“There was another thing.”

“What was that?”

“I… I can no longer be a party to the schemes of Quiverian and his banal crew, they.”

“The Arcists?”

“Yes.” The beard floated as Ould-Harrad shook his head. His voice was barely audible. “The wars we brought with us from Earth are as the fog of summer, that will fall away and be forgotten with the coming of winter. I have come to realize that arguments over where to target this great, frozen teardrop miss the point entirely.”

“Where will you go, then?”

Ould-Harrad’s gaze dropped briefly to the floor. “I must go down…into the ice. Below where anyone has gone—except for Ingersoll, whom they now call the Old Man of the Caves, and those poor creatures who followed him. I will live on what grows, along their trail. I will minister to them, if they still live. And I will think.”

Saul nodded. Within Ould-Harrad’s world view, a hermitage made sense, obviously. He made no effort to dissuade the man. “I wish you luck. And wisdom.”

Ould-Harrad nodded. He looked down at his pets. “I am beginning to comprehend one aspect, at least… this thing you preach— this symbiosis. I did not understand at first, but now…”

He paused. “You are not doing evil, Saul Lintz. For that reason I warn you. Beware of Quiverian. He plans something. I know it. You, in particular, he wishes harm. And Carl Osborn.”

Saul did not know what to say. “I’ll be careful.”

“Care, or care not.” Ould-Harrad shrugged. “Do or do not. In the end, it is all by God’s will. We are helpless to resist.”

The otters seemed to sense something even before he moved. They leaped forth and flicked off down the long, dim hallway. Ould-Harrad turned stiffly and walked away.

He actually does seem to be walking, like onthe moon or onEarth, Saul thought as he watched the man depart. I wonder what his technique is.

He swiveled and glided back toward Blue Rock Cave, pondering the effects of personal gravity.

The blackness seemed like a solid weight a vast hand clasped about the gray, battered ice. Carl hadn’t been high above the surface for months, and the arid bleakness of it struck him fully, bringing back memories of his years when open silent vacuum meant freedom, deft movement, effortless grace.

Stars gleamed, their tiny brimming beacons of rose and sea azure and molten yellow shining like steady promises of another life— a realm filled with vibrant hues, a place beyond this bleak plain that the slow elliptical glide of orbit had drained of color.

Now the encroaching darkness meant that there was nothing between the frozen waste and the beckoning stars—no planets swarm with clouds and lightning, not even a vagrant asteroid within view.

They rode far below the ecliptic plane now, ten times farther from the disk of planets than Earth itself was from the sun. The outer solar system was vast beyond imagining. Carl looked toward the south, virtually all the solar system at his back. The sun’s dim radiance—a thousandth of that which warmed Earth—could not summon forth the full colors that marked the ice. Everywhere pools of shadow swallowed detail; most of Halley was an inky kingdom.

—Take it careful now,—Jeffers sent.

“Right,” Carl answered automatically, his reverie broken. He jetted down to alight near his friend. Together they glide-walked southward. Normally he would seek the polar cable and use a jet, be at the south pole in a few minutes. But these were not normal times.

They edged around the hummock of orange-splashed ice. Empty storage drums were moored with spiderweb-thin lines to the lump of frozen waste—garbage left from some process now decades old, forgotten. Jeffers slunk from one drum to another, careful not to expose himself to the southward side. Carl followed him. It took an effort to stay on the ice, gingerly digging his clamp-toes in for each long step. He fought down the urge to leap, to fly above the mottled snowscape.

Blithe spirit, he thought. That’s what i was once. Zipping around, all spit and vinegar. Carl Osborn, space daredevil. But now…it just doesn’t have thee same zest.

There were only a few paths that would not take them through the thick dust fields, kicking up plumes that would give their position away. Jeffers motioned to him and they sprinted across a patch of brown spill, running almost horizontally in long gliding steps, boots finding leverage on knobs and juts of ice. They reached the shelter of a chem module, a stained cylinder long sucked dry.

“They must be able to see us by now. I.”

—Shhhh! This close, they can pick up even local comm.—

Carl bent down for shelter, feeling mildly ridiculous. He glanced around the curved edge of the cylinder and took in what he could. Yes, definitely—new structures near the lips of the Nudge shafts. They looked makeshift, thrown together from old cargo canisters and struts. He could see nearly to the south pole itself. Neptune hung barely above the horizon, a faint green pinpoint.

Under high magnification, Neptune’s equatorial bands made brown concentric circles, resembling a target.

Some Ubers still wanted to fire the Nudge to make Halley a Neptunian satellite. They could harvest gases from the upper atmosphere settle on the largest moon. Carl wondered idly what it would be like to live out his days with a slumbering green giant filling the sky. Not a lot like California, no. Maybe I should’ve gone into the insurance business. But he still hoped to see Earth’s blues, and reds, and autumn browns again…

—We see you.—An alert, young voice. Carl glanced around the edge but could spot no one ahead.

“It’s Carl Osborn. I’ve come to talk.”

—Got nothing to talk about. Jeffers told you our policy.—The voice was tense but determined.

“Who is that?” Carl whispered, touching helmets with Jeffers.

—Name’s Rostok. Saul revived him about ten, eleven months ago. Now he’s Quiverian’s number-two guy down here.—

“What’s he work on?”

Jeffers made a sour face. —Mounting the electromagnetic assemblies.—

“Oh, great:” A Nudge engineer. One of those had to go lunatic.

—If you come any closer we will not be responsible for the outcome.—

“Not responsible! What kind of crap is that?”

—We declare ourselves independent of Halley Command. —The voice was tighter, clipped.

—The hell you will!—Jeffers snapped before Carl could motion him to silence.

—We already have. And no Percell is going to tell us what to do!—

Carl breathed deeply. It did no good to blow up at asinine speeches; he had learned that the hard way, through these years. Jeffers was visibly grinding his teeth; Carl signaled him to stay quiet. “What… do you want?”

—Not food,—Rostok answered smugly. —We already have enough hydro set up here to feed ourselves. Found a nice thick vein of edible Halleyforms, too. Delicious. Feed ’em heat and they grow like crazy.—

So we can’t starve them out, Cart thought automatically.

—We want—hell, we already have! —control ofthe targeting of the Nudge.—

Jeffers jumped up. —You bastards! That’s our gear, our labor that built it. Rostok, you put in couple of months. The rest of us been buildn’ the EM guns for years! I’m double-dammed if I’ll let some—uh!—

Jeffers grunted as Carl yanked him down. “I’ll do the talking.”

—Can it, Jeffers. We got the flingers, so we call the tune.—

“You have no right to determine the Nudge,” Carl said as calmly as he could.

—We got the flingers, and we represent Earth.—

“The hell you do. You represent nobody.”

—We speak for Earth. We won’t let you Percells take this plague carrier back into near-Earth orbit.—