CHAPTER ONE

The Martian rebellion had been going on for five years. Indeed, it had spread to Earth, where the inhabitants of the surface, tired of waiting for the promised benefits of space-colonization to trickle down from the fantasy-class habitats in orbit above, had begun to strike out in blind, self-destructive anger. Nevertheless, the Terran High Companies still ruled the Inner Worlds with an iron fist, through the power of the Quasi-Police.

Quasi Headquarters for Mars could be seen as Atalanta approached from the southeast. The spaceport complex sprawled across the top of Pavonis Mons, one of the long-extinct volcanoes of the high Tharsis plains--fourteen kilometres in altitude, and precisely on the equator. From there, Quasi ships could range over the surface of Mars, guarding High Company installations, raiding domes and warrens, hunting down saboteurs and resistance fighters.

And it was to this location that water and minerals were still being transported to be lifted into orbit--trucked across the surface by crawlers and rovers to the base of the kilometer-high scarp that surrounded the mountain, lifted to the spaceport in a series of tunnels and elevator-shafts carved into the cliffs, loaded into shuttles for transfer to orbit, and then shipped to the high factories in the Earth-Moon system by solar-sail.

But the sand-rover that was the object of Atalanta’s search today was not transporting water and minerals, but Martian prisoners, and the freetrader ship was careful not to be detected by the spaceport's radar as she approached the edge of the Labyrinth of Night. Ship and pilot heard a message from the surface below:

"Shag, it's Karil. The sand-rover has just passed us. Four sections. Guards in the first and the last, prisoners in the other two."

"We're almost on top of you," said Shagrug. He tilted the ship and she banked in the thin air, sliding down toward the canyon complex. Atalanta's mellow voice came over the comm:

"Please be careful, Karil."

Shagrug snorted. "Yeah. Listen to your mother, Boy. You got your mittens pinned to your snowsuit out there?"

Karil looked down at the gloves sealed to his pressure suit. "Yes, I do," he laughed. He could hear the rest of the Resistance team chuckling behind him, but he was not embarrassed. They had been raised in a Martian communal matriarchy and could well understand Karil's relationship with Atalanta. It was not so different from their relationship with their own clan-mother.

Karil lowered his infrared scope and he and his team followed in the sand-rover’s tracks, keeping well behind and out of sight. The vehicle--a series of four-wheeled cars connected by flexible air-locks--could make good time on the smooth plains, its tires kicking up the red dust, but in the tortuous maze of rocky canyons that was the Noctis Labyrinthus, it moved slowly. It had sped across the Margaritifer Plains and up the broad Mariner Valley, and in a few minutes, it was expected to be speeding across the open Tharsis plateau, in sight of the spaceport.

Instead, the rover slowed to a full stop. In the control cab, the driver and the squad-leader looked out on the rocks that littered the roadway before them. The squad-leader spoke into the comm:

"We've got a landslide up here. Get out and clear it."

Grumbling, the guards sealed their suits and helmets, climbed out of the last car, and began to haul away the largest boulders. The squad-leader kept his eye on the monitors that revealed the prisoners in their cars, shackled to their seats. From time to time, he glanced at the guards outside and checked the clock.

"It's still amazing to me," said the driver, "that one man can lift a rock that size."

"I guess you haven't been here very long."

"A couple of months. Earth-time."

"Your muscles atrophy after a while," said the squad-leader. "That's why we have to be rotated back to full gee every cycle. These guys--" He jerked his head toward the prisoners in the cars behind. "--would have a hard time adjusting. Most of them born here. They tower over us, these dusters, but we're a hell of a lot stronger."

"What's going to happen to them?"

"This lot? Shipped off to Venus."

The driver shook his head. "That's rough."

"They're political prisoners, the whole lot of them, including the children. It's not like Earth, where killing the men will neutralize the women and children--leave them too busy surviving without their menfolk to be a threat. Here, the whole clan acts as one. So, we transport the lot. They might even survive on Venus colony, as a group. What the hell is taking so long?"

He tapped the comm and heard nothing. The men outside were adjusting their helmet receivers and looking around in confusion. There was a sudden ear-piercing shriek; the driver clapped his hands over his ears and shut off the comm. A cloud of dust rose about the men outside and they scattered in panic as Atalanta descended, virtually on top of them. The squad-leader reached for his helmet and froze as half a dozen figures loomed out of the swirling cloud, including one who stood directly in the rover's path, the sights of a laser-rifle trained on the viewport.

The squad leader summed up the situation in an instant. The guards, thrown into confusion, were even now being disarmed by Martian resistance fighters in rust-coloured camouflage pressure-suits. The ship was dressed much the same: sky yellow on the bottom, black and rust-red on the top. It was a spaceplane, powered by fusion drivers capable of interplanetary transfer, yet delta-winged for atmospheric flight, even in the thin air of Mars.

Through the forward port, now, as the dust-cloud dispersed, the squad-leader could see the pilot in his acceleration couch--a man in his fifties, with long sandy hair and a drooping moustache--one of those seedy Free Trader mercenary types. The squad-leader had seen that face in the wanted files--Shagrug, he was called, and no-one knew his real name. He was wanted for various criminal activities on several planets and had recently turned political. Or he had been hired by the Rebellion, paid no doubt by Outer World interests hoping to see Earth's High Companies go into economic decline. The name of his ship was Atalanta; according to the records it had been destroyed on Earth, but here it was, rebuilt and refitted for Mars. But where was the astrogator of the traditional two-man crew?

That was him, standing in front of them, holding the laser-rifle. His features were visible through the faceplate of his suit--young, darkly handsome, Arab-looking, with attractive brown eyes. This was Ali Karil, the poster-boy of the Martian Rebellion--born of a wealthy High Company family, a brilliant and dangerous foe, slippery as an eel, and something of a poet, it was said. No doubt he was considered irresistible in certain circles.

Right now, Ali Karil was holding a spot of laser-light motionless on the squad-leader's forehead. Even if he missed his shot, which was highly unlikely, the rover's port would be shattered and both he and the driver would be asphyxiated before they could don their helmets. Unless...

There it was: the laser-spot dropped to the helmet by the squad leader's hand and jerked upward, then hopped to the driver and did the same. They were being told to suit up and get out.

"Don't even think about it," the driver said.

The driver’s fears were well-founded--in a p-suit, they were perhaps even more vulnerable to laser-fire. But there was still a chance. The squad-leader glanced at the rear view-screen.

"Listen," he said as they suited up. "They're uncoupling the last car and herding the guards inside. I want you to trip on the ramp getting in and knock me down, so I can feign an injury. We need to delay the takeoff of that ship as long as possible. Got that?"

"Yessir," the driver said, though with very little enthusiasm. He didn't think a bunch of dust-eaters were worth dying for.

They sealed their suits, opened the lock, and swung out onto the planet's surface. The other guards were shuffling toward the last car, their hands on their helmets. One of the hijackers swung up into the lead car and started the engine. The train, except for the guards' caboose, trundled forward and climbed the ramp into the ship's capacious hold, the former prisoners jubilant inside. Shagrug was gesturing nervously: faster! faster! The squad-leader, however, shuffled slowly, holding up the line. How far behind were those troops?

"Karil," said Atalanta. "There's some kind of activity down the canyon."

Karil glanced in that direction and saw dust-clouds drifting over the canyon walls, just as a scuffle broke out among the guards. One of them tripped and brought down the man behind him. Suddenly there was a scream Karil could hear even in the near-vacuum, and a look of terror came over the driver's face as the air rushed out of a gash in his suit. Karil darted forward, snatching at the patch-kit on his belt, when the squad-leader turned on him. With one hand he reached for Karil's weapon, and with the other he slashed at Karil's suit with a boot-knife.

For just an instant, Karil considered the irony of dying because he had forgotten to check a prisoner's boot, and then the squad-leader was thrown back against the rover's side. He looked down at the blood pouring like a red cloud through the hole in his suit, and then he slid to the ground.

A second bullet ricocheted off the rover's armoured side, barely missing Karil's head, and another thudded into the dirt at his feet. A Quasi troop-crawler appeared around a bend in the canyon behind them, spraying indiscriminate fire from a gun-dome on the roof. The guards, suddenly animate, leaped into the guard-car and slammed the lock shut behind them--except for the driver and the squad-leader, who lay dead on the ground. Karil and his team turned and leaped for the cover of nearby rocks.

"Shag!" he shouted over the comm. "Get Atty the hell out of here."

"No, Karil," the ship said. "We cannot leave you behind."

"You have to. Quasi ships already on the way. Dozens of human lives at stake. Tell her, Shag. So long, Atalanta. Don’t take any golden apples." He shut off his comm with a click.

The ship rose into the air on a cloud of dust before the cargo hatch had even finished closing. It banked and roared off up the canyon. Dozens of soldiers poured from the opening hatches of the troop-crawler, only to be met by stun-grenades lobbed by the hidden rebels. Someone tapped Karil on the shoulder, and he followed the others, loping in the strange gait of those trained to one-third gravity. They worked their way deeper into the Labyrinth of Night, pausing now and then to toss grenades behind them, until the way behind was blocked with landslides. Karil glanced up to see Quasi ships roaring overhead.

Atalanta streaked up into the sky, until it had turned from butterscotch to purple to star-studded black. Her passengers were crushed into near unconsciousness, still shackled to their seats in the crawler; she carefully monitored their breathing as she ascended. The Quasi ships were left far behind, and before reinforcements could be summoned from orbit, she was already on a transfer swing to the Outer System.

"The kid'll be all right, Atty," Shagrug said, when he could breathe well enough to speak. "The Resistance’ll take good care of him. Hell, I can already see the girls in the warrens lining up to make him feel at home. He'll have a damn sight better time in the underground than we will, trapped in a can with a lot of smelly dusters. Then we'll come back and get him."

"You're damn right we will, Shag," said Atalanta. "From Hell itself."

***

The rebels made their way to the commune that was to be their shelter for the night, and Karil unsuited with the others. In a few minutes he was sitting at a big communal table, piled high with good food, as the warren buzzed and clattered about him.

"This is Ali Karil," the rebel cell-leader said. "He’s been left behind by his ship, so we’ll have to take care of him for a while."

Whispers swept the room--Ali Karil was a major celebrity on Mars--and he found himself the centre of attention in an instant. He was so thoroughly bombarded with questions that he could barely eat. Had he written any new poems, and could he read one or two after dinner? Was it as exciting to be a spacer as everyone thought, or was it a lot of boring hard work, like mining? Had he really been there, with Progeny, in exile on Earth? Did he think Progeny’s communal movement would be as successful there as it was on Mars, or were the surface conditions too different for the Progenist ideal to take hold? The last question was from the lips of a barely pubescent young girl.

The commune elders watched and listened for a while, noting Karil’s sparkling smile, his smoky good looks, his deft and humorous answers to the questions, and the admiring attention of the crowd--all ages and sexes, but most especially the young women. The oldest woman turned and shared a significant look with the others in the matriarchal council.

"He seems perfect to me," she said.

"Perfect for what?" another woman asked. "For the Overground, or your youngest daughter?"

"Well," the matriarch laughed, "I was thinking of the Overground, but now that you mention it, that would not be a bad match."

"Yes, and by the time she gets to the head of the line," another woman said, "she might be of age. But I don’t think we have much of a chance of getting this spacer to settle down here; everybody knows that Terry of the Tharsis Commune has first claim on him. And that has to be the best match on Mars."

"I guess you’re right, but I don’t think we could find a better Voice of the Overground, do you? We won’t be set up for weeks yet, but frankly, I don’t see much point in searching any longer. Karil’s ship has dropped him in our lap, for now, and I think we should make use of his charm before she comes back to pick him up."

***

In Bradbury Dome, the cobblestone streets were lined with elm-shaded and gabled Victorian mansions with rocking chairs on their porches, with ornate iron fences and flickering gas-lamps and barber shops with revolving poles, all looming in the pale light of the sun rising over Hellas basin. Where the base of the dome made a dead end of the street and cabbies fed their horses or polished their replica automobiles, the street sloped down a ramp to the subway level. Morning coffee-drinkers in the cafés were startled to see a squad of Martian Security officers double-time their way up the ramp and trot down the street to the Martian Chronicle Building. One of the employees opened the door for them and they filed inside.

"All right," said the squad leader, "show me."

The editor led them into the City Desk room, where disconnected cables lay sprawled over empty desks.

"How much equipment was taken?"

"Nearly everything of value that was portable. Enough to run a small-scale news network. They obviously knew what they were looking for. Until it can be replaced, we'll be off the air." The editor gestured toward the screens on the wall, filled with snow and static. Suddenly a young man's face appeared--dark, handsome, with sharp features and intense dark eyes. The editor switched on the sound, and they heard the rumble of a sand-rover; the swaying movement of the man's body confirmed that he was speaking from a moving vehicle.

"This is the New Martian Chronicle," the young man said, "the voice of the Resistance. From our mobile unit, out on the surface, we will be bringing you the daily news uncensored by the High Companies, plus other items of interest to you which they do not want you to hear. You can call us the Martian Overground. If you are wondering how we can do this without the use of the High Companies' communication satellites, I will explain. Our signal is being sent on a tight beam to one of a number of powerful broadcast satellites located in the Asteroid Belt, then relayed in a wide beam back to Mars, where it can be heard over half the planet. Twelve and a quarter hours later the broadcast will be repeated, so it can be heard in the other hemisphere. The satellite time is donated by the Galilean Press Syndicate on Ganymede, and the satellites themselves are Galilean property. Thus, the Terran High Companies will be unable to attack the satellites without causing an interplanetary incident. They will attempt to jam us, of course, but they will not be able to put us out of business.

"On our first broadcast: you have been told that the people of Margaritifer Commune were transported to Venus Colony and are now languishing in prison there. This is not true. The rover-train transporting them to Quasi Headquarters was ambushed in the Noctis Labyrinthus by Resistance forces. With no Martian loss of life, they were space-lifted to safety and are now on their way to the Nova Terra Colony in Titan Orbit. In due time, we will be broadcasting messages from them.

"Because of High Company censorship, very few of you know that the colony there, nearly completed, has been opened to immigration from the entire solar system, including both Earth and Mars. As the Titan Council reveals in the next report, this colony, which rivals those of the High Companies in both size and beauty, was not built as a fantasy-class private estate, but a thriving reality-class colony, with cities and towns and open country, with working farms and high-orbit industry. Here is the most recent Titan Council press conference, not carried by the old Martian Chronicle..."

Karil leaned back as the recording was queued. He glanced at the clock. "How was that?"

"Pretty good," said Aaron. "I told them we needed a poet as a news-reader."

Aaron Ben David was well-known in the resistance and an old friend of Karil's. His curly hair and beard were just touched with gray now, but he had the same old fire in his eyes. The rust-red light from the Martian surface gave him a slightly infernal look which made Karil smile.

"I wish we could have stayed on the air longer," Karil mused.

"Any longer and they can trace our location."

"There's the Professor." Karil turned up the sound.

The triumvirate that chaired the Titan Council was seated at a long table. Behind them was a comfortable-looking room, with easy chairs, walls of bookshelves with what seemed to be antique leather-bound books, and a roaring fire that appeared to be real and not a projection. Above the mantle was a breathtaking picture of Saturn--half-lit, with rings edge-on. The three figures at the table were Melissa Park, Marwan al-Zubair, and Charles Kelley. A reporter was speaking:

"...specifically, the High Companies have accused Titan of constructing military spacecraft at its Rhea and Iapetus shipyards. How do you respond?"

The camera focused on al-Zubair, impressive in his formal Sharif’s robes, power and intelligence written on his craggy features, expertly trimmed beard, and piercing eyes.

"He's a handsome devil, isn't he?" Aaron said.

"He's the son of a High Company concubine, like me," Karil said. "Made a fortune in the Galilean, starting with nothing.”

"Really?"

"He's a brilliant engineer," Karil said. "Did his thesis on some obscure aspect of anti-matter drive theory--maybe half a dozen people in the system understand it. He's the one who built Nova Terra. No one else was able to design a mirror-system that could gather enough sunlight in Saturn orbit."

"Whenever we enter into agreements with another world," al-Zubair was saying, "accusations like this follow like clockwork. This latest batch is particularly silly. Our shipyards are full of Terran spies--sometimes I think we employ more of them than our own colonists--and the High Companies know full well there are no warships being constructed in the Saturn system. The fact is, the Terran fleet is the only one capable of attacking another world. There are a dozen battle-cruisers strategically placed throughout the system right now, ostensibly to protect Terran shipping from Free Traders and rebel terrorists. This talk of interplanetary war is nonsense. The High Companies headquarters are just as vulnerable as we are--except for their own underclass on the Terran surface, we all live in orbit or in fragile domes in this solar system--and it's time we stopped talking about shooting at each other."

Another reporter stood up. "Professor Kelley..."

The camera switched to the Professor. He was a giant of a man, and his unruly salt-and-red-pepper beard gave him the look of some ageing Cinnamon Bear. In contrast to al-Zubair, he was dressed casually and looked uncomfortable in the spotlight.

"The Titan Council," the reporter said, "is opening its newly-completed Nova Terra colony to unskilled labour and has guaranteed shelter to immigrants from the Inner Worlds. You, I understand, are the major architect of this policy."

"Yes, I am." Kelley's voice was deep, and Karil, used to the Martian drawl by now, recognized the clipped Terran accent still strong in his speech. "It is not called Nova Terra by accident. It is a New Earth, reproducing Earth's gravity, atmosphere, weather, ecological balance, day and night, and changing seasons. Thanks to Sharif al-Zubair's engineering genius, we can even reproduce Earth's sunlight in the Outer System, using truly enormous mirrors.

"A lot of people wonder why we went to so much trouble and expense to create a land-area so much larger than that needed for our present population. One High Company spokesman recently accused us of planning to breed an army of occupation capable of functioning in Earth's gravity. The fact is: the Saturn system is different from the other colonized systems: Mars has a land-area equal to that of Earth; and the Galilean system has four moons comparable in size to Luna; Saturn has only a collection of tiny moons no larger than asteroids, plus Titan. Though Titan is the largest moon in the System, its atmosphere is thick and deadly and extremely gloomy. The only place to live life under normal conditions out here is in an orbiting colony capable of generating artificial gravity. And the simple engineering fact is: the larger the colony the more normal the life. The more complete the ecology, the more efficient the use of sunlight. And the better the life for human beings, the more profitable the economy in which they live. Lady Park?"

The diminutive woman might have looked inconsequential beside Kelley's bear-like presence and al-Zubair's impressive dress, except for the obvious intelligence written on her features, and the fire in her black eyes.

"She's Martian, by birth," Karil said. "Created the first Progenist economic theory. Worked it out when she was a child, apparently, after listening to one of Progeny's sermons."

"The fundamental idea behind the Titan economy," Lady Park said, "is that the only real source of wealth is the labour of the people, who take natural resources and turn them into marketable products. The rest of it--economic theory, the stock market, currency--is imaginary wealth. Thus, the only investments that create genuine profit are the education and health of the workforce, and the infrastructure that brings them to their work and their goods to market.

"Space colonization requires engineering mega structure to utilize the natural resources of space, ecological balance in the habitats to maintain human health and energy, and universal education to promote trade advantage among the worlds. That is why the Titan Council has created the three Chairs we currently fill--Business, Science/Engineering, and Humanities. The Saturn system was first colonized by researchers and scientists, not by miners or traders, and our society still resembles a university more than a market-town or a mining company. One of the reasons we are opening Nova Terra to immigration is to help create a mix of cultures from all over the system, so that the resulting merge of ideas and talents and points of view will continue to educate our citizens. All of us on this council have taught in various institutions throughout the system, and we agree that universities educate as much by contact with other minds as by the courses presented.

"The Titan Institute is creating a laboratory in human ecology, and we invite everyone to sign up, not only as students, but as teachers. We need Terrans to teach us how to survive, Belters to teach us how to work, Galileans to teach us how to prosper, and Martians to teach us how to live together. The only thing we don't need is High Company fantasy-class robber-barons to teach us how to steal."

Karil and Aaron chuckled wickedly together at Lady Park's last comment. That would go over very well, indeed, on Mars. The remark will be repeated thousands of times over the next few days, and soon even those who had not even seen the broadcast will know all about it.

"Look," said Karil, freezing the recording and pointing to a figure in the background. It was a lanky, dark-haired young man. "There's my best friend, Jay. He's one of Kelley’s aides now." He moved forward frame by frame, until a young woman appeared--a blonde, long-haired Martienne. He fell silent as he stared at her.

Aaron knew Terry, of course. Everyone on Mars knew who Terry was, for she had been Progeny’s youngest wife, and was still an influential figure in the movement. Aaron had no doubt she was partly responsible for Titan’s new immigration policy regarding Mars. There was also no doubt about Karil’s feelings for her.

"Why don’t you send her a message?" Aaron said.

"It’s too dangerous. Anyway, I wouldn’t feel right using this equipment for personal love-letters."

Aaron laughed. "There’s nothing Martians enjoy more than a good love-story. Anyway, you don’t have to send a recording. I know how to get a message anywhere in the System--completely untraceable. The Ancilius Group does it all the time. Write her a poem or something, and we can make it pop up on her home screen."

"All right. I will. Hold it. Time for my sign off." The recording ended and the camera focused on Karil. "In Roman times," he said, "the temple of Mars remained locked until war began. Then, a priest would stand before the doors, clash a sword and shield together, and shout: 'Mars Vigila!' or Mars, awake! This is the New Martian Chronicle, the Voice of the Resistance, signing off for now. Mars, awake!"

Karil's first story had been a good one. And in a few more weeks, when Atalanta had arrived at Nova Terra, there would be an even more sensational feature about an entire Martian clan, safely free of High Company tyranny, setting up living quarters in an orbiting garden, like souls harrowed from Hell and transported to Paradise.

***

The news conference was wrapping up, the crew shutting off its cameras and lights and hauling the equipment outside, where the shuttle was waiting. Professor Kelley, as the host, thanked them all for coming and chatted for a while, obviously much more comfortable than he had been on camera. When he shut the door, he turned to find Terry offering him a cut crystal glass containing a drink of rich golden colour.

"Thank you, my Dear." He sighed and sipped deeply. Terry smiled and offered the same to Lady Park, but not, of course, to al-Zubair. Jay appeared from the kitchen with a cup of rich, dark coffee for him and then knelt to poke the fire. The council heads sat before its warmth to enjoy a few moments of the Professor's hospitality before it was necessary for them to return to work elsewhere in the colony.

"I must tell you, Professor," said the Sharif, "I'm beginning to worry about Terra and the High Companies. My agents tell me of factions within that would like to sabotage Nova Terra before it’s completed, just to show that Titan can’t compete with Earth."

The Professor smiled. "Spoken like the true Sheriff of Titan."

Al-Zubair was puzzled for a moment, and then laughed out loud. "Of course: the English and American lawman of legend. Since our security has to be highly technological in nature, it naturally falls to me. And I guess I have developed the suspicious nature that goes with that role.”
"I, for one," said Lady Park, "am happy about that. I would rather have you in charge of protecting us than my panel of bankers or the Professor's fractious parliament of academics."

"If a suspicious nature is the vice of policemen," Kelley laughed, "then the vice of academics is the love of the sound of their own voices. At our last meeting, I suddenly realized we’d been arguing for an hour about something we all agreed on." He sipped his whisky. "But if we found saboteurs in our midst, what on Earth would we do with them?"

"Not on Earth: on Titan,” al-Zubair said. “The mining installations on the surface are extremely secure, practically indestructible, and surrounded by unbreathable atmosphere. A portion of one of these would make a fine temporary jail. The High Companies could not get at them while we arranged to parade them before the Solar System." He sipped his coffee. "I have been thinking about this ever since I was alerted of the danger. I could have plans for you to show the Council in short order."

"That is good," said the Professor. "We look forward to seeing them."

Al-Zubair glanced at the big clock on the mantle. "Well, at least some work has been done today. Thank you for the excellent coffee. I have to be in the lab in a few minutes."

"I have to get some more wood," said Terry. "I'll escort you to your shuttle."

"That would be lovely."

Al-Zubair left the cottage by the front door and Terry followed with the log-carrier. His shuttle sat waiting on the pad outside, but he walked to the edge of the cliff to peer out at the landscapes above and below. Terry joined him at the parapet.

The forested mountainside fell away to the river, and the wooded hills rose to the edge of the solar, through which they could see the magnificent rings of Saturn in a star-studded black sky. In the blue sky above them, visible through scudding clouds, was another landscape--snow-covered mountains towering over evergreen forest. They turned to see another sweep of glass overhead, through which they could see the swirling red clouds of Titan. Beyond that was the third long valley--a vast prairie already in darkness, with only a few gleaming rivers still visible. And finally, above the forested mountains behind the cottage, a third pane of solars revealed the distant, slowly spinning second cylinder of Nova Terra--steaming cloud-forest jungles looming in the mist and vast plains darkened by herds of animals.

"It's truly beautiful," said al-Zubair. "I could look at it all day, watching the landscapes change inside wheels within wheels like the Medieval representations of the cosmos."

Terry smiled, reminded of Ali Karil.

"But," al-Zubair went on, "duty calls." He turned to Terry and his eyes flashed like burning coals. "Thank you, and the Professor, for your hospitality."

He climbed into the cockpit of his shuttle. It roared into life, rose into the air, and sped off across the mountains toward the far end-cap.

Terry walked off with her wood-carrier toward the stacked logs behind the cottage but stopped at the stables to visit the horses. Kalendar Prince came to her immediately, nodding in greeting, and allowed her to stroke his great head.

"Now, why do you Arabians all have such beautiful eyes?" she asked. "Could it be a thousand years of choosing your women by their eyes only?" Kalendar Prince shook his head and nuzzled her breast.

After a moment, she collected a carrier-load of wood and headed back to the cottage. At the door, she glanced through the window to see the Professor, Lady Park, and Jay kneeling on the floor with their hands on their heads. Two men were covering them with laser weapons, one of them apparently demanding answers to questions.

Gasping in shock, and freezing for only a second, Terry set down the wood and ran to the barn. Inside, she found a shotgun, in pieces, on the worktable. Desperately, she tried to remember how the pieces fit together, but her mind was turning to mush, and her hands were shaking.

Suddenly a hand was clapped over her mouth. She jumped in shock and glanced back to see al-Zubair.

"Don't make a sound," he whispered in her ear. "I saw their work-shuttle landing in the woods, and I knew there was no work-order for this area. How many are there?"

"I saw only two, with lasers," she whispered. "But I couldn't see the whole room."

Al-Zubair picked up the disassembled shotgun and with a few deft moves, clicked it together. He sighted down the barrel as Terry pawed through the clutter on the table to find a box of shells. Al-Zubair fed a half-dozen shells into the magazine.

"You'll have to distract them while I enter from the other side," he said. "Make a loud noise with the latch and then drop to the ground. Then crawl away from the door as quickly as you can. Lasers will slice through the door like butter. They'll turn to face your way and I'll take it from there. All right?"

"Yes, of course. You be careful too."

Terry did as she was told, opening the screen door with a creak, jiggling the door latch, and quickly dropping to the ground. Inside, the Professor, Lady Park, and Jay turned toward the sound, gasping in despair. The three gunmen swiveled at once to face the door and swung their laser-rifles in that direction.

The door on the other side of the room flew open and al-Zubair stepped across the threshold. The three men spun about to face him. The shotgun roared three times in rapid succession and the men flew backwards across the room, each of their chests a bloody ruin.

Lady Park screamed, the Professor struggled to his feet, and Jay flew to the door to find Terry on the ground. She rose into his arms. Al-Zubair strode across the room and looked down at the three dead men. His eyes blazed and the expression on his face was terrible to behold.

"I'm sorry I couldn't keep one of them alive to answer questions," he growled. "But with lasers you don't take chances."

"You'll get no criticism from me," the Professor said.

***

"The Titan Council was called to order at--" Kelley glanced at the clock. "--sixteen hundred hours. Sharif al-Zubair has some concerns that he feels we should discuss. Sharif?"

The council, some of them present in hologram from elsewhere in the Saturn system, listened as the engineer spoke. He was not dressed in formal robes at this informal meeting, but in his sweatsuit and lab-coat, but he was still a commanding presence. Security in the room was considerably more conspicuous than at the last meeting, and a few councilors seemed nervous. "The first of the freetrader immigrant-ships is now overdue," al-Zubair said. "It should have arrived here a week ago. Those of you who do not travel very much in space or deal with astrogation in your work may not understand why this is so disturbing. The course from Mars to Saturn, even at the high speeds that freetrader ships can achieve, is a precise and particular elliptical or parabolic orbit. It changes with the changing orbits of the planets involved, but it is always mathematically precise. For the ship not to fall into Saturn capture at the precise time necessary is a sign that something has gone wrong."

The door opened and Terry entered, in an agitated state. She closed the door quietly, aware of the attention she had attracted, and crept to Kelley’s side. This did not eliminate the stares of those present, as Terry’s voluminous blonde hair and chiseled features always attracted attention. She spoke quietly with Jay, who was sitting behind Kelley; Jay nodded, and Terry placed a sheet of paper on the table in front of Kelley. He read the message and rapped on the table.

"It appears that the matter the Sharif raises has become more complicated. I direct your attention to the screen behind me."

Karil's face appeared, and he spoke of the Margaritifer commune rescue. Whispers swept the room, and Kelley rapped on the table again to restore order.

"This message, broadcast on Mars a few days ago, and forwarded to my aide in her weekly mail, is significant in two ways. One: Atalanta’s current mission is now a matter of system-wide publicity, and her loss, if that is what we are facing, will be an even bigger story. Two: the young man speaking on Mars—his name is Ali Karil--is a member of that ship’s crew. We do not know why he is not aboard, and as he is currently in hiding with the Martian Liberation Front, it may be extremely difficult to find out."

There was some discussion, and the council decided not to reveal to the public at large that the ship was overdue until it could be determined what had happened to it. As the meeting adjourned, Kelley turned to his young aides.

"Can we get in touch with Karil somehow?" Kelley asked.

"I have a lot of friends in the MLF," Terry said, "but trying to contact them would be dangerous. The High Companies monitor everything they can on Mars. I'll see what I can do."

"What about you, Jay? You grew up with him. Are there any mutual friends, or someone that might know how to contact him?"

"We went to school together, Professor, but that was in Earth orbit. High Company colonies, High Company schools. In our own way, we both turned our backs on that world. I'm sure no-one else we knew would speak to me now, and if they did know where Karil was, they would probably turn him in to the police sooner than help me find him."

Kelley gathered up his papers. "I'm worried about Shagrug and Atalanta," he said. "And the Martians. But I must admit I’m glad to hear that Karil, at least, is not missing in space."

Later that evening, Terry sat before the screen in her room.

"It just appeared," she said. "No message, no address, no signature, no trail of any kind. Typical MLF. Listen." She read out loud:

This is your kingdom.

All the wealth of the world is here

in the bowels of the earth.

All life has its beginning

and its end here.

In this fire, fears and guilt

are burned away, and souls are forged

and welded fast together,

fragile tin and pretty copper

alloyed into sturdy bronze.

Come rule with me.

You are the seed of life,

Persephone, you are the Spring.

Earth opens before your gentle feet

and the glare of sunlight

frightens my dark soul, too long interred.

Hermes leads you down the maze of tunnels,

and my heart leaps at the sight of you.

And when you go, when you return

to the surface for a season,

remember Hades, your dark lord.

Kiss his shaggy brow before you go.

He will wait for you.

"I don’t need a signature to know that Karil wrote that," Jay said, as Terry rose from the screen and undressed. She slipped into bed and snuggled in his arms. "At least," he went on, "it's nice to know that he’s thinking about you, out there on the surface."

"I suppose so," she laughed. "And it’s good to know that all my sisters on Mars haven’t made him forget me, though I’m sure it wasn’t for lack of trying. Still, I’m worried about him. And, if only for his sake, I hope Atty’s all right."

She waved off the light, and they snuggled in the dark.

***

Keeping the Galilean space-lanes clear was a never-ending task; not only did Jupiter's legion of moons, both large and small, have to be monitored at all times, but the greedy gas giant was continually pulling in random objects from all over the Solar system and adding them to its collection.

Any object that drifted into the space-lanes had to be removed immediately, because the traffic in the system was constant: helium-mining in the Jovian atmosphere, ice-mining in the Galilean moons, trade among the orbiting colonies, and the lucrative gravity-assist swing-by all contributed. And then there were the Free Traders, who came and went largely without schedule or notification. They were the biggest headache, though the Jovian system would not have been settled without them, and smuggling was not in fact a crime in the Galilean--it was a crime everywhere else, and the Galilean profited from the fact.

Ivan Hohlakhov's gandy-dancer zipped through the system, following the precise trajectory in the ship's memory. Jupiter filled half the cosmos with swirling cloud-bands, and Io's black shadow moved slowly across the face of the Great Red Spot. Europa was visible as a smooth ball, Ganymede and Callisto as bright objects among the stars. They were the only satellites visible to the naked eye, but the computer knew the location and trajectory of everything else--including the anomaly Ivan was tracking.

Mitsu's face appeared on the screen, the organized chaos that was Galilean Security Headquarters visible behind him. "Ivan, can you see it yet?"

"I think so, Sir. I'm getting a reading on a black object occulting the stars. Making a slight course-correction now." The ping of the radar increased in frequency. "Approach vector. It's a large object. Thirty meters by twenty perhaps. It's delta-shaped... Oh, Jesus, it's a ship."

"A ship?"

"We took it for a stray satellite at first because it’s cold as a rock. There's some serious damage. Hull blackened and melted in places. Split open like a lobster on a plate."

"Can you read her name?"

"It's difficult. Enhancing the image. Here it is. Martian registry HG 24-3162/45. Her name is Atalanta."

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CHAPTER ONE

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