“Tell them,” he instructs Noelle, “that it’s too soon to start setting off fireworks — that this is probably only the first of many worlds that we’re going to have to explore before we find one that we can settle.”

It takes her more than an hour to send that one brief message. The communications difficulties seem to be growing worse all the time.

Huw holds his smooth blackGo stone lightly in the center of one broad fleshy fingertip, waggles the finger two or three times with great seriousness, as though trying to estimate the weight of the tiny polished disk, and says, apropos of nothing that anybody has been discussing this morning in the lounge, “Has he decided, I wonder, which of us are actually going to make the landing on Planet A?”

“Well, he’ll be one of them, for sure,” Leon replies. He is Huw’s opponent, doing poorly, and waiting with ill-concealed impatience for Huw to make his move. “That’s his big specialty, isn’t it, planetary exploration?”

Huw grunts and puts his stone down with a great flourish, clapping it against the board in a way that makes an emphatic, almost belligerent click. He has only recently surrendered to theGo -playing addiction, which by now is almost universal on board. Practically everyone except Hesper, Sieglinde, and a couple of the others has taken to spending three or four hours a day in the gaming lounge.

It is only a couple of ship-weeks now until the Wotan is due to reach the nospace vicinity of the solar system in which Planet A is the feature of greatest interest, and then must shunt back into realspace for the direct-vision survey work. A great many unanswered questions wall begin to receive their answers at that point, not the least of which is whether the starship has traveled in the right direction through nospace and whether it will be able successfully to return to realspace at all; and shipboard tensions have begun to run a little higher than usual as the moment of truth approaches.

“During his term of office the year-captain isn’t allowed to leave the ship for any reason whatsoever, unless we’ve come to our final destination,” Chang says from across the room. “It’s in the Articles of the Voyage.”

“His year is almost up,” Leon says. “Once he’s out of office he’ll be free to take part in the exploration mission. My bet is that he’ll name himself to the landing party as one of his last official acts.”

“Why do you think he’ll leave office when his year is up?” Paco asks. “What if he puts himself forward for reelection? I think he’d win. Who else would want that bloody job, anyway? And there’s nothing in the rules preventing a year-captain from succeeding himself when his year is up.”

“Is he so power-hungry that he would want a second term, do you think?” Julia says.

“Nobody in his right mind would want a second term,” Paco tells her. “Or even a first one. But is he necessarily in his right mind? Are any of us? Would anyone in his right mind have agreed to go on this voyage in the first place?”

Calmly, Heinz, who is playing a game with Sylvia at the far side of the lounge, says, “My opinion is that a second term is the last thing he wants. I think he would very much prefer to be part of the landing party, and, as Chang says, having a second term would disqualify him from joining that. So he intends to step down. But if he does, who are we going to elect in his place?”

The question lands with sudden force among them, like a fist slamming down on everyone’s gaming board. There is a long moment of surprised silence in the lounge. Has this abruptly become an impromptu nominating convention? In that case, why is no one speaking out?

“What about you, Heinz?” Chang says at last.

“Don’t speak foolishness. I’m not a reliable person. Not in the way a captain needs to be.”

“Well, then, who would you suggest?”

“I’m not suggesting anyone. I simply raised the question.” Heinz looks around at each of the others. “What about you, Sylvia? A year as captain — why not? You don’t have any other urgent responsibilities at this stage in the voyage. Or you, Paco? You say you wouldn’t want the job, but you’d be a nice contrast with him, all sound and fury in place of chilly Nordic restraint. And what about Sieglinde, maybe? She’d nominate herself, I suspect, if we gave her half a chance.” They all laugh at that. Sieglinde is not a popular member of the expedition. “Or you, Huw,” Heinz says, grinning and pointing at the heavyset red-faced Welshman. “You’d make a damned good captain.”

“No. Not on your life. If I took the job, I would then face the same problem that he does, of the year-captain’s not being permitted to take part in a planetary exploration mission,” Huw reminds him. “And this entire conversation began with my question about the possible makeup of the planetary landing mission, if there is indeed to be one. Of course, I’m intending to be part of it. So obviously there’s no chance I’d let myself be put forth for captain.”

“Who would we pick, then?” someone asks.

Again, silence. There is no clearly apparent consensus candidate and they all know it. They have all become accustomed to the captaincy of the incumbent in these eleven months; he seems well fitted to the role, and it seems a useful employment of his strange restless intensity. Many have voiced the hope that he will simply remain in office, which would spare the rest of them the bother of having to do the job and also keep him safely busy. Which is why discussions of the upcoming expiration of the year-captain’s term have been few and far between, and why this one has rapidly petered out.

Huw says, “If we may return to the question of the makeup of the landing party now—”

“Play your stone, Huw,” Leon grunts.

Huw flamboyantly sweeps a black stone out of the pile of loose ones and slaps it almost without looking against the board, capturing a little group of Leon’s that evidently had been left undefended for some time now. Leon gasps in surprise. Huw says, addressing the others, “The exploration team ought to consist, I would think, of three people, no more, no less. Obviously we can’t send one person down alone, and two is probably too few to deal with the risks that might arise. On the other hand, we mustn’t risk any big percentage of our total complement in any landing. Three is probably the right number.”

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?” Leon says sourly.

Huw ignores him. “The ideal exploration party, it seems to me, would include one biologist, one planetographer, and, of course, one man to operate and do necessary maintenance work on the vehicle the party uses. The year-captain is the expert on alien biologies: he’s an obvious choice, though we could send Giovanna or even Elizabeth if for some reason the year-captain can’t or won’t go. As for the planetographer—”

“I don’t think we should let any women be part of the group,” Paco says firmly.

The unexpected remark cuts across Huw’s line of discourse so completely that Huw falls silent and his mouth gapes open two or three times, fishlike. Everyone turns to stare at Paco. He is beaming in a very self-satisfied way, as though he has just demonstrated the existence of a fourth law of thermodynamics.

There are four women in the lounge: Julia, Innelda, Giovanna, Sylvia. Julia and Innelda and Giovanna seem too astonished to reply. It is Sylvia, finally, who speaks up. “Bravo, Paco! What a marvelously medieval idea! The bold, brave knights go forth to check out the country of the dragons, and the ladies stay home in the castle. Is that it?”

Paco’s self-congratulatory glow dims. He gives her a surly look.

“That’s not what I mean at all,” he says.

“No?”

“No. It’s purely a matter of genetic diversity, don’t you see?” The room has become very quiet. Paco hunches forward and begins to count off points on his fingers. “Look. We have twenty-five live wombs on board, to put matters in the most basic possible way. Twenty-five walking ovum banks, twenty-five potential carriers of fetuses. That is to say, we’ve got only you twenty-five women available among ourselves with which to get the population of New Earth started. There’s plenty of sperm available around here, you know. One man could fertilize a whole army of women, if necessary. It’s potential mothers who are scarce, and we don’t want to make them any scarcer. Each woman on board represents an irreplaceable four percent of all the women well be bringing to the new world. Each of you is an irreplaceable pool of genetic information, in other words. And an instrument of embryo nurture. The chance of losing even one of you on a risky exploration mission is too big a gamble to take. Q.E.D.”