the debacle.

"Be there in a minute," he whispered. Please, Lord, let me survive this one time. He drew the cloth napkin to his lips and rose, apologizing for the interruption but explaining he had to make a command decision. He smiled charmingly at the ladies, shook hands firmly with their escorts, and heard himself referred to as a good man as he hurried away.

He went directly to the bridge, heart pounding. The OOD, who could not have missed the gravity of the situation, greeted him with a polite nod. Nicholson returned the gesture, sat down in his chair, and directed the AI to put the message through.

FROM: DIRECTOR, OPERATIONS TO: CAPTAIN, EVENING STAR DTG 11/281625 CONFIDENTIAL // EYES ONLY

ERIK,

YOU UNDERSTAND MAJOR LIABILITY POTENTIAL HERE.

DO WHATEVER YOU CAN TO EFFECT MACALLISTER'S RESCUE. KEEP ADVISED.

YOU MIGHT WANT TO CONTACT PRESCOTT.

BAKER

Contact Prescott.

Prescott was a law firm that specialized in defending off-world nonjurisdictional cases. They were telling him he could expect to be held accountable. That signaled the end of his career, at the very feast. If they elected to prosecute, God knew what might happen to him.

He sat miserably staring at the message. And he envied MacAllister.

Watching Harcourt die taught me a theological lesson: Life is short; never fail to do something you really want to do simply because you're afraid of being caught.

— Gregory MacAllister, "The Last Hours of Abbey Harcourt," Show Me the Money

Hours to breakup (est): 153

The news that the mission had found the skyhook base didn't cheer anybody on the ground. They were far too engaged worrying about their skins.

"Pity it's not up and working," said Chiang. "We could use a skyhook."

"Actually," said Hutch, "it is nearby."

"Really? Where?"

"On the western side of the continent. It's on a mountaintop on the coast."

"I wouldn't mind seeing it before we go," said Nightingale.

MacAllister shook his head. Do these people never learn? "I think," he said, "we should not tempt fate. Let's concentrate on getting our rear ends out of here."

"There might be a way." The grayness that had settled about Beek-man had lifted slightly. Only slightly, but Marcel caught a glimpse of hope.

Marcel had been convinced by the intensity of Beekman's consistent position that no alternate method of rescue was possible. The captain had been standing on the bridge for two hours staring out at the spectacle of the approaching giant, thinking how it had all been bravado, challenge the best minds they had, come up with something, when it was quite dear there was nothing anybody could come up with.

Now he was confronted by this same man, gone partly mad, perhaps. Marcel did not believe him. "How?" he asked.

"Actually, it was your idea."

"My idea."

"Yes. I repeated our conversation to several of them. John thinks you might be on to something."

"John Drummond?"

"Yes."

"What am I on to?"

"Lowering a rope. Cutting off a piece of the assembly. We've been looking at the possibility of constructing a scoop."

"Could we actually do something like that? You said it was impossible."

"Well, we can't get it down to the ground. They're going to have to make some altitude. But if they can do that, if they can get Tess into the air, get up a bit, then yes, it might be possible." He sat down and pushed his palms together. "I'm not saying it'll be easy. I'm not even saying it'll be anything but a long shot. But yes, if we set things up, and we get lucky, it might be made to work."

"How? What do we have to do?"

Beekman explained the idea they'd worked out. He drew diagrams and answered questions. He brought up computer images and ran schematics across the displays. "The critical thing," he concluded, "is time. We may not have enough time for all this."