Poole frowned. "Heading where? The inner Solar System?"

"It’s logical," Berg said dryly. "That’s where Earth lies, fat and waiting."

"And the second?"

"…Is coming down our damn throats."

Shira said, "You need not fear. When the Project comes to fruition these events will be… translated into harmless shadows."

Poole and Berg, dropping their heads from the ugly movements in the sky, studied the Friend.

"She’s crazy," Berg said.

Shira leaned forward, her blue eyes pale and intense. "You must understand. The Project will correct all of this. The continuance of the Project is — must be — the top priority for all of us. Including you, our visitors."

"Even above defending ourselves — defending Earth — against a Spline attack?" Poole asked. "Shira, this may be the best chance well have of defeating the assault. And—"

She didn’t seem to be hearing him. "The Project must be seen through," she said. "Accelerated, in fact." The girl looked from one to the other of them, searching their faces, pleading for understanding; Michael felt as if he could see the practiced phrases rolling meaninglessly through her mind. "You will come with me now."

"What do you think?" Poole said to Berg. "Will they force us? Do they have weapons?"

"You know they do," Berg said calmly. "You saw what they did to my boat."

"So we’ve no way of impelling them to do anything." He heard the frustration, the despair in his own voice. "They’re not going to oppose the Spline at all; they’re putting all their faith in this Project of theirs. The magic Project that will solve everything."

Berg growled softly.

She lashed out sideways with her bunched fist.

She caught the Friend squarely on the temple. Shira fell loosely, crumpling, as if supporting strings had been cut; she lay with her small, skull-like face fringed by pink-stained grass.

Harry, staring down, said, "Wow."

"She won’t stay out long," Miriam said. "We need to move fast."

Poole glanced up at the still-growing, rolling form of the Spline warship. "What do we do?"

"We have to take out both Spline," Berg muttered. "That much is obvious. As long as either of them is loose In the Solar System, the whole damn race is in peril."

"Oh, sure." Harry said. "Let’s take ’em both out. Or, on the other hand, why don’t we think big? I have a cunning plan…"

"Shut up, Harry," Michael said absently. "All right, Miriam, we’re listening. How?"

"We’ll have to split up. Harry, is the Crab’s boat ready to lift?"

Harry closed his eyes, as if looking within. "Yes," he said.

Shira stirred on the grass, moaning softly.

"Maybe you can get away in the boat," Miriam said. "While the Friends are still running about confused, trying to stow everything. Get back to the Crab and go after the first Spline, the one that’s heading for Earth. Maybe you can catch it before it engages its hyperdrive."

"And then what?"

Berg grinned tightly. "How should I know? I’m making this up as I’m going along. You’ll have to think of something."

"All right. What about you?"

Berg looked up. The second Spline, advancing on the earth-craft, loomed still closer; it was a fleshy moon above them. "I’ll try to do something about that one," Berg said. "Maybe I can get to those singularity cannons."

Shira moaned again and seemed to be trying to raise her face from the grass.

Poole said, "And her?"

Berg shrugged. "Take her with you. Maybe she’ll be able to help you."

Poole bent, picked up the girl; her protruding eyes, trying to fix on his face, slid across the sky like poorly tracking cameras.

Berg searched Poole’s face. "I need to say good-bye, Michael," she said.

Harry looked from Poole, to Miriam, and back to Poole; and he winked politely out of existence.

Michael looked beyond the village of Xeelee-material huts, toward the center of the earth-craft. Three burly Friends were running toward them. No, four. And they were carrying something. Weapons?

He turned back to Berg. "You’ll never make it to the center of the craft," he said. "Come with us."

Harry’s head popped out of space, close to Miriam’s ear. "Sorry, folks," he said, "but you haven’t a lot of time for this."

Miriam grinned briefly, ran her hand through her stubble of hair, and took a deep breath. "But I’m not going to the center of the craft. Good-bye, Michael." And she swiveled — away from Michael, away from the approaching Friends — and started to run, toward the edge of the world.

Michael Poole stood watching her for one second, mouth open.

Shira wriggled harder in his arms, kicking like a stranded fish.

There was no more time. Michael turned on his heel and ran for his boat, the ungainly burden of Shira flopping in his arms, the disembodied head of his father floating at his side.

The rim of the craft, ahead of her, was a fringe of grass, incongruous against the bruised-purple countenance of Jupiter.

Her mind raced.

From the circular village of the Friends of Wigner, Berg had about a hundred yards to run to the lip of the craft. Well, she could cover that distance in maybe ten seconds, on the flat. But the weakening of gravity as she approached the edge ought to let her speed up — as long as she didn’t fall flat on her face — but on the other hand she’d be climbing out of the earth-craft’s gravity well, so she’d feel as if she were running uphill…

Yes. Already the ground seemed to be tipping up beneath her.

She tried to work with the weakening gravity, gain whatever advantage she could: she consciously slowed her pace, letting her stride broaden and carry her farther.

She risked a glance backward. The posse of pursuing Friends had split, she saw; two of them had concentrated on Michael and the girl, and the other two were coming after her. They were fit and covered the grass fast.

They carried laser-guns, of the type that had turned her boat to slag. She imagined coherent photons surging from the weapons and arcing into her back, faster than thought. You don’t dodge a light weapon… She felt her back stiffen and tense, the muscles locking up. Her stride faltered, and she tried to empty her head of everything but the next step.

She seemed to be climbing a one-in-three slope now. She didn’t dare look back again, for fear of seeing the earth-craft apparently tip behind her, of tumbling helplessly backward, her balance lost. And, damn it, her chest hurt. Her lungs were dragging at thinning air; coming this far out of the earth-craft’s tiny gravity well was like climbing the mountains of Mars.

She wondered why the Friends didn’t just open up. No need to aim; they could just hose her down, slicing her spine the way they’d cut open her boat. But they were hesitating. Thinking twice.

They wanted to stop her, not murder her, she realized; they were reluctant to use those weapons.

She didn’t have much time for the Friends, but at least they weren’t killers. Maybe it would be better if they were.

Perspective was starting to work on the approaching edge of the world, now. She could see individual blades of grass, rushing toward her.

Her lungs hurt like hell. She felt her tongue protrude from her mouth. Her whole chest ached, including the muscles of her back and her upper arms. And her legs, stiffening as they climbed the steepening hill, were shivering, as if they knew what they were approaching.

She ignored it all; her arms flailing at the thinned air, she drove her feet down at the grass, pushing the earth-craft below her.

The plane reached a crescendo of steepness; she was flying up a bowl-shaped Alp -

And then there was no more grass beneath her boots.