“Then one night—without anybody ever giving an order or pulling a trigger—some critical breakdown occurs. You send a call for help. Nobody knows who you are. Nobody knows what to do. Those who placed you there are all long gone. No hero takes initiative, initiative having been drained by administrative bitching and black hints. The investigating inspector, after counting the bodies, discovers with relief that you were merely inventory. The books are quietly closed on the Cay Project. Finis. Wrap. It might take twenty years, maybe only five or ten. You are simply forgotten to death.”

Pramod’s hand touched his throat, as if he already felt the rasp of Rodeo’s toxic atmosphere. “I think I’d rather be shot,” he muttered.

“Or,” Leo raised his voice, “you can take your lives into your own hands. Come with me and put all your risks up front. The big gamble for the big payoff. Let me tell you,” he gulped for courage, mustered megalomania—for surely only a maniac could drive this through to success—”let me tell you about the Promised Land.…”

Leo stretched for a look out the viewport of the cargo pusher at the rapidly-enlarging Transfer Station. Damn. The weekly passenger ship from Orient IV was already docked at the hub of the wheel. Newly arrived, it was doubtless still in the off-loading phase, but nothing seemed more likely to Leo than for a pilot—or ex-pilot—like Ti to invite himself aboard early, to kibbitz.

The Jump ship was blocked from view as they spiraled around the station to their own assigned shuttle hatch. The quaddie piloting the pusher, a dark-haired, copper-skinned girl named Zara in the purple T-shirt and shorts of the pusher crews, brought her ship smartly into alignment and clicked it delicately into the clamps on the landing spoke. Leo was encouraged toward belief in her top rating among the pusher pilots after all, despite his qualms about her age, barely fifteen.

The mild acceleration vector of the Station’s spin at this radius tugged at Leo, and his padded chair swung in its gimbals to the newly-defined “upright” position. Zara grinned over her shoulder at Leo, clearly exhilarated by the sensation. Silver, in the quaddie-formfit acceleration couch beside Zara, looked more dubious.

Zara completed the formal litany of cross-checks with Transfer Station traffic control, and shut down her systems. Leo sighed illogical relief that traffic control hadn’t questioned the vaguely-worded purpose of their filed flight plan—”Pick up material for the Cay Habitat.” There was no reason they should have. Leo wasn’t even close to exceeding his powers of authorization. Yet.

“Watch, Silver,” said Zara, and let a light-pen fall from her fingers. It fell slowly to the padded strip on the wall-now-floor, and bounced in a graceful arc. Zara’s lower hand scooped it back out of the air.

Leo waited resignedly while Silver tried it once too, then said, “Come on. We’ve got to catch Ti.”

“Right.” Silver pulled herself up by her upper hands on her headrest, swung her lowers free, and hesitated. Leo shook out his pair of grey sweat pants he’d brought for the purpose, and gingerly helped her pull them over her lower arms and up to her waist. She waved her hands and the ends of the pant legs flopped and flapped over them. She grimaced at the unaccustomed constraint of the bundled cloth upon her dexterity.

“All right, Silver,” said Leo, “now the shoes you borrowed from that girl running Hydroponics.”

“I gave them to Zara to stow.”

“Oh,” said Zara. One of her upper hands flew to her lips.

“What?”

“I left them in the docking bay.”

“Zara!”

“Sorry…”

Silver blew out her breath against Leo’s neck. “Maybe your shoes, Leo,” she suggested.

“I don’t know…” Leo kicked out of his shoes, and Zara helped Silver slip her lower hands into them.

“How do they look?” said Silver anxiously.

Zara wrinkled her nose. “They look kinda big.”

Leo sidled around to catch their reflection in the darkened port. They looked absurd. Leo regarded his feet as though he’d never seen them before. Did they look that absurd on him? His socks seemed suddenly like enormous white worms. Feet were insane appendages. “Forget the shoes. Give ‘em back. Just let the pant legs cover your hands.”

“What if someone asks what happened to my feet?” Silver worried aloud.

“Amputated,” suggested Leo, “due to a terrible case of frostbite suffered on your vacation to the Antarctic Continent.”

“Isn’t that on Earth? What if they start asking questions about Earth?”

“Then I’ll—I’ll quash them for rudeness. But most people are pretty inhibited about asking questions like that. We can still use the original story about your wheelchair being Lost Luggage, and we’re on our way to try and get it back. They’ll believe that. Come on.” Leo backed up to her. “All aboard.” Her upper arms twined around his neck, and her lowers clamped around his waist with slightly paranoid pressure, as she cautiously entrusted her newfbund weight to him. Her breath was warm, and tickled his ear.

They ducked through the flex tube and into the Transfer Station proper. Leo headed for the elevator stack that ran up—or down—the length of the spoke to the rim where the transient rest cubicles were to be found.

Leo waited for an empty elevator. But it stopped again, and others boarded. Leo had a brief spasm of terror that Silver might try to strike up a friendly conversation—he should have told her explicitly not to talk to strangers—but she maintained a shy reserve. Transfer Station personnel gave them a few uncomfortable covert stares, but Leo gazed coldly at the wall and no one attempted to broach the silence.

Leo staggered, exiting the elevator at the outer rim where the gee forces were maximized. Little though he wished to admit it, three months of null-gee deconditioning had had its inevitable effect. But at half-gee, Silver’s weight didn’t even bring their combined total up to his Earthside norm, Leo told himself sternly. He shuffled off as rapidly as possible away from the populated foyer.

Leo knocked on the numbered cubicle door. It slid open. A male voice, “Yeah, what?” They had cornered the Jump pilot. Leo plastered an inviting smile on his face, and they entered.

Ti was propped up on the bed, dressed in dark trousers, T-shirt, and socks, idly scanning a hand-viewer. He glanced up in mild irritation at Leo, unfamiliar to him, then his eyes widened as he saw Silver. Leo dumped Silver as unceremoniously as a cat on the foot of the bed, and plopped into the cubicle’s sole chair to catch his breath. “Ti Gulik. Gotta talk to you.”

Ti had recoiled to the head of the bed, knees drawn up, hand viewer rolled aside and forgotten. “Silver! What the hell are you doing here? Who’s this guy?” He jerked a thumb at Leo.

“Tony’s welding teacher. Leo Graf,” answered Silver smearily. Experimentally, she rolled over and pushed her torso upright with her upper hands. “This feels weird.” She raised her upper hands, balancing, Leo thought, for all the world like a seal on a tripod formed by her lower arms. “Huh.” She returned her upper hands to the bed, to lend support, achieving a dog-like posture, fine hair flattened, all her grace stolen by gravity. No doubt about it, quaddies belonged in null-gee.

“We need your help, Lieutenant Gulik,” Leo began as soon as he could. “Desperately.” “Who’s we?” asked Ti suspiciously. “The quaddies.”

“Hah,” said Ti darkly. “Well, the first thing I would like to point out is that I am not Lieutenant Gulik any more. I’m plain Ti Gulik, unemployed, and quite possibly unemployable. Thanks to the quaddies. Or at any rate, one quaddie.” He frowned at Silver.

“I told them it wasn’t your fault,” said Silver. “They wouldn’t listen to me.”