"We're losing more pieces of the external tanks! I don't think they're going to hold."

"Navigation, how much more of this?"

"We're most of the way through, sir. Another two minutes and we'll have shed enough velocity to handle the rest of the re-orbiting on our own."

"If we make it that long," Zhang whispered to himself. If they didn't burn up. Even if they didn't burn up, they might not have external tanks. If that was so, he thought, We are screwed.

Time dragged on, until it seemed impossible that the ship wouldn't fly apart: but it didn't. Gradually the buffeting diminished, the incandescent glow outside the windows dimmed, and the roaring wind quieted.

The Celestial Odyssey was free of Saturn's atmosphere for a second time.

Zhang: "Navigation, you have a burn that will normalize our orbit?"

"Relaying it to the helm now, sir."

"When you can, Helm, if you will."

Peng: "Acknowledged, sir."

A moment later he initiated the command sequence. Thrusters fired, rotating the ship one hundred eighty degrees. The main engines cut in, ten huge columns of blue-white-hot hydrogen plasma jetting from the rocket nozzles into space ahead of the ship. The Celestial Odyssey, much lighter than it had been when it left Earth, decelerated at a steady half gee. Fifteen minutes of this would have the ship in a much tighter orbit, from which they could work their way into the Maxwell Gap.

"Mr. Cui, what's our status? Just the high points, if you will."

The first officer scanned the ever-lengthening list of status summaries scrolling onto her screen. Maintenance had nothing new to say about the external tanks, but it was assumed that they were pretty much useless. Worse than useless, dead weight-they'd have to be cut away from the ship to reduce its mass before they returned home.

"Sir, I . . ." Then she stopped and turned pale. It took her just a fraction of a second to collect her thoughts, but the rest of the crew caught her hesitation. The bridge went silent.

"Captain . . . Engineering reports that we lost . . . we lost containment on the downside hangar bay. The seals on the doors failed. Thermal stress plus physical shock . . ." She shook her head violently and resumed in a stronger voice. "The bay depressurized. Maintenance has been unable to raise the work crew."

Zhang: "Comm, get me a feed, now!"

A virtual screen flicked into visibility, mid-bridge. Everything looked intact in the bay. No equipment had shaken loose from its tie-downs. The doors appeared solid. It was a deceptive appearance. Toward the forward end of the bay, four figures floated in harnesses tethered to the wall. Unmoving figures.

"Get a medical team to the bay! Now! Now!"

"On their way, sir, but I don't think it's going to make any difference," Cui said. "The data stream says the bay depressurized ten minutes ago."

O jiangui, thought Zhang, o jiangui, o jiangui . . .

The transfer of the memory modules and the readers was routine. The eight modules looked like 2.5-centimeter carbon-fiber dowel rods, each twenty centimeters long, with a needle-thin, gold-colored metallic strip on one side. The strip was gold-colored because it turned out to be gold. The rods looked like carbon fiber, because analysis showed that each module had a carbon fiber shell.

The readers looked vaguely like office paper-printers, black cubes that measured fifty centimeters in each of the three dimensions, with rubber-like legs at each corner of the bottom. The top had a slot that would take a memory module.

The readers ran on direct current electricity but had an alien I/O port. Converter ports would have to be fabricated. Wurly interrupted the regular I/O flow to the Nixon to insert an operating manual for the readers, along with instructions for converting the I/O port.

Each reader and each QSU module came in its own container, again, of carbon fiber. They were ferried back to the Nixon in a heated case built by Martinez and Sandy in the fab shop, one set at a time: Fang-Castro wouldn't risk losing all of them at once, or even two of them at once, in a freak accident.

Sandy called Crow from the primary: "We got the last five and a half trade points. They gave us one point for the oboe and the bassoon, apparently there're no double-reeds in their trading stock. Forking over most of the commander's tea and Clover's liquor got us three more points. Oh, yeah, and we got half a point for the music collection, although the trade computer discarded ninety-nine percent of it. John says we could learn more about our alien friends from what they kept and what they rejected."

"We kept a record of what they took and what they let go?"

"Absolutely."

"They keep Beethoven and Mozart?"

"No. They kept Bach, Vivaldi, some guys I never heard of from the late nineteenth century-Erik Satie?-then a twentieth-century group called Motorhead and some American Indian drumming songs, and most recently, a Russian group called Rape the Whirlwind. They didn't take Kid Little, which tells you something about their taste."

"Yes, it does, but I don't care. What'd we get the other points for? Don't tell me they went for those fake disks and the disk player."

"Absolutely. The computer suggested that we could bring more of them, and get more points, but we have to wait sixty-four years."

"Unbelievable." When Martinez had learned that the trade computer was interested in archaic music machines, he'd fabricated a mid-twentieth-century disk player that played thirty-centimeter plastic disks through a crystalline pickup that vibrated according to an arrangement of grooves on the disk. He got the specs from a vintage recording club, and he and Sandy printed out everything but the pickup in a marathon five-hour fab session. The pickup was fashioned from a diamond-stud earring they extorted from the surveillance tech-"But they were given to me by my former fiance"-and cut with a laser.

"Unbelievable, yup. I got the feeling we just got patted on the head for handing over some nice woven baskets. Do you care?" Sandy asked.

"No."

Crow rubbed his eyes: he'd had nothing but catnaps for two days, relying on stim tabs to get him through. They were starting to take their toll.

The powers-that-be back home were making life difficult, demanded constant updates on the status of the Chinese mission. By virtue of its proximity, the Nixon had a better idea what was going on with the Celestial Odyssey than Earth did, but that didn't mean they had a very good idea.

That problem was complicated by the light-speed time lag. The round-trip time for communication was over two hours, and that was unavoidable. Santeros didn't much care. Whatever was going on back home wasn't waiting on the speed of light. As soon as one of her queries came in, he had to jump on it and formulate a response, regardless of the time, day or night, or what else he might be doing.

Further, the Chinese were still uncommunicative. There clearly had been considerable damage to their ship. Their external tanks were either destroyed or badly damaged. They could see Chinese work crews cutting away what remained of the tankage. The main superstructure ship appeared to be intact.

His implants beeped at him, and he nodded, sighed, and headed down to Fang-Castro's office.

She looked at tired as he felt. "Talking to the President again?"

"Yes. Same old thing. Anything change? No. How about now? Anything change? No." A thin smile flitted across his face. "It's like dealing with a kid: 'When are we gonna get there?'"

"All right," Fang-Castro said. "They're telling us that we need to ensure that the Chinese don't get access to the AI in the depot, at least until we're gone. I'll be ordering the deployment of armed personnel at the depot landing pad and the access port, round the clock. Do you agree?"

Crow pursed his lips. "This is theater, correct? Drawing a line in the sand that they know they can't cross without risking war?"

"Entirely. We can't fire on their personnel for the same reason. We look tough, but if the Chinese push the issue, we give way. I'm betting the Chinese won't risk it. If it did come down to a fight, we'd lose. We are most likely seriously outmanned and outgunned."

She continued: "Our ship is also more fragile than theirs. If they were to bring the fight to the Nixon, they very likely have armaments that could entirely cripple us. Whereas we, in turn, have little if anything that could touch their ship. Unless you have an ace up your sleeve you haven't told me about?"

Crow shook his head. "No. When the planning devolves down to 'Who can wave the bigger gun?' it's moved beyond my scope of authority."

"All right, then. I'm assigning four-person teams, two at the landing pad and two at the port. Three teams, eight-hour shifts. I will hold back Sandy Darlington. He will continue to document this encounter-I mean, both with the alien primary and with the Chinese."

Crow nodded. "I wish I could provide you with better options, but I'm as blind as you are. I'll keep hammering intelligence back on Earth to try to get more information about the Chinese's intentions, but I'm not hopeful."

His slate pinged. Sandy Darlington, urgent. Any urgent call from the alien primary was a priority.

He said to Fang-Castro: "It's Darlington, urgent, from the primary. I better take it."

"Yes."

Crow tapped the link and Darlington's face came up from his in-suit camera. He said, "Hey, big guy. How they hangin'?" and flashed his toothy smile.

"Sandy, I'm talking to the admiral."

"Oops. Sorry, ma'am. Anyway, I was, uh . . . hanging out here . . . uh, just bullshittin' with Wurly-"

Crow said, "Sandy . . ."

"Ah, sorry again, ma'am. For the language. Anyway, I thought of a couple of questions that nobody else has asked, and I asked them, and I thought I better get the answers back to you."

Fang-Castro said, "Do you want to share the answers with us, Mr. Darlington, or do you plan to continue bullshittin'?"

"No, ma'am." The toothy smile again. "I asked, 'Wurly, when you said we get eight memory modules and eight readers, did you mean, we, from the ship here now? Or did you mean we, as a species?' Wurly said, 'You, as a species. We have eight memory modules to dispense and eight readers.' I asked, 'Can't you make more?' and he said, 'We do not have the facilities here to fabricate more, although we have the information to do so. Therefore, the number of physical readers allotted to one species is limited.' Then I asked, 'When you said we get up to eight points, is that for our species, or for this visit?' He said that it's for our species. If we want more, we have to go to a different depot, or wait sixty-four years, when we'll become eligible again."

Fang-Castro and Crow looked at each other, then Fang-Castro asked, "You mean . . . if the Chinese show up and ask for the memory modules and readers, they won't get any? Nor will they be able to trade?"

"That's what Wurly's saying, ma'am. Then I thought, 'You know, old Crow's gonna want to run off with both the memory modules and the readers, and all the trade stuff, leaving the Chinese holding an empty bag. More than that, he's probably gonna want to slap a chunk of C-10 on Wurly and blow the shit out of him-sorry again, ma'am-so the Chinese couldn't even find out what we'd done.' So I asked Wurly if there were more Wurlys, and there are. It will take them ten hours to bring out a replacement, plus all the other computers can act as Wurlys if necessary. So we probably can't go around blowing them all up, even if we knew they wouldn't retaliate. Bottom line is, we've got all the hardware.

"They could get instructions for the reader, and maybe even the information that's on the memory modules, through Wurly, but it would take them forever. I asked how long it would take to download all the QSU information through our I/O, and Wurly said it would take two hundred and twelve years. The Chinese can get the basic science over the I/O link. Hell, a lot more than basic science. But the complete manufacturing and engineering specs? Those're on the QSUs.

"But here's the key thing: Wurly answers all questions that he knows the answer to. If we run off with everything-the Chinese are going to find out. All they have to do is ask."

Fang-Castro said, "Mr. Darlington, stay where you are. I'm going to run this by the brain trust, and see if there are more related questions for your old pal Wurly. Oh, and we'll get Santeros and her people off their asses."

Sandy said, "Ma'am, as you know, I served in a military intelligence unit . . ."

"Yes, I have been briefed on that."

"Mr. Crow believes there is a spy on board. Or at least, believes it's possible. I would suggest that you, mmm, hold this information very tightly. You need to know it, and Mr. Crow needs to know it, but if there's a spy, and you talk to your brain trust, the spy is going to hear about it. I don't think that would be good-though, of course, it's your call, ma'am."

"Thank you, Mr. Darlington." She went silent for a moment, looked at Crow, who raised an eyebrow.

Then: "I think perhaps you're right, Mr. Darlington. We will hold this to the three of us."

Zhang contemplated the surveillance vid playing on the bridge's main screen. The American survey team had departed the artificial planetoid that appeared to be the primary alien base. They'd been making daily visits for as long as the Celestial Odyssey was close enough to observe them. Presumably the Americans had started sending over teams as soon as their ship had settled into position.

Zhang had positioned the Odyssey on the far side of that body from the Nixon but much closer in, just fifty kilometers from the alien base. Zhang could appreciate the Americans' caution; they were the first ones to approach this enigma. He recalled an Americanism-the first pioneers were the ones with the arrows in their backs.

That was a benefit of being second on the scene: now Zhang knew that the aliens wouldn't instantly initiate hostilities. In fact, given the repeated visits of the survey team, it appeared that they wouldn't engage in hostilities at all. Further, it appeared, the Americans had found something worth making repeated trips for.

At this close distance, surveillance probes weren't even required; not on this side of the planetoid, anyway. The ship's telescopes could resolve centimeter-sized objects on its surface. First Officer Cui had joked, "From here, if they wave at us, we can tell if it's a friendly greeting or if they're giving us the finger."

Nobody had waved. Until now, it had looked like the Americans were entirely ignoring the Chinese, continuing their predictable routine of visits. The new vids, though, showed a second shuttle vehicle arriving at the planetoid just as the survey team was about to depart. It landed and deployed four people, who took up stations in pairs at the landing pad and the access port to the planetoid.

Thanks to that centimeter-scale resolution, the vid clearly showed that all four were armed. It appeared that the Chinese presence was being acknowledged.

Cui pushed for a confrontation. "Sir, the Americans can't lay unilateral claim to the planetoid. It violates the Law of Space Treaty. Not even considering that in all likelihood there are intelligent beings in that planetoid, with their own sovereignty. We need to press the issue."

"Mr. Cui, before relying on space law to back your outrage, you might wish to recall that our original mission was to establish a sovereign colony on Mars. Also, this planetoid falls below the ten-kilometer limit for sovereign territory. While its resources must be shared, to some degree, any party can lay claim to it for such things as exploitation of mineral rights. I don't believe we have a lot of legal push.

"Now, the local sovereignty issue, there may be something to that." He thought a moment. "We don't even know what the aliens' desires are in this matter. They might be entirely happy having more than one group of humans visit them. They might have means to enforce those wishes, regardless of those of the Americans. We will send a party over. A diplomatic party. Let us see if we are welcomed."

"Sir! May I volunteer to lead the party?"

Zhang shook his head. The last thing a possible first contact with aliens-and a definite contact with probably-antagonistic Americans-needed were the diplomatic talents of someone as temperamental as his first officer. He kept those thoughts to himself. Instead, he said, "Mr. Cui, I really need you here, capable of making on-the-spot decisions for the ship. Furthermore, we know nothing about the aliens, but it's possible they might take umbrage if approached by less than the highest-ranking entity. This task falls on me."

More importantly, he thought, I'm less likely to get us into a dustup with the Americans. Beijing had been clear to him on that point: keep the aliens' knowledge out of the hands of the Americans at all costs . . . short of starting the next superpower war.

Two hours later, a short-haul tug departed from the Celestial Odyssey with five space-suited crew. A fifty-kilometer run didn't require anything like the shuttle, and Zhang didn't want to risk it on so uncertain a mission. Really, prudence dictated that he shouldn't be there at all.

Unfortunately, there was no one on the ship who was better qualified to deal with this unpredictable and delicate situation. If worse came to worst, his first officer was entirely capable of commanding the vessel for a return trip to Earth. She'd not likely make any friends along the way . . .

And they had yet to settle the question of whether the ship was capable of bringing the crew home alive and whole.

Zhang had done what he could to minimize the potential for loss. He had a bare minimum complement accompanying him. The contact crew included Lieutenant Peng Cong, who was without question the best pilot on board and Zhang's personal favorite. A short-haul tug did not usually require fancy piloting, but this was not a usual run, and evasive action might prove necessary.

Dr. Mo Mu was a research biologist and medical officer and one of the oldest and most experienced crew members. He might have some insight into the nature of the aliens and if there were an accident . . . or incident . . . his skills might save someone's life. He was also, frankly, expendable; there were several other people on board the ship with advanced medical training. Dr. Gao Xing Xing was an astrophysicist, best in her class at Beijing University, smart as a whip, and very, very fast on the uptake. She was along to study alien technology and science. If first contact failed catastrophically, there'd be little for someone of her skills to study, and she served no function in the operation of the ship. So . . . also expendable.

Zhang hated planning this in terms of who he could afford to sacrifice. He'd just lost four crew members in the bay depressurization, including two engineers. That had been an unavoidable accident. It still ate at him. Consciously choosing who was dispensable, to put them on this mission, it didn't sit well. It was especially difficult when he knew that the people he'd chosen for this trip thought that he'd honored them by doing so.

He was too soft. He needed to be more dispassionate.

Then, there was the fifth team member, one the captain wouldn't mind seeing expended. Second Lieutenant Duan Me wore two hats on the under-crewed Celestial Odyssey. She was a plant biologist, in charge of the ship's hydroponics, and as such she kept the crew well fed.

She was also the ship's political officer, the voice, eyes, and ears of the Party. On first meeting, you'd be impressed by her charm and humor, Zhang thought: she was a compact, solidly built woman who liked a good laugh. She also liked digging in the dirt, of which, she complained, there was far too little of in hydroponics.

She was the kind of person you'd want to confide in . . . unless the conversation turned to politics. With her, it inevitably did. Then she gave old Mao a run for cultural purity.

She had made it entirely clear that while she might be a mere second lieutenant and he was captain, she would be going on this little jaunt. Strictly as an observer, of course, to ensure that Beijing got an accurate report of the behavior of the Americans. No interference, she wouldn't think of it.

If Zhang could have thought of a way to release her tether and make it look like an accident, he would have been tempted.

Fifteen minutes in flight had them at the planetoid. Zhang had timed the launch so that the landing pad and apparent access port were facing the Celestial Odyssey. He preferred this encounter take place within sight of his ship, not to mention out of sight of the Nixon.

The four Americans took no action until the tug got within about a kilometer of the surface, when two of them unshouldered their weapons. Zhang signaled Peng to bring the tug to a halt. He toggled a common comm frequency, stood up, and held his arms far out from his sides.

"Gentlemen, I am Captain Zhang Ming-Hoa, commander of the Celestial Odyssey. May we have permission to land?"

One of the Americans, Zhang couldn't tell which one, responded, "I am sorry, sir, but we must regretfully decline your request. We are under strict orders that no one is to land here without the explicit authorization of Admiral Fang-Castro. We have received no such authorization."

"My apologies for my forwardness, but under the law of space, unless you have filed a claim on this body, we are entitled to land on it just as you have," Zhang said. He discreetly signaled Peng to start moving the tug in. Slowly. Very slowly.

"Sir, I am not trained in space law. But we are under orders from our commander." One of the Americans noticed the tug was approaching. He stiffened and nudged his companion. Very quickly, the other two Americans unshouldered their arms.

"Please, sir, stop your approach. Our orders are to take all measures necessary to prevent unauthorized landings." The American who had first unshouldered his weapon began to raise it to the ready position. Slowly, the other three followed suit. "Sir, we are authorized to use force. Once again, halt. You will not be warned a third time."

Ta ma de. They were going to push the issue. They must be bluffing. They were almost certainly bluffing. But he wasn't a hundred percent sure. Zhang signaled Peng and the tug came to a halt.