“Are you certain of that?” Stavenger asked softly.

“Positively,” Dan agreed. “Same situation as the Clipperships. Your Clipperships brought down the cost of going into orbit to the point where it became economically feasible to build space stations and solar power satellites and fullscale factories.”

“They’re not my Clipperships, Dan.”

“Masterson Corporation is your family’s outfit, isn’t it?” Stavenger shifted uneasily in his chair, his smile fading. “Masterson was founded by my family, true enough. I still own a big slice of its stock, but I’m only the Chairman Emeritus. I’m not really involved in the company’s operations any longer.”

“But they still listen to you.”

The smile returned, but it was more guarded now. “Sometimes,” Stavenger said. “So how would Masterson like to come in with me on this fusion system? It’ll be a gold mine.”

Stavenger hesitated before replying, “I’ve been told that Humphries Space Systems is backing your fusion program.”

“Martin Humphries has offered to, that’s true,” Dan admitted.

“But you’re not satisfied with his offer?”

“I don’t know if I can trust him. He comes waltzing into my office and drops this fusion deal in my lap. Why? Why didn’t he do it for himself? What’s he want me for?”

“Maybe it’s Astro Manufacturing that he wants,” Stavenger said. Dan nodded vigorously. “Yep, that’s what scares me. The man has a reputation for being a grabber. He’s built Humphries Space Systems by swallowing up other companies.”

Again Stavenger hesitated. At last he said, “He’s on the verge of acquiring a majority of Masterson’s stock.”

“What?” A jolt of surprise flashed through Dan.

“I’m not supposed to know, really,” Stavenger said. “It’s all been very hush-hush. Humphries is on the verge of buying out two of our biggest shareholders. If he’s successful, he’ll have enough clout to load the board of directors with his own people.”

“Damn,” grumbled Dan. “Double dammit to hell and back.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to play with Humphries whether you like it or not. In his court.”

Suppressing an urge to get up and pound on the walls, Dan heard himself say, “Maybe not.”

“No?”

“There’s one other possibility.”

“And what might that be?” Stavenger was smiling again, as if he knew precisely where Dan was heading.

“Selene.”

“Ahh,” said Stavenger, leaning back in his cushioned chair. “I thought so.”

“Selene has trained technical personnel and manufacturing facilities. I could bring my fusion people up here and we could build the prototype together.”

“Dan,” said Stavenger gently, “who would pay Selene’s technical personnel? Who would pay for using our facilities?”

“We could share the cost. I can divest a couple of Astro’s operations and raise some cash that way. Selene could donate—” The expression on Stavenger’s face stopped him. It reminded Dan of the look that his geometry teacher would give him, back in high school, when he went off on the wrong tangent.

“You know something that I don’t,” Dan said.

Stavenger laughed gently. “Not really. You know it, too, but you’re not thinking of it. You’re overlooking the obvious.”

Dan blinked, puzzled.

“You are staring at the solution to your problem,” Stavenger prompted. “I’m looking at you and you say that I’m—” The light finally dawned in Dan’s mind. “Oh for my sweet old Aunt Sadie! Nanomachines.” Stavenger nodded. “Nanotechnology can build your fusion engine for you, and do it faster and cheaper than the orthodox way.”

“Nanotechnology,” Dan repeated.

“It would mean your spacecraft could never get any closer to Earth than low orbit.”

“So what?” Dan exclaimed. “The double-damned ship is for deepspace operations.

It’ll never touch down on Earth or any other planetary surface.”

“Then you should have no problem,” said Stavenger.

“You mean Selene will back us?”

Very carefully, Stavenger replied, “I believe the governing council will allocate personnel and facilities to demonstrate that a prototype fusion engine can be built by using nanotechnology.”

Dan grinned widely. “Yep, and once the prototype proves out, Selene will have a major new product line to manufacture: fusion drives.”

“And access to the asteroids.”

“Damned right! And any comets that come waltzing by, too.”

“Selene and Astro Manufacturing will be partners,” Stavenger said. “Partners!” Dan agreed, sticking out his hand. Stavenger gripped it firmly and they shook on the deal.

It had started as a temporary storage section, just off Selene’s small hospital, up by the main airlock and the garage that housed the tractors and other equipment for work on the surface.

Bodies were stored along the blank corridor walls, sealed into protective metal canisters to await transport back to Earth. In earlier days, most of the people who died on the Moon were workers killed in accidents, or visitors who made fatal mistakes while outside on the surface. Hardly anyone died of natural causes until later, when people began settling at Selene to live out their lives. So the bodies awaiting shipment back Earthside were stored in the corridor between the hospital and the garage, convenient to the tunnel that led to the spaceport.

Eventually, of course, people who had spent their lives on the Moon wanted to be buried there, usually in the farms that provided food and fresh oxygen for the community. But often enough families back Earthside demanded the bodies of their deceased loved ones, despite the deceased’s wishes. Some legal wrangles took years to unravel. So the bodies were put into metal dewars filled with liquid nitrogen, frozen solid at cryogenic temperature while the lawyers argued and ran up their fees.

It took several years for Selene’s governing council to realize that a new trend had started. Cryonics. People were coming to Selene to be declared legally dead, then frozen into suspended animation in the hope that they could one day be cured of the disease that killed them, thawed, and returned to life once more. Cryonics had been banned in most of the Earth’s nations. The faithful of many religions considered it an affront to God, an attempt to evade the divinelymandated limits on human lifespan. While rejuvenation therapies could be done in relative secrecy, having one’s body preserved cryonically was difficult to hide. With global warming causing catastrophes all over the world and many nations barely able to feed their populations, attempts to forestall death and elongate lifespan were frowned upon, if not banned altogether. So those who wanted to avoid death, and had the money to reach the Moon, came to Selene for their final years, or months, or days. Thus the catacombs grew, row upon row of gleaming stainless steel dewars, each filled with liquid nitrogen, each holding a human body that one day might be revived.

Pancho Lane had brought her sister to Selene, back when the teenager had been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. Sis was losing her memory, losing control of her body functions, losing her ability to speak or smile or even to think. Pancho had given Sis the final injection herself, had watched her younger sister’s inert body being slid into the cold bloodless canister, watched the medical team seal the dewar and began the long, intricate freezing process, her tears mingling with the cold white mist emanating ghostlike from the hoses. Six years ago, Pancho thought as she walked slowly along the quiet corridor, looking for her sister’s name on the long rows of metal cylinders resting along the blank stone walls.

She had heard rumors that a few people had actually been revived from cryonic immersion, thawed back to life. And other rumors, darker, that claimed those revived had no memories, no minds at all. They were like blank-brained newborns; they even had to be toilet-trained all over again. Doesn’t matter, Pancho said to herself as she stopped in front of Sis’s dewar. I’ll raise you all over again. I’ll teach you to walk and talk and laugh and sing. I will, Sis. No matter how long it takes. No matter what it costs. As long as I’m alive, you’re not going to die.