Wait till you get to the rock. Then lean against it, take some of the weight off your legs, and see if you can worm your hand out of the sleeve and up inside the helmet here. That’s what you’ve got to do.

It seemed as if he’d never get to the boulder. It loomed bigger and bigger, but it still seemed miles away. Until, all of a sudden, he was right in front of it.

Paul reached out and touched its stony side, smoothed by eons of meteoric sandpapering. “Hello, rock’ he said aloud, surprised at how dry and scratchy his throat fek.

He stepped across to the shadowed side of the boulder, then leaned back carefully. Now see if you can wriggle your arm out of the sleeve. Careful! Easy does it.

It felt as if he was wrenching his shoulder out of its socket, but at last Paul got his arm entirely out of the suit’s sleeve and started to work his hand up past the metal ring of the helmet collar.

He was sweating so hard his eyes stung. If you get your hand up here inside the helmet, he thought, first thing you do is wipe your eyes.

Then he realized that all this perspiration was merely draining his body of water. If I don’t get this damned drinking tube fixed I won’t make it much farther.

Slowly, desperately, he tried to worm his fingers up into the helmet.

Joanna recovered from her space sickness as soon as the Clippership lit its engines for the return flight from the orbiting space station to Savannah. Once they got home, she phoned Bradley Arnold and insisted that they meet with Greg at her house instead of in the corporate offices.

“It will be much more relaxed,” she said to Arnold’s image in the phone screen. “After all, it’s been his home, too.”

Arnold agreed. “I’ll have him there first thing tomorrow,” he promised.

They were in Joanna’s upstairs sitting room, next to the master bedroom suite. Joanna was reclined on the chaise longue. She reached out wearily to turn off the phone console on the table beside her.

Joanna turned to Paul as the screen went blank. “We’ll resolve everything tomorrow.” She smiled happily.

Sitting alone on the love seat beneath her portrait, Paul muttered, “I hope so.”

They met in the spacious parlor of the house. It had been decorated in what Paul had always thought of as mock Gone With the Wind style: frills and doodads everywhere; long sweeping curtains of heavy silk on the tall windows; overstuffed furniture; patterned wallpaper. The house was only a few years old. Gregory had built it in a fit of conspicuous consumption. The worse the corporate profit-and-loss picture became, the more lavishly he spent, it had seemed to Paul.

So now he sat tensely on the brocade-covered sofa while morning sunlight poured through the windows and Joanna fiddled nervously with the bric-a-brac on the fireplace mantle.

It was a gas-fed fireplace, and the architect’s drawing of the house that hung above the mantfe concealed the room’s big television screen, one of the first thin-film Windowall screens built in orbit.

Paul heard a car pull up on the driveway outside. Joanna stiffened, then hurried to a window.

“They’re here,” she said, looking pleased and apprehensive at the same time. Then her face clouded. “Greg’s brought Melissa Hart with him.”

Paul’s insides wound even tighter. This isn’t going to be a reconciliation, he knew. It’s war.

Greg still wore a black suit and tie. Paul thought his underwear might also be in mourning. Dark circles rimmed his reddened eyes. He looked somber, almost gaunt. Melissa, wearing a knee-length violet skirt and simple white blouse, seemed as tense as Paul felt. Bradley Arnold, in a rumpled gray business suit, was the only one smiling.

Greg had an attache case with him. The videodisk must be in there, Paul thought.

“I’m glad that we could all get together like this,” Arnold said as they sat down on the two sofas that faced each other across the carved cherrywood coffeetable. Greg and the board chairman sat on one sofa, Joanna and Paul on the other. Greg clutched the attache case on his knees. Melissa took the overstuffed armchair by the end of the coffeetable, facing the cold, empty fireplace.

The butler came in, carrying a tray of juices, coffee, tea, and a plate of toast. He deposited the laden tray on the coffeetable, then stood off to one side.

“Have you all had your breakfasts?” Joanna asked mechanically. “Would you like anything from the kitchen?”

They all said no, and Joanna dismissed the butler.

“Now then,” she said as the butler left the room, “I believe you’ve brought the videodisk, Greg?”

“It’s right here,” he said, his voice low.

“Before we do or say anything else, then, I think we should all see it.”

Arnold bobbed his head in agreement. Paul glanced at Melissa. Why did Greg bring her here, except to show me that he’s got her now?

Greg opened the attache case and took out a single, unmarked videodisk, about the size of a credit card. Paul thought it ridiculous to lug around the tooled leather case just to carry one slim disk; like using a heavy-lift booster to put a sugar cube in orbit.

Joanna started to say, “I’ll get the butler—”

But Greg got to his feet with a wintry smile. “I know how to use the TV, mother,” he said. “This has been my home, too, you know.”

Sarcastic bastard, Paul said to himself.

Greg flicked down the hidden access panel in the mantle-piece and powered up the TV. The architect’s drawing faded away and the wide display panel turned soft gray. Then Greg inserted the videodisk and returned to his seat beside Arnold.

Paul stared at the screen. It streaked random colors for a few moments, then Gregory Masterson’s face filled the screen, bloated and distorted because it was almost pressed against the camera lens.

Gregory was mumbling something. Then he leaned back and they could see he was sitting at his desk, his face dark and grim. Paul was startled to realize how much alike father and son looked.

Joanna’s hand reached into Paul’s and gripped tight.

“Fuckin’ sonsabitches,” Gregory muttered. “How the fuck’m I s’posed to know if this piece of crap is in focus? Autofocus my hairy ass…” His voice trailed off into incoherent mumbles.

Paul saw the crystal decanter of whiskey at Gregory’s elbow. He was waving a heavy old-fashioned glass as he grumbled, whiskey sloshing over its rim onto the desk. The Smith Wesson revolver was resting in front of him, big and menacing, polished steel, long ribbed barrel and fine-grained walnut grip.

“It’s killing me,” Gregory said, looking straight into the camera. “What they’ve done to me… what they’re doin’ now… might’s well be dead. Serve ’em right, the goddam’ pricks.”

Paul felt his insides turning to ice. Joanna was staring fixedly at the big screen, where her late husband loomed over her. She seemed transfixed, unmoving as a statue, not even breathing, like a deer that freezes when it’s caught in an automobile’s headlights.

With his free hand Gregory picked up the heavy revolver. “See this? Oughtta blow their fuckin’ heads off with this. Blam! Right between the eyes. Or maybe shoot off their goddam’ balls, see how they like it.”

Their balls? Paul wondered. What’s he talking about?

“Get ’em before they get me,” Gregory muttered darkly. “Only way to do it…’ He lapsed into incomprehensible mumbles again.

Then he put the old-fashioned glass down with exaggerated care and transferred the gun to his right hand. He studied it for long moments, breathing heavily, mouth hanging open. Paul thought he might have been having trouble focusing his eyes.

“Get ’em before they get me,” he repeated thickly. “This gun’s my protection, my insurance policy. Make sure they can’t hurt me anymore. Protect myself…”

Suddenly Gregory’s eyes blazed with fury and he swung the gun madly. The picture abruptly went dead.