Meanwhile, Engineering finally kindled the ship’s light fixture. Standing under it, Titus felt a pinched pain behind his eyes. He wished mightily he could take his contacts out and see what the light was really like.

The spectrum was only one datum among many. After all, most tungsten or fluorescent lamps didn’t exactly mirror the sun’s spectrum. They were just a handy way to make light, and people endured them as best they could.

On the other hand, Biomed held that light had various other health effects on the body, as it did on plants. They were delighted that both species of alien had eyes well suited to the spectrum produced by their lamps, and concluded that the ship was probably made by those crewing it. Others argued that a leased vehicle would have been altered to suit the clients, so the data proved nothing. The aliens may have bought their space technology from a more advanced species.

But that argument was nothing compared to the bombshell dropped into an otherwise dull meeting by one of the bright young men working under Dr. Andre Mihelich. “The alien’s skin probably functions as a sort of third eye,” he declared.

When the uproar subsided, he cited research that had allowed blind humans to learn to “see” with the skin of the face using instruments that fed the data to the optic centers of the brain. “It seems to me,” he announced, “both these alien species would experience pain and possibly severe injury upon exposure to Earth’s sun.”

Titus kept his face expressionless. He was glad that crossbreeding with humanity had blunted his sensitivity to the sun, but how much of a disadvantage would that be if they went home, as Abbot wanted? Would Earth’s luren be blind on their ancestors’ planet?

On the other hand, Earth’s furious rejection of the cloning of the alien made it obvious that his kind would never be welcome among humans. Abbot’s determination to signal the home world seemed more and more reasonable.

Titus fought the louring depression his disloyal thoughts evoked by throwing himself into his calculations. It was more 3othing than a night’s sleep, more nourishing than the dead blood he choked down, and more intriguing than anything he’d ever done before.

He and Inea customized a program written by a student at U.C. Berkeley to predict surface conditions on hypothetical planets. They assumed the atmosphere of the luren homeworld filtered out most of the ultraviolet, which accounted for their optical and skin sensitivity, then used the customized program to concoct a model of the atmosphere for the luren Womeworld, deduce the planet’s gravity, and guess its size. This produced a model of the luren solar system and a very vague guestimate about characteristics of the sun itself.

He had to guess the planet’s magnetic characteristics which would, combined with the solar irradiation figures, predict the amounts of heavier atoms, such as oxygen, that the planet would lose from the ionosphere. But using Earth’s known loss of oxygen from the polar regions due to solar wind funneled in by the converging magnetic lines, he worked up a range of plausible assumptions.

At every turn, he relied heavily on the legends and traits of the purest blooded luren known.

Many times during those long sessions, he was acutely conscious of Inea beside him, as caught up in the job as he was. Knowing where he was getting his assumptions, she didn’t challenge him, but became as eager as he was to locate the home star of his species.

Contrasted with the tedium of his first three weeks on the station when he could not do astronomy or physics, this was a time of daily satisfaction. Sharing it with Inea, a willing partner, gave him a sense of boundless energy and limitless capacity. Yet, after the day’s work, from the time he left her, aj.d in his rare moments of solitude, Titus could not keep his thoughts out of a groove that wore ever deeper.

What if he did identify the home star? Should he give it to Earth? Would he? Could he? Should that probe be sent out at all? And should Abbot’s SOS be on it?

The only way to answer such a question was to waken the luren, just as Abbot planned.

Preparing for that, he worked with the linguists’ files. Some of the material he had been stealing was now open to him, but he still needed the Brink’s codes for the rest.

Even though he was attending the higher level meetings, and could follow Abbot’s official work, he still couldn’t divine how Abbot planned to get around security, wake the luren, and then keep him from killing. The few bugs Titus had planted, and the few glimpses of Abbot he caught via the security cameras gave him no clue, but they did provide ammunition to keep Abbot guessing about how much Titus actually knew and where he was getting his information.

Two hours before anyone else knew about it, he told Abbot, “Nagel’s sending up World Sovereignties inspectors to make sure nothing is done with the ”corpse.“”

Clearly surprised, Abbot replied, “Does that worry you?”

“Should it?”

“Depends on your priorities. If you’ll excuse me?” And Abbot left the conference room with a jaunty stride.

Later, Titus told Inea, “I scored. He’s stymied, but doesn’t want me to know it.”

“Good. That’s progress. By keeping him distracted, we’ll beat him yet. Here, I’ve got three more bugs ready.”

“You must have been up all night.”

“Not quite. Put them where they’ll do the most good.”

Where? Abbot was everywhere, helping so many diverse departments that nobody questioned his movements anymore. It was Abbot’s way of reducing the amount of Influence he had to use. The best way to be inconspicuous is to be ubiquitous, but that also made him impossible to track.

Five days after the reporters left, Titus was at a conference of department heads, watching Abbot crowding Colby into okaying the warming of the alien “corpse.” It wasn’t working. Colby had her orders. Abbot dared not use Influence against that, and without Influence, Abbot could not handle humans. Titus tingled with anxiety, knowing he should help Abbot and yet reluctant to make the move which would be his first traitorous act. Or would it?

He was saved from decision by a messenger who tiptoed over to Colby and whispered in her ear. She paled, then said to the man, “Show her in. Everyone should hear this.”

It was Sisi Mintraub, looking grim. Abbot rose to offer her his seat, but she said anxiously, “Dr. Nandoha, I couldn’t find you, so I came for Dr. Colby, but-” She broke off, shook her head, then faced Colby. “I don’t know how it happened. God, I’m sorry, Carol, but the alien specimen-the cryogenic chamber has been leaking for days. Maybe since the explosion. And nobody noticed.” She looked up at Abbot. “Not even you, Doctor.”

Dismayed, Abbot asked, “What do you mean, leaking? I checked it myself two days ago.”

“Dozens of tiny leaks at some of the inner seals and gaskets, very slow leaks, but we’ve lost temperature control. Several gauges were off, and an intermittent short in one of the controlling boards masked the errors until just now.”

Abbot faced Colby. “Then it’s quite clear, Dr. Colby, we must warm the corpse, or risk losing it.”

“Warm the corpse! Is that all you can think of?” asked Kaschmore, the head of Medical. “What of contamination?” She rose and turned to Colby. “I told you we never should have brought the thing in from the ship. I’m declaring the station under quarantine. At least we haven’t received a supply caravan since the bombing, and those reporters never got into Biomed. Earth should be safe from us for the moment.”

Before anyone could react, she was out the door. Mihelich started after her, but Colby said, “No, let her go. She’s right.”

Mihelich shook his head. “Contamination is not the issue. I doubt the aliens have any bizarre diseases our immune systems can’t already handle. It is amazing-perhaps even horrifying-how similar their microlife is to our own.”