Gaeta tilted his head to one side. “I never thought of it like that, but yeah, you’re right. Kinda like that.”

Sobering up somewhat, Cardenas said, “Could you show me how you get into it?”

“Sure. You want to go in? It’s okay, I can help you.”

Cardenas shook her head. “No. You get into it.” Nodding toward the briefcase she had left by the door, “Then I can take samples of whatever residues you leave on the outside.”

“Samples?”

“If you want nanomachines specifically tailored to clean up your residues, I have to know exactly what they are, down to the molecular level.”

Gaeta nodded his understanding. “Okay.” He called to von Helmholtz, “Yo, Fritz, I gotta get inside.”

Von Helmholtz and the four techs started for the suit. The chief technician hesitated, though, and asked, “Dr. Cardenas, will you need your case?”

“Yes I will, thank you.”

He brought the briefcase to Cardenas while two of the technicians began unsealing the suit’s hatch and the other two booted up the monitoring consoles standing along the far side of the lab.

“You plan to go outside when we pass Jupiter?” Cardenas asked Gaeta as von Helmholtz handed her the briefcase.

“Yep. We’ll have a couple hundred million VR viewers sharing the experience as we zip past Jupiter. Should be fun.”

“Flying past Jupiter as seen from outside. I’d like to experience that myself,” Cardenas said.

The technicians swung open the hatch in the back of the suit and Gaeta stepped to it. Over his shoulder he told Cardenas, “Sure, why not? Fritz can fix you up with a VR rig, can’t you Fritz?”

“It would be an honor,” said von Helmholtz. Cardenas couldn’t decide if he meant it or he was being snotty.

She watched as Gaeta hiked one leg up over the rim of the hatch, grabbed the sides with either hand, and then pulled his other leg in. His head disappeared into the darkness inside.

She heard a thud, then a string of muffled Spanish curses.

“It’s pretty tight in there,” one of the technicians said, grinning at her.

Gaeta called, “Okay, I’m set.” The techs closed the hatch and sealed it shut.

Walking around to the front of the suit, Cardenas had to crane her neck to see Gaeta’s face through the heavily tinted visor of the helmet.

The right arm of the suit stirred into motion with a buzz and whirr of servomotors.

“Hello, Kris,” boomed Gaeta’s voice, amplified powerfully, as he waved at her. “Wanna dance?”

But she was already on one knee, opening the briefcase that carried her analysis tools, all business.

The cafeteria was bustling and noisy with the clatter of silverware and a hundred buzzing conversations. Ilya Timoshenko ignored the lines of people waiting at the various counters, preferring to punch out his lunch selections from the automated dispensers. He had filled his tray with a McGlop sandwich and a bowl of steaming soup; now he stood before the beverage dispenser.

“Decisions, decisions.”

Timoshenko turned his head to see that it was Jaansen, one of the top engineers, standing next to him, tall and lean and pale as the winter sun.

Without a word, Timoshenko slid his plastic cup beneath the cola nozzle and leaned on the button. Then he walked away, looking for a table where he could be alone. As he unloaded his tray, though, Jaansen walked up to the table, carrying a salad and a glass of milk.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” Jaansen asked, already putting his sparse lunch on the table. “I need to talk with you.”

Timoshenko said, “About what?” Jaansen was one of the bosses, several rungs up the ladder above him.

“Politics,” said Jaansen as he pulled out his chair and sat down. Suddenly Timoshenko had no appetite. He sat facing the pale Norseman. “I have no interest in politics.”

“You did once. You were quite an activist.”

“And look where it’s got me.”

Jaansen waved a hand vaguely. “This isn’t so bad, is it? If you have to be exiled, this is better than most places.”

Despite himself, Timoshenko asked, “Were you exiled?”

“No, I chose to come here. For me, this is an opportunity to be in charge of a major engineering operation.”

“To be a boss, you mean.”

“You could be a boss, too,” Jaansen said. “The biggest boss of all.”

Timoshenko scowled at him.

“I mean it, Ilya. You could run for the office of chief administrator, once the new constitution is put into effect.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m serious. You could run, and you could win. All the engineers and technicians would vote for you. That’s a major bloc of votes.”

“Why would they vote for me?”

“Because you’re one of us. Everybody knows you and respects you.”

Timoshenko grunted derisively. “I have very few friends. Hardly anybody knows me, and those who do don’t like me very much. I can’t say that I blame them, either.”

Jaansen would not be put off. Pulling his palmcomp from his tunic pocket he began tapping out numbers as he spoke.

“Politics boils down to arithmetic,” he said, pecking away. “You are much more respected by your fellow workers than you think. They’ll vote for you in preference to Urbain, and—”

“Urbain? He’ll be running for office?”

“Of course. He’s head of the science department, isn’t he? The scientists think they own this habitat. They think we’re all here to serve them. Of course he’ll run. And he’ll win, unless you can rally the engineers and technicians.”

Timoshenko shook his head. “I have no interest in politics,” he repeated. But he stayed and listened and looked at the numbers Jaansen was pecking out on his palmcomp.

Half an hour later, on the other side of the crowded, noisy cafeteria, Edouard Urbain was trying to finish his lunch and get back to his office. The cold potato soup was a poor imitation of vichyssoise. He hadn’t had a decent meal since leaving Montreal. Wilmot has no interest in cuisine, of course. Once I become chief administrator I will see to it that the cooks learn how to cook.

There were a thousand things to do; construction of the roving vehicle was running into difficulties and the Jupiter encounter was almost upon them and this man Eberly wanted to draft a constitution for the habitat and make himself the chief administrator. Impossible! Urbain told himself as he sipped the unappetizing soup. This is a scientific mission, the entire purpose of this habitat is science. A scientist must head the government.

“Are you as excited as I am?”

Urbain jumped as if someone had poked him. Looking up, he saw the chief engineer, the Norseman Jaansen, smiling gently at him. Reluctantly, Urbain gestured him to the empty chair on the other side of his table.

“Excited?” he asked as Jaansen took the proffered chair.

“About the Jupiter flyby.”

“Ah, yes. I suppose I am,” Urbain muttered as he spooned up the last of the mediocre soup. Then he noticed that Jaansen was empty-handed. “Aren’t you having lunch?”

“I’ve already eaten,” said the engineer. “I was on my way out when I saw you sitting alone.”

Urbain preferred to eat alone. But he said nothing and reached for his cup of tea. They served wine, of a sort, in the restaurants. The cafeteria did not.

Jaansen said, “I can’t think of anything but the flyby. And the refueling procedure. I’ve checked everything associated with the procedure a dozen times, but still I can’t help worrying that I’ve forgotten something.”

“That is why we create checklists,” Urbain said tartly.

Jaansen smiled. “Yes, I know. But still…”

Urbain finished his tea. “If you’ll pardon me,” he said, starting to push his chair back from the table.

Jaansen touched his sleeve. “Do you have a minute? There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

“I must get back at my lab.”