"I was in the field," I said shortly. "Over at theUnity. What's up?"

It was not good. Jay had been correct to be worried about it. Marc had most of his personal staff present, including Toni Abad, an Arab fellow I never had learned to like in the twenty years since Marc had hired him. At the far end of the table, Captain Vasily Koslov, the number-two officer in Tytan Security and the person who'd replace me if I ever got canned or killed, nodded to me. Official business, then; Marc was going to break bad news to me, and he never liked to do that alone.

He didn't let it hang, I'll say that for Marc. "The Cirque du Mars has applied for permission to perform.

July first to July tenth."

"You intend to let them come?"

Marc said mildly. "I'm inclined in that direction."

I scowled at Marc and said, "This is the stupidest d.a.m.n idea you've ever had and if you do it Jay and I will quit."

Jay blinked. I glared at him. "Um. Right," he said finally.

"Quit? Right." he said to Marc a moment later, with a wonderful attempt at firmness, "quit." He looked back at me. "Right?"

Marc glanced at me and then back to his acolytes. 'Any of you care to join 'Sieur Altaloma and the Chief?"

Abad smiled at me, showing teeth. "No." One by one the rest of them joined in, a slow cautious chorus of agreement. Captain Koslov simply shook his head no; Vasily and I aren't particularly close, given we've worked together for twenty years, but he's an okay guy; doesn't take much s.h.i.t from anybody, including Marc. Marc nodded as though he had never expected anything else-of course he hadn't-and turned back to me. "Okay. Why is it a bad idea?"

Marc Packard, whatever his other flaws may be, is not a stupid man. I stopped and thought a moment before I replied. "We have the biggest warship anyone's ever built growing out there in the middle of Halfway, with Halfers and downsiders all around it. Read,targets. Potential hostages. At the very least, ancillary damage like you don't even want tothink about in the event of a terrorist attack. And there are CityState and Collective terrorists aimed at theUnity twenty-four hours a day. On top of that there's the Fourth of July riots coming up. We don't usually have problems with them up here, but this is the TriCentennial, Marc. You're not an American and you can't know what that's going to feel like for those of us who are. Just because we've never had problems before doesn't mean we won't this time. On top of all this other d.a.m.n foolishness you're going to drag in-how many?"

"The entire complement is a hundred and seventy persons."

I heard my voice rise. "A hundred and seventycircus performers? We've onlygot a hundred and twelve Security. Bad idea. Bad,bad idea. Security will be a nightmare. Get your American Halfers worked up and you're going to have your first-ever Halfway riots. Marc, I promise you. We want quiet. Lots and lots and lots ofquiet."

"Actually," said Jay. "I'd kind of like to see the circus."

"Actually," I mimicked savagely, "I'd kind oflike to see the circus."

Jay shrugged. "He wasn't going for it, Neil."

"I noticed. I wonder why."

Jay did not answer, because, like me, he had no idea. "Besides," he said after a moment, "I'd really like to see the clowns. I've never seen a clown before."

"Jay, would youshut the f.u.c.k up?"

Jay glanced sideways at me, and smiled with a certain genuine embarra.s.sment. "It's just that the circus is coming to town. I'm kind of looking forward to it."

"I know. You said already."

"Sorry. I'll stop now."

In a life that has seen many odd things, the TriCentennial Summer was coming a kicker. That evening, after dinner, I played chess with Jay, and we talked about it.

We play most nights, over at Highland Grounds, a small coffee shop sharing s.p.a.ce with four other businesses in a quarter-gee doughnut out toward the Edge. Highland Grounds caters to a younger crowd; I stand out a good bit. A nice enough place, if a touch loud at times. On Sat.u.r.day nights they bring in live bands, and Jay and I skip; on Monday they have open mike night, and every half-baked poet and stand-up comic in Halfway shows up for it; we skip Mondays too.

Most other nights find us there, sitting at one of the genuine wooden chairs on the upper level overlooking the stage, sippingcaffe latte from the bulbs. It had taken me most of a decade after coming to Halfway to get used to drinking everything-coffee, tea, even water-out of bulbs; when I was a boy in Levittown, Pennsylvania, only beer came in bulbs. At some level my subconscious decided, seventy-odd years ago when it was true, that bulbs were for beer; even today, when my mind strays for a moment, I find myself wondering when I come back how this d.a.m.n diet c.o.ke ended up in my beer bulb.

Jay's not a Halfway native; with his height and muscles, you couldn't possibly mistake him for anything but the downsider he is. I've known him for eight years now. When he was fourteen his parents visited Halfway on business with Tytan Industries. He was gorgeous then, too, though I don't think he knew it yet. One of my jobs consists of giving the guided tour to VIPs from Earth. Usually that means Unification officials, but sometimes it can be interesting. I confess to remembering very little about Jay's parents; but Jay himself made an impression on me. Midway through a tour of the fabrication plant where Tytan Manufacturing makes most of the molar bearings in use in the System today, Jay's parents go ahead of me, asking animated questions of the 'bot that was giving the spiel. Jay hung back, said quietly, without warning, "I like it up here."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. What sorts of jobs can somebody from Earth get up here?"

I shrugged, not taking the question seriously. "Speaking just for myself, I'd say security is good. There's always room for a good security person with muscles developed under gravity. We don't have much of a problem with the Reb or Claw, so the PKF generally stays out of our hair." (This was '68, mind you, before Trent began the Long Run, before s.p.a.ce Force started building theUnity next door; at the time I made that statement it was still true.) "Violent crime is pretty low, all considered; mostly we police the Edge, make sure that some of the seamier places don't get out of hand. When something big does go down, we put the case together, and hold the case and the criminal for Halfway's Unification Circuit Judge. Judge shuttles up four times a year; worst case, the accused can wait up to three months for justice. By downside standards that's not bad."

"Wouldyou hire me?"

I remember grinning at him. "Get a degree, and then ask me again."

In early '75 he showed up at my office. He'd just turned twenty-one. He was my size, just shy of two meters; had belts in shotokan and Wing Chun kung fu, and a bachelor's degree in what they liked to call Corrections Science. He pa.s.sed the tests we use in Tytan Security without straining; I didn't do his psychometric-regulations-so I don't know the results, but he pa.s.sed that too.

I didn't have to think twice. Talent is where you find it.

Occasionally Jay caused problems with the homebrews. a.s.sistant to the Chief has traditionally been a homebrew job, on the grounds that it gives the homebrews a voice in Security; Jay was the first non-homebrew a.s.sistant I'd had in maybe twenty years. Outside of the PKF who even todaymostly leave Halfway alone, Tytan Security is all the law your average Halfer ever sees; and the Chief of Security is a notorious downsider ex-United States Marine, number two is a Russia with an att.i.tude problem, and my top a.s.sistant is another American downsider. All but six of Tytan Security's 112 officers are downsiders; it's only natural, but that doesn't make the homebrews like it any better. With rare exceptions homebrews don't have the muscle ma.s.s, or the hand-to-hand training, necessary to crack heads together when they need to.

Cracking heads is essentially what Securitydoes -or at least what it's supposed to do.

I couldn't figure this c.r.a.p about the circus at all, and said so after Jay checkmated me in our first game.

Jay shrugged, bored with the subject before I'd started. "You should have quit, Neil. Bad move, threatening to quit in public like that."

I shook my head. "I've done it half a dozen times before, all before you came to work here; it's just to get his attention. I'm not quitting, and he knows it. But it'ssuch a b.o.n.e.r decision. It's not like him. I ran the Security expert system back at my office this afternoon, Jay, Marc'sgot to have done the same thing; there's no way a hundred seventy circus performers stabilizes our situation."

Jay took a puff on his cigarette, exhaled a pale gray cloud off to my right. "Look, it's a judgment call, Neil. He figures some entertainment will help keep people's minds off the troubles downside. Are you certain he's run the same simulations you've run?"

"Haven't talked to him yet," I admitted.

"Maybe you should."

"Of course I'm going to. But I'm a little p.i.s.sed at how this got dropped on me. It was too abrupt, and that's not like him."

"And why do you think he did it that way?"

I stopped and looked at Jay. "He's talking to me, of course."

Jay ground the cigarette out. "And saying what?"

"Jay," I said slowly, "do the colleges teach politics as a part of security work these days?"

Jay had the grace to look embarra.s.sed. "No. But my mother ran the twenty-third largest corporation in Occupied America for eleven years. You learn. You mind if I have another?"

A cigarette, he meant. We'd agreed when he started working for me that he could have one while we played chess, and another if my lungs weren't complaining. My call, which perhaps isn't fair, but I am his boss, and there should be some perks. "No."

They may not cause cancer anymore, but they're still a filthy habit. I always half regretted that Highland Grounds had put in the new airplant back in '69; the quality of the air improved noticeably, so Homeboy Rick started letting patrons smoke; and the air quality went back down again.

Jay nodded, sipped at his coffee instead. "Packard's not happy with you, Neil."

"Clearly. And why do you think?"

He shook his head slowly. "I don't know. One reading I make is that he's worried about TriCentennial riots-and figures you for a scapegoat if they get out of hand. So he wants to disa.s.sociate a bit, cover himself with the Board of Directors."

"No. It's not a bad thought, but I've seen Marc stab enough people in the back to know how he goes about it. If that were it, he'd have started a couple months back. This is hasty, and that's really not like him. If this were something he were thinking about two months ago, he'd have started moving me out two months ago. Whatever has him going, it's happened recently."

Jay said slowly, "Hand Moreau visited him two weeks back."

I lifted an eyebrow. "You think the Secretary General's got an interest in Halfway? I think he's got better things to concern himself with right now, Jay. I hear the Rebs are recruiting like n.o.body's business."

"Yeah, I've heard the same. But why was Moreau here?"

"Could be anything, Jay. Tytan Industries has its fingers in so many pies even Marc has difficulty keeping track of them." I drank the last of mycaffe latte before it got cold, waved to Homeboy Rick, the old Mex who runs Highland Grounds, for another mug. "I suppose I'll have to ask him."

"I suppose."

I grimaced at my empty mug. "I really hate doing that."

Jay nodded. "'I would. Another game?"

"One more. Then I'm headed home." Jay won the second game too. He was getting better; when we started playing, shortly after he signed on, I usually beat him. I didn't mind it when he started beating me; the improvement in his play had spurred an improvement in mine that I hadn't thought my eight-five-year-old brain was capable of. I'd played the System Chess Federation's ranking program twice in the last few months, and drawn a ranking just a step below Master.

Marc plays chess, though I've never played him myself. Marc playsconstantly.

"Mate in three," Jay finally announced.

I studied the board, nodded, and tipped my king over. "Good game."

"Thanks." Jay stood, pulled my p-suit off the suit tree near our table, handed it to me, and started getting into his own. Jay paused while shrugging into his p-suit. "Oh, by the way, my cousin Mich.e.l.le is going to be up next Monday. Just a visit. I'd like her to have dinner with us Monday night, if you don't mind."

I'm sure I looked surprised; I glanced up at him, over my shoulder, while walking downstairs to the lock.

"Why?"

Guido, the counterman, called out, "Later, Chief," as we headed for the lock, and I missed Jay's response.

"Again?"

He actually flushed slightly; I was sorry I'd asked. "Um, she thinks the work we do, is, um, glamorous."

I grinned at him. "Got it. I'll have some stories ready." I lowered my helmet into place. " 'Night, Jay."

"Thanks, Neil. Good-"

I touched the seal at my neck; his voice ceased abruptly. I cycled through alone, into death pressure, and kicked over to where my HuskySled waited. Jay followed through, waved, and kicked off into black s.p.a.ce. His backpack lit briefly, in total silence, and then he dwindled away so quickly, a silvery dot in a sky that was full of them, that I lost sight of him before the HuskySled's rockets had even warmed up.

So I'm a conservative, cautious, careful old man. I concede the point. I probably waste ten, fifteen minutes a day warming up the sled, docking it, probably another two, three hours a month maintaining it.

A backpack is a lot faster, requires vastly less maintenance, is a bit less expensive, and is very nearly as safe.

But I turned eight-five last May 7. And I didn't get here by being in a hurry.

The engine lights blinked green. I snapped my seat belt in place, hit the rockets at quarter thrust, and headed home.

- 3 -.

In his beachfront house just north of San Diego, on Thursday morning, the 18th of June, Sedon rose early, and with Chris Summers to guard him, walked down to the beach to watch the sun rise.

Under normal circ.u.mstances he slept little; but the near-mortal wound Jimmy Ramirez had inflicted upon him had left him weak. His body threw itself into healing, into repairing the vast trauma from the explosive heat of the laser. Sedon had refused to allow his doctors to inject him with a nanovirus to speed the healing process; he neither understood nor trusted the process by which intelligent viruses aided the human body in healing. It sounded suspiciously similar to the technique the healers of the World had used to prevent aging; and Sedon did not know whether the modern nanoviruses would recognize, or fight with, those that had kept him alive for over thirteen thousand years of consecutive time.

His doctors were, Sedon knew, astonished at the speed with which he healed. They had replaced most of his intestines, abdominal muscles and the skin that covered them, with tissue cloned from Sedons own cells, and had injected him with a wide variety of antiviral drugs; but the tools they were most used to, the intelligent nanoviruses that guided the healing process, he would not permit them to use, and early on they had expected that refusal to kill him.

It did not. He hung on, hovering near death, for two days. On the third day he awoke, clearheaded and ravenously hungry; and two and a half weeks after a near-mortal injury, Gi'Suei'Obodi'Sedon awoke feeling rested and nearly himself. The skin of his stomach was pink, a different shade from the rest of his skin, and the muscles in his stomach were so sore that taking a moderately deep breath sent twinges of pain through him; but he was alive, and at most two weeks away from health. Regaining full control of the muscles and nerves in his abdominal area would take a while; but the sooner he started, the sooner he would recover their use.

Thursday morning he walked down to the beach, an hour before sunrise, to watch the sun rise.

He had worn a robe of a shade that matched what his memory knew as Dancer red; he shed it at the edge of the sand, handed it to Chris Summers, and walked nude down to the water. He wished that he might go swimming-it was an exercise he had learned to enjoy during the long years of exile-but he had learned that it was not safe; even today, fifty years after the Unification had set about reclaiming Earth, no large body of water on Earth was free of pollutants.

Instead he knelt in the cold sand, with the Pacific Ocean at his back, and prayed.

Over four years since the bubble had released him. It seemed to him at times that in those years he had not had a single moment to pause and reflect. The humans of this time, half savage and half something that Sedon suspected had already moved beyond the Flame People, were paralyzed with the knowledge of their imminent deaths; they rushed about their lives in such a haste that Sedon himself was carried along in the madness.

The weeks in bed had done him one good turn. It was the first extended period of reflection the universe had given him since his release, and he had made good use of it.

The prayer was an experiment.

He had not prayed during the entire long period of exile, during the thousands of years of war with the Shield.

Yet-during the two days he had hung between life and death, he had dreamed of the G.o.d. He suspected the dream was not a real thing, simply a product of his sickness; he had forsaken the G.o.d, and the G.o.d him.

The arrogance of youth was long gone from Sedon. Every dream of his youth was dead beyond any hope of resurrection. If the Nameless One wished to discuss a mistake Sedon had made many eons past, Sedon was not unwilling.

He knelt motionlessly, arms crossed across his chest, while the sky in the east grayed, and then lightened to a pale blue. He emptied himself of thought, waited for the voice of the G.o.d to address him. The sun crept high into the sky, and sweat trickled down Sedons nude form.

The wind off the ocean cooled him.

After a long while he relaxed, sank back onto his heels.

Silence.

There was one tool Sedon had available to him, one summons the G.o.d could not ignore.

But Sedon had not performed the Dance of the Flame in thirteen thousand years, and did not intend to try today.

He rose and strode briskly across the beach, to where Chris Summers stood with his robe. As he approached Summers said, "The Player arrived."

"Good," said Sedon mildly, accepting the robe from Summers. "Thank you, Christian-has 'Selle Lovely called?"