But Whitey was already out the door and crouching behind the next house. He popped up above the roof, aimed, fired, and ducked down, then arrowed away behind the next house, then popped up to fire again just as the drill pierced the last roof he'd fired from. He torpedoed away again, but around a corner, because two points determine a straight line, and two events determine a trend, if you're the kind to jump to conclusions.

The assassin was, and the beam hit the third house in the row. But Whitey was firing from two houses south, then from the house west, then two houses west. His blood pounded in his ears, his heart thrilled to the hunt, even though he kept expecting to pop up and see ruby fire all around him.

But he didn't—the assassin never knew where he'd be next. Not surprising—Whitey didn't, either.

Then, finally, the beam grew dim.

That was it—one shot dim, then only a feeble glow from the drill, then nothing. The burro-boat floated in the night, not a light showing, not a flicker of a rocket.

Whitey waited, holding his breath. Finally, he had to breathe, but the boat still hadn't moved. Slowly, he started back to the warehouse, keeping an eye on the burro-boat, but there wasn't the least sign of life, or of movement. Whitey grinned, picturing the man inside raging, stabbing pressure patches in blind panic, not even able to get back to the asteroid and the hidden scooter he surely had ridden out from Ceres, not able to shoot, to transmit, to move.

Out of juice. Completely.

Whitey ducked in through the door and began to search the warehouse more thoroughly. If there were rifles, maybe there was a radio.

There was, and it was plugged in to recharge, too. Whitey turned it on, set the frequency to the emergency mark, toggled his helmet's loudspeaker, and bent down to put it next to the microphone grille. "Emergency! Calling Marine Patrol, Sector 6…"

The only sour note, he reflected, was that the assassin couldn't hear his call.

The Marines were there in an hour—after all, Ceres was a commute, not a day trip. Not that the murderer was going anywhere, of course. But it was time enough for Whitey to go back and collect a very thoroughly frightened Lona, a little girl who was sobbing with fear and dread of the haunted place where she crouched alone, then crying her eyes out with relief. Whitey had soothed her and comforted her and had her looking brave, by the time the Marine ship loomed over them—space suits or not, a hug is a hug.

"His name is Cornelius Hanash," the Marine captain said, closing the door to his office and coming around to sit down by the desk.

Whitey stared. "Millionaire Hanash? The one who built the Ceres Center? The one who has all the filthy rich tourists paying him through the nose to lie back in their loungers and watch the asteroids fly by overhead? That Cornelius Hanash?"

"The same," the captain answered, "and the records show he was thinking of setting up a branch on Homestead, had even bought a major hunk of bare rock there. But he ran low on cash, and got behind on his payments."

"But how did—how did squashing Homestead…" Lona broke off, trying to swallow her tears.

"Insurance," the captain explained. "He had that hunk of real estate insured for the full value of the hotel he 'planned' to build there. When the dome blew, Farland's had to pay—and it was enough to pay off his debts on the Ceres operation."

"But how did he know we were…" Whitey stopped, frowning. "I didn't exactly make it a secret that we were going out to Homestead, did I?"

"No, and even I heard the gossip that some nut was trying to get into the blown generator on the asteroid. Hanash was bound to hear it, with all the connections he has in Sector Hall—and he knew what you'd find."

"Death," Lona whispered. "Death for a hundred thousand people—and Mommy and Daddy."

Then the tears broke. Finally. And Whitey held her and comforted her, and waited for the storm to pass, glad that she could finally grieve, could finally put the past where it belonged.

Cordelia wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and tucked her hanky away with a sniffle. "Oh, she was a brave lass!"

"She was indeed—and, although she did not live happily ever after, most of her life was delightful. The rest was only exciting."

"If 'twas as exciting as her childhood, she did ne'er grow bored," Magnus opined.

"He was a brave man, this Whitey." Geoffrey's eyes glowed. "Valiant."

"I cannot help but agree—though I must say he never sought danger. Still, he had a way of attracting it."

"Oh, praise Heaven thou didst hear of such as they!" Gregory breathed. "Even through all thy years with the miner, though couldst know folk could be good!"

"Aye, what of that miner?" Geoffrey frowned. "How didst thou come to be free of him?"

"By death, wood-pate!" Magnus aimed a slap at his brother's head. "How else could one be free of such a louse?"

Geoffrey blocked the blow easily and slapped back to score as he said, "I could think of an hundred ways, with a club at the beginning, and poison at the end."

"Geoffrey! I trust you jest!" Fess said, shocked. "No, in point of fact, I was freed from him as a result of his own moral turpitude."

"Turp… what?" Gregory asked.

"Turpitude, Gregory—doing wrong without compunction. He exhibited this quality when he received a distress signal from a group of castaways and sought to pass them by, since he perceived no likelihood of immediate gain or pleasure from them."

"The dastard!" Cordelia gasped. "Had he no respect for humankind, then?"

"None," Fess confirmed. "He would cheerfully have left them to die, and never thought twice of it."

"Yet thou wouldst not permit it?"

"I could not. My program dictates that human life is of greater importance than human convenience—and saving lives was more important than my owner's whim. So I turned the ship aside and picked them up, containing them within the airlock. Once they were aboard. I persuaded my owner to permit them to come into the ship itself.''

" 'Persuaded'!" Geoffrey cried triumphantly. "Thou didst not disobey!"

"I did disobey my owner, by rescuing the fugitives—but he sought to break the law."

"And thou didst obey the law!"

"I did," Fess agreed.

"Was there no other time when thou didst disobey?"

"There was," Fess admitted, "for I soon perceived that the castaways had excellent qualities of mutual assistance and support; but my owner had received a broadcast identifying them as fugitives from governmental forces, and offering a reward for information leading to their capture. Since the fugitives had not contributed to his gratification, he attempted to use them as coin to buy it."

"As coin?" Geoffrey frowned. "How can one use people to buy with?"

"There is slavery," Fess answered, "and I am certain that the only reason my second owner did not descend to such depths, is that he lacked the opportunity. But he was not averse to attempting to collect bounty on fugitives when the chance presented itself. Accordingly, he ordered me to transmit a signal to Ceres Station, notifying the authorities of the fugitives' presence—and I refused to do so."

"Thou didst most thoroughly disobey, both thine owner and the law!"

"Not quite," Fess demurred, "for I had reason to believe that the authorities in question were themselves violating the law."

Geoffrey looked exasperated. If Fess said he "had reason to believe," then he had almost complete proof.

"My owner activated a manual transmitter, though, and sent the signal."

Cordelia frowned. "Was that not exceedingly dangerous?"

"Aye," Geoffrey agreed, "and from what thou hast said, he hath not the sound of being a bold man—for would he not have valued his own welfare above all else?"