“So—so if you ever quit GalacTech, you could get another job in space.”

“Oh, sure. I’ve even had offers—but our company does the most of the sort of work I want to do, so there’s no reason to go elsewhere. And I’ve got a lot of seniority accumulated by now, and all that goes with it. I’ll probably be with GalacTech till I retire, if I don’t die in harness.” Probably from a heart attack brought on by watching one of my students try to accidentally kill himself. Leo did not speak the thought aloud; Tony seemed chastized enough. But still abstracted.

“Sir… tell me about money.”

“Money?” Leo raised his brows. “What’s to tell? The stuff of life.”

“I’ve never seen any—I’d understood it was sort of coded value-markers to, to facilitate trade, and keep count.”

“That’s right.”

“How do you get it?”

“Well—most people work for it. They, ah, trade their labor for it. Or if they own or manufacture or grow something, they can sell it. I work.”

“And GalacTech gives you money?”

“Uh, yes.”

“If I asked, would the company give me money?”

“Ah…” Leo became conscious of skating on very thin ice. His private opinion of the Cay Project had perhaps better remain just that, while he ate the company’s bread. His job was to teach safe quality welding procedures, not—foment union demands, or whatever this conversation was sliding toward. “Whatever would you spend it on, up here? GalacTech gives you everything you need. Now, when I’m downside, or not on a company installation, I have to buy my own food, clothing, travel and what-not. Besides,” Leo reached for a less queasily specious argument, “up till now, you haven’t actually done any work for GalacTech, although it’s done plenty for you. Wait till you’ve actually been out on a contract and done some real producing. Then maybe it might be time to talk about money.” Leo smiled, feeling hypocritical, but at least loyal.

“Oh.” Tony seemed to fold inward on some secret disappointment. His blue eyes flicked up, probing Leo again. “When one of the company Jump ships leaves Rodeo—where does it go first?”

“Depends on where it’s wanted, I guess. Some run straight all the way to Earth. If there’s cargo or people to divide up for other destinations, the first stop is usually Orient Station.” “GalacTech doesn’t own Orient Station, does it?” “No, it’s owned by the government of Orient IV. Although GalacTech leases a good quarter of it.”

“How long does it take to get to Orient Station from Rodeo?”

“Oh, usually about a week. You’ll probably be stopping there yourself quite soon, if only to pick up extra equipment and supplies, when you’re sent out on your first construction contract.”

The boy was looking more outer-directed now, perhaps thinking about his first interstellar trip. That was better. Leo relaxed slightly.

“I’ll be looking forward to that, sir.”

“Right. If you don’t cut your foot, er, hand off meanwhile, eh?”

Tony ducked his head and grinned. “I’ll try not to, sir.”

And what was that all about? Leo wondered, watching Tony sail out the door. Surely the boy could not be thinking of trying to strike out on his own? Tony had not the least conception of what a freak he would seem, beyond his familiar Habitat. If he would only open up a little more…

Leo shrank from the thought of confronting him. Every downsider staff member in the Habitat seemed to feel they had a right to the quaddies’ personal thoughts. There wasn’t a lockable door anywhere in the quaddies’ living quarters. They had all the privacy of ants under glass.

He shook off the critical thought, but could not shake off his queasiness. All his life he had placed his faith in his own technical integrity—if he followed that star, his feet would not stumble. It was ingrained habit by now, he had brought that technical integrity to the teaching of Tony’s work gang almost automatically. And yet… this time, it did not seem to be quite enough. As if he had memorized the answer, only to discover the question had been changed.

Yet what more could be demanded of him? What more could he be expected to give? What, after all, could one man do?

A spasm of vague fear made him blink, the hard-edged stars in the viewport smeared, as the looming shadow of the dilemma clouded on the horizon of his conscience. More…

He shivered, and turned his back to the vastness. It could swallow a man, surely.

Ti, the freight shuttle co-pilot, had his eyes closed. Perhaps that was natural at times like this, Silver thought, studying his face from a distance of ten centimeters. At this range her eyes could no longer superimpose their stereoscopic images, so his twinned face overlapped itself. If she squinted just right, she could make him appear to have three eyes. Men really were rather alien. Yet the metal contact implanted in his forehead, echoed at both temples, did not have that effect, seeming more a decoration or a mark of rank. She blinked one eye closed, then the other, causing his face to shift back and forth in her vision.

Ti opened his eyes a moment, and Silver quickly flinched into action. She smiled, half-closed her own eyes, picked up the rhythm of her flexing hips. “Oooh,” she murmured, as Van Atta had taught her. Let’s hear some feedback, honey, Van Atta had demanded, so she’d hit on a collection of noises that seemed to please him. They worked on the pilot, too, when she remembered to make them.

Ti’s eyes squeezed shut, his lips parting as his breath came faster, and Silver’s face relaxed into pensive stillness once again, grateful for the privacy. Anyway, Ti’s gaze didn’t make her as uncomfortable as Mr. Van Atta’s, that always seemed to suggest that she ought to be doing something else, or more, or differently.

The pilot’s forehead was damp with sweat, plastering down one curl of brown hair around the shiny plug. Mechanical mutant, biological mutant, equally touched by differing technologies; perhaps that was why Ti had first seen her as approachable, being an odd man out himself. Both freaks together. On the other hand, maybe the Jump pilot just wasn’t very fussy.

He shivered, gasped convulsively, clutched her tightly to his body. Actually, he looked—rather vulnerable. Mr. Van Atta never looked vulnerable at this moment. Silver was not sure just what it was he did look like.

What’s he getting out of this that I’m not? Silver wondered. What’s wrong with me? Maybe she really was, as Van Atta had once accused, frigid—an unpleasant word, it reminded her of machinery, and the trash dumps locked outside the Habitat—so she had learned to make noises for him, and twitch pleasingly, and he had commended her for loosening up.

Silver reminded herself that she had another reason for keeping her eyes open. She glanced again past the pilot’s head. The observation window of the darkened control booth where they trysted overlooked the freight loading bay. The staging area between the bay’s control booth and the entrance to the freight shuttle’s hatch remained dimly lit and empty of movement. Hurry up Tony, Claire, Silver thought worriedly. I can’t keep this guy occupied all shift.

“Wow,” breathed Ti, coming out of his trance and opening his eyes and grinning. “When they designed you folks for free fall they thought of everything.” He released his own clutch on the wings of Silver’s shoulderblades to slide his hands down her back, around her hips, and along her lower arms, ending with an approving pat on her hands locked around his muscular downsider flanks. “Truly functional.”

“How do downsiders keep from, um, bouncing apart?” Silver inquired curiously, taking practical advantage of having cornered an apparent expert on the subject.

His grin widened. “Gravity keeps us together.”

“How strange. I always thought of gravity as something you had to fight all the time.”