“Religious measures dictated by our own faith.”

“Yes, strangely popular, too, aren’t they?” Nigel said. “What do you mean?” Sanges said.

“Just this. Most people have had a damned hard time of it these last decades. A lot have died, we aren’t rich anymore, none of us, and we’ve had to work like billy-hell to keep our necks above water. Hard times breed bad religions—it’s a law of history. Even people who don’t go in for that sort of thing can recognize a good dodge when they see it. If they become New Sons they get extra hours off work, little privileges, some political influence.”

Sanges clenched his fists. “You are making the most base and vile—”

Valiera broke in. “I think you gentlemen should calm down and—”

“Yes, right, I think so,” Nigel said. He got to his feet. “Coming along, Nikka?”

In the corridor outside Nigel allowed his face to twist into a grimace and he smacked a fist into his palm. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I tend to let things run away with me that way.”

Nikka smiled and patted his arm. “It is often an easy thing to do. The New Sons are not exactly the most tolerant people, either. But I must say your view of them is rather cynical, isn’t it?”

“Cynical? ‘Cynic’ is a word invented by optimists to criticize realists.”

“It didn’t seem to me you were being wholly realistic.” He opened the corridor door for her in an exaggeratedly polite fashion. “I wish it were so. It’s no accident that Sanges is a full-dress New Son and was assigned to this site. Valiera didn’t say so, but the rumors have it that the only reason we got money through Congress this time was by a high-level deal with the New Sons faction. They held out for a large representation of their own people— scientists and technicians, yes, but New Sons, too—before they would turn over their votes.”

Nikka looked shocked. “I hadn’t heard that. Are there a lot of New Sons here? I haven’t been paying attention to the new people.”

“I’ve noticed, being one of them.” He smiled. “I’ve nosed about a bit myself and I think quite a few of our comrades are New Sons. Not all admit it or show it like Sanges, but they are.”

Nikka sighed. “Well, I hope Valiera can keep them in line.”

“Yes, I hope he can,” Nigel said solemnly. “I certainly hope he can.”

Later he lounged alone in his box of a room, unable to sleep. The work here absorbed him but so far gave precious little back. He kept in close touch with Kardensky’s group, who were carrying on along much the same lines as Ichino had started—cross-correlations with the Snark’s conversations, systemic analysis of whatever the teams could extract from the wreck, and so on. So far it resembled, for Nigel, some awful childhood dream of swimming through mud: frantic struggles only slowed you, made you sink faster.

He shrugged. His attention seemed to focus more these days on Nikka than the gritty problems of decoding.

And why was that? he wondered. It was dimwitted, really. He made small jokes, kept up a line of patter, and afterward felt slightly ridiculous.

He drummed fingers on his knee. It was almost as though—yes. With a shock he realized that he had forgotten how to deal with women from scratch, from the beginning. Closeness with Alexandria—and yes, Shirley, for a time—had robbed him of it.

Well, he would simply have to relearn the tricks. For Nikka, the trouble might easily be worthwhile. He didn’t subscribe to the Theory of Types—that men were drawn to the same categories of physical attributes, or personality traits, again and again—because Nikka resembled Alexandria not at all; still, they shared a certain directness, an unflinching devotion to what was rather than what might be hoped. And physically, Nikka’s delicious contained energy, her implied sensuality—

He shook his head. Enough of that. He despaired of analysis; the real world was always more fine-grained than opinions about it. Life was discrete; nonlinear; a nonzero-sum game; noncommutative; clearly irreversible; and events multiplied, compressed, rather than merely adding. The past filtered the present. He saw Nikka through the lens of Alexandria—and in truth, he would have it no other way. To wish otherwise was to rob him of his past. Now, together, he and Nikka studied this wreck and the communications lines between here and Kardensky’s staff buzzed with analogies, comparisons. They studied the wreck as though the builders were vaguely, conveniently human. An illusion, certainly. And he’d sent Ichino off on a flight of fancy, really, a near-certain dead end. He missed the man; talking with him, going off on hikes, he’d felt some warming connection. Was the loss of that why—despite his being where he wanted to be, working on the only thing that mattered any more—he felt these collapsing moments of depression?

Nigel snorted, exasperated with himself, and rolled over to seek sleep.

Mr. Ichino woke with a start; he had fallen asleep sitting up.

The fire smoked and sputtered. He stirred the smoldering embers and tossed on new wood. In a few moments the cabin had lost its slight chill. He stood, massaging a sore muscle in his back, and watched the flames dance.

Graves was still unconscious, his breathing regular. The wound had stopped bleeding and the bulky compresses around it seemed secure. Mr. Ichino knew he would not quickly fall asleep again; he made himself a mixture of hot water, lemon juice, sugar and rum and turned on his radio. In the burr of static he eventually found the twenty-four-hour Portland in-depth news station.

As his rocking chair creaked rhythmically, the radio made a low murmur and the wind wailed hollowly outside. Against this calming background the news seemed discordant. The war was still going on in Africa and another country had come in on the side of the Constructionists. The government policy on DNA alterations in laboratory babies was under heavy attack by the New Sons. Most commentators agreed, though, that simple body modification was inevitable; the controversy had now shifted to the issue of intelligence and special talents. There were suspicions that a second major dieback was beginning in Pakistan. The water scarcity in Europe was getting critical.

Finally there came some news about the Mare Marginis wreck. The emergency photographic survey of the moon was complete. There was no sign of other crashed vehicles. This by itself did not mean very much, though, because the Marginis ship’s force screen had been observed to alter color three times before it was finally penetrated. Scientists guessed this was a remnant of some defense mechanism whereby the ship’s screen absorbed almost all light, making it appear dark. If the ship was in flight it would be hard to see optically against the background of space. Apparently, until men ruptured it the screen functioned most of the time and was slowly running down. If other wrecks existed on the moon, their screens might still be intact, in which case it would be very hard to see them from orbit. An extensive search for recurring dark patterns, which might formerly have been assumed to be shadows, was underway.

Mr. Ichino listened to a few more news items and then switched the radio off. The point about the screen was interesting, but he had expected more by this time. Men were inside the ship now and there should be some results. But nothing came through the news or from Nigel. Perhaps they were simply being very cautious in their exploration of the wreck. The ship’s defense system had shut on and off in an unpredictable manner; current thinking seemed to be that whatever had shot down the two survey craft had awakened recently, since otherwise it would have downed the Apollo missions long ago. With the screen penetrated, perhaps all the other defense systems were dead, too. But it would be foolish not to be cautious.