Near the southern wall he saw someone under a sycamore — Selim, circling nervously. “Selim,” Frank called quietly, sweating. He reached into his jumper pocket, carefully felt in the bag and palmed the trio of stem patches. Synergy could be so powerful, for good or ill. He walked forward and roughly embraced the young Arab. The patches hit and penetrated Selim’s light cotton shirt. Frank pulled back.

Now Selim had about six hours. “Did you speak with Boone?” he asked.

“I tried,” Chalmers said. “He didn’t listen. He lied to me.” It was so easy to feign distress: “Twenty-five years of friendship, and he lied to me!” He struck a tree trunk with his palm, and the patches flew away in the dark. He controlled himself. “His coalition is going to recommend that all Martian settlements originate in the countries that signed the first treaty.” It was possible; and it was certainly plausible.

“He hates us!” Selim cried.

“He hates everything that gets in his way. And he can see that Islam is still a real force in people’s lives. It shapes the way people think, and he can’t stand that.”

Selim shuddered. In the gloom the whites of his eyes were bright. “He has to be stopped.”

Frank turned aside, leaned against a tree. “I… don’t know.”

“You said it yourself. Talk means nothing.”

Frank circled the tree, feeling dizzy. You fool, he thought, talk means everything. We are nothing but information exchange, talk is all we have!

He came on Selim again and said, “How?”

“The planet. It is our way.”

“The city gates are locked tonight.”

That stopped him. His hands started to twist.

Frank said, “But the gate to the farm is still open.”

“But the farm’s outer gates will be locked.”

Frank shrugged, let him figure it out.

And quickly enough Selim blinked, and said “Ah.” Then he was gone.

Frank sat between trees, on the ground. It was a sandy damp brown dirt, product of a great deal of engineering. Nothing in the city was natural, nothing.

After a time he got to his feet. He walked through the park, looking at people. If I find one good city I will spare the man. But in an open area masked figures darted together to grapple and fight, surrounded by watchers who smelled blood. Frank went back to the construction site to get more bricks. He threw them and some people saw him, and he had to run. Into the trees again, into the little tented wilderness, escaping predators while high on adrenalin, the greatest drug of all. He laughed wildly.

Suddenly he caught sight of Maya, standing alone by the temporary platform up at the apex. She wore a white domino, but it was certainly her: the proportions of the figure, the hair, the stance itself, all unmistakably Maya Toitovna. The first hundred, the little band; they were the only ones truly alive to him any more, the rest were ghosts. Frank hurried toward her, tripping over uneven ground. He squeezed a rock buried deep in one coat pocket, thinking Come on, you bitch. Say something to save him. Say something that will make me run the length of the city to save him!

She heard his approach and turned. She wore a phosphorescent white domino, with metallic blue sequins. It was hard to see her eyes.

“Hello, Frank,” she said, as if he wore no mask. He almost turned and ran. Mere recognition was almost enough to do it…

But he stayed. He said, “Hello, Maya. Nice sunset, wasn’t it?”

“Spectacular. Nature has no taste. It’s just a city inauguration, but it looked like Judgement Day.”

They were under a streetlight, standing on their shadows. She said, “Have you enjoyed yourself?”

“Very much. And you?”

“It’s getting a little wild.”

“It’s understandable, don’t you think? We’re out of our holes, Maya, we’re on the surface at last! And what a surface! You only get these kind of long views on Tharsis.”

“It’s a good location,” she agreed.

“It will be a great city,” Frank predicted. “But where do you live these days, Maya?”

“In Underhill, Frank, just as always. You know that.”

“But you’re never there, are you? I haven’t seen you in a year or more.”

“Has it been that long? Well, I’ve been in Hellas. Surely you heard?”

“Who would tell me?”

She shook her head and blue sequins glittered. “Frank.” She turned aside, as if to walk away from the question’s implications.

Angrily Frank circled her, stood in her path. “That time on the Are s,” he said. His voice was tight, and he twisted his neck to loosen his throat, to make speech easier. “What happened, Maya? What happened?”

She shrugged and did not meet his gaze. For a long time she did not speak. Then she looked at him. “The spur of the moment,” she said.

And then it was ringing midnight, and they were in the martian time slip, the thirty-nine and a half minute gap between 12:00:00 and 12:00:01, when all the clocks went blank or stopped moving. This was how the first hundred had decided to reconcile Mars’s slightly longer day with the twenty-four hour clock, and the solution had proved oddly satisfactory. Every night to step for a while out of the flicking numbers, out of the remorseless sweep of the second hand…

And tonight as the bells rang midnight, the whole city went mad. Forty minutes outside of time; it was bound to be the peak of the celebration, everyone knew that instinctively. Fireworks were going off, people were cheering; sirens tore through the sound, and the cheering redoubled. Frank and Maya watched the fireworks, listened to the noise.

Then there was a noise that was somehow different: desperate cries, serious screams. “What’s that?” Maya said.

“A fight,” Frank replied, cocking an ear. “Something done on the spur of the moment, perhaps.” She stared at him, and quickly he added, “Maybe we should go have a look.”

The cries intensified. Trouble somewhere. They started down through the park, their steps getting longer, until they were in the martian lope. The park seemed bigger to Frank, and for a moment he was scared.

The central boulevard was covered with trash. People darted through the dark in predatory schools. A nerve-grating siren went off, the alarm that signaled a break in the tent. Windows were shattering up and down the boulevard. There on the streetgrass was a man flat on his back, the surrounding grass smeared with black streaks. Chalmers seized the arm of a woman crouched over him. “What happened?” he shouted.

She was weeping. “They fought! They are fighting!”

“Who? Swiss, Arab?”

“Strangers,” she said. “ Auslander.” She looked blindly at Frank. “Get help!”

Frank rejoined Maya, who was talking to a group next to another fallen figure. “What the hell’s going on?” he said to her as they took off toward the city’s hospital.

“It’s a riot,” she said. “I don’t know why.” Her mouth was a straight slash, in skin as white as the domino still covering her eyes.

Frank pulled off his mask and threw it away. There was broken glass all over the street. A man rushed at them. “Frank! Maya!”

It was Sax Russell; Frank had never seen the little man so agitated. “It’s John — he’s been attacked!”

“What?” they exclaimed together.

“He tried to stop a fight, and three or four men jumped him. They knocked him down and dragged him away!”

“You didn’t stop them?” Maya cried.

“We tried — a whole bunch of us chased them. But they lost us in the medina.”

Maya looked at Frank.

“What’s going on!” he cried. “Where would anyone take him?”

“The gates,” she said.

“But they’re locked tonight, aren’t they?”

“Maybe not to everyone.”

They followed her to the medina. Streetlights were broken, there was glass underfoot. They found a fire marshall and went to the Turkish Gate; he unlocked it and several of them hurried through, throwing on walkers at emergency speed. Then out into the night to look around, illuminated by the bathysphere glow of the city. Frank’s ankles hurt with the night cold, and he could feel the precise configuration of his lungs, as if two globes of ice had been inserted in his chest, to cool the rapid beat of his heart.