Cascade Point

Return to the Fold

The tiny spaceship was very definitely in trouble. Six enemy defiants were bearing down on it in a loose net pattern that Tomo knew was far more effective than it looked. Choosing one of the defiants at random, he kept his eye on it, control rod gripped tightly in his palm... and as the blue globe zigged he twisted the rod hard over, sending his spaceship into a zag maneuver that ran it neatly up against the defiants side. Up against it at the required zero delta vee, in fact, and Tomo smiled briefly as the defiant vanished and his own ship grew another size. One down, five to go, with his craft now a bigger and slower target.

"Tomo?"

"What is it, Max?" Tomo answered, his eyes still on the images darting around above his lounge chair.

"I've located a fault in my number-five close-approach antenna," the computer told him. "Nothing serious; just a bearing shell that needs replacing."

"And you want it done now, I suppose?" He sighed, the gesture more theatrical than serious. Max always waited until they were only days out from a spaceport before checking the Goldenrod's docking equipment, and the ship's six mainters were well used to it by now. In theory, it could result in a mad rush if something major went bad, but in practice the odds against that were low enough to ignore. "All right. Freeze the game and give me a schematic. Flat will do."

The holographic game images froze in midair and then vanished as Tomo levered himself easily out of his chair. The Goldenrod was decelerating at about two-tenths gee, half of what he was used to. Setting his game stick down beside the main control ball, he watched as Max put a complex schematic onto the nearby viewer. The affected bearing flashed in red; tracing a curve on the control ball with his finger, Tomo had the view enlarge and rotate. He debated changing his mind and asking for a complete hologram, decided the bearing's orientation was clear enough from the flat. The data box beneath the schematic directed him to Level Four, access panel four-twenty-six. Stepping to the circular staircase, he picked up his tool belt from its holder and started down.

Level Four was an equipment deck, with the sort of floor plan that could only be approved by someone who'd never have to work there. It took Tomo three minutes to work his way back to panel twenty-six, two more to get the plate off, and two more after that to find a comfortable position to work in. "Has Maigre Port sent you our manifest and next destination yet?" he asked Max, prodding a bolt experimentally with his wrench.

"Yes," the computer answered. "The main items are bioelectronics and exotic foodstuffs; we'll be taking them to Canaan Under Vega."

"Tricky stuff, bioelectronics. Should be good for, what, a seven-day layover?"

"The port has scheduled us for eight point five. Is the number significant?"

"Well..." Tomo paused, wondering whether he ought to bring this up. It seemed like such a crazy idea, sometimes, even to him. Still, he was going to have to talk to someone about it, and Max at least wouldn't laugh at him. "Tell me about Maigre. What's it like?"

"The design is a common one: a rotating disk in equipoint orbit, with docking facilities—"

"No, not the spaceport," Tomo interrupted. "I mean Maigre the planet."

"I'm not sure I understand the question. Do you want physical or sociopolitical data or something else entirely?"

"Oh, never mind." Tomo picked up another tool and got back to work. "I just... Actually, I've been thinking about maybe—well, maybe going dirtside this layover. Just to see what life on a planet is really like."

There was a short pause. "I see," Max said in a surprisingly neutral tone. "Actually, I don't believe you'd like it. Conditions are vastly different than they are on the Goldenrod. There are large, open areas without walls or ceilings—"

"I know, I know—I've seen all the tapes. I just thought it might be... interesting... to see it for real."

"I see. How long have you been thinking about this?"

Tomo had the computer's tone pegged now. "Oh, no you don't," he shook his head, grinning. "That 'I see' opener is a dead giveaway you've tied in your psych program. You're not starting me on that silly motivation questionnaire just because I've been thinking about planets and people lately." With a gentle tug he removed the top half of the damaged bearing shell, the bottom half dropping neatly onto the grab-cloth he'd spread out beneath it.

"Lately?" Max persisted.

Tomo twisted his head to send a mock glare at the computer monitor. "Max—"

A beep from the pod-to-pod interrupted him. "Tomo?" a voice asked. "What's the word on that antenna?"

"No problem, Andra," Tomo assured him. "Just a fatigued bearing shell. Take me a couple of hours to replace it."

"Good. I don't like dockings even when Max has all six close-approach

systems to work with. I'd hate to try it with one missing."

"Aw, come on—you'll have Max thinking you don't trust him."

"Max I trust. It's those rinks who're supposed to hold the port steady for us.

They're all dirtsiders at heart, you know. Lunatics, every last one of them." "Yeah." Tomo grinned, then sobered. "You've never actually been dirtside

yourself, have you?"

Andra snorted. "What kind of crazy question is that? Of course not."

"Right. Stupid question," Tomo backtracked quickly, mentally eliminating

Andra as a possible confidant on this. "Everything else checking out?"

"Far as I know. Max?"

"Everything is functioning properly except for the antenna Tomo is

repairing," the computer replied.

"Good," Andra said. "I'll let you work in peace, Tomo. Signing off." A second beep signaled his departure from the voicelink.

"Doesn't sound like I should invite Andra to come down to Maigre with me,

does it?" Tomo remarked, striving to keep his manner light.

"Tomo—" Max began, in neutral tone again.

"No, let's just drop it for now, okay?" Tomo interrupted. "It's just a random

idea—it hasn't got any deep psychological significance or anything." "As you wish." "Good. Though I'd appreciate it if you'd keep all of this secret. Andra will be riding me all the way to Canaan Under Vega if he gets hold of it."

"I understand." There was just the barest of pauses. "I'll keep the conversation private."

"Thanks." Climbing to his feet, Tomo squinted at the inside of his bearing sphere half. "Now, how about looking up which locker we keep spare FST-938 bearings in?"

—

Dr. Alexei Ross was already in a foul mood when the station computer told him Director Halian wanted to see him in his office. "In his office?" Ross asked, not sure whether to be angry or astonished at the request. "Is something wrong with the intercom system?"

"The intercom is functioning normally," Iris replied. "Director Halian said to tell you that the sensitivity of the topic required a face-to-face meeting."

"Probably his exact words, too," Ross grunted. For a moment he considered refusing on the truthful grounds that he was too busy to go running all over Maigre Space Station just because Halian felt like being melodramatic. Parallax Industries might own most of the station, but as chief physician Ross was explicitly out of Halian's direct control. But even as he mentally considered sending back a borderline-nasty message, logic prevailed. If Halian wanted to discuss something without the risk of being overheard, he probably had a damn good reason for it. Possibly something new on the G- and H-deck thorascrine leaks that had put forty- five people in Ross's ward in the past twenty hours. "All right," he sighed. "Inform the director I'll be down as soon as I can."

"Yes, Doctor. Also, the bioscan data is in on Marc DeSabia now; my analysis indicates thorascrine concentrations in liver, kidneys, and thyroid gland."

"Okay." Ross spent a few minutes logging orders that weren't part of Iris's standard medical procedure programming and leaving contingency instructions for his staff. Then, still fuming a bit, he stalked to the elevator and rode down to W- deck and Parallax Industries' executive offices.

Director Jer Halian was staring out the oval porthole when Ross stomped in. "This better be important, Jer," the doctor said, stepping over to Halian's desk and sitting down in the plush guest chair. "I've got a wardful of people upstairs who still need all my attention."

Halian turned to face him, and Ross saw for the first time the other's expression. It wasn't an encouraging one. "Anyone died yet?" the director asked, his mind clearly on something else entirely.

"No, and I'd like to keep it that way." Ross rubbed at his forehead, grimaced at the perspiration oils there. "Another ten hours and this last batch should be out of danger."

"Good." Halian took a deep breath. "Because in about ninety-five hours we're going to have an even worse mess on our hands. One of the Goldenrod's mainters apparently wants to visit Maigre during his layover."

Ross felt something prickly dock between his shoulder blades. "Holy drine. You sure?"

Halian picked up a cassette and rolled the slender cylinder across the desk. "The Goldenrod's MX computer sent me this private report a half hour ago. The mainter refused to discuss it in depth, so all the MX could give us was his last general psych profile." He leaned forward a bit. "This is a problem, now, isn't it? I mean, this Tomo character won't be able to stand it for long down there, will he?"

Ross snorted. "It's even worse than that. He shouldn't even want to try mixing with other people, any more than you'd seriously consider spending your life in a starship pod. The very fact he's talking this way means he's already in serious trouble."

"Great," Halian said heavily. "Just what we needed."

A sudden, horrible thought occurred to Ross. "He's not flying the ship, is he?" Visions of the freighter ramming full-tilt into the station—

"Oh, no—no way he can take control away from the computer, either," Halian assured him. "We're not in any immediate danger."

"I'm sure that's a great comfort to the rest of the Goldenrod's crew," Ross said dryly.

"They're not in danger, either, at least not at the moment. In fact, they don't even know anything's wrong."

"Handy. Sounds like one of your ideas."

Halian didn't seem to notice the barb. "It was the computer's, actually. But never mind that. I want you to start getting your people and programs ready right away."

Ross shook his head. "I'm afraid we're not equipped to handle anything like this. We're going to have to bring a psychoses expert up from Maigre. I'll go check the medical directory." He started to get up.

"Hold it—hold it," Halian snapped. "We can't let outsiders in on this—the company'll have our heads if bad publicity gets out. What about that therapy session you put Randoff through when he went all flutey last month?"

Ross sank wearily back into his chair. "Jer, we're talking about a starship mainter here—the most carefully circumscribed personality type that's ever existed. As far as I know, no mainter has ever gone out the sunward lock like this, and I'm not going to trust him to a computer that hasn't even got a decent data base to draw on."

Halian turned back to his porthole, and Ross saw the lines around his mouth tightening. "And there's no one on your staff who can handle it?"

"No." Ross shook his head. "Anyone who developed a problem this severe would be immediately shipped to a dirtside facility."

Halian grunted, and for a long moment the room was silent. Ross found himself staring at the model of a star freighter sitting on the corner of Halian's desk. Six long cylindrical pods, arranged hexagonally about the central drive cylinder, the whole thing tied together by a network of bracing struts... and each of those cargo pods someone's home for years at a time. The very thought of it made Ross's skin crawl.

"All right," Halian said, breaking Ross out of his uncomfortable reverie. "But get someone who can keep his mouth shut. And don't give him any more information than absolutely necessary. That goes for your staff, too."

"I'll do my best," Ross said, annoyed at the other's peremptory tone. Standing up, he snared the cassette with Tomo's psych profile and slid it into his pocket. "And in the meantime, you get your people on top of those thorascrine leaks. I can only handle one crisis at a time, and I want my ward empty when Tomo gets here."

Halian looked up at him with tired eyes. "Believe me, Doctor, no one wants those leaks stopped more than I do."

Ross felt his irritation with the other melting away. Halian was a solid company executive, but in spite of that he really wasn't a bad sort. "I know," he told the director. "I'll talk to you later."

—

A starship's natural environment, Tomo had always felt, was out in interstellar space, hundreds or thousands of kilometers from anything larger than an ice cube. Docking—actually bringing the ship into physical contact with a giant spinning disc—was thoroughly unnatural and therefore the most nerve-racking part of every trip. But Max performed flawlessly as usual, matching motions and gliding smoothly into the docking berth like an off-center axle. The port's spin gave the Goldenrod an effective gravity similar in magnitude but different in direction to what Tomo was used to, and he grimaced slightly as his floating crash chair came to rest against what he usually considered a wall.

"The access tunnel is connected now, Tomo," Max informed him as he unstrapped and climbed a bit gingerly from the chair. "Whenever you're ready..."

The tunnel led from the pod to a short corridor in the port proper, and a door at the far end opened to a spacious five-room suite. Tomo gave himself a quick tour, and then returned to the living room area. "Not bad," he said aloud. "Better than that cubist's nightmare at Burnish, anyway—remember that horrible holosculp?"

There was no response, and Tomo snorted at his forgetfulness. Of course Max had no direct voicelink pickups here. Stepping to the desk, he located the "communications" section of the control ball there and traced the proper curve among the many alternatives. "Max? You there?"

"Of course," the computer's voice answered. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing—I just wanted you around." He paused, eyes still studying the unfamiliar control ball. "Wait a second—can you tell me how I call up the port's computer on this thing?"

"I believe you'll need to interface through me for all computer functions."

"Oh?" A corner of Tomo's mind noted that such an arrangement seemed unnecessarily awkward; but these were port people, after all. "All right. Uh... would you call up a sky-to-ground shuttle schedule for me?"

"Very well."

The screen beside the control ball lit up with lines of numbers and words. Sitting down, Tomo leaned forward to study them... but he'd barely begun to decipher their meaning when the screen abruptly blanked and the face of a middle- aged man appeared. Startled, Tomo leaned back again.

"Welcome to Maigre Space Station, Tomo," the man said, smiling. "I'm Director Jer Halian, in charge of Parallax Industries' operations here. I hope you had a good voyage?"

"Quite nice, sir," Tomo managed, still feeling a bit off balance.

"And I trust your rooms are satisfactory?"

"Oh, certainly."

"Good. Well, we want you to be comfortable for the duration of your stay. Is there anything we can do for you? Something special, perhaps, that we haven't thought to provide?"

Tomo took a deep breath. It's not an unreasonable request, he told himself firmly. "As a matter of fact... would it be possible for me to visit Maigre while I'm here? I'd sort of like to see what dirtside life is like."

Italian's expression didn't change. "I'm sure something can be arranged. Uh—" His eyes flicked to the side. "Why don't you come down to my office and we can work out a schedule for you?" "Come down... in person?" Tomo asked, faltering a bit. Somehow, his rather hazy plan hadn't included consequences quite this immediate. "Can't we do it from here?" Halian shrugged fractionally. "Oh, we could. But I wouldn't think it'd be a problem for someone who wants to visit a planet full of people."

It was nothing Tomo could put his finger on, but suddenly he felt like he was at the far end of a microscope. Halian was watching him closely... too closely... as if this was some sort of test.... "You're right, of course," he told the director firmly. "How do I get to where you are?"

If Halian was surprised, he hid it well. "There are guidelights along the hallway walls; I'll have them set to lead you to my office. I—guess I'll see you in a few minutes. Good-bye."

"Signing off," Tomo nodded as the screen went blank. For a moment he sat there, working up his courage. Then, standing, he strode resolutely to the emergency door with its bold EXIT TO STATION inscription. Almost unwillingly, his hand reached out to touch the red plate, and with a gentle whoosh the door slid open. Licking his lips quickly, Tomo stepped through—

And jumped back inside, using a hand on the doorjamb to swing off to the side. Back flat against the wall, he mouthed a silent curse at the still-open door. Finally, it slid closed... but not before the two men he'd fled from had time to pass by.

He stood there for several seconds, slowly mastering the emotion of that near- contact. Unlocking his frozen joints, he peeled himself from the wall. He tried to step to the door again, but his feet seemed unable to take him that direction. The touch plate glared mockingly at him; turning away, he returned to the desk and gingerly sat down. "Max," he croaked.

"Yes, Tomo?"

He licked his lips, and this time they worked better. "Get me the director's office, will you?"

"Certainly. Are you all right? You sound agitated."

"Just make the call, huh?"

Max didn't answer, but a moment later Halian's face appeared on the screen. "Yes, Tomo, what is it?"

"Sir... would it be possible for you to come here instead?" Tomo asked. "At your convenience, of course, and if it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble at all. I'll be up in a few minutes. Is it all right if I bring a couple of colleagues with me?"

Tomo wanted very much to say no, but Halian had that microscope look again. "Uh... yeah, sure."

"Good. We'll see you soon, then. Good-bye."

The screen blanked and Tomo wilted a bit in his chair. No trouble at all, the director had said airily, as if taking a trip through a crowded port was the easiest thing in the universe.

Unbelievable!

—

Director Halian turned off the intercom, sent a glance at Dr. Ross, and then focused his attention on the newcomer. "Well, Dr. Scharn?" he invited.

Dreya Scharn shrugged, wondering what the flapdoodle secrecy was all about. To her, the whole thing seemed absurdly open-and-shut. "If it were anyone but a starship crewman I'd class him as a severe case of anthropophobia and start chemo-imbalance correction immediately. But surely you realize that after however-odd many years in space, any of us would be pretty weak in the social- contact areas. I'd suggest you give him a few days before you start getting worried."

She stopped, suddenly aware that their reactions didn't fit what she was saying. "Is something wrong?"

Halian cleared his throat, flashed an annoyed look at Ross. "I see Dr. Ross hasn't given you the whole story yet."

"Sorry, Jer," Ross said, with the brusque manner of someone on the defensive. "But I didn't want to say too much until Dr. Scharn arrived—and I was expecting Tomo to give us a little more time." He turned to Scharn. "You see, Doctor, it isn't exactly Tomo's fear of people that concerns us—as a matter of fact, that's a normal part of a starship mainter's personality. The problem—"

"Just a minute," Scharn interrupted. "Are you telling me Parallax Industries is using mentally disturbed people to fly its starships?"

"No, of course not," Halian said before Ross could answer. "The mainters are perfectly sane and well adjusted... within their own parameters."

"Mr. Halian, there's no way you can consider extreme fear of people to be within the bounds of normal sanity."

"I said 'within their parameters,' " Halian reminded her. "Mainters are specially chosen for loner characteristics."

Scharn cocked an eyebrow. " 'Chosen'?"

Halian's eyes slipped just a bit from her gaze, but his nod was firm. "Yes." Truth-bender, she labeled him silently. She considered pressing the point, decided to file it for later. "All right. Then if anthropophobia isn't Tomo's problem, what is?"

"The fact that he's talking about taking a trip dirtside," Ross said. "A mainter shouldn't even be thinking things like that, let alone seriously considering them."

"Why not?" Scharn frowned. "Maybe after—this is what, his third voyage? Maybe after twenty-odd years on a starship he wants to try something new."

"If one of your patients said he wanted to jump off a high rise without an air belt, would you say he just wanted to try something new?" Ross countered.

Scharn glared at him. "That's an absurd comparison and you know it. People can't fly, but even extreme loners can learn to deal with crowds."

Halian shook his head. "Mainters can't. That's the whole point."

For a moment Scharn stared at him, something cold starting to stir in her stomach. "Then we're not talking about people who've simply been chosen anymore," she said coldly. "What you're saying implies a great deal of mental conditioning, very likely illegal as well as unethical."

"I assure you, Doctor," Halian said, "that Parallax Industries is not engaged in any illegal activities. As for ethics, I think you'll find things aren't as simple as you might imagine."

"Oh?" Scharn gave him a hard smile. "Then perhaps it's time I found out how 'things' really are. And it'd better be a complete explanation."

"Not to change the subject," Ross interjected, "but before we get into anything lengthy, shouldn't we go upstairs and see Tomo? He is expecting us, remember."

Scharn kept her eyes on Halian. "I can't begin any kind of diagnosis until I know exactly what I'm up against."

"You'll get the complete explanation—I promise," the director said. "But Ross is right. Perhaps you can treat this as an orientation session or something."

Scharn hesitated, but this time she sensed Halian was telling the truth. "All right. Let's go, then."

The elevator trip was the oddest Scharn had ever experienced. She knew enough to be ready for the change in weight as they moved toward the stations rotation axis, but she'd forgotten about the Coriolis effect that nudged her sideways into the wall and held her there for the embarrassing seconds it took to get her feet back into position and lean into the pseudoforce. Halian and Ross ignored her clumsiness, but she knew they'd seen it. She was glad when the car finally slowed and came to a halt. The corridors were another surprise, though a little reflection told her she should've expected this, too. Several decks above the station's living and business areas, there was no call for bright colors or cushiony carpeting here. Only cargo handlers and station mainters used this area, and they were more interested in utility than aesthetics.

The door Halian led them to was like all the others they'd passed, except that its ID label was lettered in bright red and cautioned the prospective entrant to check with the station computer to make sure no starship mainter was inside. The warning gave her momentary pause—was there something dangerous about starship mainters?—and she hastily searched her memory for anything she might have heard on the subject. But Halian showed no hesitation as he stepped to the door and pushed the hailer. Scharn heard a soft ping, and an even softer reply, and Halian fingered the touch plate. The door slid open and they walked in.

Tomo was standing behind a small desk across the room, his back solidly against the wall. His expression was one Scharn had seen before, on nervous lab animals.

"Hello, Tomo," Halian said. "I'm Jer Halian. Sorry we were delayed a bit."

Tomo nodded once, a quick up-down jerk of his head. "Hello," he said.

Scharn's peripheral vision picked up a couch to their left, a couple of meters farther from Tomo's position than they were now. "Couch," she murmured, nudging Halian.

For a wonder, he caught the hint and led them over there. They sank into it, and Halian gestured to the desk chair a meter in front of Tomo. "Won't you sit down, too?"

Tomo's eyes flicked to the chair, then back to his visitors. Gingerly, he pulled the seat back to rest against the wall beside him and sat down.

"Well," Ross said briskly. "Tomo, Director Halian tells us you'd like to take a trip down to the surface while you're here. We'd like to talk to you about that, if we may."

Some of the tension left Tomo's face, to be replaced by suspicion. "You sound like Max in his psychological mode. Are you a psychiatrist?"

"No, no—I'm Dr. Alexei Ross, chief physician of Maigre Space Station. You must understand that your safety—whether here or dirtside—is our responsibility, and we have to make sure you're properly fit before we can let you go. The gravity's twice what you're used to, for starters."

If Ross had hoped to distract Tomo from his original question, it didn't work. Shifting his gaze to Scharn, he asked. "How about you?"

"I'm Dr. Dreya Scharn," she began; but before she could go on, Halian jumped in.

"Dr. Scharn's from Maigre proper, Tomo," the director said. "We brought her here because she knows more about dirtside conditions than anyone aboard the station. She has some questions she needs to ask you before we can discuss your trip to the planet."

Scharn managed to keep her professional face in place, but it was a near thing. To half-lie about her profession and then drop the conversational burden directly into her lap was a double whammy she hadn't expected. But she was damned if she was going to let Halian's action throw her. Smiling at Tomo, she opened with the simplest time-buyer in her repertoire. "Why don't we start by getting to know you better, Tomo. What was your childhood like?"

"You mean my trainage?" Tomo asked, still looking wary. "Just like anyone else's. Lynn—that was the stations LNN Learning Computer—taught me how to inspect and repair all the machinery on board a starship. When I'd learned everything I was assigned to the Goldenrod."

"What were your parents like?" she asked.

A flicker of puzzlement crossed the mainters face. "Parents?"

"He won't remember any human parents or nurses," Halian murmured in Scharn's ear. "He'd have been taken away from them when he was young."

"I see," she said, trying hard to keep her astonished horror from showing. Mental conditioning was a well-defined, if seldom used, psychological tool, but never had she heard of it being started so early in a subjects life. The legality of this whole thing was getting shakier and shakier. "Were you lonely as a boy?" she asked Tomo. "You had playmates, didn't you?"

"Of course. I already told you about Lynn."

"No, I mean other children. Did you play with any of the others at your station?"

Tomo shrugged fractionally. "I sometimes played with Orbin on the viewer. I liked playing alone or with Lynn better, though. Look, what does all this have to do with my fitness to go dirtside?"

A damn good question, Scharn thought. "We wanted some idea how much experience you've had interacting with other people," she improvised, hoping it sounded reasonable. "So after your training you went aboard the Goldenrod. Do you get along with the other mainters?"

"Well enough. We don't talk to each other much."

Scharn frowned. "You mean you're all together in the same ship for years at a time and don't do things together?" "We're not really together; we've each got our own pod, you know. And there usually isn't any maintenance that requires two of us working in sync. Max flies the ship and tells me when there's work to do; the rest of the time I read or play music or fiddle with my electronics kits."

The starship model Scharn had seen on Halian's desk suddenly made sense. Six mainters, six mutually isolated pods... "So you really are all alone out there."

"Pretty much, except for Max."

"I see. How do you feel about being alone? Does it ever bother you?"

Tomo snorted. "Of course not. What kind of stupid question is that?" His eyes flicked between Scharn and the others. "What's going on here, anyway?"

Scharn raised her hands chest high, palms outward, in a soothing gesture she hoped Tomo would understand. "All right; let's get back to Maigre, then. Can you tell me exactly why you want to visit the planet?"

Irritation was beginning to replace the tension in Tomo's face. "Why is everyone making such a big deal about this?" he snapped. "I've never been dirtside before and I got curious about it. Haven't any of you ever wanted to try something new?"

"Of course we have," Ross put in. "It's just that dirtside conditions are so different from starship life that we wanted you to understand exactly what it would be like. On a planet, you see, you have wide, open-roofed spaces—"

"I know—Max already gave me the full list. I can get used to it."

"There are also people down there," Scharn reminded him. "Lots of people. It seems to me you're having trouble right now, with just three of us in the same room with you."

The tension flooded full force back into Tomo's expression, and Scharn had the sudden impression that he'd halfway convinced himself that his visitors were actually just images on a viewer screen. "I can manage," he ground out. "If you can get used to a port, I can get used to a planet."

"You're talking nonsense, Tomo," Halian said, his frustration evident in his tone. "You're a starship mainter—you don't belong on a planet."

"Do people belong on Charon's World?" Tomo retorted. "Or Tau Ceti? Human beings can adapt to practically anything."

"Sure they can. Except that—"

Halian broke off abruptly; at the same time, Scharn sensed Ross jerk in reaction. She turned back and forth quickly, trying to catch the men's expressions before they could be covered up. She saw enough to decide it was time for a showdown. Turning back to Tomo, she said, "I think we'd better leave you for a while, Tomo. I need to discuss a few things with Director Halian before we talk any more about your trip to Maigre. In the meantime, though, I'm sure you could walk around the station if you'd like. It's not a planet, but it would give you some practice in getting used to other people."

She stood up, Ross and Halian following suit. The latter gripped Scharn's upper arm in a reaction that added fuel to her suspicions. "I'm not sure letting him run loose is a good idea," the director whispered.

"Good-bye," Scharn smiled at Tomo. She stepped past Ross, the movement forcing Halian to release his hold on her arm, and led the way out of the room. As the door closed she got a glimpse of Tomo sagging in obvious relief.

"Dr. Scharn," Halian said, again taking her arm, "he should not be allowed free access to the station—"

She shook off the hold and started down the corridor. "Let's go to your office, Mr. Halian," she called back over her shoulder. "We've got a lot of talking to do."

The return trip was made in chilly silence. Scharn held her fire until Halian was seated behind his desk again, and then let him have it.

"I don't know what you think about miracle cures and psychiatry," she bit out, "but I can assure you that I won't be able to do the job you hired me for unless I start getting some straight answers."

"I know," Halian said, waving her toward the seat she'd occupied earlier. "Sit down, Doctor."

She remained standing. "I mean genuinely straight answers. First Tomo was chosen, then he was conditioned, and now you've practically bitten your tongue off because he started talking about what humans can do. Now, either you give me the whole story or you schedule me a seat on the next shuttle back to Maigre."

Halian stared up at her in stony patience for a couple of heartbeats after she finished her speech, then once more indicated her chair. "Sit down, Doctor."

She hesitated, then obeyed, realizing with some chagrin that Halian was still in control of the situation. Psychological training, apparently, was no match for the experience gained in boardroom battles.

"You're right, of course," Halian said. "We should have told you everything right away. I suppose my only excuse is that you're an outsider, and that after a certain number of years keeping secrets away from outsiders becomes a very strong habit." He shifted his gaze to Ross. "Doctor? You know the details better than I do."

Ross pursed his lips briefly. "As I'm sure you know, Dr. Scharn, every human personality trait is a product of both heredity and environment, the genetic arrangement forming a sort of bedrock infrastructure of tendencies and aptitudes on which the individual personality is expressed." He paused. "What you may not know is that any of these genetic tendencies can be... enhanced, as it were, to a point where none of the subsequent environmental factors can really affect it. That's basically what's been done to Tomo."

She'd halfway been expecting this, but hadn't really wanted to believe it. "Are you saying," she said carefully, "that you've genetically engineered that entire corps of starship mainters to be afraid of people?"

"Not on purpose," Ross said. "The procedure was designed to make them able to tolerate—even enjoy—years of solitude at a time. Apparently the anthropophobia comes as an unavoidable part of the package."

"The package?" Scharn exploded. "My God—these are human beings you're talking about. People you've deliberately warped." She glared at Halian. "And it is most certainly illegal."

The director didn't flinch. "As a matter of fact, Parallax Industries has a special exemption from the general laws on genetic engineering. And if it helps any, I was just as outraged as you are when I first found out about this."

"You've done a good job of silencing your conscience, then," Scharn said coldly. "Does Parallax pay that much?"

"It's not a matter of personal bribery. It's the simple fact that the benefits of interstellar trade vastly outweigh the costs."

"Oh, of course," she retorted. "The costs are negligible—unless you happen to be one of those people out there."

"I'd advise against hypocrisy, Doctor," Halian said, a touch of irritation showing through his executive mask. "You benefit as much from the trade as anyone else, and I doubt you've ever given two seconds' thought to the people who provide you the goods."

"Don't shift the burden to as," Scharn bit out. "If people knew you were using genetic slavery they'd give up their precious furs and exotic foods like a shot."

"And their last fifteen years of life, too?" Ross asked quietly.

Scharn turned to him. "What?"

"Fifteen years is the extra life expectancy that outsystem medicines have provided us," he amplified.

The first hint of uncertainty began to play around the edges of her anger. "Medicines can be synthesized, though, once the molecular structure's known," she pointed out. "Intersystem lasers can transfer the knowledge at that point." "Usually," Ross nodded, "but not always. Have you ever heard of Willut's Chaser?"

Scharn frowned. "I think so. Isn't that that weird semiliving chemical that seeks out cancerous cells?"

"That's the one. Revolutionized the whole treatment procedure, made it possible for the first time to really root out an entire tumor without doing even a scrap of damage to the surrounding healthy tissue. And after sixty years we still can neither synthesize it nor successfully cultivate the Altairan nematoid strain that produces it."

There was a moment of silence. Scharn tried to whip up her righteous anger again, but her sister's face kept getting in the way. Maia, who had spent a couple of days in a hospital ten years ago for the routine treatment of brain cancer... "Why don't you build larger ships, then, so that you could use normal people running the ship as a group?" she asked. "Better yet, how about complete automation?"

"Because we'd need freighters the size of the original colony sleeper ships to give a normal crew the kind of room they'd need," Ross told her. "Anything smaller and you'd have violence and psychoses within the first five years, no matter how carefully you screened the crews." He hesitated. "Parallax tried that once; the records of those voyages aren't pretty."

"Then why not automate?" Scharn persisted. "Surely a powerstat TPL computer and its mobile units would be able to handle whatever maintenance a starship needs."

"The problem," Halian said, "is that a TPL, or any computer that powerful, requires an extremely high-density memory system, and high-density systems are notoriously vulnerable to radiation damage. On a powerstat that's not a problem because you can afford the weight of extra shielding and you have continuous error-weeding by ground-based systems. On a starship—well, the drive radiations aren't really dangerous to biological tissues, but your TPL would be out of commission in two years at the outside. Putting multiple units aboard would slow the process, but not enough."

"But..." Scharn raised a hand in a frustrated gesture, let it drop impotently to her chair arm. "It's still immoral to do that sort of thing to human beings."

Ross shrugged uncomfortably. "Would you rather we try putting normal people in what amounts to solitary confinement for ten years? Risk their going permanently insane or else drug them to their eyelids and never mind the physiological consequences? Don't forget, the mainters truly like what they're doing. They really are happy out there."

"All except Tomo," Scharn said.

Halian nodded grimly. "All except Tomo. He's an unknown, Dr. Scharn; and along with being worried I don't mind admitting I'm scared. What other supposedly impossible thoughts might he be having? Could he be going paranoid, too, or even homicidal?"

Scharn pursed her lips tightly. She still didn't like what had been done to Tomo... but her immediate responsibility was not for his past but for his present. And if he posed any danger to either himself or the station... "Do you have anything like a standard psych profile for the mainters as a group?" she asked.

Halian's response was to reach for his desk's control ball, fingering the classified-access section. "We've got both that and Tomo's own last profile."

"Good," Scharn said. "I'd also like any previous readings on Tomo that you might have."

Halians screen lit up with lines of print, and he swiveled it to face her. "I'll have the Goldenrod's computer send us up a complete dump. In the meantime, here's the general mainter profile."

Putting her feelings on standby, Scharn began to read.

—

It had been nearly an hour since the others had left him; long enough for Tomo's panic to have subsided into emotional fatigue and then resurface as restlessness. Scharn had said they would talk again later, a statement that could qualify as either a promise or a threat. Whichever, he wished they would hurry up and get on with it. Waiting like this was worse than docking—then, at least, Max could keep him informed as to what was happening. Here at the port, they were both in the dark.

Or were they? "Max?" he called impulsively, sliding into the desk chair.

"Yes, Tomo?"

Just as quickly, he recognized the absurdity of what he'd been about to ask. "Oh, never mind. Um... how's the unloading going?"

"Unloading and refurbishing operations are proceeding smoothly. Is there anything I can get for you?"

"No, no. I'm just—I'm fine."

"I see." Max paused. "Tomo, would you mind coming back aboard ship for a few minutes? There's no one in your pod at the moment."

Tomo frowned. "Why?"

"Your tone of voice indicates stress. My biosensors can't take readings outside the ship." "I'm all right, Max," Tomo snapped. "Why is everybody so interested in me all of a sudden? The second I get here Halian calls me up, then he smothers me in doctors, and now you—"

He broke off abruptly, seeing for the first time the pattern there. But how...? "Did you tell them that I was talking about going dirtside?" he asked suspiciously. The computer remained silent. "Max! Answer me!"

"Tomo, I had no choice. I cannot keep secret information that indicates you may be suffering physical or emotional dysfunction. Under such conditions I must report my findings in coded form to a company grade-one executive as soon as possible—"

"Wait a second. What physical or emotional dysfunction?"

There was a short pause. "Your thoughts about a planetward trip were judged to be four sigma outside normal range. A two-sigma deviation is considered—"

"Max, how many times do I have to tell you that there's nothing significant about that?" Tomo snarled, barely controlling his anger. This whole thing was becoming ridiculous. "Why are you making such a major operation out of it?"

Max's answer, when it finally came, was a complete surprise. "I'm sorry; I cannot continue this discussion."

Tomo's anger vanished into puzzlement and a slowly growing uneasiness. "What is it, something I'm not supposed to know?"

"My programming requires me to protect your emotional well-being. There are certain topics of discussion which would unduly distress you, such as descriptions of warfare or—"

"But this is something a lot more personal than warfare, isn't it?" Tomo interrupted, blocking Max's attempt to sidetrack the conversation. "Something having to do with my physical or psychological makeup, right?"

"I'm sorry; I cannot continue this discussion."

Aha, Tomo thought. For a moment he gazed into space, searching for a usable loophole. "All right. The information might—might—bother me. Correct?"

"I'm sorry; I cannot—"

"Shut up! It might bother me—but now that I know something's wrong with me, the uncertainty is definitely bothering me." He paused, but Max remained silent. "The tension alone—you know better than I do what prolonged tension does to blood sugar and adrenaline levels. Did your programmers anticipate this kind of situation?"

"They did," Max said in resignation. "Very well, then, but the information must be kept secret from the Goldenrod's other mainters."

"Agreed. So?"

"In order to endure the solitude of starship service, you have undergone a kind of mental conditioning which has made you less dependent than the average person on social interaction."

For several heartbeats Tomo just sat there, attempting to assimilate the rightangle turn his private universe had just taken. Egocentrism, he thought through the numbness. The assumption that you are basically the norm. He'd known the people on planets and ports were different; but somehow he'd never considered the possibility that he was the odd one. And to have been deliberately made this way... "How much less dependent?" he asked.

"It allows you to spend long periods of time alone, which is necessary for your job." Max's voice was soothing, as if he were doing his best to soften the shock. But his best wasn't very good. "But it also makes it extremely difficult for you to interact with others at close range."

"So because I wanted to do something you didn't think I could do, you slapped a 'dysfunction' marker on me and yelled to the authorities." The mental numbness was fading now, anger once more rising to take its place. "Is that it?"

"It has nothing to do with what I personally think," Max protested. "Your conditioning places specific limitations on your actions, limitations as laser-cut and well defined as—"

"As your own programming?"

"I wouldn't have put it quite that way—"

"But that's what you were thinking, wasn't it? Well, I've got fresh input for you. You may be defined down to twelve decimals, but I am not. I'm a human being, and I can do anything any other human being can do."

"Tomo, your vocal stress levels are becoming—"

Tomo cut him off with a well-aimed slash at the control ball. Getting to his feet, he stomped over to the exit door. For a moment he stood there, anger battling common sense for supremacy. But the anger was far stronger. Slapping the touch plate, he stepped out into the port corridor. This time, no one was in sight. Picking a direction, he started off, determined to find his way to Halian's office. Halian, Scharn, Ross, even Max: he'd show all of them.

—

The deviation between the two curves was small—well within the one-sigma accepted tolerance—but with the advantages of hindsight it was obvious to Scharn that that was where it had begun. "Right there," she told Halian and Ross, tapping the spot on the screen. "You can see the slip starting to form as early as a year ago."

"Too small a change for the MX to key on," Ross muttered.

"I wasn't blaming the MX," Scharn said, leaning back in her chair. "And it brings up an interesting question. Is Tomo becoming mentally unbalanced, or is his genetic programming somehow unraveling and allowing his personality to drift more toward human norms?"

"How could it do that?" Halian asked. "A genetic effect like that should be permanent."

Scharn shrugged. "In theory, so should damage to a section of mature brain. But stroke and accident victims routinely regain lost functions as the neural pathways restructure themselves. Perhaps some combination of hormones and neurotransmitters is acting to counteract the genetic bias here."

Halian harrumphed. "I don't buy that. Anyway, I can't see that it makes any practical difference—"

"Of course it makes a difference," Scharn shot back. "In the first case he's ill and can probably be treated with some form of chemo-imbalance correction. In the second, though, what we actually have is a rapid version of personality evolution, which is not only normal but could be dangerous to suppress artificially."

"I believe," Ross interjected quietly, "that Mr. Halian was referring to Tomo's continuing presence aboard the Goldenrod."

It took a moment for Scharn to pick up exactly what he meant. "You mean leaning toward sociability will make him less able to stand solitude? Um... Maybe, maybe not. It depends partly on whether—"

She stopped as a double ping sounded from Halian's desk, followed by Iris's cool voice. "Mr. Halian, Goldenrod Mainter Tomo has left his quarters and entered the station: moving spinward on corridor D-9. Do you have instructions?"

Scharn felt her stomach tighten. It had been her suggestion, but she hadn't really expected Tomo to act on it. Halian and Ross looked even more stunned.

"Full sector/level monitor until further notice," Halian instructed the computer. "Is anyone else in that immediate area?"

"Negative," Iris reported. "D-8, D-9, and D-1 are clear."

"All right." Halian looked at Ross as if for advice, but didn't seem to get any. "All right, just monitor Tomo's movements and keep me informed. I'll be on mobile. Oh, and better lock down all computer outlets and elevators in his vicinity, just in case." He picked up a small rectangular clip-on from the side of the viewer screen and stood up, the others following suit. "Let's get after him."

"Can't you seal him into that corridor?" Scharn asked.

"I could," Halian told her. "But it occurs to me that letting him run into a few people might be the best way to convince him that he can't handle that kind of social interaction."

Scharn's first reaction was that he was making an exceptionally poor joke. A half second later she realized he was serious. "And what if it merely drives him over the edge permanently?" she asked coldly. "Or don't you care about that?"

"He won't hit any heavily populated areas for quite some time without the elevators," Halian assured her. "If meeting with us didn't do anything permanent to him, neither will any situation he's likely to run into up there. Besides—" He hesitated. "The fewer people who know about this, the better. For all concerned."

Especially for you, Scharn thought bitterly. "I'm going for the sedation kit I left in my quarters," she said. "Will one of you wait here for me?"

"We both will," Ross said before Halian could respond.

There was something in his voice that made Scharn look hard at his face. But whatever was wrong was too well hidden for a quick interpretation, and she didn't have time for anything else. "All right," she said. "I'll be right back."

—

Ross waited until the door had closed solidly behind the psychiatrist before turning to Halian. The director returned his gaze steadily; and after a moment Ross realized the other was going to make him raise the subject. He cleared his throat, glancing at the desk to make sure Iris's monitor was off. "You realize, of course," he told Halian, "that Tomo will pass through the thorascrine leak area on G-deck if he stays in 9-sector on his way down."

"That area's been adequately cleaned up," Halian returned evenly. "You certified that yourself."

"For us, yes. But Tomo's been in a medium-radiation environment most of his life. There've been reports that that can sensitize a man, make him much more susceptible to thorascrine poisoning." He paused, waiting for a reaction that didn't come. "But I see you already knew that, didn't you?"

"I may have heard of it somewhere. I don't remember."

"Sure." The sheer callousness of Halian's attitude was infuriating... and yet, even Ross could see the logic behind it. Legally, Tomo was less human than he was property, and Halian had both the right and responsibility of treating him as any other malfunctioning component. "Well," he said slowly, "I suppose it actually would make things a lot easier if Tomo got incapacitated somehow. The Goldenrod would leave on schedule without him and you wouldn't have to make a snap decision on his fitness for deep space. Scharn could take him dirtside and study him to her heart's content. The Goldenrod can manage with a missing mainter, can't it?"

"It can theoretically fly with even three of the six missing." Halian seemed to be having trouble meeting Ross's eyes. "The question then is what would happen to Tomo. If we take him off the Goldenrod he'll probably never be placed on another ship, even if he can be cured or whatever. So Scharn studies him for maybe a year or two... and then what? Starship mainting is all he knows how to do, and given his personality there's really nothing else he can be retrained for."

Ross felt his mouth go dry. To remove Tomo from his ship—by whatever means—was one thing. But this— "What you're talking now is way beyond an incapacitating injury," he said softly. "You're talking deliberate murder."

"I'm not talking anything," Halian said, his face unreadable. "I'm simply... thinking how an accident at this point would... simplify things."

This isn't happening, Ross thought as a sense of unreality seemed to darken the air between him and Halian. Premeditated murder... or was it? How human was Tomo, anyway? Form, intelligence—neither one was exclusive human property anymore. Genetic structure? Tomo's was no more human than that of any other biological construct. Surely there were legal guidelines, but Ross had no idea what they were. He could still raise a fuss, of course, and he could sense that Halian would back down at sun-grazer speeds if he did so, whether the director was in the legal right or not. But would that really do Tomo any favors? Because Halian was right—Tomo really couldn't do anything else. Unless Scharn's bafflegab about some so-called personality evolution came true with a vengeance... but no, that theory was equal parts absurdity and wishful thinking. Which left Ross exactly where he'd started, at dead center.

In front of him, the statue that was Halian came to life, raising the clip-on he still held and flipping it on. "Iris?" Status report on Tomo."

"He's outside the D-13 stairway... He has now entered... moving downward."

"Damn," Halian muttered. "Well, at least that tells us something. If he can still charge on into the station after suffering through that interview with us, it means he's past simple curiosity. He's up to full-fledged obsession." He fastened the clip-on to his tunic collar, leaving it active. "Come on. We'll pick up Scharn on the way."

Ross followed him to the office door, still wondering what he was going to do. It wasn't until they were outside in the wide corridor that he realized the decision had already been made. Halian had given him the chance to object; his silence had been interpreted as tacit agreement. But that can be changed, he told himself. I can still stop this.

But before he could do that, he needed to decide whether he truly wanted to... and the time for that choice was running out fast.

—

A starship pod consisted of eighteen one-room levels connected together by spiral staircases in flight and by simple hatchways when port docking changed the normal directions of up and down. The passageways linking the pods to the central drive cylinder were seldom used, but even they were simple tubes: straight, short, and without stairways or cross-corridors. Never in his life had Tomo been anywhere nearly so confusing as Maigre Port.

He was almost afraid to admit it, but he was pretty sure he was lost.

The obvious solution, of course, was to ask for help; but so far he'd been unable to get any of the hall computer outlets to work. Until he found one that was live there was nothing to do but keep moving.

Ahead, still out of sight around the slight curve, he heard the sound of an opening door; and suddenly there were voices in the corridor.

Tomo's instinct was to freeze, but momentum and a sudden idea kept him moving. The voices were ahead and coming closer, but only a few meters in front of him was a cross-corridor he could duck into. If he hurried... Putting on a last- minute burst of speed, he rounded the corner—

And practically ran down the two men crouched there.

With a strangled gasp, Tomo hurled himself toward the cross-corridor's far wall, slamming back-first against it. He had just enough time to notice the open access panel and the scattered tools when the men charged him.

There was no chance for thought, no opportunity for anything but the most basic reflexive action. One of the attackers stepped in to block his continued passage down the corridor; slapping the outstretched arm aside with all his strength, Tomo ducked past and ran for it. Their shouts echoed weirdly behind him, partially drowned out by the thudding of his feet on the thin carpeting. He turned at the first opportunity and kept going. Three corridors and a stairway later he finally decided he'd lost his pursuers and slowed to catch his breath. Looking around, though, he could tell there was no use trying to fool himself any further.

He was lost now. Thoroughly.

—

"—and just crouched there looking scared. I went over to see if he was okay, and for no reason at all he hit my arm and took off like a meteor with fluorine afterburners. Till and I called for him to come back, but he just kept going."

Halian pursed his lips, glancing sideways to try and catch Scharn's reaction as they hurried down the corridor. Ross's reaction he could guess. "Either of you hurt?" he asked into his clip-on.

"No, sir," the answer came. "Maybe bruised a little."

"All right. Just get back to work; I'll handle this. Goodbye." He waited for the termination click, then said, "Iris? Where's Tomo now?"

"Corridor F-39," the computer replied.

"Those workers probably just got in his way and he panicked," Scharn spoke up. "Mr. Halian, we've got to close him off from the rest of the station."

Halian could feel Ross's eyes on him. "I suppose you're right. Iris, seal all routes between decks C and H. Are there any security personnel above H-deck?"

"There are four, all currently on E-deck."

"Alert them, and have them start moving toward F-9. They're to try and box him in there—" he hesitated a fraction of a second—"or on G-deck if he gets that far. They're to use minimal force."

Scharn leaned toward the clip-on. "And warn them he's not dangerous so much as he is terrified," she added.

"Right," Halian agreed. "If they can avoid contact until we get there, so much the better."

"Acknowledged. Security forces are on their way."

Halian took a deep breath, let it out as inconspicuously as possible. Stay calm, he told himself. Just stay calm. "The direct-access elevator's right up here," he said, pointing.

They were passing K-deck when the first security report came in: One of the guards had spotted Tomo in corridor G-9, forcing him to move into cross-corridor G-19B.

"Have the guard move just inside G-19B and wait there," Halian instructed Iris carefully. "Order the other three to approach from opposite directions along G19, see if they can keep him from coming out there." He looked at Ross. "Ross... when we hit G-deck, I want you and Dr. Scharn to go down G-29, try to intercept him if he gets to one of the other cross-corridors. I'll go up G-19B and try to cut him off there."

Ross's face was a sweat-plated mask as he gave a silent nod; but fortunately Scharn didn't seem to notice as she dug a hypo tube from her belt pouch. "In case you do," she said, handing the tube to Halian, "here's a sedative—you can inject it anywhere. It's already set for Tomo's weight."

A moment later, they arrived at G-deck. The corridor they stepped out into was deserted and, aside from normal mechanical noises, silent. Ross passed up the final accusing gaze Halian had half- expected from him, taking Scharn's arm instead and heading away without a backward glance. Halian watched until they turned a corner, then permitted himself the luxury of a sigh. The die was now cast; Tomo's fate was in the hands of the universe. The thorascrine leak area was just one turn from the cross-corridor Tomo had entered. If Halian had guessed the mainters probable movements correctly he would soon be in the proper position to send the other "accidentally" through the center of the contaminated region. If the universe had other plans for Tomo, it would have to guide the mainter elsewhere, and under such circumstances Halian would have no choice but to accept its ruling. The director was several generations beyond the spacers who had built Maigre Station, but he still possessed a little of their traditional belief in fate... except that he knew the strong and the clever could build their fate as they chose.

Halian believed in fate. He did not necessarily believe in justice.

Turning, he hurried down the corridor. Tomo would be coming by very soon.

—

Leaning against the wall, Tomo wiped the sweat off his forehead and tried to catch his breath. Safe again... but only for the moment. They were closing in on him now; drawing the walls of their box closer and closer— "They won't hurt me," he whispered aloud. "I don't need to be afraid of them. I don't."

It was so much wasted breath. He was afraid of them, and there was no way he could pretend otherwise. The thought of their approaching him, maybe even touching him... he shifted his shoulders uncomfortably beneath the sweat-soaked coverall. If he could only get back to his quarters before anyone reached him... but he might as well wish himself a child again.

From the corridor ahead and to his left came the sound of footsteps. Tomo tensed; but even as he pushed away from the wall something within him accepted the inevitable. Standing rigidly, legs trembling with their mindless urge to run, he waited as the other came into sight and stopped.

"Tomo?" Director Halian called gently. "I've come to take you back."

Tomo remained where he was, not acknowledging Halian's words but not running off, either. Licking his lips, the director lowered his voice. "Iris? Secure from surveillance mode. I have Tomo in sight."

"Acknowledged. Sector/level monitor disengaged."

Halian flicked the device off... and he and Tomo were alone. "Don't be afraid," the director told the mainter, aware of the irony of his words. "I'm Director Halian—remember? Let me show you the way back to your quarters. You don't have to come close, just follow me at a distance. You can do that, can't you?" Tomo's mouth worked once, but no words came out. Eyes unblinkingly on Halian, he nodded.

"Good. Come on, then." Walking carefully, Halian backed into the corridor he'd emerged from. A moment later, Tomo followed. Step by step they went, separated by the ten meters or so Tomo seemed to find comfortable.

Halfway down the corridor, still walking backwards, Halian stepped over the fuzzy line onto the thorascrine-stained part of the carpet.

A few more steps, Halian told himself, his eyes on Tomo. Once on the stain, his feet kicking up minute bits of the heavy dust, there would be no turning back. Whether enough remained to kill him or merely make him sick, the important result would be the same: The Goldenrod would leave for Canaan Under Vega without the risk of an insane man aboard. After that... Tomo's fate would be in the universe's hands.

And midway through a step, Halian abruptly stopped.

Tomo stopped, too, five meters from the edge of the thorascrine stain, his face rigid with wary tension at the directors unexpected move. Halian stared at him for a long, painful second... and slowly a new truth dawned on him.

It was one thing to discuss death as a necessary and even humane action. It was another thing entirely to face the person involved and personally carry out the proposal.

He couldn't do it. And he hated himself for his weakness.

He took a step toward Tomo... and another... and with the third, Tomo's look of stunned disbelief changed to terror. "No!" he yelled as he spun and disappeared back into the other corridor.

Halian made no effort to chase him. His knees were weak with reaction, frustration and anger a bitter and debilitating taste in his mouth. He started to turn back, to recross the thorascrine and lose himself in the maze of corridors until the others could make the capture... but he'd taken only a couple of steps in that direction when the most chilling scream he'd ever heard jerked him around again. A dozen quick strides took him around the corner—

A hundred meters away Tomo was thrashing like a fish in the grip of two security guards.

Halian got to the scene in record time; but even so, Scharn and Ross managed to beat him. Tomo's whimpering rose to a final scream as Scharn reached between the guards with her hypo, a terrified shriek that left a ringing in Halians ears even after it faded into silence. A moment later the mainter's last twitchings ceased. Scharn said something Halian didn't catch, and the guards lifted the limp form and carried him toward the elevators. "Well?" a soft voice asked at Halians side.

The director jumped; he hadn't really noticed Ross come over. "No," he murmured bitterly. "I lost my nerve."

Ross said nothing, but gripped Halians arm briefly before hurrying to catch up with the others. Halian followed more slowly. All right, Doctor, he thought at Scharn's receding back. You've got your chance now. And you'd damn well better not mess it up like I did.

—

It was a long way up from the starless pit of unconsciousness, but there was something soothing in the darkness that removed any possible terror from the disorientation. Tomo had plenty of time to think and remember; and when he finally opened his eyes it was with total lack of surprise that he found himself lying in the lounge chair in his portside quarters. Attached to his right upper arm was a wide band, and he puzzled over it a moment before deciding it must be some sort of biosensory telemeter.

"Hello, Tomo."

He jerked at the quiet voice... but Scharn was only present via the viewer on his desk. "Hello, Doctor," he said, relaxing again.

"Sorry if I startled you," she apologized. "I wanted to talk to you and thought this would be the best way. How are you feeling?"

Tomo sighed. "Tired, mostly." He locked eyes with her image. "It's true, isn't it, what Max said. I've been conditioned to be afraid of people."

Scharn's lip twitched minutely. "More or less. That part wasn't done on purpose, but I don't suppose that's any comfort."

"Not really." Tomo closed his eyes, feeling almost relieved that it was over. No uncertainties remained; only cold, hard truth. "So that's it, then. I'll never be able to be with other people."

"Does that bother you?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. How can I miss something I've never experienced? It's just—" Something seemed to catch in his throat. "It's just that I know now that there's something normal people can do that I can't. It makes me... something less than human."

He opened his eyes in time to see Scharn catch her lower lip between her teeth. "There are a lot of things in this universe that some people can do that others can't," she said gently. "I could never spend years at a time alone on a starship— and even if I could, I wouldn't know the first thing about maintaining it. You can do both of those. It doesn't mean either of us is better or worse than the other; it just means we're different."

"Maybe." Tomo paused, steeling himself for the crucial question. "Are you going to let me go back to the Goldenrod?"

He saw her eyes shift left, and knew she was checking some of his physiological readouts: reading from his body's reactions the state of his mind. The thought of being laid open like that before her didn't bother him; briefly, he wondered if it should. "I don't think that'll be a problem," she said after a moment. "If it's what you want, of course."

"It is," he said. "It's where I belong. The only place I ever will belong."

"Some people spend all their lives trying to figure out where they belong," she pointed out softly. "At least you've got that much."

Tomo looked at her... and slowly it dawned on him that the gentleness in her voice was perhaps less professional technique than it was simply pity. "You don't need to feel sorry for me, Doctor," he told her. "I really do enjoy being in space... being who I am. It's just—well, I'd like to be able to face other people. Even if I never do it. You understand what I'm trying to say?"

"I think so," she nodded. "You're trying to expand the edges of your life, to push yourself as far as you can go."

He grimaced. "Looks like I'm already there, doesn't it?"

"Nonsense!" Scharn snorted with a vehemence that surprised him. "You're a human being, Tomo. No human being yet has ever found his own limits."

Echoes of his own words to Max, Tomo thought. He'd believed them then; now he wasn't so sure. "Um," he grunted noncommittally.

"I mean it. There'll always be new challenges for you—you'll see." Again her eyes shifted to the bio readouts, and when she spoke again her voice was back to its earlier quiet control. "I'm going to let you sleep now; give your body time to throw off the rest of the sedative. If you want to talk again later, I'll be available. If not, that's fine, too."

Fatigue was indeed tugging at Tomo's eyelids, but with an effort he forced them open again. There was one question he still wanted to ask. "Dr. Scharn? Would you tell me what it's like being dirtside?"

He caught just the briefest half-smile before his eyes closed again. "Mostly," Scharn said from the bottom of a long stairway, "it's very, very noisy."

Somehow, the answer seemed profound... but before Tomo could think about it, he was asleep.

— Scharn turned off the viewer with a sigh, letting the professional calm evaporate from her face as the ache she really felt flooded in to take its place. Yes, Tomo would be able to return to his ship; a couple more days of biochemical analysis on him would conclusively prove what she already knew, that he wasn't drifting into psychosis. A small spurt of growth in his personality—true, in an unexpected direction—was really all that had happened, and in the controlled environment of starship travel there would be no stimuli to encourage further development. Like a teenager's grandiose dreams of his future, Tomo's thoughts of mingling with humanity would quietly fade and die. The mainter would be content with his world again; the company that owned him would be pleased and would return to business as usual.

Owned him. Owned him.

And something in Scharn snapped.

She thought about it for a long minute, and then traced a curve on the control ball. "Yes?" Iris answered.

"This is Dr. Scharn," the psychiatrist said firmly. "Get me the Goldenrod's computer. I'd like to leave a private message for Tomo."

—

The Goldenrod launched on schedule, driving slightly out of the ecliptic plane and incidentally giving a grand view of Maigre in the rear viewer. "Well, that's it, Max," Tomo said, the deck feeling good beneath his feet. "Next stop, Canaan Under Vega. Docking equipment all secured?"

"Secured and shut down," the computer replied. "I'm running a check on deep-space functions, but so far everything registers normal."

"Good." Tomo watched the view of Maigre a moment longer, then picked up the cassette he'd earlier pulled out and placed by the control ball. He toyed with it, wondering if he really wanted to do this.

Max might have been reading his mind. "You don't have to try it yet, you know. Dr. Scharn made it clear this was to be strictly voluntary."

"I know," Tomo snapped, feeling the tension of this brand-new uncertainty and wishing Scharn had left things as they were. Almost wishing it, anyway... Abruptly, he jammed the cassette into the player and dropped into his lounge chair, "All right," he told Max, bracing himself. "Let's give it a try."

And suddenly there was someone else in the room with him.

Tomo stiffened as the stranger nodded pleasantly. "Hello, Tomo," he said... and from behind him a second man appeared... and a woman... and another man...

They vanished as abruptly as they'd appeared, and Tomo slumped in his chair. He could feel the sweat on his forehead, and even over the roar of the drive his heartbeat was audible. "I think," he said when his breathing was finally back to normal, "that those are the most realistic holograms I've ever seen. Uh... how'd I do?"

"Quite well," Max said. "Six point eight seconds. I'm sure you could have managed another few seconds, but the programmed cutoffs are very specific."

"Six point eight, eh?" Tomo repeated, trying hard not to let his disappointment show. "Well, I suppose I have to start somewhere. You think there's a chance I'll be ready by the time we reach Canaan Under Vega?"

"I really don't know," was Max's diplomatic reply. "But we have ten point four years to find out."

Tomo smiled and resettled himself in the seat. "We sure do. Okay; let's try it again."

The dirtsiders at Canaan Under Vega were going to be very surprised.

Afterword

"Return to the Fold" (one of my least favorite titles, by the way) started life as a script for some friends who wanted to make an SF movie. We actually took the project pretty far—for amateurs with no budget to speak of, anyway—even testing some potential actors at the local cable-TV facility. But we were eventually put on indefinite hold by a lack of hallways and offices that could be dressed up (cheaply) to look like those aboard a ship and space station. With a script already in hand, I decided I might as well go ahead and turn it into a story. The story sold, was published, and even went on to become a Hugo nominee, which is certainly all one can expect from a humble little novelette. Still, sometimes I wish...

Anybody out there have a futuristic home you'd like to lend out for, say, about a week?