It fell almost to the surface, so low that it was beneath the sensor- nets, and barreled over the jagged landscape.

Inside the cabin, Lona asked, "Is this what you'd call a 'stress situation'?"

"Not at all," Fess assured her. "It is simply a matter of adjusting our trajectory with the attitude jets, according to the irregularities in the landscape indicated by the sensors. At this low a speed, I always have several milliseconds to react."

"Piece of cake, huh? I think you'd better keep the con for this one."

"As mademoiselle wishes," Fess murmured.

He finally brought them to rest when the glittering lights of a spaceport appeared over the horizon. The burro-boat sank to the dust in the shadow of a huge crag, with the weary, thankful groan of engines idling down.

"I detected an airlock hatch in this outcrop," Fess informed them.

"There is an electronics kit in the cabinet below the console; can any of you bypass the telltale on the hatchway, so that Spaceport Security will not know the lock has been opened?"

"Duck soup," Lona affirmed, "the instant kind. Where'11 you be while we're gone?"

"In the shadow of a ring-wall, in a remote crater," Fess answered. "I will move as the shadows move. Next to the electronics kit, you will find a small transmitter of convenient size for a pocket. Press the button on it, and it will send a coded pulse to me. When I receive it, I will determine your location from its vector and amplitude, and bring the boat to you."

Lona opened the cabinet, pulled out the electronics kit, and flipped the recall unit to Whitey. He Caught it and slipped it into a pocket inside his belt. "What's its range?"

"A thousand kilometers," Fess answered. "If you call from Serenitatis Spaceport, I will hear you."

"How about if we have to call you from Terra?"

"You will have to feed the signal through a stronger transmitter "

"We can't ask for a complete guarantee." Father Marco rose and turned toward the companion way. "I think I can remember where I left my pressure suit."

"There are ten air bottles in the locker with them," Fess noted.

"Well, thanks for all the help." Lona shooed the rest of the crew aft.

"If anyone knocks while we're gone ..."

"I will not let them in," Fess assured her The airlock hatch had a panel with a button inset beside it. Lona pulled out a screwdriver, tightened in the appropriate blade, and set it into the screw. It whined twice, and she lifted the panel away, handing it to Dae Dar watched her clip a couple of leads in.

Above them, a twelve-foot parabolic dish moaned as it rotated a few degrees, and stopped.

Lona leaped back as though she'd been stabbed. Dar didn't blame her; it was all he could do to keep from dropping the plate. He wished he had; then he couldn't have heard the antenna's moan, since the sound conducted into his suit through the wires holding the plate.

Whitey leaned over, touching his helmet against Lena's. After a minute, she nodded, then stepped grimly back to the airlock. She took the plate from Dar and replaced it. Then she pressed the button, and the hatch slowly swung open. She gestured to Dar, and he stepped in.

The others followed, Lona last. Whitey pressed a plate in the wall, and the hatch swung shut. Dar waited, fidgeting. Finally, the inner hatch opened. He stepped through into darkness, cracked his helmet seal, and tilted it back. He turned as a glow-light lit in Whitey's hand, saw Lona tilting her helmet back as Father Marco closed the airlock.

"What're we gonna do about the bypass?" Dar asked.

"Leave it there." Lona shrugged. "Can't be helped."

"Security patrols all the locks regularly," supplied Sam the bureaucrat. "They'll find it within a few days."

"Not exactly what I'd call a cheery thought, but it lightens the conscience. What'd you do to make that microwave dish swing around, Lona?"

"Nothing," Whitey answered. "That dish was beaming commercial 3DT programming down to the Terran satellites. When it gets done feeding its schedule to one satellite, it rotates to lock onto another one, and starts the whole feed all over again."

"3DT?" Dar frowned. "Why do they feed it from the moon?"

"Because that's where they make the programs, innocent!" Sam snorted.

Whitey nodded. "It takes a lot of room for enough 3DT sound stages to make new programming for a hundred twenty channels each, for twenty-six main cultures-and they have to make new stuff constantly.

There just wasn't enough room for it in the major cities. So, bit by bit, the production companies shifted up here to Luna, where real estate was very cheap. The whole entertainment industry for the entire I.D.E. is in the moon now."

"Some say it belonged there all along, anyway," Lona muttered.

"Oh." Dar mulled it oven "So your publisher's offices are up here, too?"

"No, the print industry stayed Earthbound."

"Oh." Dar looked around at the rough-hewn tunnel walls scored with the screw-tracks of a laser-borer. "Well, not much we can do here, is there? I suppose our next step is to hop a shuttle to Terra."

"Wrong." Whitey shook his head. "That asteroid miner has probably sung the Solar Patrol a whole opera by now. Every security guard on the moon will have memorized little sketches of us. We've got to establish some kind of cover identities first, not to mention something by way of disguises."

Dar felt his stomach sink. "I should've known it couldn't be something straightforward and simple."

"Not on Terra," Sam agreed, "and the moon's just as bad." She turned to Whitey. "What kind of cover did you have in mind?"

"I didn't." Whitey started climbing out of his gear "I recommend we rack these suits and find some place to hole up while we think about it."

Whitey had indeed emptied out his purse for the old miner- but he had another one hidden inside his belt. A brief stop at a department store turned up a coiffured wig and translucent dress for Sam, some hair dye and baggy tunic-and-trousers for Lona, some more hair dye and business outfits for the men. A somewhat longer stop at a comfort station produced remarkable changes in their appearance.

Whitey lined them up in the hallway, looked them over, and nodded.

"You'll do. Just barely, maybe, but you'll do. Now, the odds are that your prints are on file somewhere-oh, you're sure of it, Dar? Well, the rest of you don't take chances, either Don't put your thumbprint to anything. Don't look into anything that might want to scan your retinas, either-no peekholes in amusement galleries, eyepiece 3DT viewers, or lens-fitting scopes. Understand? Good. Because you're in the Big Sapphire's computer net now, folks, and every step you take is liable to monitoring by a computer tied into Terra Central."

"Is it really that bad?" Dar asked. "Worse," Sam confirmed.

Whitey nodded again. "Have no illusions, folks. Our chances of getting away free, back to the colony planets, are slightly worse than a dinosaur's caught in a glacier I can only hope the gamble's worth the share-time. Okay-from now on, we're a free-lance production crew, looking for work. Anything I say about you, just confirm it, and don't look surprised. That includes your names; I'll be thinking up new ones for you as we go along. Ready? March!"

The "march" took them to a twenty-foot-high facade sheared out of the lunar rock, decorated with the modest gleam that comes of vast wealth, and the words "Occidental Productions, Inc." carved over the doorway and sheathed in platinum.

"This's just the production house," Whitey explained. "Manufactures most of the entertainment for one of the anglophone channels."

As they passed through the door, Dar found himself somehow totally certain that each person's height, weight, build, and coloring was registering in a computer somewhere deep inside the complex, which was trying to correlate it with the descriptions of all known criminals who might have a grudge against OCI. It was almost enough to make him turn right around and try to hijack the next outgoing spacer That didn't quite do it, but the foyer nearly did. Oh, the carpet was thick and the decoration superb; that wasn't the problem. It was the three uniformed guards, two androids, and five cameras, every one of which seemed to be looking directly at him. He stopped in his tracks, swallowing something that he hoped wasn't his heart.

But Whitey strolled ahead, confident and nonchalant, looking totally like your ordinary, everyday plutocrat.

"Service, citizen?" the lead guard asked with perfect, impersonal politeness.

"Gratitude, citizen. Mr. Tambourin, to see Mr Stroganoff."

"Do you have an appoi . . ."the guard began, out of habit. But he closed his mouth, and gazed up at Whitey for a moment. Then he said, "Of course, Mr Tambourin." He turned to murmur into a shielded com unit, waited, then murmured again. A delighted yelp sounded faintly from the unit. The guard listened, nodded, and turned back to Whitey.

"He will be up in a few minutes, ME Tambourin. I regret the delay, but . . .".

"Of course." Whitey smiled indulgently. "He didn't know I was coming-but then, neither did I. Old friends, you understand."

"Perfectly." The guard was a good liar, anyway. "If you'll step into the lobby, Mr. Tambourin . . . ?"

Whitey smiled with a gracious, affable nod, and turned back to the "team." "Come along, children." He turned and ambled away toward the big interior doors.

Dar could fairly hear Sam bristling as they followed.

The androids swung the doors open, inclining in a slight "bow as Whitey passed through. As Dar filed by, he definitely did not receive the expected impression of being scanned.

What with one thing and another, it boosted his opinion of Whitey's status till it almost soared.

They entered a world of sybaritic luxury-parqueted walls with huge, inscrutable paintings that fairly screamed, "ART!" surrounding chairs that seemed to mold themselves around the sitter's body, a carpet so thick that it must have had a heartbeat, and a tastefully almost- dressed hostess who bent low to murmur, "Refreshment, citizen?"

A month ago, Dar would have grabbed her and enacted the wildest scene of animal lust ever recorded (which it no doubt would have been). But, with Lona in the same room, the woman just didn't seem interesting. "Yes, something to drink, thanks. Nothing too stimulating."

When she handed him the drink, he took a tiny sip-and euphoria/ecstasy/exaltation/Nirvana rose up behind his eyeballs and exploded in streamers that enveloped his brain. He sat rigid for a moment, then coughed delicately into his fist, and set the drink down.

He'd had occasional experiences with the pipeweed of Wolmar, during prairie grass fires, and knew a depressant when one hit him.

The lady had taken him at his word, and then some; he wondered if he'd unwittingly spoken a code phrase.

Then a medium-sized man with a giant of a personality swept into the lounge. "Tambourin! You infernal old scoundrel! Welcome back!"

Whitey stood up just in time to be almost knocked down by the dynamo's enthusiasm. All that kept him up was the bear hug as Stroganoff's rolling laughter boomed in their ears.

Then Stroganoff held Whitey back at arm's length, grinning from ear to ear. "Let me look at you, ancient my wastrel! . . . Not a day! Ten years, and he hasn't aged a wrinkle!" "Well, I was old enough the last time I saw you." Whitey slapped Stroganoff on the shoulder. "Solid meat still, eh? You're not doing so badly yourself, David!"

"Not since they gave me that new stomach, no. But let me put on my manners a second. Glad to meet you, folks, I'm David Stroganoff.

Who're your friends, Whitey?"

"Oh, this is Fulva Vulpes." Whitey stretched a hand out to Lona, whose eyes registered only the faintest of surprises. "She's my assistant director and director of editing."

Stroganoff's eyebrows went up. "Unusual combination." He pressed Lena's hand. "You must be very good with computers."

Now Lona did show surprise. She glanced at Whitey. Stroganoff chuckled. "And who's this enchantress?"

Sam answered the compliment with a glare, which brought even more charm feeding back from Stroganoff. "Watching to make sure the compliment's not more than its subject is worth, eh? Believe me, it's sound as an erg. What is she, Tod-your unit manager?"

"If it comes in a bureaucratic package and is wrapped with red tape, I can cut it," Sam said warily.

"Unit manager, it is! And you, citizen?"

"Coburn Helith, research and script development. Go's the one who came up with the idea for tying my verses into a story, Dave."

"Wh . . . Tod'n' I've been talking for some time now." Father Marco shook Stroganoff's hand without batting an eyelid. "I work from fundamental mythic structures-which means I have trouble thinking commercially, of course."

"Well, don't let it worry you-the myth hasn't been born that can't be debased," Stroganoff said with a perfectly straight face. He turned to Dar. "And the young one, Tod?"

"Perry Tetic-'Pa' to us juveniles. He's the debaser you just mentioned." Whitey was obviously making it up as he went along.

"The commercializer. He's very good at putting the most abstract ideas into words even the average dunce can understand."

"Oh, really." Stroganoff shook Dar's hand with guarded interest.

"Let's hope we have time for a chat, Perry. I'm kind of interested in that kind of thing, myself."

"Let's make time." Dar was sure of being able to hold up his end of that conversation; anyone who'd been through Cholly's curriculum could. At least Whitey had given him a role he knew something about- and, looking back on it, he realized Whitey'd done the same for each of the others, too.

"... a little behind the state of the art," he realized Lona was saying.

"Could I have a look at your editing facilities?" "Of course, of course!

Tour of the whole place, in fact. Sound Stage Number Ten's the first stop-I just ducked out of there, and I've got to quack back to make sure everything's running smoothly. Come on, this way!"

He set off, Whitey beside him; the rest followed in their wake. They turned into a corridor that opened off the lounge, Whitey and Stroganoff talking double-speed.

"So you put together your own production unit, eh, Tod? Glad to see you were listening when I kept saying you ought to package up a tank- play-but I didn't expect you to raft your own team!"

"Only way I'll touch it, Dave." Whitey shook his head, jaw set. "With me in control over the whole thing. You may notice we're lacking a producer, though."

"Yeah, I did kind of notice that." Stroganoff grinned like a shark. "Is that an offer, Tod?"

"What do you want-thumbscrews?"

"Always the consummate diplomat. You know I can't resist a chance on something this good-but you need backing, too. You can't be crazy enough to try to finance something like this on your own."

"Well, I don't exactly have a reputation for thrift." Whitey grinned.

"But I'm not that far gone."

"No thrift, my Aunt Asteroid," Lona muttered. "He's got enough in the Bank of Terra to buy a small planet- developed!"

It was a good chance to get close to her. Dar sidled up and whispered, "They're buddies. How come Stroganoff keeps calling him 'Tod'?"

" 'Cause he doesn't know about 'Whitey,'" Lona muttered back.

"Nobody does, outside the taverns."

Well. That also explained the security problem that had been giving Dar heartburn. He'd thought Whitey was bringing sure disaster down on them by using his real name-but anyone on Falstaff who'd told Canis Destinus that Whitey the Wino was helping Dar Mandra wouldn't have known him as Tod Tambourin. So his best alias was his real name.

"Right in here." Stroganoff hauled open a door that looked like a huge airlock hatch. "Stage Ten." As Sam filed past him, he added, " 'Fraid I didn't catch your name, citizen."