She shrugged and smiled, still mute. Stan muttered something but foam seemed to fill my ears.

“When this is all over,” I said, “I will take a few weeks and visit the dead. I’ll go crazy just to be with you. Okay?”

Mother tilted her head to one side and gave me her enigma look.

“Where’s Ilya?” I asked.

“Here,” he said behind me, and I turned, smiling, full of joy.

I lay on the ground. For a moment I thought somebody had knocked me down, but I had reclined purposefully and simply did not remember. My throat hurt abominably. I wondered what would make it hurt so. The rim of my helmet was damp around my neck and in the seals below my chin. Oh, I thought. Crying and screaming.

Affect distancing. I could not acknowledge my weakness by mourning openly. I could not let anyone, even myself, see how far gone I actually was. So I saw ghosts and blanked out to give my body time to release its misery. The mind put on a distracting show and performed its ablutions in primal privacy.

I had been on the surface for two hours. I felt different — not better, but different. I walked across the waste and re-entered the lock, using my private key, which opened all doors in Kaibab. The lock closed behind me.

I sucked the dust away, showered quickly in my room, and dressed for the morning meetings.

Back to business. Nobody the wiser.

But my time was running out.

Ti Sandra and her entourage, including Lieh and four of the top Point One people assigned to Preamble, returned the next day to Many Hills. We parted with warm hugs in the offices outside the main lab.

“I hate to see us get so worn down,” she said, holding me at arm’s length. As always now, we were surrounded by guards and aides; this was as close to privacy as we could manage, President and Vice President together. “You’re like a sister to me, Cassie. Promise me we’ll come out of this and retire to run our own station. You’ll be the syndic and I’ll manage a tea farm. Honorable Martians all.”

“I promise,” I said. We hugged again, and Ti Sandra took a deep breath.

“There’s a meeting I’ll have to miss, with Cailetet,” she said. “Aelita has the scheduling. You’ll have to shuttle to the Lai Qila this evening.”

“Crown Niger ?” I asked, stomach tensing.

“Something urgent, he says. Cailetet’s not getting any business, I hear. Our punishment is working. You know him better.”

“He’s a fapping beast,” I said.

“Keep on keeping on,” Ti Sandra said. “You can curse me later, honey.”

I let Aelita and my chief aides sort through the less important events that would have to be canceled, including a status briefing from Wachsler and the Olympians.

Despite the government’s shunning of Cailetet, and its isolation even among the dissenting BMs, it still held a few important cards in the future of the Republic. Crown Niger had skillfully kept himself in office as head syndic despite major blunders.

Reparations for damage sustained in the Freeze had been demanded by regional governors — if not from Earth, then from the central government, which had no fund so extraordinary. Cailetet had offered to channel funds from sympathetic sources on the Earth. So far, we had refused to discuss the matter. Pressure was increasing, however, and Ti Sandra had hinted earlier that we might have to cut a deal with Crown Niger again — trusting him much less farther than we could oh so willingly throw him.

I had a few questions of my own to ask him.

Lai Qila — the Red Fort — lay about three hours’ flight south across the valley, in an independent region owned by the smallest Muslim BM, Al Medain. It had been a resort fifty years before, but pernicious exhaustion of resources — water and money — had forced it to become a New Islam monastery.

It was said to be very beautiful, all buildings on the surface, native stone facings with poly pressure layers and radiation shields hidden beneath.

Dandy Breaker and two younger guards, Kiri Meissner and Jacques D’Monte, accompanied a reduced copy of Aelita and me.

The shuttle ride across the valley was, as always, spectacular. Storms in the deep chasms of Capri churned up rivers of pink and orange dust, six kilometers below; the Eos Chaos swam in ice-crystal clouds streaming in the lee of high winds blowing south. There was no time to lose myself in the landscape, however; Aelita was supplying me with the most recent information about Cailetet’s financial position, the status of its loans through Triple banks on the Moon, even Crown Niger ’s personal finances.

“Tell me more about his personal life,” I said. Aelita Two carried encrypted files from most of Point One’s databases. Her image seemed to become full-size and solid, sat in the seat beside me, and made as if to sort through stacks of ghostly papers. She held up a piece of paper with scorched edges and gave me a sly look.

“That hot, hmm?” I asked.

“He’s New Islam, as is his wife, who left the Fatimites three years ago to marry him. But apparently his affiliation is a convenience. He is not devout.”

This much I knew already. “Not so startling,” I told Aelita Two.

“He’s sexually omnivorous. Men, women.”

“Sheep?”

“No sheep.”

“Corpses?”

“No evidence of that.”

“Lots of politicians have high spirits. Does he treat his partners well? No complaints, lawsuits, that sort of thing?”

“No lawsuits. His wife is unhappy but will not leave him.”

“This is all very tame. Why the scorched paper, Aelita?” I asked.

“Achmed Crown Niger was on Earth for three years following the anti-Statist uprising in Sinai. Data flies have turned up documents which indicate that a man with a very similar speech pattern may have been involved in several political actions in southern Africa , resisting pan-African unification.”

“How similar?”

“Speech patterns match to ninety-eight percent certainty. This man is listed on fugitive return declarations by GSHA and United Africa. His name is Yusef Mamoud.”

I couldn’t think of any particular use for the information, even if it was significant. “Aelita,” I said, “scorched paper should indicate murder, pederasty, or the posting of exaggerated penis size in lonelyhearts ads.”

“Beg pardon?” Aelita Two asked. Her humor was no more sophisticated than her political instincts.

“We have no contacts or contracts with United Africa, and GSHA won’t extradite on their behalf. It’s not a scorcher. We know he’s a political opportunist. A traitor. Someday,” I almost choked on the words, but anger made me say them anyway, “we may have to kill him.”

“I see.”

Lai Qila lived up to its name, heavy red walls with minarets at every angle surrounding a dozen stone domes, the largest some two hundred meters in diameter: very expensive, and in the Martian psychology, arrogantly assertive. Mars’s New Islam community had always been proud and patriotic, never praying toward Earth, but always west toward the setting sun. The New Islam stations I had visited were clean, orderly, never politically active; their men polite and well-dressed in India-cut longsuits or jallabahs, their women stylish and self-possessed in calf-length sheath dresses with silk or cotton vests, veils down and decorously draped at shoulder.

It was said that to modestly don a veil before a strange man was the most sincere form of flattery available to a New Islam woman; veiling before a man known to family or community was a sign of intent to court, very stimulating.

Since this meeting was to be private, our group was met by security and the mayor of the station, a plump, pleasant man in a natty silver-gray longsuit. Dandy, Meissner and D’Monte met with guards from Cailetet. Security arrangements were agreed to, and Aelita Two joined optically with a Cailetet thinker.