It was only after some time that he noticed the pack lying where he had cast it aside. It was a large one, with aluminum tubing, many pockets and insulation; quite expensive. The upper flap was unbuttoned. Sticking out the top, as though it had been jammed in hurriedly, was a gray metal tube.

Mr. Ichino fished it out. The tube thickened at its base and small metal arches like finger grips ran down the side. It was a meter long and had several extrusions like toggle switches.

He had never seen anything like it before. The lines of the thing seemed awkward. There was no telling what it was. Gingerly he put it back.

He checked his patient, who had apparently fallen into a deep sleep. Pulse was normal; the eyes betrayed nothing unusual. Mr. Ichino wished he had more medical supplies. He found a name stenciled on the pack, Peter Graves.

There didn’t seem to be anything to do but wait. He made himself some coffee. Outside the storm grew worse.

Sanges had another bad moment crawling out the tube at the end of the shift. Nikka had to push him through one of the narrow segments of the passage and the man glowered at her when they reached the lock. They suited up in silence and cycled out onto the flat, dusty floor of the moon. Two hundred meters away—not far from the spot where Nikka had crashed—a surface pressure lock of Site Seven was sunk into the lunar rock. More excavations were partially completed in the distance. Gradually a network of tubes was being punched by lasers, ten meters beneath the shielding rock and dust. Set that deep, the quarters suffered little variation in temperature between lunar day and night and even the incessant rain of particles from the solar wind made radiation levels only slightly higher than those on Earth.

Nigel Walmsley met them after they cycled through to the suiting bay. Sanges acknowledged Nigel’s greeting but fell silent, his mind apparently still on the tunnels of the ship.

“Are you free for dinner in Paris tomorrow?” Nigel asked Nikka.

“Um.”

“Well, perhaps some elegant preheated rations and processed water, then?”

Nikka looked at him speculatively and agreed. She went to shower while Nigel by unspoken convention wrote the debriefing report for the shift’s findings. Aside from the large ratlike creature and the 7.15 hour rotation period, there was little remarkable to report. Progress was slow.

When Nikka emerged, followed by Sanges, all three made their way into the communicating corridor. It was a swirl of yellows and greens, spiraling around and splashing out onto the deck, making the corridor seem deceptively long. At the tucked-in cafeteria Nigel made a show of opening the door for Nikka with a certain self-satirizing grace. On a world where people were selected to minimize demands on the life-support system, he seemed tall and heavy.

They selected their rations from the few choices available, and on their way back to a table Nigel overheard a conversation between three men nearby. He listened for a moment and then interjected, “No, it was on Revolver.”

The men looked up. “No, Rubber Soul,” one of the men said.

“Eleanor Rigby”? another man said. “Second disc of the White Album.”

“No, neither,” Nigel said. “You’re both wrong. It was on Revolver and I have two hundred dollars which says so.”

The other man looked at each other. “Well …” one of them began.

“I’ll take that,” another said.

“Fine, look it up and then check with me.” Nigel turned and walked to where Nikka and Sanges sat listening.

“You’re English, aren’t you?” Sanges said.

“Of course.”

“Isn’t it a bit unfair to take advantage of someone else when you are arguing about a music group who were English themselves?” Sanges said.

“Probably.” Nigel began eating.

“Anything new?” a voice came at his elbow. All three looked up. Jose Valiera stood smiling.

“Ah, Dr. Valiera,” Nigel said. “Please sit.”

Valiera accepted the invitation and smiled at the other two. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the time to read your debriefing report.”

“There wasn’t very much in it,” Nikka said. “But there is something I want to ask you. Is there any real chance of our getting a supplementary appropriation so we can get more people here?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Valiera said warmly. “But my guess is no. After all, we got a nice large shot of money just two months ago.”

“But that was simply based on what we knew when the shield went down,” Nigel interjected. “Since then the engineers have uncovered a wealth of things that need investigation.” He wrinkled his brow. “Seems silly not to give us more.”

“We’ve also uncovered the computer link,” Nikka pointed out. “Surely that’s going to cause a splash.”

Valiera looked uncomfortable. “It will when there are results. You should realize not all of what we discover is immediately released to the press, and some portions even the Congress does not know about.”

“Why’s that?” Nigel said.

“It has been decided that there are good sociometric reasons not to spread results from here too rapidly, however interesting they may seem. Some advisors of the Congress feel the impact might be severe if something truly radical is uncovered.”

“But that’s precisely why we’re here. To uncover something radical. That is, radical in the sense of fundamentals,” Nigel said, looking intently at Valiera.

“No, I believe I see the point,” Sanges said. “The entire issue of extraterrestrial life and intelligences superior to ours is emotionally loaded. It must be treated with delicacy.”

“What good is ‘delicacy’ going to do us if we can’t get the money to pursue our research?” Nikka said quickly.

“This craft has been lying here for at least half a million years, according to the estimates from solar wind abrasions of the outer skin,” Valiera said patiently. “I believe it will not vanish overnight, and we do not need an army of people here to swarm all over it.”

“After all, we are going to have three shifts a day to get full use of the computer module,” Sanges said reasonably, spreading his hands. “We are already exploiting the ship as much as we can.”

“Nobody has done more than glance at many of the passages,” Nikka said.

Sanges scowled and said ponderously, “Our First Bishop spoke only today about the wreck. He, too, advises a path of moderation. It was not pointful to make discoveries without understanding their full implication.”

Nigel made a crooked grin. “Sorry, that doesn’t quite count as an argument with me.”

“I am sorry you have not found it within yourself to open your eyes, Mr. Walmsley,” Sanges said.

“Ah, yes. I am a proponent of Cartesian dualism and therefore not to be trusted.” Nigel grinned. “I’ve never really seen how you can be a scientist or a technician and believe all that ugly business about demons and the dead rising.” He wondered if they would catch the reference to Alexandria.

Valiera said mildly, “You must understand, Mr. Sanges is not a member of the more fundamentalist wing of the New Sons. I’m sure his beliefs are much more sophisticated.”

Nigel grunted. He suppressed the impulse to bait them further.

“It has always amazed me that the New Sons were able to incorporate so many different views within one religion,” Nikka said. “It would almost seem that they were more interested in the ordering effect of religion than any particular doctrine.” She smiled diplomatically.

“Yes, that’s really the point, you see,” Nigel said. “They don’t just get together to exchange theological gossip. They like to change society around to fit their beliefs.”

Sanges said intently, “We are spreading the great love of God, the Force that drives the world.”

“Look, it’s not love that makes the world go round, it’s inertia,” Nigel said in clipped tones. “And all this mellow merde about you fellows getting two hours off to pray every day, and special holidays—”