"Really?" Every once in a while, British reserve came in handy. "I never should have noticed."

This time, Walsh stared at him, wondering whether to believe. Jack Devereaux was quicker on the uptake. "Okay, David," he said. "Now you you can let go of can let go of my my leg." leg."

"Fair enough." New boy on the block, Goldfarb often felt he had to make a stand and defend his own turf. He turned to Hal Walsh. "What's on the plate for this morning?"

"The usual," Walsh replied: "Trying to steal more secrets from the Lizards' gadgetry and turning it into things people can use."

"If you're very, very good, sometimes you're even allowed to have an idea all your own," Devereaux added. "But you're not supposed to let on that you did. Then everybody else might start having ideas, too, and where would we be if that happened?"

"About where we are, if the ideas we come up with are better than the other blokes'," Goldfarb answered.

Walsh said, "That notion you had for showing telephone numbers is a winner, David. We just got an order from the Calgary police, an order big enough that I think you've earned yourself another bonus check."

"Any time Calgary buys from Edmonton, you know we've got something good," Jack Devereaux added. "They don't love us, and we don't love them. It's like Toronto and Montreal, or Los Angeles and San Francisco down in the States."

"Glasgow and Edinburgh," Goldfarb murmured, picking an example from the British Isles. He nodded to Walsh, doing his best not to seem very pleased at the news of the bonus. The money was welcome; in this world, money was always welcome. But, as a Jew, he didn't want to seem excited about it. He cared what gentiles thought about his people, and didn't want to give them an excuse to think nasty thoughts.

After a little more chat, each of the engineers fixed a cup of tea and took it to his desk. Goldfarb had been pleasantly surprised to find tea so common in Canada; he'd a.s.sumed the Dominion, like the USA, was a land that preferred coffee. He was glad he'd been wrong.

Fortified, he studied the latest piece of hardware Hal Walsh had given him. It had, his boss a.s.sured him, come from the engine of a Lizard landcruiser. What it did in the motor was rather less certain: he just had the widget, not the engine of which it was a part. He thought it was the electronic controller for the fuel-injection system that took the place carburetors had in Earthly internal-combustion engines.

"You know what the trouble is, don't you?" he said to Jack Devereaux.

"Of course I do," his fellow engineer answered. "Our gadgets look like they do what they do. These Lizard creations are nothing but electronic components slapped together. They aren't obvious, obvious, the way our technology is." the way our technology is."

"That's it!" Goldfarb nodded gratefully. "The very thing I was thinking of. We have to work hard to figure out what they're good for, and what they could be good for if we tweaked them a little."

He glowered at the control unit. It had a highly specialized job to do, and, if it was anything like most Lizard widgets, did that job extremely well. He wouldn't have been surprised to learn the Americans and Germans and Russians had copied it for their tanks-not that the Germans were allowed any panzers these days. The collapse of the Reich Reich left him altogether undismayed. left him altogether undismayed.

Back in his days with the RAF, his work with Lizard technology had been perfectly straightforward. If it had to do with matters military, and especially with matters pertaining to radar, he'd done his best to adapt it to related human uses. If it didn't, he'd either ignored it or pa.s.sed it on to someone whose bailiwick it was.

Things didn't work like that at the Saskatchewan River Widget Works. Here, the more outlandish his ideas, the better. Anybody could come up with direct conversions of Lizard gadgets to their nearest human equivalents. Sometimes that was worth doing-his system for reading phone numbers was a case in point. But thinking lefthanded was liable to pay off more in the long run.

b.l.o.o.d.y wonderful, he thought. he thought. How do I go about thinking lefthanded? How do I go about thinking lefthanded? He couldn't force it; whenever he tried, he failed. Turning his mind away from the widget in front of him, letting his thoughts drift as they would, worked better. But that was a relative term. Sometimes inspiration simply would not strike. He couldn't force it; whenever he tried, he failed. Turning his mind away from the widget in front of him, letting his thoughts drift as they would, worked better. But that was a relative term. Sometimes inspiration simply would not strike.

He'd feared Hal Walsh would sack him if he failed to come up with something brilliant his first couple of days on the job. But Walsh, who'd been doing this sort of directed woolgathering a lot longer than he had, took dry spells in stride. And now Goldfarb had one solid achievement under his belt. Having seen that he could could do it, his boss was less inclined to insist that he do it to order. do it, his boss was less inclined to insist that he do it to order.

David spent the whole day playing with the Lizard control gadget, and by quitting time had come up with nothing in the least resembling inspiration. Walsh slapped him on the back. "Don't lose any sleep about it," he advised. "Give it another shot tomorrow. If it's still not going anywhere, we'll pull another gadget out of the bin and see what your evil, twisted imagination does with that."

"All right." At the moment, Goldfarb didn't find his imagination either evil or twisted. He had enough trouble finding it at all.

The sun still stood high in the sky when he started home. In summer, daylight lingered long here. Edmonton was farther north than London, almost as far north as Belfast, his last posting in the RAF. In winter, of course, the sun hardly appeared at all. But he didn't want to think about winter with long days to enjoy.

When he got back to his flat-they called them apartments in Edmonton, in the American style-he broke into a grin. "Roast chicken!" he exclaimed. "My favorite."

"It'll be ready in about twenty minutes," his wife called from the kitchen. "Would you like a bottle of beer first?"

"I'd love one," he answered. As far as he was concerned, Canadian taverns couldn't come close to matching proper British pubs, but Canadian beer in bottles was better than its British equivalents. He smiled at Naomi when she brought him a bottle of Moosehead. "You've got one for yourself, too, have you?"

"And why not?" she answered saucily, her accent British on top of the faint German undertone she still kept after escaping from the Reich Reich in her teens, not long before no more Jews got out of Germany alive. She took a sip. "It's not bad," she said. "Not bad at all." Was she comparing it to the British brews she remembered, or to the German ones from long ago? David Goldfarb didn't have the nerve to ask. in her teens, not long before no more Jews got out of Germany alive. She took a sip. "It's not bad," she said. "Not bad at all." Was she comparing it to the British brews she remembered, or to the German ones from long ago? David Goldfarb didn't have the nerve to ask.

Dinner was only a couple of minutes away when the telephone rang. Muttering under his breath, Goldfarb got up and answered it. "Hullo?" If it was some cheeky salesman, he intended to give the b.u.g.g.e.r a piece of his mind.

"Hullo, David, old chum! So good to catch up with you again!" The voice on the other end of the line was cheerful, English, educated-and familiar. Recognizing it at once, Goldfarb wished he hadn't.

"Roundbush," he said, and then, his voice harsh, "What do you want with me?"

"You're a smart lad. I daresay you can figure that out for yourself," Basil Roundbush answered cheerfully. "You didn't do as you were told, and I'm afraid you're going to have to pay for that."

Automatically, Goldfarb's eyes went to the gadget that showed the numbers of incoming calls. If he knew where the RAF officer who'd given him so much trouble was, he might be able to do something about him, or have the authorities do something about him. But the screen on the device showed no number at all. As far as it was concerned, n.o.body was on the other end of the call.

With a laugh, Roundbush said, "I know you've f.l.a.n.g.ed up something from the Lizards' telephone switching gear. That won't help you. You know I've got plenty of chums among the Race. There are times when they need to neutralize such circuits, and they haven't any trouble doing it."

He obviously knew whereof he spoke. "Sod off and leave me alone," Goldfarb growled. "I don't want anything to do with you, and I don't want anything to do with your bleeding chums, either."

"You've made that plain enough." Roundbush still sounded happy. "But no one cares very much about your view of things, you know. You've been uncooperative, and now you're going to have to pay the price. I rather wish it were otherwise: you had promise. But such is life." He hung up.

So did Goldfarb, cursing under his breath. "Who was that?" Naomi called as she set the table.

"Basil Roundbush." Goldfarb wished he could have come up with a comforting, convincing lie.

The gentle clatter of plates and silverware stopped. His wife hurried out into the living room. "What did he want?" she asked. "I thought we were rid of him for good."

"I thought we were, too," David answered. "I wish we were, but no such luck." He sighed. "He didn't come right out and say what he wanted, but he didn't have to, not really. I already know that: he wants a piece of my hide." His right hand folded into a fist. "He'll have a devil of a time getting it, that's all I've got to say."

Glen Johnson stared into s.p.a.ce. From the control room of the Lewis and Clark, Lewis and Clark, in solar orbit not far from the asteroid Ceres, there was a lot of s.p.a.ce to see. The stars blazed clear and steady against the black sky of hard vacuum. The gla.s.s that held the vacuum at bay had been coated to kill reflections; except for knowing that it kept him alive, Johnson could ignore it. in solar orbit not far from the asteroid Ceres, there was a lot of s.p.a.ce to see. The stars blazed clear and steady against the black sky of hard vacuum. The gla.s.s that held the vacuum at bay had been coated to kill reflections; except for knowing that it kept him alive, Johnson could ignore it.

Turning to Mickey Flynn, the Lewis and Clark's Lewis and Clark's second pilot-the man just senior to him-he said, "I wonder how many of those stars you could see from Earth on a really clear night." second pilot-the man just senior to him-he said, "I wonder how many of those stars you could see from Earth on a really clear night."

"Sixty-three percent," Flynn answered at once.

"How do you know that?" Johnson asked. He was prepared to take the figure as gospel truth. Flynn collected strange statistics the way head hunters collected heads.

"Simple," he said now, beaming as if the entire magnificent show out there beyond the window had been created for his benefit alone. "I made it up."

He had a splendid deadpan; if he'd claimed he'd read it somewhere or done some arcane calculations to prove it, Johnson would have believed him.

As things were, Johnson snorted. "That'll teach me to ask you a serious question."

"No," Flynn said. "It'll teach me to give you a serious answer. If I'd been any more serious, I would have been downright morose." His face donned moroseness as he might have donned a sweater.

All it got him was another snort from Glen Johnson. Johnson peered ahead toward Jupiter, on which Ceres and the Lewis and Clark Lewis and Clark were slowly gaining. "I keep thinking I ought to be able to see the Galilean moons with the naked eye." were slowly gaining. "I keep thinking I ought to be able to see the Galilean moons with the naked eye."

"When Jupiter's in opposition in respect to us, you will be able to," Flynn told him. "We'll only be two astronomical units away then, more or less-half as far as we would be back on Earth. But for now, we have the same sort of view we would from back home... minus atmosphere, of course." Before Johnson could say anything, the other pilot held up a hand, as if taking an oath. "And that, I a.s.sure you, is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

"So help you Hannah," Johnson said, at which Flynn a.s.sumed an expression of injured innocence. Nevertheless, Johnson believed him; the numbers felt right. Flynn and Walter Stone, the first pilot, both knew the mathematics of s.p.a.ce travel better than he did. He'd flown fighter planes against the Lizards and then upper stages into Earth orbit-other people had done the thinking while he'd done the real piloting. If he hadn't got overly curious about what was going on aboard the American s.p.a.ce station, he never would have been shanghaied when the s.p.a.ce station turned out to be a s.p.a.ceship. He hadn't wanted to come along, but he wasn't going back, not after two and a half years in weightlessness.

"Lieutenant Colonel Johnson! Lieutenant Colonel Glen Johnson!" His name rang out over the Lewis and Clark's Lewis and Clark's PA system. PA system. Oh, Christ! Oh, Christ! he thought. he thought. What have I done to p.i.s.s off the commandant now? What have I done to p.i.s.s off the commandant now? But it wasn't the commandant: the PA operator went on, "Report to scooter launching bay one immediately! Lieutenant Colonel Johnson. Lieutenant Colonel-" But it wasn't the commandant: the PA operator went on, "Report to scooter launching bay one immediately! Lieutenant Colonel Johnson. Lieutenant Colonel-"

"See you later," Johnson said to Flynn as he pushed off from a chair and glided out of the control room.

"And I'll be glad to be seen," Flynn called after him. Johnson was already swinging from one corridor handhold to the next: in weightlessness, imitating chimpanzees swinging through the trees was the best way to get around. Corridor intersections had mirrors mounted to cut down on collisions.

"What's going on?" Johnson asked when he got to the launch bay.

A technician was giving the scooter-a little rocket with a motor mounted at the front and another at the rear-a once-over. He said, "There's some kind of medical trouble in Dome 27, on that rock with the big black vein through it."

"Okay, I know the one you mean," Johnson said. "About twenty miles rearward of us, right?" He waited for the tech to nod, then went on, "Is it bad enough that they want me to bring a doctor over?" One of the things going out into s.p.a.ce had done was let people find new ways to maim themselves.

But the technician said, "No. What they want you to do is bring the gal back here so the doc can look her over, see what's going on."

"Gal?" Johnson clicked his tongue between his teeth. Women made up only about a third of the Lewis and Clark's Lewis and Clark's crew. Losing anybody hurt. Losing a woman... The idea shouldn't have hurt twice as much, but somehow it seemed to. "What's wrong with her? She hurt herself?" crew. Losing anybody hurt. Losing a woman... The idea shouldn't have hurt twice as much, but somehow it seemed to. "What's wrong with her? She hurt herself?"

"No," the tech said again. "Belly pain."

"Okay. I'll go get her." The Lewis and Clark Lewis and Clark had a chamber that could be spun to simulate gravity-only about .25g, but that was enough for surgery. Operating in weightlessness, with blood floating everywhere, wasn't even close to practical. The chamber, so far as Johnson knew, hadn't been used yet, but there was a first time for everything. had a chamber that could be spun to simulate gravity-only about .25g, but that was enough for surgery. Operating in weightlessness, with blood floating everywhere, wasn't even close to practical. The chamber, so far as Johnson knew, hadn't been used yet, but there was a first time for everything.

"You're ready," the tech said. "You're fully fueled, oxygen supply is full, too, batteries are good, radio checks are all nominal."

"Let me in, then." Johnson glided past the technician and into the scooter. After he closed the gas-tight canopy, he ran his own checks. It was his neck, after all. Everything looked the way the tech said it was. Johnson would have been astonished-and furious-had that proved otherwise. As things were, he spoke into the radio mike: "Ready when you are."

"Okay." A gas-tight door slid shut behind the scooter. A moment later, another one slid open in front of it. A charge of compressed air pushed the little rocket out of its bay. Johnson waited till it had drifted far enough away from the Lewis and Clark, Lewis and Clark, then lit up his att.i.tude jets and his rear motor and started off toward Dome 27. then lit up his att.i.tude jets and his rear motor and started off toward Dome 27.

He smiled in enormous pleasure as he made the trip. Mickey Flynn and Walter Stone were both much more qualified to pilot the Lewis and Clark Lewis and Clark than he was. If he ever got stuck with that a.s.signment, it would only be because something had gone drastically wrong somewhere. In a scooter, though... than he was. If he ever got stuck with that a.s.signment, it would only be because something had gone drastically wrong somewhere. In a scooter, though...

"In a scooter, I'm the hottest d.a.m.n pilot in the whole solar system," he said after making sure he wasn't transmitting. Without false modesty, he knew he was right. His years as a combat flier and in Earth-orbital missions gave him a feel for the little rocket n.o.body else aboard the Lewis and Clark Lewis and Clark came close to matching. This was s.p.a.ceflight, too, s.p.a.ceflight in its purest form, s.p.a.ceflight by the seat of his pants. came close to matching. This was s.p.a.ceflight, too, s.p.a.ceflight in its purest form, s.p.a.ceflight by the seat of his pants.

He made only one concession to his instruments: he kept an eye on the radar screen, to make sure his Mark One eyeball didn't miss any tumbling rocks that might darken his day if they smacked into the scooter. He had to be especially watchful heading toward Dome 27, since he was going, so to speak, against the flow.

He spied one large object on the radar that he couldn't see at all, but he didn't let it worry him. He supposed it was inevitable that the Lizards should have sent out unmanned probes to keep an eye (or would it be an eye turret?) on what the Americans were doing in the asteroid belt. That made life difficult, but not impossible. And, as the Americans ran up more and more domes and spread farther and farther away from the Lewis and Clark, Lewis and Clark, the Lizards' surveillance job got harder and harder. the Lizards' surveillance job got harder and harder.

Their spy ship was well off the track between the Lewis and Clark Lewis and Clark and Dome 27, so Johnson didn't waste more than a moment's thought on it. He fired up the radio once more: "Dome 27, this is the scooter. I say again, Dome 27, this is the scooter. I understand you have a pickup for me. Over." and Dome 27, so Johnson didn't waste more than a moment's thought on it. He fired up the radio once more: "Dome 27, this is the scooter. I say again, Dome 27, this is the scooter. I understand you have a pickup for me. Over."

"That's right, Scooter," said whoever was manning the radio at the pressure dome. "Liz Brock's hurting pretty bad. We're hoping it's her appendix-anything else would be worse. Estimate your arrive time twenty minutes."

"Sounds about right," Johnson agreed. "I'll get her back, and the doc'll figure out what's going on with her. Hope everything turns out okay. Out." Under his breath, he muttered, "Liz Brock-that's not so good." She was the ship's number-one expert on electrolyzing ice to get oxygen for breathing and fuel and hydrogen for fuel. She was also a nice-looking blonde. She'd never shown the least interest in Johnson, but he didn't believe in wasting valuable natural resources.

He used his forward rocket motor to kill his velocity relative to the little asteroid on which Dome 27 had gone up, then guided the scooter into the dome's airlock with tiny, delicate bursts from his att.i.tude jets. Ever so slowly, the scooter settled toward the floor of the airlock: the gravity of the asteroid (which was less than a mile across) seemed almost as much rumor as reality.

As soon as the outer airlock door closed and his gauges showed there was pressure outside, Johnson unsealed the scooter's canopy. He didn't have to wait long. Two people floated into the airlock: Liz Brock and a man who was helping her. He said, "We've loaded her up with as much codeine as she can hold, and then maybe a little more for luck."

"Doesn't help," the electrolysis expert said. Her voice was slow and dragging. "Doesn't help much, much, I mean. I feel like I'm drunk. I feel like my whole head's weightless. But I still hurt." She looked like it. She had lines at the corners of her mouth that hadn't been there the last time Johnson saw her. Skin stretched tight across her cheekbones. She kept one hand on the right side of her belly, though she didn't seem to notice she was doing it. I mean. I feel like I'm drunk. I feel like my whole head's weightless. But I still hurt." She looked like it. She had lines at the corners of her mouth that hadn't been there the last time Johnson saw her. Skin stretched tight across her cheekbones. She kept one hand on the right side of her belly, though she didn't seem to notice she was doing it.

After she got into the scooter, Johnson fastened her safety harness when she didn't do anything but fumble with it. Anxiously, he asked the fellow who'd helped her into the airlock, "She's not throwing up, is she?"

"No," the man answered, which relieved him: dealing with vomit in the scooter was the last thing he wanted to do.

He used his att.i.tude jets to slide out of the airlock, then went back to the Lewis and Clark Lewis and Clark faster than he'd gone away. When he returned to the ship, Dr. Miriam Rosen was waiting at the inner airlock door to the shuttle bay. "Come on, Liz, let's get you over to the X-ray machine," she said. "We'll see if we can figure out what's going on in there." faster than he'd gone away. When he returned to the ship, Dr. Miriam Rosen was waiting at the inner airlock door to the shuttle bay. "Come on, Liz, let's get you over to the X-ray machine," she said. "We'll see if we can figure out what's going on in there."

"All right." Liz Brock sounded altogether indifferent. Maybe that was the codeine talking. Maybe, too, it was the pain talking.

Johnson wanted to tag along to find out whatever he could, but didn't have the nerve. He watched the doctor lead away the electrolysis expert. Before long, he'd get answers through the grapevine.

And he did. Things came out piecemeal, as they had a way of doing. It wasn't appendicitis. He heard that pretty soon. He didn't hear what it was for three or four days. "Liver cancer?" he exclaimed to Walter Stone, who told him. "What can they do about that?"

"Not a d.a.m.n thing," the senior pilot said grimly. "Keep her from hurting too bad till she dies-that's about the size of it." He seldom showed much of what he thought, but he was visibly upset here. "Could have been you or me, too, just as easy. No rhyme or reason to this-only dumb luck."

"Yeah." Johnson felt lousy, too. He didn't mind being an ambulance driver, but he hadn't signed up to be, in essence, a hea.r.s.e driver. And there were also other things to worry about. "This won't hurt the plan too much, will it?"

Now Stone looked stern and determined. "Nothing hurts the plan, Glen. Nothing."

"Good," Glen Johnson said. "We've still got a lot of work to do."

.4.

With a shriek of decelerating jet engines, the j.a.panese airliner rolled to a stop on the runway just outside of Edmonton. The pilot spoke over the intercom, first in his own language and then in English hardly more comprehensible. "What the h.e.l.l is he talking about?" Penny Summers asked.

"One from column A, two from column B," Rance Auerbach guessed. Penny gave him a dirty look. He ignored it and went on, "It would have been a lot faster and a lot cheaper to fly a U.S. airliner out of Tahiti."

"And it would have made stops in the States, too," Penny pointed out. "I didn't want to take the chance."

"Well, okay," Auerbach said with a sigh. "But I'll tell you something: there aren't a h.e.l.l of a lot of places left where we can go without somebody wanting to take a shot at us as soon as we get there. That gets old, you know what I mean?"

"Things ought to be pretty peaceful for the layover here." Penny sighed, too. Rance knew what that meant. Whenever she came to someplace peaceful, she got bored. When she got bored, she started turning things on their ear. He'd had enough of things' getting turned on their ear. Telling her so wouldn't do him any good. He knew as much. He didn't think she started stirring things up on purpose-which didn't mean they didn't get stirred up.

Groundcrew men wheeled a deplaning ladder up to the airliner's front door. Rance grunted even more painfully than usual as he heaved himself upright. Except for a couple of trips back to the head, he'd been trapped in a none-too-s.p.a.cious seat ever since Midway Island. He hadn't been sitting here forever-he couldn't have been-but it sure as h.e.l.l felt that way.

"Baggage and customs and pa.s.sport control through Gate Four," a groundcrew man bawled, again and again. "Gate Four!" He pointed toward the airport terminal, as if none of the deplaning pa.s.sengers could possibly have noticed the big red 4 above the nearest gate without his help.

"Well, well, what have we here?" a Canadian customs man said, examining their doc.u.ments with considerable interest. "Papers from the Race, valid for South Africa only-rather emphatically valid for South Africa only, I might add. Then all these endors.e.m.e.nts from Free France, a j.a.panese transit visa, and a transit visa for the Dominion here. Fascinating. You don't see things like this every day."

"You see anything wrong?" Rance put a little challenge in his raspy, ruined voice.

"And you, sir, do not sound like a South African," the customs man said. "You sound like an American from the South."

"Doesn't matter what I sound like," Auerbach said. "Only thing that matters is, my papers are in order."