Feeling alarmed, Dan asked, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s that damned three-second lag,” Cardenas said. “You can’t really be interactive, you can’t even have a normal conversation when there’s three seconds between your question and their answer every blasted time.”

“Is it actually hindering your work?”

She made a face somewhere between a grimace and a pout. “Not hindering, exactly. It’s just so damned inconvenient! And time-consuming. Sometimes we have to go over a thing two or three times just to be sure we’ve heard them right. It soaks up time and makes everybody edgy.”

Dan thought it over. “Maybe I can talk them into coming up here.”

“I’ve tried to, god knows. Duncan won’t budge. Neither will any of his people.

They’re terrified of nanomachines.”

“No!”

“Yes. Even Professor Vertientes. You’d think he’d know better, at his age.”

“They’re scared of nanomachines?”

“They won’t admit it, of course,” said Cardenas. “They say that they might not be allowed to return to Earth if the authorities know that they’ve been working with nanomachines. I think that’s a crock; they’re just plain scared.”

“Maybe not,” Dan said. “Those Earthside bureaucrats get wonky ideas, especially about nanotechnology. I sure haven’t told anybody that I’m dealing with nanomachines.”

Her brows shot up. “But everybody knows—”

“Everybody knows that you and your staff are building a fusion rocket with nanos. As far as the general public is concerned, I don’t come near ’em. I’m a bigshot tycoon, I don’t get involved in the dirty work. I’ve never even been in your lab.” Cardenas nodded with newfound understanding. “That’s why you sneak in here late at night.”

“I don’t sneak anywhere,” Dan said, with great dignity. “I’ve never been here.

Period.”

She laughed. “Of course.”

“Kris,” he said, more seriously, “I think Duncan and the rest of them have legitimate reasons to be scared of coming up here and working with you. I’m afraid you’re going to have to live with that three-second lag. It’s their safety net.” Cardenas took a deep breath. “If I have to.”

“You’ve accomplished a helluva lot in just four weeks,” Dan pointed out. “I suppose that’s true. It’s just… it’d be so much easier if we could all work together under the same roof.”

Smiling gently, Dan said, “I never promised you a rose garden.” She was about to reply when the door to the corridor banged open, all the way across the mostly-darkened laboratory. Instinctively, Dan started to duck behind the big microscope tube, like a boy hiding from his mother. Then he recognized the hulking, shaggy, red-bearded figure of Big George Ambrose.

“That you, Dan?” George called as he strode between workstations toward them.

“Been lookin’ everywhere for you, y’know.”

Despite his size, George moved gracefully, light on his feet and perfectly at home in the low lunar gravity.

“I’m not here,” Dan growled.

“Right. But if you were, I’d hafta tell you that Pancho Lane’s missin’.”

“Missing?”

“Not in her quarters,” George said as he approached. “Not in any of the Astro offices. Not in the spaceport or the Grand Plaza. Not anyplace I’ve looked. Blyleven’s worried about her.”

Frank Blyleven was chief of Astro’s security department. Dan glanced at Cardenas, then said to George, “She could be in someone else’s quarters, you know.”

George looked surprised at the idea. “Pancho? She doesn’t have a guy and she doesn’t sleep around.”

“I wouldn’t worry—”

“She didn’t show up at the office t’day. She’s never missed an hour of work, let alone a whole day.”

That worried Dan. “Didn’t show up at all?”

“I asked everybody. No Pancho, all day. I been lookin’ for her all night. Nowhere in sight.”

“Did you ask her roommate?”

“Mandy Cunningham? She was out havin’ dinner with Humphries.”

“She should be back by now.”

George made a leering smirk. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Turning to Cardenas, Dan said, “I’d better look into this. George is right, Pancho’s had her nose to the grindstone ever since she came up here.”

“So maybe she’s taking a little r and r,” Cardenas said, unruffled.

“Maybe,” Dan admitted. But he didn’t think so.

Pancho had spent the entire day being invisible. The night before, she had gone to the Pelican Bar for a little relaxation after another long, grueling day of study and simulation runs in the Astro office complex.

The incongruously-named Pelican Bar had been started by a homesick Floridian who had come to Selene back in the days when the underground community was still known as Moonbase. Hired to be the base’s quartermaster, he had developed a case of hypertension that kept him from returning to Earth until a regime of exercise and medication brought his blood pressure under control. He took the pills, largely ignored the exercise, and started the bar in his own quarters as a clandestine drinking club for his cronies. Over the years he had grown into a paunchy little barrel of a man, his bald head gleaming under the ceiling fluorescents, a perpetual gap-toothed smile on his fleshy, tattooed face. He often told his patrons that he had found his true calling as a bartender: “A dispenser of cheer and honest advice,” as he put it.

The bar was several levels down from the Grand Plaza, the size of two ordinary living suites, carved out of the lunar rock. And quiet. No music, unless someone wanted to sit at the synthesizer that lay dusty and rarely touched in the farthest, most shadowy corner of the room. The only background noise in the place was the buzz of many conversations. Pelicans were everywhere. A holographic video behind the bar showed them skimming bare centimeters above the placid waters of the Gulf of Mexico against a background of condo towers and beachfront hotels that had long since gone underwater. Photos of pelicans adorned every wall. Statues of pelicans stood at each end of the bar and pelican mobiles hung from the smoothed-rock ceiling. A meter-tall stuffed toy pelican stood by the bartender’s computer, dressed in garish, outlandish Florida tourist’s garb and peering at the drinkers through square little granny sunglasses.

Pancho liked the Pelican Bar. She much preferred it to the tidy little bistro up in the Grand Plaza where the tourists and executives did their drinking. The Pelican was a sort of home away from home; she came often enough to be considered one of the steady customers, and she usually bought as many rounds as any of the drinkers clustered around the bar.

She exchanged greetings with the other regulars while the owner, working behind the bar as usual, broke away from an intense conversation with a despondent-looking little redhead to waddle down the bar and pour Pancho her favorite, a margarita with real lime from Selene’s hydroponics fruit orchard. Although a set of booths lined the back wall, there were no stools at the bar itself. You did your drinking standing up, and when you could no longer stand your buddies took you home. House rules.

Pancho had wedged herself into the crowd in between a total stranger and a retired engineer she knew only as a fellow Pelican patron whose parents had hung the unlikely name of Isaac Walton around his neck. The word was he had originally come to the Moon to get away from jokes about fishing. Walton’s face always seemed slightly askew; one side of it did not quite match the other. Even his graying hair seemed thicker on one side than the other. Normally a happy drinker, he looked morose as he leaned both elbows on the bar and stared into his tall, frosted drink.

“Hi, Ike,” Pancho said brightly. “Why the long face?”

“Anniversary,” Walton mumbled.

“So where’s your wife?”

He gave Pancho a bleary look. “Not my wedding anniversary.”