"Are we on now?" MacAllister asked. "Is this being broadcast somewhere?"

"No," Canyon said. "We're recording, but we wouldn't broadcast. Not without your permission. But the public knows what's happening here. And they're concerned. Did you know that churches all over the world have been praying you'd come through this? There was a prayer meeting on the New White House lawn the other day."

"They're praying for me?" MacAllister looked shocked. "Most of them have damned me for an atheist."

Canyon squirmed. "Everyone wants you to come out of this, Mr. MacAllister. All of you, that is."

"Well, August, I have to tell you that I think that's all goosefeath-ers. If you follow my meaning."

Canyon smiled. "I don't think you realize how much interest there is. Did you know that Parabola's already started making a sim?"

"Really. How does it come out?"

Canyon put an aw shucks expression on his well-scrubbed features. "I guess they're waiting to see."

Kellie made a noise deep in her throat.

"August," MacAllister said, "if you want to find out how we're doing, you're talking to the wrong person. Priscilla Hutchins over there is in charge. She knows more about the situation than I do."

The image turned her way, and Hutch stepped into range of the scan so he could see her. Canyon kept her in view, but suddenly began speaking to his audience in a hushed, urgent tone. "This is Priscilla Hutchins, who was attacked last night by a killer plant. Priscilla, I wonder if you'd care to tell us precisely what happened."

"It grabbed me from behind," she said.

"What kind of plant was it?"

"Big." Hutch glanced over at Kellie. "August, I don't want to seem uncooperative, but time's pressing."

"I understand, Priscilla. And if you like, I'll get out of your way until we can find a more auspicious moment. We'd like very much to set up a live interview, though. At your convenience. If we could just sit and talk for a while. About your feelings. What it's like being on the ground under these circumstances." He put on an expression that was intended to be sympathetic. "Whether you're confident you'll be able to get clear before, you know-" He showed a lot of teeth, suggesting

he understood that he was being insensitive to their situation, but that his job required it.

"He's a jerk," Kellie said on a private channel. "Don't give him anything."

"Do what he asks," said Nightingale, also privately. "There's a lot in this for all of us. If we play our cards right. Why not cooperate with him?"

That had been Hutch's thought. She could end up talking to management groups for eight thousand a throw. Maybe hire a ghostwriter to do her memoirs. That wasn't bad. Her old friend Janet Allegri had recently published her account of the Omega mission, The Engines of God, and had made very good money.

And what the hell: Canyon had to make a living. Why should she make problems for him? Moreover, it would give them all something else to think about for a while. "Okay, August," she said. "We'll do it. Tonight. After dinner."

That anyone could believe the human animal was designed by a divine being defies all logic. The average human is little more than an ambitious monkey. He is moronic, self-centred, cowardly, bullied by his fellows, terrified that others will see him for what he is. One can only assume his creator was in something of a hurry, or was perhaps a member of an Olympian bureaucracy. The more pious among us should pray that next time he does the job right. But we might in justice concede that there is one virtue to be found in the beast: he is persistent.

— Gregory MacAllister, Bridge with the Polynesians

Hours to breakup (est): 123

"Can we really do it?"

John Drummond nodded. He was actually on Wendy, virtually in the Star planning room. "Marcel, it depends on the altitude they can reach with the lander."

"How high does it have to go?"

"At least ten thousand meters. Below that, we can't hope to control events."

Beekman indicated his agreement. "The higher they can take the lander, the better our chances," he said.

"We have to know in advance," continued Drummond, "how high they can go so we can plan the insertion."

"We have no way to determine-"

"Marcel, it would be a considerable help."

"I don't really care how much help it would be. There's no way to find out. Assume they can make ten thousand. And proceed accordingly."

Drummond looked pained. "You're sure? We can't have them do a test run when they get to the lander? If we knew what we were dealing with-"

"We can't do a test run because to make the test valid, she'd have to exhaust the spike. That would mean a very hard bounce going down."

"How about a computer simulation?"

"The data stream from the lander is very likely going to be unreliable. Let's just make the assumption at ten thousand and get it done. Okay?" He was trying to keep the irritation out of his voice but not having much luck.

Drummond sighed. "This is becoming a speculative exercise, Marcel."

"Of course it is, John. We can do only what we can do. What about getting the shaft away from the assembly and aimed in the right direction? Can we do that?"

"Yes," he said. "We have to turn it around. I can't see that it'll be a problem. But it will be a delicate maneuver.

"You have only four vessels. One of them can pour it on-"

"The Evening Star."

"The Evening Star" said Beekman. "But it's still only four ships trying to wrestle a four-hundred-kilometer-long shaft onto a vector. Without breaking anything. That's the real risk. Put any strain at all on the shaft and it's going to snap and that'll be the end of the project. But we can do it."

"All right, then." Marcel felt better than he had since the quake. "Let's make it happen. John, I want you to help set up the timetable. We've got a couple of systems designers coming over with the people from the Star. Use them as you need them. Get Bill to coordinate with the AIs in the other ships." He looked over at Beekman. "How about our welder?"

"We've got one. Name's Janet Hazelhurst. She spent a few years doing orbital construction until she got married. Says she knows what it's about, but it's been a while and she'll step aside if we have anybody better. She claims, though, that she can do whatever has to be done."

"Do we have anybody better?"

"No, Captain, we do not."

"All right. Let's hope she's a good teacher. Assign forty volunteers to her and have her show them the fine points of welding. Get them started right away."

"Who's going to do the instruction on the e-suits?"

"Miles Chastain is on Zwick. He's a good man, and I'm sure he'll help. We'll get him over here right away." Marcel checked his notes. "Gunther, we're going to need some clips to hold the net together. Do we have a metal worker?"

They had two. One was a retiree from Hamburg, the other a Chinese entrepreneur. Marcel brought them in and explained what was needed. Could it be done?

How much time did they have?

Three days. Tops.

Yes. It should be sufficient. But they would need help. Marcel assigned them a couple of world-class physicists as gofers.

And they would need metal. Lots of metal.

That could be a problem. Starships did not carry much expendable metal.

Bill broke in: "Captain, the people from the Evening Star have been assembled in the Bryant Auditorium and await your pleasure."

Marcel acknowledged. "Let's go say hello to our volunteers."

Within the hour, teams were going through Wendy, compartment by compartment, dismantling side panels from beds, wall sections, and anything else that was metallic. In the meantime, the retiree and the entrepreneur began to jury-rig their equipment. It was a challenge, but they would, by God, make it happen.