The Outcasts of Heaven Belt

Lansing 04 (Demarchy space) + 1.51 megaseconds

“There it is,” Shadow Jack said, with almost a sigh. “Mecca rock.”

Betha watched it come into view at the port: a fifty-kilometer potato-shaped lump of stone, scarred by nature’s hand and man’s. Mecca’s long axis pointed to the sun; the side nearest them lay in darkness, haloed by an eternal corona of sunglare. As they closed she began to see landing lights; and, between, them, immense shining protrusions lit from below, throwing their shadows out to be lost in the shadow of the void. She identified them finally as storage tanks—enormous balloons of precious gases. At last… She stirred in the narrow, dimly lit space before the instruments, felt her numbed emotions stir and come alive. She filled her congested lungs with the dead, stale air, heard a fan go on somewhere behind her, clanking and ineffective; wondered whether she could ever revive a sense of smell mercifully long dead. It was small comfort to know that the claustrophobic misery of their journey would have been worse without the overhauling they had done on board the Ranger. Two strangers from Lansing could teach even Morningsiders something about toughness… The Ranger came back into her mind, and with it the galling knowledge that they could have crossed Demarchy space to Mecca in one day instead of fifteen, in perfect comfort—if things had been different. “But we’re here. Thank God. And thanks to you, Shadow Jack. That was a good job.” Her hand stroked his arm unthinkingly, in a gesture meant for someone else. He started out of his habitual glumness, looking embarrassed and then something more; reached to scan the radio frequencies. Static and voices broke across the cabin’s clicking silence.

“Did—did you love one of them best?”

She sighed. “Yes… yes, I suppose I did. It’s something you can’t help feeling; I loved them all so much, but one…” Who isn’t here, when I need him. She shook her head, her eyes blurred, and sharpened again as a piece of the real world moved across them. “Out there, Shadow Jack.” She leaned closer to the port, rubbed the fog of moisture from the glass. “A tanker coming in.”

He peered past her. They saw the ship, still lit by the sun: a ponderous metallic tick, its plastic belly bloated with precious gases and clutched inside three legs of steel, booms for the ship’s nuclear-electric rockets. “Look at the size of that! It must be comin’ in from the Rings. They wouldn’t use that on local hauls.” He raised his head, following its downward arc. “Down there, that must be the docking field.”

She could see the field clearly now, an unnatural gleaming smoothness in the artificial light, cluttered with cranes and ringed by more mechanical parasites, gorged and empty. Smaller craft moved above them, fireflies, showing red; sluggish tows in a profusion of makeshift incongruity. Another world… She listened, watching, matching fragments of one-sided radio conversations with the movements of the slow-motion dance below them: boredom and sharp attention, an outburst of anger, unintelligible humor about an unseen technicality. “Shouldn’t they be receiving our signal?”

He nodded. “They are. I guess they’ll call us down when they feel like it.”

Rusty stirred in the air above the control board, batted listlessly at the twined cord of his headset. “Poor Rusty,” Betha murmured, reaching out. “Your trip in this sauna is almost over…” The rawness of her throat hurt her suddenly.

Shadow Jack twisted guiltily, stroked Rusty’s rumpled fur. “Bird Alyn really let me have it for makin’ you take Rusty away. She didn’t want to lose her. She loves plants, makin’ things grow—things that are alive.

. . .” His mouth twitched, almost a smile, almost sorrow. “I guess Rusty was about the most wonderful thing of all, to Bird Alyn.”

“You miss her.”

“Yeah, I… I mean, well, she’s the only one who can really use the computer.”

“Oh.”

He glanced back at her, knowing what she hadn’t said. “We just work together.”

She nodded. “I thought maybe you—”

“No, we don’t. We’re not married.”

She felt her mouth curve up in scandalized amusement. “I admire your self-restraint.”

His blue and green eyes widened; she saw darkness settle across them again. “There’s no point in wanting what we can’t have. It’s only keeping alive that matters—everybody keeping alive. If we can’t get water for Lansing, then it’s the end, and it’s stupid to pretend it’s not. There’s no point in… in…”

He looked down at the control panel. “Those daydreamers! Why don’t they answer us? What do they need, a miracle?”

A voice broke from the speaker, “Unregistered ship—what the hell are you doing up there, running so dark?”

Shadow Jack turned back to her, speechless; she smiled. “Now try wishing for hydrogen.”

Shadow Jack took them in, cursing in the glare, to a moorage on Mecca’s day side. “ ‘Not registered for main field.’ Those nosy bastards! How come we couldn’t land in the dark, like the rest of those damn charmed tankers?” He stretched, leaning back, and cracked his knuckles.

“I suppose they don’t want some tourist crashing into the distillery.” Betha relaxed at last, at the reassuring sound of magnetic cables attaching to the hull outside.

He pushed himself away from his seat. “That doesn’t help us. If something goes wrong, we’ll have a hell of a time gettin’ out of here this way.” He moved toward the locker that held their spacesuits.

She sighed and nodded, reaching out to catch Rusty. “We’ll just hope nothing goes wrong,” thinking that whoever had named him for shadows had named him well.

Betha clung momentarily to the edge of the open airlock, looking down, and away, to where the world ended too suddenly: the foreshortened horizon, like the edge of a gleaming, pitted knife blade against the blackness. And beyond it the stars, scarcely visible, impossibly distant across the lightless void. She saw five torn bodies, falling away into that void where no hand could stop their fall, where no voice could ever break the silence of an eternity alone… She swayed, giddy. Shadow Jack touched her back.

“Go on, push off.” His voice crackled, distorted by his feeble speaker.

Behind his voice in her receiver she heard Rusty’s fruitless scratching inside the pressurized carrying case; she saw figures coming toward them, moving along a mooring cable fastened amidships. She pushed herself out of the hatchway with too much force, drifted through a graceless arc to the ground. She began to rebound, caught at the mooring line and steadied herself. A mistake… And she couldn’t afford to make another one. She was dealing with Belters, and she’d damn well better act like the Belters did. She felt tension burn away the fog of her exhaustion, as she watched Shadow Jack land easily on the bright, pockmarked field of rubble behind her. Above him she saw the sun Heaven, a spiny diamond in the crown of night, frigid and faraway—bizarre against the memory of her sun’s bloody face in a dust-faded Morningside sky. As she turned away from the shadowed hull of the Lansing 04 she could see other ships moored; the stark light etched the crude patchwork of misshapen forms on her mind, overlaying her memory of the Ranger’s ascetic perfection.

“You staying here long?”

She couldn’t see the port man’s face through the shielding mask of his helmet; she hoped her own faceplate hid her as well. “No longer than we have to.”

“Good; your exterior radiation level’s medium-high. Not good for the plants.”

She looked down at the stained rubble, wondered if he was making a joke. She laughed, tentatively.

“You’re the Lansing people?” Eight or ten more figures spilled out from behind him, with bulky instruments she realized were cameras.

“What are you here for?”

“Is it true that—”

“I thought everybody in the Main Belt was dead?”

She shifted Rusty’s case, getting a better grip on the cable; their voices dinned inside her helmet. “We want to buy some hydrogen from your distillery.” She looked back at the port man. “I hope we don’t have to walk to the other side?”

He laughed this time. “Nope. Not if you’re paying customers.”

Betha noticed that he was armed.

“…heard you Main Belters mostly scrounge and steal,” the voices ran on. “Have you really got somethin’ there to trade for snow?”

“How is it that a woman’s in your position; are you sterile?”

“What’s in the box?”

They surrounded her like wolves; she drew back, appalled. “I don’t—”

“That’s for us to know, junkers,” Shadow Jack said suddenly. “We’re not here for handouts. We don’t have to take crap from any of you.” He caught the guard’s rigid sleeve. “Now, how do we get to the distillery?”

Betha’s jaw tightened, but the guard raised his hands. “All right, you media boys, get off their backs. Take a picture of the ship; they didn’t come from Lansing to pose for you. And be sure to mention Mecca Moorage Rentals… No offense, buddy. Just follow the cable back to the shack; they’re holdin’ the car for you. Welcome to Mecca.”

“Say, is it true that—”

Shadow Jack drifted over the cable and pushed past them to the far side. Betha followed, her motion painfully nonchalant. “Thanks—buddy,” she said.

The guard nodded, or bowed, and so did Shadow Jack.

“Christ, who were those people?” She glanced over her shoulder as they boarded the single canister car of the ground transport; behind them someone sealed the door. She heard Shadow Jack mutter, “Unreal.” There were two others in the cabin, she saw, wishing it was empty, glad there were only two and hoping they didn’t have cameras. Ahead through the plastic dome, the filament-fine monorail track stretched away over the barren brightness. Beyond the platform on her right she saw what looked to be a circular hatchway set into the surface of the rock; above it was a sign: hydroponics co-op. She realized that the guard hadn’t been making a joke; the chunk of naked stone that was Mecca was a self-sufficient world, riddled with tubes and vacuoles that supported life and all its processes. Too much radiation was bad for the plants…

Her thoughts jarred and reformed as gentle inertia pressed her against the seatback. Rusty snuffled and scratched in the carrier, making a sound like static inside her helmet; suddenly, painfully, she remembered their destination, and their purpose. And that only Eric could help her now—but Eric was gone. “I wonder if this was built before the war?” She glanced at Shadow Jack’s mirrored faceplate, needing an answer.

“Yes, it was.” The voice in her helmet belonged to a stranger.

She started; so did Shadow Jack. They turned to look at the two others in the car; one, long legs stretching casually, reached up to clear his faceplate. “Eric—!” Her hand rose to her own helmet, hung motionless, almost weightless.

Curling dark hair, a lean, pensive face; the sudden smile that was almost a child’s. The brown eyes looked surprised… amber eyes… not Eric, not… Eric is dead. She pulled down her trembling hand, leaving her faceplate dark. “I—I’m sorry. I thought… I thought you were someone I knew.”

He smiled again, politely. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re the ones who came to trade, from Lansing.” The second voice rasped like grit. “They said the car was waiting for you.”

Betha winced, unseen. She looked across at the shorter, somehow bulkier figure; wondered if it was possible to find a fat Belter. Her own 1.75 meters felt oddly petite. The woman cleared her helmet glass, showed a middle-aged face, brown skin and graying hair, eyes of shining jet.

“Yes, we are.” Betha kept her faceplate dark to hide her paleness, felt Shadow Jack fidget beside her.

“You’re the first ones I’ve ever seen from the Main Belt. What’s it like back in there? It’s good to learn that you aren’t all—”

Rusty emitted a piercing yowl of desolation, and Betha gasped as it rattled against her ears.

“My Lord, what was that?” The woman’s gloves rose to her own shielded ears.

“Ghosts,” Shadow Jack said, “of dead Belters.”

The woman’s face went blank with confusion. Betha glanced at the man, saw him smile and frown together; he met her unseen eyes. “Never heard a noise like that. Maybe we passed over a power cable.” She realized that not only the cat, but the carrying case transmitter must be an unheard-of novelty in Heaven now.

The woman looked shaken. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t gracious of me, anyway. Just that you’re such a novelty. I’m Rinee Bohanian, of Bohanian Agroponics.” She gestured at the sunside behind them.

“Family business, you know.”

“Wadie Abdhiamal.” The man nodded. “I work for the Demarchy.”

“Don’t we all?” the woman said.

“The government.”

She peered at him with a suspicion edging on dislike. “Well.” She looked back at Betha. “And what’s your name? You know, I’d like to get a look at a genuine spacewoman—”

“Betha Torgussen. I’m sorry, my helmet’s broken.” She crossed her fingers; no one showed surprise.

“And this is—”

“Shadow Jack,” Shadow Jack said. “I’m a pirate.”

“Pilot,” Betha murmured, irritated, but the others laughed.

“That’s a Materialist name.” The man was looking at Shadow Jack. “I haven’t met one of those in a long time.”

“Everybody’s one, on Lansing. But it’s just wishing. Nothin’ left to contemplate.” He was almost relaxing, the hard edge softening out of his voice.

The man glanced at Betha, questioning.

“Not everyone.” She turned away toward the front of the car, looking for a reason to stop talking. She heard the woman asking the man what he did for the government, didn’t listen to his reply. They were nearing the terminator; it ran smoothly to meet them, like a cloud shadow crossing the broken desert lands of Morningside. Beyond the terminator, parallel to the edge of shadow, lay a line of leviathans: stubby poles of steel crowned by rings of copper, strung with serial blinking lights, red and green.

“That’s the linear accelerator,” the woman said. “It’s used to ship cargo that doesn’t have to move too fast, or go too far… What exactly does a Materialist think?”

They crossed the terminator, blinking into night as though a switch had been thrown, and passed between the looming towers of the accelerator. The dark-haired man sat listening to Shadow Jack; unwillingly Betha felt her eyes drawn back to his face.

“…and you’re given a word, the name of somethin’ material that’s supposed to set each of you apart and shape your being somehow. Half the people don’t even know what their words mean, now…”

She watched the stranger in silence, helpless, flushed with sudden radiance, chilled until she trembled… Remembering Morningside, the first days of her love for Eric: remembering an engineer and a social scientist ill-met in a factory yard on the Hotspot perimeter, and blazing metal in the unending heat of endless noon… Remembering their last days on Morningside: a film of ice broken in a well in unending dusk, where the crackling edge of the darkside ice sheet, stained with rose and amber by the fires of sunset, shattered its mirror image in the Boreal Sea. Borealis Field, where her family, as the newly chosen crew of the Ranger, worked together preparing for an emergency shipment, preparing themselves for the journey across 1.3 light-years to icebound Uhuru.

They had been selected from all the volunteers willing to leave homes and jobs because another world in their trade ring needed help; but they had never imagined the journey that in the end would be assigned to them. Word had come from the High Council that a radio message had been received from Uhuru, and aid was no longer needed. They had been given a new, unexpected destination, the Heaven system, and a goal that was more than simple survival for another world or their own. She remembered the celebration, their pride at the honor, their families’ families’ pride… Remembered Eric leading her quietly from the crowded, fire-bright hall, for one brief time alone before a journey that would last for years. His gentle hands, and the caressing heat of the deserted sauna; their laughing plunge into banked snow… the heat of passion, the wasting cold of death… fire and ice, fire and ice… She cried silently, Eric, don’t betray me now… Give me strength.

The car slipped on through darkness.

The car drifted to a stop beneath the slender towers of their destination, among the ballooning storage sacs that glowed with ghostly foxfire—dim yellows, greens, and blues, excited by the ground lights into a strange phosphorescence. Betha shook off the past, looking out into the glowing forest of alien shapes. She heard the woman: “…how your Lansing fields are like our tank farmin’. Of course, there’s no shortage of water for us; we have the snow stored below in the old mining cavities. We’ve got enough to last forever, I expect.” A pride that was unconsciously greed filled her smile. The government man glanced at her; Betha saw him show quick anger and wondered why. Shadow Jack pushed abruptly up out of his seat, stabilized himself instinctively. Tension tightened him like a wire again; she wondered what showed on his face.

They followed the man and woman through disembodied radio noise and the impersonal clutter of workers on the platform, came to another hatch set into the solidness of the surface rock. Below the airlock they entered tunnels that sloped steeply downward, without seeming to, into the heart of the stone. Betha felt her suit grow limp with the return of air pressure, making her movements easy. Sounds carried to her now, dimmed by her helmet, as she passed new clusters of citizens, some suited and some not, all mercifully oblivious; she wondered again at the behavior of the cameramen on the field.

They followed a rope along the wall of the main corridor, where the rough gloves of pressure suits had scraped a shallow trough along the pitted surface. Ahead and below she saw the tunnel’s end, opening onto a space hung with fine netting. Curious, she drifted out onto the ledge at the chamber’s lip.

“Oh…” Her breath was lost in a sigh. She stood as Shadow Jack already stood, transfixed by a faery beauty trapped in stone. Before them a vacuole opened up, a kilometer or more in diameter: an immense, unnatural geode filled with shining spines of crystal growth, blunt and spike-sharp, rainbow on rainbow of strident, flowing color. The hollow core of air was hung with gossamer, silken filaments spread by some incredible spider…

The images began to reform in her mind; she realized that this was the city, the heart of life in the Mecca asteroid—that the crystal spines were its towers, reaching up from the floor, out on every side… down, from the ceiling. Why don’t they fall—? Her thoughts spun, falling; she felt someone’s hands clutch her arms. Her mind settled, her feet settled softly on the ledge. Angrily she forced her eyes out again into the chamber’s dizzy immensity. People drifted, as tiny as midges, along the gossamer threads; light ropes, strung across the wide, soft spaces. The towers grew thickest, probing the inner air, on ceiling and floor, in the direct line of gravity’s faint inexorable drag. The buildings that hugged the hollow’s curving sides were shorter, stubbier, enduring greater stress. The towers shivered delicately in the slight stirring currents of ventilation; they were not solid crystalline surfaces, but trembling tents of colored fabric stretched over slender metal frames.

“It was a ‘model city’ before the war.” She saw that the government man was the one who had caught her arms; he released her noncommittally. “It used to be a gamin’ center. Now we play more practical games; most of those towers belong to merchant groups.” The man unlatched his helmet, lifting it off and looking at her expectantly. “The air’s okay here.”

She reached up only to switch on her outside speaker; her skin prickled, wanting the touch of his eyes.

“Thank you”—she tried to sound unsure—“but I’ll wait.” Shadow Jack, speakerless, stood looking out into the city, sullenly content to play deaf and dumb. “Can you tell us which of those belongs to someone who can sell us hydrogen?”

“Hydrogen?” His wandering glance leaped back to her shielded face. “I thought you’d want air. Or water.”

“We do. We need water—we have oxygen. So we need hydrogen, obviously.” Rusty yowled; she closed her ears.

“Oh.” His face relaxed into acceptance. “Obviously… You know, it’s not often that I meet a woman who’s chosen to go into space. Is it common on Lansing?”

“Going into space isn’t common on Lansing, any more.” Betha remembered suddenly that the stranger’s golden-brown eyes belonged to the enemy. “If you could just point out the distillery offices for me?”

“Down there”—he pointed—“that cluster of long greens on the floor; lot of offices for the distilleries in that bunch. Tiriki, Flynn, Siamang…”

“Distilleries? There’s more than one?” Should I have known? She swore under her breath.

“Sure are.” But he smiled, tolerantly. “This is the Demarchy, the people rule; we don’t like monopolistic practices. It infringes on the people; they won’t stand for it—I know. Let me take you around.”

“No, really—”

“It’s the least I can do, when you’ve come this far.” He put two fingers into his mouth and whistled shrilly, three times. She flinched; he turned back to her, surprising her with a quick, apologetic bow.

“That’s how you call a taxi here, now. Mecca’s manners are going to hell… Heaven is going to hell”

He laughed oddly, as if he hadn’t expected to say it out loud. “I’m from Toledo, myself.”

“What—ah—did you say you do for the government?” She looked away uneasily across the ledge. The woman from the train had disappeared. Why is he staying with us like this?

“I’m a negotiator. I try to keep things from getting any more uncivilized than they already are.” Again the quick, pained laugh. “I settle disputes, work out trade agreements… look into unexpected visits.”

She almost turned, froze as she saw the cameramen from moorage emerge from the tunnel. “Shadow Jack!” She caught his arm. “Stay with me, don’t get separated.”

The voices closed in on them, “… in that run-down ship?”

“Who are you making your deal with?”

“How much—”

“What do you have—”

Mediamen and staring locals crowded them, ringed them in, jostling and interrupting. She saw the government man elbowed aside as the air taxi drifted up to the ledge, grating to a stop. She pushed toward it, gesturing to Shadow Jack. It was canopied and propeller-driven, steered by hand by a bored-looking, well-dressed boy. “Where to?”

“To—to Tiriki’s. And hurry.” She ducked her head at the edge of the striped canopy, felt the footing bob beneath her in a sea of air, seeing crystals reflecting above and below. Shadow Jack followed. The taxi sank outward and down, away from the grasping mob on the precipice.

“…Torgussen!” She heard the government man shouting after her.

She looked back; her hands rose to her helmet, fumbling, pulled it off. She saw his face change with incredulity… recognition… loss… Stop it!

There was no resemblance, there could be no recognition… Eric is dead! She clung to a canopy pole, feeling the air currents stir her pale, snarled hair, soothe her burning face. Oh, God, how often will this happen? Shadow Jack hung over the edge, looking down, up, sideways, as they passed the artificial sun caged in glass suspended in the cavern’s center. Slowly she sank onto a seat, forcing her own senses to absorb her surroundings, jamming the echoes of the past.

The cavern was filled with sound, merging and indistinct: laughter, shouting, the beehive hum of unseen mechanisms. She looked ahead, aware now of subtle differences of richness and elaboration among the massed towers; of balconies set at insane angles; of dark hollows in the bedrock walls, tunnels to exclusive homes. And gradually she became aware of the mingling of spices that perfumed the cool filtered air; she breathed deeply, tasting it, savoring it, easing her stuffy head. Unimpressed, the driver stared through her at the emerald pinnacle of their destination.

They pushed through the soft elastic mouth of the roof entrance, into a long empty corridor stretching twenty-five meters down to the building’s base on rock. Betha began to sink toward it, almost imperceptibly, and with no sensation of falling; they began to pass doorways. Shadow Jack unlatched his helmet, pulled it off and shook his head. She heard him take a deep breath. “Where are we?” His hair was plastered like streamers over his wet face; he wiped it back with a gloved hand.

“Tiriki Distillates. The man from the train suggested it.” She hesitated, not wanting to tell him what she suspected.

“Bastards.” His mouth pulled back. “I’d like to see this place blow up. They wouldn’t be so—” Anger choked him.

Betha watched him, feeling sorrow edged with annoyance. She reached out; her glove pressed the soft, resistant covering on his shoulder. “I know how you feel… I know. But so did the people in that train car. Take the chip off your shoulder, right now, or I’ll knock it off myself: I can’t afford it. I want something from these people, and so do you, and it’s a hell of a lot more important than what either one of us feels. So put a sweet smile on your face while we make this deal, and keep it there if it gags you.”

Somewhere the memory broke loose: “ ‘Smile and smile… and be a villain.’ ” She smiled, breathing the cool scented air, and willed his eyes to meet hers. Slowly he raised his head; as he looked at her, for the first time, she saw him smile.

Someone pushed through a doorway almost at her side. He caught the flap, looking at her with frank disbelief.

She rubbed her unwashed face, embarrassed. “We’d like to negotiate for a load of hydrogen. Can you tell us who to see?”

A mask of propriety formed. “Of course. Sure. At the far end of the hall, the Purchasing Department. And thanks for doing business with Tiriki.” He ducked his head formally and moved past them, pushing off from wall to wall, rising like a swimmer through the brightening sea-green light. They went on down, into the depths.

“Look at this rag.” They heard the voice before they reached the doorway. “What do they know about it? They don’t know a damn thing.”

“No, Esrom.”

Betha brushed aside the flaps and they went in, wearing smiles rigid with tension.

“I could do better myself. That’s what we ought to do, do it ourselves. We ought to hire some mediamen and put out our own paper—”

“Yes, Esrom.”

“—tell them our side. Look here, Sia, ‘monopolistic’…”

The golden-skinned, ethereally beautiful woman behind the counter looked up at them; her arching eyebrows rose. The golden-skinned, strikingly handsome man with the printout turned. Brother and sister, Betha thought, and… impeccable. They wore soft greens, colors flowing into a background of sea-green light, the woman in a long embroidered gown, the man-in an embroidered jacket, lace at his sleeves. She pictured what they saw in return, brushed at her stringy hair.

But the man said, “Sia, did you ever see anything like that? Look at that skin, and hair, together…” His dark eyes moved down her suit, identified it, looked back at her face. “But she’s been in space.”

Interest faded to regret.

The woman tapped his arm. “Esrom, please!” She charmed them with a smile. “And what can we do for you?” She smoothed her sinuously drifting, raven-black hair along her back, tucked strands under her, lacy cap.

“We’d like to buy a load of hydrogen from you.” Betha felt herself blushing crimson while they watched in fascination. She tried to hide her annoyance. “One thousand tons.”

“I see.” The man nodded slowly, or bowed, looking vaguely surprised. He reached for a clipboard on a chain. “Do you want it shipped?”

“No, we can move it ourselves.”

“Where are you coming from?” The woman’s voice was as fragile as her face, but with no hint of softness.

“Lansing.” Shadow Jack smiled, tall and thin and genuine, with one blue eye and one green.

“The Main Belt!” Brother and sister looked at them again; silent, this time, with a morbid awe. A newscast appeared on the screen behind them, flashing pictures between lines of print. “That’s quite a trip,” the man said quietly. “How long’d it take you?”

“A long time.” Betha gestured up at worn, dirty faces, not needing to force the grating weariness into her voice. “And it’ll be even longer going home. We’d like to get this settled as soon as we can.”

“Of course.” He hesitated. “What—er, what did you want to offer in trade? We’re limited in what we can take, you understand…”

Charity begins at home. She saw Shadow Jack’s rigid smile twitch, as she pulled off her gloves. But who am I to blame them for that? She balanced Rusty’s carrying case against the metal counter top and unsealed the lid, hearing the hiss as the pressure equalized. Rusty’s mottled head rose over the edge, her dilated pupils black with excitement, flashing green in the light. Her nose quivered and she wriggled free, rising up into the air like a piece of windborne down. Betha heard the small gasp of the woman, and let the case drift away. “Will you take a cat?”

“An animal,” the woman whispered. “I never thought I’d ever see one…” Shyly she put out a hand. Betha stroked Rusty, reassuring, pushed her toward them. Rusty butted softly up against the woman’s palms, sniffing daintily, sidling in pleasure along the fine satin cloth of her sleeve.

“I think you’ve come to the right place.” The man’s slender hands quivered. “Dad would give you the whole distillery for that animal.” He laughed. “But he’d make you pay shipping in to the Main Belt.”

“Are there many animals left on Lansing?”

“No.” Betha smiled, felt it pull. “A load of hydrogen will be fine.”

“We have gardens,” Shadow Jack said. “Lansing’s the only tent rock. We were the capital of all Heaven Belt, once.” He lifted his head.

“Sure,” the man said. “That’s right, it was. I’ve seen pictures. Beautiful…”

Rusty slipped away from the woman, began to jab a paw through the holes of a mesh container for papers. The papers danced and she began to purr, smugly content at the center of the world’s attention. Betha’s eyes were drawn away to the newscast on the wall; she froze as she saw her own face projected on the screen, realized it was not coverage of their arrival on Mecca. With all her will she glanced casually away, reaching out to scratch Rusty under the chin.

The man caught her motion, turned to look up at the screen. Her eyes leaped after him, saw her image vanish into lines of print. The man looked back at her, puzzled; shook his head, grimacing politely. “Don’t mind the screen. We like to get the news from all over, to see what the competition’s up to. It’s all static anyhow—mediamen’ll say anythin’ they’re paid for.” He gestured at the printout settling gradually into a heap on the counter. Rusty pounced, overshooting, and swept it out into the air.

“Here, little thing, don’t hurt yourself,” the woman murmured, her hands tightening with indecision.

“She’ll be all right,” Betha said, irritable in her relief.

A small disapproval showed on the woman’s face.

“Do you mind if we take a look at your ship?”

Betha looked back at the man. “No… but it’s at the other end of the ast—of the rock.”

He nodded. “Easy to do.” There was a small control panel under the wall screen; he moved away toward it. “What’s your designation?”

“Lansing 04.”

He changed settings, and the news report vanished. “Lansing 04…” Betha saw their ship appear, an image in blinding contrasts on the sunbleached field. “I guess it’s possible for you to move a thousand tons with a ship that size. How much does it mass?”

“Twenty tons without reaction mass or cargo.”

“We like to be sure, you know.” He looked up. “It’s goin’ to take you a lot of megasecs, though, to get back to Lansing.”

She watched his face for unease, saw only his easy solicitude. “We’ll manage; we have to.”

“Sure.” His eyes moved from her to Shadow Jack, touching them, she saw, with a kind of admiration.

“We’ll start processing your shipment.”

Rusty crashed against the counter edge in a snarl of printouts and sneezed loudly.

“Hey, now.” The man turned away, reaching for Rusty almost desperately. “Dad would kill us if somethin’ happened to—” His voice faded, he let her go, catching up a sheet. Betha saw her own face on the page between his hands, not disappearing this time. “…alien starship…” She heard Shadow Jack’s soft curse of defeat. She drifted, clutching the counter edge until her fingers reddened.

The Tirikis turned back to her. “It’s you,” the man said, staring. “You’re from the starship.”

“And you’ve come to us.”

An unconscious smile spread over their faces, the look of guileless greed Betha had seen on the woman in the shuttle. “I don’t understand,” she said stubbornly. “You’ve seen our ship; we’ve come from the Main Belt. There were a lot of people taking our pictures on the field—”

“Not that picture.” The woman shook her head, her black hair rippling. Betha watched them remembering, reassessing. “We’ve heard about you ever since you came into the system over a megasec ago.”

“And you didn’t get from there to here in a megasec in the ship we saw.” The man looked at Shadow Jack again. “You are from the Belt; maybe it’s your ship. What are you, a snow pirate?”

“We’re not pirating anything.” Betha caught Rusty, pinned her against her suit. “We offered you a deal, this cat for a load of hydrogen. We’ve got nothing else that would interest you, wherever we’re from. Just let us make the deal and go—”

“I’m sorry.” The man looked down at the spiral of paper. “I’m afraid we are interested in a ship that can go from Discus… to the Main Belt… to the Demarchy…” Betha saw his mind work out the parameters.

“… in one and a half megaseconds.”

She wondered bleakly what he would think if he knew it had only taken a third of that. “What is it you want from us, then?” Knowing the answer, she knew now that she had failed because there had never been a way to enter Mecca undetected.

“They want your ship! Let’s get out of here.” Shadow Jack pushed away toward the door, pulled aside the flaps, froze. Betha turned. Facing him, in a wine-red jacket flawlessly embroidered, was the man who worked for the government. Impeccable… The man’s eyes fixed on her in return, and on Shadow Jack. He stared, incredulous, and she knew that this time he was staring at wild, filthy hair and streaked faces. Not at her paleness—she knew from his eyes that her face held no surprises for him. “Captain Torgussen,” he nodded. “And not from Lansing—obviously.”

“You have the advantage of me,” Betha said. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.”

He smiled. It hardened as he turned to the Tirikis, making a bow. “And just what does Tirikis Distillates want with the starship?” His hand found the front of Shadow Jack’s suit, pushed him back into the room. “I guess you weren’t kidding, boy, when you told us what you do for a living.”

“Who are you?” the woman asked, indignant.

“Wadie Abdhiamal, representing the Demarchy government.”

“Government?” The man made a face. “Then this is none of your business, Abdhiamal. Butt out before you get into trouble.”

“That’s monopolist talk, Tiriki. And I think you’ve got the ideas to go with it. I’m here on business—these people and their ship are what I came to Mecca to find. The government has claimed the ship in the name of all the people of the Demarchy.”

“Your government claims don’t hold air, Abdhiamal.” The man glanced down at his reflection on the counter top, readjusting his soft beret. “You know you’ve got nothin’ to back them up. We found these two first, and we’re keeping them.”

“Public opinion will back me up. Nobody’s goin’ to let Tiriki have total control of that ship. I’ll call a public hearing—”

“Use my screen.” The man pointed. “When we tell the people how the government has been goin’ behind the Demarchy’s back looking for the starship, they’re not goin’ to hear a word you say. You’ll be out before you know what happened, and I mean out of everything.”

“But you’ll be out one starship—and that’s all that matters to me. Set up a hearing.”

The woman moved toward the wall screen.

“Just a damn minute!” Betha turned desperately, caught them all in a look. “Sixty seconds—one minute, where I come from—to mention some things you seem to have forgotten about my ship. One, it is my ship. And two, only I know where it is. And three, if you think you’ll get it without my full cooperation, you’re wrong. My crew will destroy it before they’ll let it be taken—and that will destroy any ship that gets within three thousand kilometers of it.” Shadow Jack came back to her side, his face questioning. The others were silent, waiting, their frustration and greed sucking at her like flames. “Now, then. You seem to have reached an impasse. But I came here to make a deal, and I’m still willing to make a deal—since I don’t think I have any other choice. I doubt if you’ll let us leave, in any case.

“So… suppose each of you tell me why you want my ship so much, and then I’ll tell you who gets it And it wouldn’t hurt if you mention what’s in it for me—” Rusty began to struggle, clawing for a foothold on her slick suiting. She saw Abdhiamal watch the cat, smile with irrelevant fascination before he met her gaze in turn. He didn’t answer; waiting for the opposition, she thought. “Well?” She turned away, afraid of him, afraid of herself, afraid to let him see it.

The Tirikis spoke softly together. They faced her finally, beautiful and determined. “Your ship would build up our business—and revolutionize the Demarchy’s trade. The way things stand we don’t have all the snow we need where it’s easy to get at; we have to go to the Rings, and it’s a hard trip with nuclear-electric rockets. And the Ringers make it even harder, because they know we can’t do anythin’ that would threaten our allotments of gases. If we had your ship we wouldn’t have to depend on them. Your ship would make the Demarchy a better place to live… You could continue to captain it, work for us. We’ll pay you well. You’ll be part of the richest, most powerful company in the Demarchy—”

“And when the Demarchy objects, that company will make your ship into a superweapon and take over.” Abdhiamal held her eyes.

She felt her eyelids flicker; he slipped out of focus as she shook her head, denying. “No one will use my ship as a weapon. Not even you, Abdhiamal, if that’s why you want it.”

“The government wants it so it won’t become a weapon and bring on a new civil war. God knows, the old one’s still killin’ us. Somebody’s got to see that the ship is used for the good of the whole Demarchy, and not turned against us. It could be the stimulus we need to revive the whole Belt, the technology you have on board. We might be able to duplicate your ramscoop, build our own, reestablish some kind of regular communication outside the Demarchy. You could help us—”

“Don’t listen to him!” the woman said. “We’re the government, we, the people. He’s got no authority to do anythin’. You’d be torn apart by everybody who wants your ship. He can’t protect you. Stay with us. We’ll take care of you.” She lifted her hands. “You’ve got nowhere else to turn.” Betha recognized the threat behind it.

“They’ll take care of you, all right,” Shadow Jack whispered. His gloved hand caught Betha’s wrist, squeezing until it bruised, “Don’t do it, Betha! They’re all liars. You can’t trust any of ’em.”

“Shadow Jack.” She turned slowly, her hand still locked in his, and touched him with her eyes. He let go; she saw the anger drain out of him, leaving his face empty. “What about the hydrogen—for Lansing?”

“We’ll send them a shipment; whatever they need.”

“And you?” She faced Abdhiamal again. “Is it true that your promises are worthless?”

“The government only does the Demarchy’s pleasure. Why don’t we ask the Demarchy? We’ll call a general meeting, and let you tell them all about your ship. Tell everyone the location—but warn ’em too, to keep away—tell them what you told us. Then nobody will be at an advantage. I’ll tell them what your ship could mean to all of them, to the whole Belt. Everybody will have a hand in decidin’ how to make the best use of the opportunity, the way things were designed to be done… The Demarchy means you no harm, Captain. But we need your help. Give it to us, and you can name your own reward.”

“Anything but a ticket home.” Shadow Jack searched her face; she averted her eyes.

“All right.” She reached down for Rusty’s carrying case, forced herself to look at Abdhiamal again. “Abdhiamal, I’ll try it your way…”

He smiled, and she couldn’t see behind it; she fought the desire to trust him. “Thanks.” He turned to the Tirikis. “Set up a meeting.”

“No. Wait.” Betha shook her head. “Not here. I want to be on my ship when I make the announcement. If everyone has to know where it is, some lunatic will try to take it no matter what I say. I have to be there, to countermand my orders; I don’t want to lose my ship now. I’m sure you don’t, either?” She looked back at him. “We’ll take you to the ship; we can broadcast from there… After all, it’s not going to get away from you without fuel, is it?”

“I suppose not. And I suppose you’re right.” He nodded once, watching the Tirikis. “Okay, I’ll accept your terms.”

“Go with ’em, Abdhiamal.” Esrom Tiriki’s voice mocked him. “That’ll give us plenty of time to spread the news of this; the mediamen will tear you apart. By the time you call a meetin’ you’ll be public enemy number one. Nobody will listen to you then. You can count on it.” His hand jerked at the counter’s edge, chopping down.

She saw Abdhiamal’s smile tighten. “Let’s get goin’, then.”

She pushed Rusty, protesting, into the case and sealed the lid. She felt a small joy at a sacrifice refused, and felt the Tirikis’ eyes change enviously behind her. She smiled faintly.

“How can you smile now, after that’s happened?” Shadow Jack muttered. He picked up his helmet.

Softly she said, “Didn’t I tell you there was always a reason to keep smiling?”