"Alright, okay, I got that," Liza said.  "You can shut up now."

"Please go to the lake immediately.  Everyone is to go directly to the  central--"

"Sheesh."

By the time they got out to the parklands again, the open areas were thick with people.  Not just the suited figures of the survivors, either.  All the afflicted were emerging from the caves and corridors of Bootstrap.  They walked blindly, uncertainly, toward the lake, as if newly called from the grave.  The ground level was filling with people.

"Sonofabitch," Gunther said wonderingly.

"Gunther?" Nagenda asked.  "What's going on?"

"It's the trance chips!  Sonofabitch, all we had to do was speak to them over the chips.  They'll do whatever the voice in their heads tells them to do."

The land about the lake was so crowded that Gunther had trouble spotting any other suits.  Then he saw a suited figure standing on the edge of the second level waving broadly.  He waved back and headed for the stairs.

By the time he got to level two, a solid group of the unafflicted had gathered.  More and more came up, drawn by the concentration of suits.  Finally Ekatarina spoke over the open channel of her suit radio.

"There's no reason to wait for us all to gather.  I think everyone is close enough to hear me.  Sit down, take a little rest, you've all earned it."  People eased down on the grass.  Some sprawled on their backs or stomachs, fully suited.  Most just sat.

"By a fortunate accident, we've discovered a means of controlling our afflicted friends."  There was light applause.  "But there are still many problems before us, and they won't all be solved so easily.  We've all seen the obvious.  Now I must tell you of worse.  If the war on Earth goes full thermonuclear, we will be completely and totally cut off, possibly for decades."

A murmur passed through the crowd.

"What does this mean?  Beyond the immediate inconveniences--no luxuries, no more silk shirts, no new seed stock, no new videos, no way home for those of us who hadn't already decided to stay--we will be losing much that we require for survival.  All our microfacturing capability comes from the Swiss Orbitals.  Our water reserves are sufficient for a year, but we lose minute quantities of water vapor to rust and corrosion and to the vacuum every time somebody goes in or out an airlock, and those quantities are necessary for our existence.

"But we can survive.  We can process raw hydrogen and oxygen from the regolith, and burn them to produce water.  We already make our own air.  We can do without most nanoelectronics.  We can thrive and prosper and grow, even if Earth ... even if the worst happens.  But to do so we'll need our full manufacturing capability, and full supervisory capability as well.  We must not only restore our factories, but find a way to restore our people.  There'll be work and more for all of us in the days ahead."

Nagenda touched helmets with Gunther and muttered, "What a crock."

"Come on, I want to hear this."

"Fortunately, the Crisis Management Program has contingency plans for exactly this situation.  According to its records, which may be incomplete, I have more military command experience than any other functional.  Does anyone wish to challenge this?"  She waited, but nobody said anything.  "We will go to a quasimilitary structure for the duration of the emergency.   This is strictly for organizational purposes.  There will be no privileges afforded the officers, and the military structure will be dismantled immediately upon resolution of our present problems.  That's paramount."

She glanced down at her peecee.  "To that purpose, I am establishing beneath me a triumvirate of subordinate officers, consisting of Carlos Diaz-Rodrigues, Miiko Ezumi, and Will Posner.  Beneath them will be nine officers, each responsible for a cadre of no more than ten individuals."

She read out names.  Gunther was assigned to Cadre Four, Beth Hamilton's group.  Then Ekatarina said, "We're all tired.  The gang back at the Center have rigged up a decontamination procedure, a kitchen and sleeping spaces of sorts.  Cadres One, Two and Three will put in four more hours here, then pull down a full eight hours sleep.  Cadres Four through Nine may return now to the Center for a meal and four hours rest."  She stopped.  "That's it.  Go get some shut-eye."

A ragged cheer arose, fell flat and died.  Gunther stood.  Liza Nagenda gave him a friendly squeeze on the butt and when he started to the right yanked his arm and pointed him left, toward the service escalators.  With easy familiarity, she slid an arm around his waist.

He'd known guys who'd slept with Liza Nagenda, and they all agreed that she was bad news, possessive, hysterical, ludicrously emotional.  But what the hell.  It was easier than not.

They trudged off.

There was too much to do.  They worked to exhaustion--it was not enough.  They rigged a system of narrow-band radio transmissions for the CMP and ran a microwave patch back to the Center, so it could direct their efforts more efficiently--it was not enough.  They organized and rearranged constantly.  But the load was too great and accidents inevitably happened.

Half the surviving railguns--small units used to deliver raw and semiprocessed materials over the highlands and across the bay--were badly damaged when the noonday sun buckled their aluminum rails; the sunscreens had not been put in place in time.  An unknown number of robot bulldozers had wandered off from the strip mines and were presumably lost.  It was hard to guess how many because the inventory records were scrambled.  None of the food stored in Bootstrap could be trusted; the Center's meals had to be harvested direct from the farms and taken out through the emergency locks.  An inexperienced farmer mishandled her remote, and ten aquaculture tanks boiled out into vacuum geysering nine thousand fingerlings across the surface.  On Posner's orders, the remote handler rigs were hastily packed and moved to the Center.  When uncrated, most were found to have damaged rocker arms.

There were small victories.  On his second shift, Gunther found fourteen bales of cotton in vacuum storage and set an assembler to sewing futons for the Center.  That meant an end to sleeping on bare floors and made him a local hero for the rest of that day.  There were not enough toilets in the Center; Diaz-Rodrigues ordered the flare storm shelters in the factories stripped of theirs.  Huriel Garza discovered a talent for cooking with limited resources.

But they were losing ground.  The afflicted were unpredictable, and they were everywhere.  A demented systems analyst, obeying the voices in his head, dumped several barrels of lubricating oil in the lake.  The water filters clogged, and the streams had to be shut down for repairs.  A doctor  somehow managed to strangle herself with her own diagnostic harness.  The city's ecologics were badly stressed by random vandalism.

Finally somebody thought to rig up a voice loop for continuous transmission.  "I am calm," it said.  "I am tranquil.  I do not want to do anything.  I am happy where I am."

Gunther was working with Liza Nagenda trying to get the streams going again when the loop came on.  He looked up and saw an uncanny quiet spread over Bootstrap.  Up and down the terraces, the flicks stood in postures of complete and utter impassivity.  The only movement came from the small number of suits scurrying like beetles among the newly catatonic.

Liza put her hands on her hips.  "Terrific.  Now we've got to feed them."

"Hey, cut me some slack, okay?  This is the first good news I've heard since I don't know when."

"It's not good anything, sweetbuns.  It's just more of the same."

She was right.  Relieved as he was, Gunther knew it.  One hopeless task had been traded for another.