“If the probe penetrates the blockade, the secessionists will have lost their main point and their movement will die. The need then will be to unite Earth and prepare for contact. We will be Earth’s first priority and no longer in danger.”

Colby called for reports from all departments, finishing with Titus, who could only offer them a 60 percent chance of success. “From Wild Goose we got not only a better fix on the craft’s approach trajectory, but also half a dozen new possible stars that can’t be seen from here. We’re building a house of cards out of untested theories.”

“If it’s your best,” replied Colby, “we go with it.”

“Accuracy isn’t important,” supplied H’lim. “Anyone who hears it will relay the signal.”

“So you’ve said before, and we’re counting on it.” Colby turned to Abbot. “We have to tap the blockaders’ communications. Can you build a device to do that?”

“If I can have access to the Eighth Array to capture their bursts, I can build a decoder-maybe even a transmitter-so-we can jam or decoy them. I heard the com-techs talking this morning. I think we already know what frequencies they’re on, and I can probably find a way to track them when they change frequencies.”

“How soon?”

“I’ll give you an estimate tomorrow.”

The Eighth Array! But he can’t send H’lim’s message openly! He wished he’d tapped Abbot’s ground link. What was he up to? He hadn’t Influenced Colby, that was clear.

Then H’lim gave his first department report, revealing how very alien his thought processes were. All the required data was there, displaying a spectacular virtuosity and competence, but the organization was so bizarre not a single person at the table– except perhaps Abbot-followed a word of it. Colby assigned him a ghostwriter as well as a secretary, both men drawn from the Cognitive Sciences staff and eager to study the alien.

The meeting broke up and they returned to work with a sense of tackling a gigantic but possible task. A few days later, the first W.S. blockade runners were destroyed by secessionist ships directly over the station. Debris rained down, holing one of the domes, but no one was hurt.

The tight surveillance continued on H’lim despite Biomed’s excitement about what they were learning from him. It seemed he had considerable experience translating his science from one system to another. Nothing fazed him. That, perhaps more than anything, contributed to the distrust but he never Influenced the humans where they’d notice.

Watching Mirelle, Titus saw her condition improve and not just from the occasional supplement Inea got into her. Abbot became haggard, gaunt-faced, and snappish. He was rationing himself hard. Inea’s spy devices revealed how much time he spent at the Biomed computers. It was a struggle now to falsify Mirelle’s tests, not to mention his own and Titus’s.

Titus ached inside for his father, counting the hours until Mihelich’s cloned orl blood became available. He was in his office watching Inea and Abbot out in the observatory, bent over the console that controlled the Eighth Array, when the call came from H’lim.

“Stop by my apartment as soon as you can, and bring Abbot. I have something to show you both.”

The blood!

The black and white austerity of H’lim’s apartment had been broken up by the makeshift mesh cages Abbot had installed around all the electrical devices and draped over partitions that contained power cables. H’lim had pronounced the measures acceptable in the wan tones of a teacher giving an E for Effort and then proclaimed the place his home.

Now, when Abbot strolled in unperturbed, Titus had to pause at the threshold for invitation. Never had he felt such a strong barrier. Its surface stung his whole body.

H’lim reached out to him, pulling Titus and Inea through while saying in the luren tongue, “Thank you for honoring my threshold.” He added, “Your manners do you credit, since the threshold is merely symbolic.”

“Symbolic?” repeated Titus dazedly.

“Perhaps,” added H’lim wistfully, “when I’ve regained my strength, I will again have a real home.”

Titus looked back at the now closed door, understanding anew the gulf between Earth’s luren and genuine luren. He switched to English for Inea’s sake. “I hope you don’t mind that Inea came along? I can.”

“It is to be expected,” answered H’lim looking at Abbot, who had come alone. “You did understand my message? I have the first sample of genuine orl blood for you.”

Abbot turned away and Titus knew he was only pretending to examine his mesh installations. “Have you tried it yet?”

“Yes.” H’lim’s tone was curiously flat. “Andre insisted. It was a great trial to conceal.”

H’lim’s goggles angled toward Inea and Titus said, “She’s seen the worst. She won’t be offended.”

H’lim turned to study Abbot’s back. “You know, don’t you, Titus?”

Overwhelmed with sympathy, Titus asked, “You’ve never had to use cloned blood before, have you?”

“I thought I was prepared-after what you and the humans have been supplying me.” He met Titus’s gaze steadily. “I wasn’t.”

“Mihelich-”

“I managed to choke it down without letting him see how– inadequate-it was. At least it was orl, and that helps. I feel better than I have since I woke.”

Neutrally, Abbot asked, “It’s that much different, orl?”

“Yes!” With an eloquent shrug, H’lim apologized to Inea for his vehemence. “I hope it will help you as much as it does me. Here.” He went to the kitchen counter where a large barrel-Thermos sat, the spigot thrust out over the sink. Titus caught the hard glitter of barely suppressed esurience in Abbot’s eye as they both converged on H’lim.

He took down two glasses, gorgeous examples of the unique lunar product. They were beautiful enough to have been exported to Earth rather than consigned to lunar use. It was cheaper to manufacture glass here out of rock and solar power than to lift it from Earth. And it was cheaper to recycle wash water than to use disposables. Titus realized he was dwelling on the economics of lunar life to avoid admitting his own eagerness for the orl blood. “H’lim, have you any idea if this might be harmful to us?”

Filling a glass with the thick, purple-red fluid, he answered, cross-matched as best I could. There doesn’t seem to be any gross incompatibility. But I’ve hardly started my analysis.“ He handed a glassful to Abbot and turned to fill one for Titus. ”It might, however, prove unpalatable.“

As H’lim handed Titus his glass, Abbot sniffed and then tasted his, expression unreadable. The fumes invaded Titus’s head, seeping through his brain and triggering responses he’d never felt before. His hand did not want to bring that glass up to his lips, but his hunger demanded it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Abbot’s hand trembling, his face chiseled from granite as he tilted the glass. A distanced part of himself admired his father’s self-control, knowing full well what this experiment was costing Abbot and knowing also that the Tourist could not have resisted the chance to taste orl, however artificial.

Titus closed his eyes and tilted the warm fluid to his lips, touching it with his upper lip before sipping. The texture was wrong, the smell was wrong, but it wakened a searing hunger. His lip arched to let a drop past. It was dead, flat, like all reconstituted blood. But that was familiar, and his throat closed willing around the first runnel of the strange stuff.

He swallowed again, the odor filling his nose. On the fourth swallow, his gorge rose. Simultaneously, he heard Abbot stagger to the sink, and bend over retching, coughing, fighting for breath. Seconds later, Titus shoved H’lim out of the way and joined his father, tied in knots. His brain seemed on fire and he needed to scream but couldn’t.