"Storage key?" Alex saw Skip marshalling a response, and re­alized his mistake. Too late; Skip was off and running.

"Do you know about Sperling's eight-second law? You always remember an eclipse lasting eight seconds. It's because eclipse watchers spend the whole time watching one thing. If you want your memory to store more than that you have to keep looking around. What we're doing with the Gravity Whip experience-"

Gavagan's was a quiet restaurant. Its walls were sponges for sound. It was decorated like a twentieth-century British pub, right down to the dart board on the wall and the lukewarm beer at the bar. The jukebox in the corner didn't play music, but a dollar coin bought fifteen minutes of fancy storytelling from holograms of Mark Twain, Rudyard Kipling, Jorkins, Brigadier Fallowes...lex Griffin spent a lot of time here.

Skip had finally wound down, and sat back in his chair listening to a ghostly Harry Purvis tell of finding a nugget of U-235 in his mailbox.

Gary Tegner, the ever-cheerful manager of Gavagan's, floated their food to them personally. "Fish and chips?" Alex and Melinda both raised fingers. Skip had a Clarkeburger and fries. "Good to see you folks. Melinda, isn't it?" He set out tankards of ale for the two men and a soft drink for Melinda.

She nodded. "It's been a while. Christmas of ‘49? Staff party?" Tegner gave his deep-bellied chuckle. He had considerable belly to bounce it around in. "How could I ever forget that party?" He nudged Skip. "You nuts in R&D. When eight tiny Santas pulled that sleigh through my window, I thought I'd bust a gut."

Alex remembered. "Me too. And the reindeer with the whip?"

Tegner retreated from the table, wiping his eyes as he chortled. Skip wolfed down a third of his hamburger, then, "What's hap­pening with you, Alex?"

"Same old thing, buddy." Then he remembered. "No, I take that back. We had some vandalism over in CMC."

"I heard about that. Rice, wasn't it? Anything taken?"

"Apparently not. It shook him up, though."

"That fits his profile. He's the nervous type."

"Hey, don't tell me that, buddy. You should have said some­thing before you recommended him to me!"

"Alex, a hired guard should be the nervous type. Anyway, I'm a sucker for puppies and lost children."

Alex caught Melinda's wistful glance. "Hey, genius, when are you going to have some kids of your own? Then you can test-" Skip's lips thinned out, and so did Melinda's, and Alex knew he was on thin ice. "-on the other hand, I was wondering if you brought the L-5 plans. Ahem."

Skip jabbed lightly at Griffin's hand with a fork. "It's not too bad. Old territory. I don't feel my professional life has room for kiddies yet."

Melinda seemed to draw into herself, and her voice was tiny. "-And I want them." She nibbled at her fish. "I really do under­stand Skip's point, but I was raised thinking a woman should have children."

"Were your parents very religious, then?"

"Who wasn't, after the Quake?" Her answer was simple, and true. The Mormons, the Vincent de Paul Society, and Hadassah had been among the first to bring massive aid into California. The religious environment had filtered all through California society and California politics. For several decades California had been another word for conservatism.

Skip squeezed her hand. "I couldn't get the L-5 plans, Alex."

"Problems?"

"You'll love this. Security problems. It would be the first pri­vately owned space colony, and there are a stack of international treaties to search through. Public support would help, and we're getting it from everywhere but California."

Alex drained the last of his ale and set the mug down with a clank. "I suppose you've heard all about this mess, Melinda?"

"Just what Skip brings home with him, and that isn't much."

"It's like this, then. California has been firmly on its feet for more than a decade now. A few Southern Cal politicos think that this would be a good time to strip away some of Cowles Indus­tries' tax advantages. See, we're just another business to them now. They think they don't need us any more. Besides, a tax break always looks good to the voters till they see what they're giving up." Alex's anger was eating through the calm, and he lowered his voice. "So we've got to walk soft. We can hold onto what we've got, maybe, but expansion is going to be difficult. We're just too high-profile, too easy a target."

Skip nodded. "What it adds up to is that all the big projects are being kept quiet until the details are worked out. So if you want a look at those plans, you'll have to go and sign for them yourself."

Griffin made a sound of disgust. Then, "I should be glad they're tightening up. Security consciousness around here has been sloppy. I think we may have to have a real problem before Har­mony gives me the word to tighten up on the rumor mill." He looked at his sleeve-watch and winced. "Oh dear oh dear, the Queen will have my head! Skip, I've got to teach a class in about three minutes. Melinda-" He shook her hand with the gentlest of grips. "Always a pleasure. Skip, I think Lopez-tomorrow's Game Master... ?" Skip nodded recognition of the name. "Well, he's coming into Game Central tonight, and I for one want to check him out. Want to drop by? It might be interesting."

"Sure. About midnight, isn't it?"

"You've got it. Okay, I'll see you tonight."

Gwen leaned against the rail of the Hot Spot refreshment stand across the way from the Everest Slalom exit. She was drinking a Swiss Treat special: coffee and cocoa generously topped with marshmallowed whipped cream. It was taking the chill from her bones fast. Her muscles were beginning to quiver with belated fa­tigue. Dream Park's automatic controls made mistakes almost impossible. Otherwise the ski run down Mount Everest was a damnably realistic experience.

Acacia was talking animatedly with an older couple. "I do the Everest Slalom every time I come here. I'm getting better, too. Eighty-five percent control this time. But, by God, that's the first time they ever threw a baby yeti at me! There he was, right in front of me, all fluffy white fur and big trusting blue eyes. I damn near slammed a tree getting around him..."

Gwen watched a strolling band of acrobats perform their flip-flops and joined in the applause, wishing that she had kept up with the gymnastics that her mother had pushed her into at the tender age of five. Her thumb traced a line over the bulge around her waist, and she cast a wistful eye at Acacia's trim figure. Gwen compared her own wispy blond hair to the dark girl's lush brown mane. Even Margie Braddon's hair, though white, was long and thick; and her wrinkles were all smile wrinkles, and her figure was enviable. Envy was what Gwen felt now.

Gwen Ryder didn't often dwell on the differences between her­self and other women. Most of the time she considered com­parison-shopping either odiously self-congratulatory or self-pity­ing. She liked her mind in neither mode. But there was a four-day jaunt ahead, and romances were known to bloom or die during such, and Gwen wondered.

Ollie and Tony were playing a computerized hockey game in a small arcade nearby. She loved to hear Ollie laugh, or see him smile, even the uneasy smile he wore when he thought he was the focus of attention.

It was easy to remember her first meeting with Adolph Norliss. It was an I.F.G.S. function. He was wearing motorized armor lifted from an old novel, Starship Troopers, and she had knocked on the chest cannon and asked if it wasn't a little humid in there. He'd started telling her all about the cooling and dehumidifying system he had rigged up for it. Before they knew it they were in a nearby coffee shop finding out how much they had in common, while a goggle-eyed waitress brought them breakfast.