The Warlock`s Companion

Chapter 3

Magnus was being noble; he wasn't even asking. But Gwen could see the pinched look about his face, and took pity on him.

Geoffrey, however, was not yet old enough to be self-denying. "Mama, I'm hungry!"

"I am sure that thou art," Gwen said grimly; the effect of the boy's impatience was not improved by comparison with Magnus's self-control. "But peace, my lad—there's an inn not far from here."

And so there was—just around a bend in the road. It was a pleasant-enough-looking place, a big two-story frame structure with mullioned windows and a thatched roof. From a flagpole over the door hung a hank of greenery, bobbing in the breeze.

"The bush is green," Gwen noted.

"New ale." Rod smiled. "This may be a better lunch than I thought."

But Cordelia was staring at the animal tethered in front of the door. "Oh! The poor lamb!"

"Hast no eyes, sister?" Geoffrey scoffed. " 'Tis not a lamb, but an ass!"

"No more than thou art," Cordelia retorted. "Yet 'tis a very lamb of a donkey! Doth not thy heart go out to him?"

"Thou hast no need to answer." Gwen caught Geoffrey with his mouth open. He closed it and glowered up at her.

"Thou hast it aright, my lass," Gwen said. "The beast is woefully treated."

And indeed it was—its coat was rough and dull, with patches of mange here and there, and its ribs showed through its hide. It stretched its neck to crop what little grass grew within reach of its hitching post.

"How vile must his master be," Magnus said indignantly,

"to take his ease in the cool of an inn, and leave his beast not so much as a mound of hay!"

"He is also badly overworked," Fess noted.

The comment was an understatement—the poor little donkey was hitched to a cart dangerously overloaded with barrels of various sizes.

"Such conduct towards a poor draft animal is inexcusable!" Fess stated.

Gregory looked up at him in surprise. " 'Tis not like thee, Fess, to so judge a human."

"He's sensitive on the subject of beasts of burden, son," Rod explained.

"What kind of man could be so calloused as to mistreat his donkey thus?" Gwen wondered.

"Assuredly," said Geoffrey, "a proper villain—a fat, lazy, slovenly boor, a very brute!"

But the man who came out of the inn was neither fat nor slovenly. He was of middle height, and only a little on the plump side. He wore clean hose and jerkin, and carried his cap in his hand till he was outside the inn, chatting with the landlord, a pleasant smile on his face.

"Why, he doth seem almost kind!" Cordelia said, shocked.

But the appearance of kindness disappeared the moment the man came to the hitching post. He untied the tether and yanked the beast's head up away from the poor strands of dry grass with a curse, then climbed into the cart and unlimbered a long, cruel whip as he yanked the donkey's head around.

"He must not!" Cordelia protested, but the driver was already plying the lash—and not just cracking it over the donkey's back, but cutting the poor beast's flanks.

"Why, the villain!" Cordelia cried, and her broomstick leaped from her hand to shoot off toward the cart.

But Rod had noticed something she hadn't seen, and clapped a hand on her shoulder. "Pull that broomstick back, daughter, or you may interfere with the course of justice."

"That cannot be so," Cordelia objected, but the broomstick slowed to a hover.

"Yes, it can. Look over there, at the edge of the meadow!"

Cordelia looked, and gasped.

"Rod," Fess said, "surely that is the same… beeeasstt…" He began to tremble.

"Hold yourself together, Rust Inhibitor—no need to have a seizure over it. I'm sure there's a perfectly unreasonable explanation. But yes, that donkey underneath the trees does look exactly like our friend between the traces, there."

"He hath gained, at least, a deserved reward," Gregory said, "for he doth crop rich, sweet grass with relish."

Magnus frowned. "Yet how can the two be so exactly the same? Hath someone crafted a new beast of witch moss?"

"And wherefore?" Geoffrey demanded.

"I don't think it's witch moss," Rod said slowly. "In fact, I'm rather curious. Doesn't something about that duplicate donkey strike you as a little—odd?"

"Now that you mention it," Fess mused, "the donkey's behavior is a bit too abject."

"That's what I thought." Rod nodded. "He's overacting."

"Who, Papa?"

"Wait and see." Gwen said it softly, but her smile threatened to break into a grin.

The donkey heaved against the traces, managed to get the huge cart lumbering into motion, hauled it out of the inn yard and onto the road—and calmly proceeded to trudge off the track. The driver cursed at it and gave the reins a savage tug, but the donkey didn't even seem to notice. The man cracked the whip so deeply into its flank that the gouge filled with crimson—but the donkey only trotted the faster, out into the middle of a field. The driver went frantic. He flayed the poor beast with the whiplash, cursing like a fiend, and hauled on the reins so hard that one broke.

"What manner of donkey is that?" Geoffrey stared. "Never could a poor breast so withstand the pull of the bit!"

"Mayhap he hath it in his teeth," Magnus suggested.

"Or maybe he made his mouth as hard as rock." Rod couldn't help grinning.

The donkey bent its course away from the broken rein, trudging around in a circle. The driver howled in rage, beating and beating with the whip, but the donkey only went faster, around and around, until the driver began to feel the pull of centripetal force and felt the first stab of fear. He dropped the whip and turned to leap off the cart—and jolted back into his seat.

"He is stuck to the bench!" Geoffrey howled.

"Husband," said Gwen, "there is more to this than shape-shifting."

"Oh, I agree—and I think we both know what it is."

The whip sprang out of the grass with a snap, turned, and cracked its lash over the driver's head. He looked up in horror and let out a low moan. The lash swept back, cracked, and struck like a snake, tearing the man's shirt and welting his back.

Rod turned to Cordelia with a frown. "I told you to wait!"

"But I did, Papa! That was not my doing!"

Rod stared at her.

Then he whirled back to catch the next act.

The donkey was galloping now, far faster than any Rod had ever seen—and the cart was skidding, the inner wheel lifting off the ground, then rocking back, then lifting again. The driver held on for dear life, howling with fright as the whip cracked over his head and the cart rocked under his feet.

"It's going," Rod said. "It's…"

With a crash and a rumble, the cart went over on its side, and the barrels went tumbling. The largest two split open, and red wine drenched the meadow. The driver landed ten yards away, flat on his back. A small barrel slammed into his belly.

"Oh, the poor man!" Cordelia cried. "Papa, ought we not aid him?"

"Wherefore, sister?" Magnus asked. "Hath he more pain than he gave his donkey?"

"Thou didst but now call him 'villain,' " Geoffrey reminded.

"That was when he had no need—and now he doth! Oh!"

"Peace, my daughter." Gwen laid a hand on her shoulder. "Let it work. I misdoubt me an he'll mistreat another beast whiles he doth live."

"Yet will he?"

"He will certainly live," Fess assured her, craning his neck to watch. "I can magnify visual images, Cordelia, and I am replaying the tumble in slow motion. So far as I can see, there is little probability of any serious damage to the man."

"Praise Heaven for that!"

"I don't think Heaven had anything to do with this little farce," Rod said slowly.

Sure enough, the driver had already managed to roll over, and was scrambling to get his feet under him—but the donkey squared off, turning tail, lined up its rear hooves, and caught him just as he managed to get his bottom off the ground. The driver went sprawling again, face in the dirt.

"Oh, well aimed!" Geoffrey tried to hide a smile. "Is't wrong to laugh at his discomfiture, Papa?"

"I don't really think so," Rod said slowly, "considering that he's only getting a taste of what he gave his donkey. And, of course, I have reason to suspect he's not going to sustain any real injury—no more than a bruise or two."

"How canst thou be certain?" Cordelia demanded.

But the driver had managed to clamber back up now, somehow without the donkey giving him the benefit of hindsight again, and was running back to the inn in a panic, crying,, "Witchcraft! Foul sorcery! Some witch hath enchanted my donkey!"

"Mama," Cordelia said, " 'tis not good for us that he should so defame witchfolk!"

"Be not troubled, my daughter. I am sure that any who hear this tale will know quite well 'twas not the work of a witch."

Cordelia frowned. "But how… ?"

The donkey gave its erstwhile master a snort of contempt, broke the shafts with two more well-placed kicks, and trotted off toward the woods.

"Papa, stop him!" Cordelia cried. "I must know who hath wrought this deed, or I'll die of curiosity!"

"I don't doubt it," Rod said, grinning, "and I must admit that I'd like to have my own suspicions confirmed." He gave a low, warbling whistle that slid through three keys.

The donkey's head snapped up, pivoting around toward Rod. The warlock smiled and stepped out into plain sight, and the donkey changed its course, trotting back toward them.

"I think we'd better step off the road," Rod explained. "The folk in the inn are apt to be coming out for a look any minute now."

"Indeed," Gwen agreed, and led the way into a small grove just off the meadow.

The donkey followed, and came trotting up in front of them. It stomped to a halt with a haughty toss of its head.

"All right, so you're noble." Rod smiled. "But tell me, do you really think that driver deserved that?"

"All that, and more," the donkey brayed.

The children's jaws dropped, and Fess started to tremble.

"Easy, Logic Looper." Rod rested his hand on the reset switch. "You knew this donkey wasn't all it appeared to be."

"I… shall accustom myself to the notion," Fess answered.

Gwen wasn't having much luck hiding her smile. "Dost thou bethink thyself so good a fellow, then?"

"Certes, I do." The donkey actually grinned'—and everything around the grin seemed to blur and fade into an amorphous mass—then it reformed, and Puck stood there before them. "In truth, I do think I am a Robin Goodfellow."

The three younger children nearly fainted from sheer surprise, and even Magnus had eyes like coins. But Rod and Gwen only smiled, nodding, amused. "Was this just a spur-of-the-moment thing?" Rod asked. "Or did you actually think it through before you did it, for once?"

" 'For once,' forsooth!" the elf cried. "I'll have thee know I have watched this villain these seven months, and if e'er a man deserved to suffer for his deeds, 'twas he! 'Tis a bully entire, though too much a coward to attempt the beating of a mortal man! E'en a horse he would beware, and fear to strike! Therefore doth he bespeak you as pleasant as a dove, the whiles in his heart he doth wish to rend thee limb from limb. Nay, at last I did weary of his maltreatment of his poor beast, and bethought me to give him a draft of his own potion!"

" 'Tis not like thee, Puck, to be so cruel," Cordelia protested.

The elf grinned with a carnivore's smile. "Though knowest only one face of me, child, an thou canst speak so. Yet there was no true cruelty in this, for I did but make the man appear a fool, and that not even before his fellows. If he is wise, and doth profit where he can, he will not henceforth be so certain as to whom he can, or cannot, smite with impunity."

Cordelia appeared to be somewhat reassured, though not greatly. "Yet he was mightily affrighted, and sore hurt…"

"Had he worse than he hath given his beast?"

"Well… nay…"

"I cannot say thou hast done ill in this case, Robin," Gwen said, still smiling.

"This case, pooh! I am a man of many mischiefs, yet rarely of true hurt!"

Rod noted the 'rarely,' and decided it was time to change the subject.

Apparently, so did Puck. "Yet enough of this villain—he's not worth more words! How dost thou came to be nearby, to witness his coming to justice?"

"We," Rod said grandly, "are going on vacation."

"Oh, aye, and the sky is beneath our feet while the earth's overhead! Naetheless, 'tis a worthy goal. Whither wander you?"

"To our new castle, Puck," Cordelia said, eyes shining again. "Oh! Will it not be grand?"

"Why, I cannot tell," the elf answered, "unless thou dost tell me what castle it is."

"It's called Castle Foxcourt," Rod said.

Puck stared.

"I take it you know something about the place," Rod said slowly.

"I do not know," the elf hedged, "for I've only heard tell of it."

"But what you've heard, isn't good?"

"That might be a way to speak of it," Puck agreed.

"Nay, tell us," Gwen said, frowning.

Puck sighed. "I know little, mistress, and guess less—but from what I have heard of it, this Castle Foxcourt is of ill repute."

"Dost say 'tis haunted?" Geoffrey asked, his eyes kindling.

"Not unless I'm asked—yet since I am, I must own 'tis that which I've heard of it. Yet there are ghosts, and ghosts. I would not fear to have thee near the shade of a man who was good in his lifetime."

Magnus frowned, cocking his head to one side. "From that, I take it the ghost who doth haunt this castle was not of the good sort, the whiles he did live."

"Not from what I hear," the elf said, his face grim. "Yet as I say, I do not truly know—even whiles the man endured, I had no business in his realm, and never chanced to meet him. Yet he bore his title with ill fame."

"Thou didst hear of him whiles he still did live?" Magnus frowned. "He hath not been so long a ghost, then."

"Nay, only a couple of hundreds of years."

"Thou didst know a man who…" Gregory's voice petered out as his eyes lost focus. "Nay, thou art spoken of as the oldest of all Old Things, art thou not?" But he looked a little dizzied by the implications.

Puck tactfully ignored the reference to his age. "I shall travel with thee, good folk."

"We might ever take pleasure in thy company, Puck." Gwen said, dimpling. "Yet if 'tis for cause that thou dost fear for us, I thank thee, but bid thee stay. No mere spirit can long discomfort this family, no matter how evil it was when alive."

"Be not so certain," Puck said, still looking uncomfortable. "Yet I'll own I've business of His Majesty's to attend." They all knew that the "Majesty" in question was not King Taun, but only Rod knew that the dwarf referred to the children's grandfather. "Yet an thou hast need of me, whistle, and I'll be by thee in an instant."

"Thanks," Rod said. "Hope we don't need to, though."

"Most dearly do I also! Yet an thou hast need of more knowledge than I do own, thou hast but to ask of the elves who dwell hard by the castle. They'll know the truth of its tale, I doubt not."

Rod nodded. "Thanks for the tip. That, we definitely will do."

"Nay, surely we must come to know our neighbors," Gwen agreed.

"There are few enough of those, I wot," Puck said with a grimace. "Rumor doth say that any who can, have fled its environs."

They had to wait for all the laughing and joking to die down in the inn, and for the limping driver to make his exit, red-faced, before they could order; but when the food came, it was good, and filling. With his stomach full, Rod declared that, since he was on vacation, he was going to honor it by attempting to nap, and any child who made enough noise to disturb him was likely to gain empirical evidence of the moon's composition.

It was a good excuse, at least, for going off under the shade of a tree fifty feet away, and lying down with his head in his wife's lap. From the constant murmur emanating from the two of them, the children doubted that their father was really sleeping or even trying to, but they bore it stoically.

"Is he not a bit aged to playing Corin to Mama's shepherdess?" Geoffrey grumbled.

"Oh, let them be," Cordelia said, with a sentimental smile. "Their love is our assurance, when all's said and done. Bide, whiles they make it the stronger."

"Cordelia speaks wisely," Fess agreed. "They did not wed to speak of nothing but housekeeping and children, after all."

"There is, of course, no loftier topic," Geoffrey assured him.

Cordelia gave him her best glare. "Thou art unseemly, brother."

"Mayhap—yet I am, at least, only what I do seem."

"I wonder." Cordelia turned moody.

"You are still troubled by Puck's cruelty to the driver, are you not?" Fess said gently.

'Nay—I do not doubt the rightness of it, nor the man's well-being," Cordelia answered. " 'Tis the look of the man that doth bother me, Fess."

"Wherefore?" Geoffrey asked, amazed. "He was well favored, for all that I could see."

"Aye, only a man such as any thou mightest meet upon the road," Magnus agreed.

"But dost thou not see, 'tis therein lies my grievance!" Cordelia said. " 'Tis even as Geoffrey did say—he was not fat, nor slovenly, nor had he the look of a brute! Yet he was one, beneath his seemly guise!"

"Not all do wear their villainy openly, sister," Gregory reminded her.

"Oh, be still, nubbin! 'Tis even that which doth trouble me!"

"Ah," Fess said. "You have begun to fear that all people are truly only bullies at heart, have you not?"

Cordelia nodded, her eyes downcast.

"Take comfort," the robot advised her. "Though they may be beasts within, most people do learn how to control their baser instincts—or, at least, to channel them in ways that are not harmful to others."

"But are they the less vile therefore?" she burst out. "They are still brutes within!"

"There is good at your cores as well as evil," Fess assured her. "Indeed, many people have so strong an instinct for helping others that it quite overshadows their urge to browbeat those about them."

"How canst thou say so!" Geoffrey said indignantly, "when thy first experience of mankind was with so base a knave?"

"That is true," Fess agreed, "yet he was in contact with other human beings, and I had some indication of redemptive qualities in them."

Cordelia frowned up at him. "Did thy second owner confirm those hints of virtue?"

They heard a sixty-cycle buzz, Fess's equivalent of a contemptuous snort. "He confirmed the opinion I had gained from Reggie, children, and demonstrated nadirs in human nature I had not thought possible, the worst of which was treachery. Reggie, at least, was not treacherous, and had some slight interest in others. My second owner, though, was of a mean and grasping nature, which is, I suppose, only natural."

Geoffrey frowned up. "How is that?"

"Why, anyone who would purchase a defective component simply to gain a bargain price, must necessarily be miserly—and he bought me to be the guidance computer for his burro-boat."

Geoffrey frowned. "What is a burro-boat?"

" 'Was,' Geoffrey, for they are no longer manufactured, which is something of a blessing. They were small, heavily shielded craft designed for excavating and hauling, but certainly not for beauty."

Magnus smiled, amused. "Yet thy second owner cared little for grace, and greatly for gain?"

"He did, though I suppose the attitude came naturally to one of his occupation. He was a miner in Sol's asteroid belt, and lived constantly with danger, but with little else; only a solitary individual would choose such a life, and might well become bitter accordingly. He was interested only in his own self-aggrandizement—or his attempts at such; he never succeeded notably."

"Was he poor, then?"

"He subsisted," Fess answered. "By towing metal-rich asteroids into Ceres station, he gained enough to buy the necessities, which are notably expensive at so remote a location from the planet where your species evolved. He was interested in other human beings only as sources of his own gratification—and if they did not contribute to that gratification, he preferred to reject them completely."

"Thou dost not mean he hated good folk!"

"That is perhaps an overstatement," Fess said, "yet not quite so far off the mark as it might be."

"But folk cannot live without other folk!"

"On the contrary, they can. They will be emotionally starved, of course—but such people frequently are emotionally crippled to begin with."

Cordelia shuddered. "How couldst thou think any good of mortal folk with such as that to form thine opinion?"

"Because I was constantly exposed to good people, Cordelia—or to news of them, at least."

Magnus frowned. "How couldst thou be?"

"Because most of the Belt folk were lonely, and wished company. They sought it the only way they could—by radio and video communication with others. I, of course, had to be ever vigilant, listening to the constant stream of chatter, in case some event should occur that would affect my owner—and as a result, I came to learn of all manner of people—some bad, some good, some quite evil, some very good. I learned of events, both important and insignificant. I think I remember best the time when an asteroid's dome failed—a force field that enclosed the atmosphere the people breathed."

Cordelia stared, shocked. "How could they have lived?"

"They did not—they died, with the exception of a technician and a tourist, both of whom happened to be in space suits at the time, and a little girl, who survived under rather unique circumstances."

"Oh, that must have wrung the heart of thee!"

"I have no 'heart,' as you call it, Cordelia—but I did learn a great deal about the abilities of people to sacrifice for one another, as I tracked her through the remainder of her childhood."

"Tell us of her then!" Gregory cried.

"Oh, 'tis all weepy lass's stuff!" Geoffrey objected.

"Not entirely, Geoffrey, for there was a villain involved, and a bit of fighting."

The boy's eyes glittered. "Tell!"

"Willingly, for it is part of your heritage. The hero of the tale is a quite unlikely specimen, for he was a reformed criminal."

"Indeed! Who was he?"

"He came to be called 'Whitey the Wino' after he reformed, and he earned his living by making up songs and singing them in taverns…"

Whitey struck a last chord from his keyboard and lifted his hands high, grinning at the burst of applause from the customers. "Thank you, thank you." His amplified voice boomed out through the cabaret—at least, they called it that. "Glad you liked it." Yeah, and the shape you're in, you'd like anything right now. But you don't get cheers by insulting your audience, nor return engagements either, so he kept the smile on and waited till the applause slackened, then said, "I'm going to take a little rest now, but I'll be back real soon. You take one too, okay?" Then he waved and turned away, with cheers and laughter behind him. Yeah, take one—or two, or three. Then you'll think whatever I do is great.

He shouldn't be so bitter, of course—they were paying his livelihood. But fifty-three, and he was still singing in glorified taverns on backwater moons!

Patience, he told himself. After all, there had been that record producer on vacation, who'd heard him and signed him before he sobered up. But he'd come back the next day with a studio booked, and Whitey had cut the wafer, and it had sold—with a low rating, yes, but a low rating of a hundred billion people on fifty-some odd planets is still twenty million, and Whitey got six per cent. It kept him alive, even under a dome on an asteroid or a lifeless moon, and paid his passage to the next planet. He never had trouble finding a cabaret who was willing to pay him now, so its patrons could hear him chant his songs. Then that critic had gone into rhapsodies about his verses being poems from the folk tradition, and a professor or two had agreed with him (anything for another article in print, Whitey supposed) and there had been another burst of sales, so here he was back in the Solar System, even if it was only on Triton, to cut another wafer. He hoped the professor wouldn't be too disappointed when he found out Whitey had a college degree.

All right, so a few million people are willing to keep you alive so they can hear your verses. Does that mean you're good?

He tried to throw off the mood—it meant he was good enough, he thought as he stepped into the glorified closet that the cabaret laughingly called a "green room." Well, at least it had someplace for the entertainers to relax between sets—more than a lot of clubs had.

He looked around, frowning. Where was that wine Hilda had promised him? Promised to have it waiting, too.

Ah, there she came, diving through the door, sailing in Triton's low gravity, out of breath. "Sorry, Whitey. There was a hold-up."

"Don't give them anything—it's a water pistol." Whitey reached out and plucked the glass from her as she braked against the other chair. "What was his name?"

"Terran Post Express." Hilda took an envelope from her bodice and handed it to him. "For Mr. Tod Tambourin."

Whitey winced at the sound of his real name. "Official, huh?"

"I'll say. Who knew you were here?"

"My producer." Whitey grinned, stroking the letter lasciviously as he eyed her.

"Don't give me that—if you meant it, you'd be trying to pet me, not the letter. What is it?"

"Probably money." Whitey slit the envelope.

She could almost hear his face hit the ground. "Who… who is it?"

"Lawyers," he told her. "My son's."

Not that he had ever known the boy that well, Whitey reflected, as he webbed himself into the seat on the passenger liner. Hard to get to know your son when you're hardly ever home. And Henrietta hadn't wanted him to be, after she realized her mistake—at least, that's what she had called it when she had figured out he wasn't going to settle down and become a nice safe asteroid miner, like a sensible man. She didn't approve of the way he made his living, either—selling exotic pharmaceuticals at an amazing discount, on planets where they were highly taxed. Totally illegal, and his first big regret—but she'd been plenty willing to take the money he'd sent back, oh yes—until that horrible trip when he'd landed on a tariff-free planet, and couldn't even make enough profit to ship out, and had found out, the hard way, what his stock-in-trade could do to his clients.

So no more drugs, for him or his customers—only wine, and beer at the most. He hadn't needed to smuggle any more, anyway—he had enough invested, he could live on the interest. Or his wife and boy could, while he eked out a living wandering from bar to bar, singing for shekels. The accommodations weren't too great, but other than that, it wasn't so different. He'd missed his son's early years though, and was beginning to think of going back to Ceres and getting to know him. Henrietta couldn't be all that bad.

Then he'd had the letter from the lawyer, and decided maybe she could. He'd had to live on his singing after that, because the court had given Henrietta all the stocks and bonds, and the kid. Whitey didn't have a leg to stand on—so he'd missed the lad's middle years, and teen years, too, because Henrietta had taken the money and the boy and emigrated to Falstaff, where Whitey couldn't follow—he didn't have the money for a ticket any more.

Not that he was about to try. In fact, he was ashamed for even thinking about it.

Of course, there was the chance that the kid might have wanted to meet him, when he grew up—so Whitey had written him a letter, when he found out that the kid had come back to Ceres. But the boy sent him a pointed note, one, and very pointed—"Stay out of my life." Not much arguing with that—and not much of a surprise, considering all the things Henrietta had told him about his father, some of which were actually true. So Whitey had lived with his second big regret, and gone on singing.

Ceres! Why did the kid have to go back there?

Because it was where he'd spent his boyhood, of course—nice to know it must have been halfway happy.

So Whitey had subscribed to Ceres News Service, and kept track of the main events in the boy's life—his marriage, his daughter's birth, his family's plunging into the new commuter colony on that large asteroid called Homestead, with the brand new idea in domes—overlapping force-field generators that completely englobed the rock.

And the dome had collapsed, and the boy and his wife were dead.

But the baby was alive.

The baby was alive, and her father hadn't left a will, and her mother's parents had followed Henrietta's lead and opted for cold sleep while their assets increased—

And Whitey was next of kin.

He touched the letter in his breast pocket, not needing to open it, still able to see the print when he closed his eyes. Next of kin, so little Lona was his responsibility, his second chance to raise a child. He watched Triton dwindling astern with Neptune's huge orb behind it, and felt a strange excitement welling up under the sorrow, vowing that, this time, he wasn't going to make a mess of it, no matter how tough it got.

It got tough.

It got really tough really fast, because it was a hospital the lawyer took him to, not an orphanage or a foster home—a hospital, and she was sitting in the dayroom, a beautiful, blonde, blue-eyed, six-year-old little girl, watching a 3DT program. Just watching.

Not talking, not fidgeting, not throwing spitballs—nothing.

"Lona, this is your grandfather," Dr. Ross said.

She looked up without the slightest sign of recognition—of course. They'd never met, she probably hadn't even known about him. "Are you my mommy's daddy?"

Whitey's smile slipped. Hadn't she met the other grandfather, either? Before he chilled out, of course. "No, I'm the other one."

"My daddy's daddy?"

"Yes."

"What was he like?"

The doctor explained it to him, after he had recovered, in her office. "It was a huge trauma, and she didn't have any defenses against it—after all, she's only six. It's not surprising that she has repressed all memory of it—and any memory that had anything to do with it, too."

"No surprise at all." He forced a smile. "She didn't have that much to remember yet."

Dr. Ross nodded. "We'll have to be very careful, very patient in working around the amnesia. She'll have to learn everything, all over again—but you have to tread very lightly. Don't mention Homestead, or her parents, or anything about her past for a while. There's no way of knowing what will trigger a memory painful enough to set her back."

Whitey nodded. "And she'll have to have psychiatric care?"

"Yes, that's vital."

"I see… Do you take private patients, Doctor?"

"Yes, a few," Dr. Ross said instantly, "and I can make room for Lona."

So he had to settle down, after all—find an apartment to buy, arrange the financing, have the furniture cast and delivered. Then, finally, he was able to lead her out of the hospital and out into the corridor, her little hand in his, already trusting, on her way home.

She was very good.

Too good—Whitey found himself wishing for a little naughtiness. But she was totally obedient, did exactly what she was told—

And not one thing more.

When he didn't have something for her to do, she just sat watching the 3DT, hands in her lap, back straight (as he had commanded, hoping to get a rise out of her). Everything he taught her, she learned on the first try, then did whenever he told her to do it. She made her bed every morning, washed her dishes, studied her alphabet—

Like a robot.

"She could simply be naturally good," Dr. Ross said carefully. "Some children are."

"Some children may be, but it's not natural. Come on, Doctor—just a little disobedience? A little backtalk? Why not?"

"Guilt," the doctor said slowly.

Whitey stared. "What could she have to feel guilty about?"

"The explosion," the doctor sighed. "Children seem to feel that if something goes wrong, it must be their fault, must be the result of something they did."

Whitey frowned. "I can see that making her sad, all right—but absolutely perfectly behaved? And why would that keep her from dreaming?"

"Everyone dreams, Mr. Tambourin."

"Whitey." he squeezed his eyes shut; his real name had unpleasant associations with his past. "Just 'Whitey.' "

" 'Whitey,' " the doctor said reluctantly. "And we know Lona dreams—that's why I gave her the REM test."

"Then how come she says she doesn't?"

"She doesn't remember. She's repressing that, too."

"But they're happening now! And the accident was months ago!"

"Yes," the doctor said, musing, "but she may feel that it's wrong to dream."

"In Heaven's name, why?"

"She may have been angry at her parents," Dr. Ross explained. "Children frequently are, any time they're told No or punished. They want to strike back at their parents, want to hurt them, tell them to drop dead—and, if she'd gone to bed in that frame of mind…"

"She might have dreamed she was killing them?"

"Something like that. Then she woke up, and found they really were dead—so she repressed the traumatic event, and repressed all memory of her parents, since that reminded her of her guilt."

"Isn't this a little farfetched?"

"Very," the doctor admitted. "It's just conjecture, Mr… Whitey."

He sighed. "Mr. Whitey" would do. "We don't have enough information for anything more than a guess, do we?"

"Not yet, no."

"Okay, let's say you're right, Doctor. What do we do about it?"

"Prove to her that wishes don't make things happen, Mr.— Whitey."

Whitey suddenly turned thoughtful. "I suppose that is how it looks to her. But why would that make her so scrupulously obedient?"

"Because if you're naughty," the doctor murmured, "horrible things happen."

"And if you've been that naughty…"

"You want to be punished," the doctor finished for him. "Yes."

"Well." Whitey stood up, with a smile. "She shouldn't have to do it all by herself, should she?"

So he punished her. Tirelessly, relentlessly, ruthlessly, no matter how it made his heart ache. Made her scrub the floor. Do the dishes. Dust the furniture. All by hand, too.

She should have protested that the robot could do it.

She didn't.

He made her comb her own hair, and watched with a beady eye to make sure every tangle was out, trying to ignore the ache in his chest—watched the tears rolling down her cheeks as she pulled and yanked, but never a whimper.

And no games. No playing—not that she did, anyway. No 3DT programs.

He made her do everything. She out-cleaned Cinderella, out-shined the Man in the Moon, and moved in on the labors of Hercules. She was starting in on the Aegean Stables when she finally exploded. "I wish you'd get spaced, Gran'pa!"

Then she froze, shocked, appalled" at herself—but she'd said it.

"No," Whitey said, with his meanest grin, "I won't."

Then he had to deliver on it, of course. If anything happened to him now, she'd probably never come out of it. He got mighty tired of wearing the space suit, day in and day out, but after a week, she saw nothing had happened to him, and began to relax. And, when lightning failed to strike, she began to become a bit more irritable.

"Gran'pa, you're a meanie!"

"I know. But you have to clean your room anyway, Lona."

"Gran'pa, you're horrible!"

"Scrub the floor anyway, Lona."

"Gran'pa, I wish you knew what it feels like!"

"Finish combing your hair, Lona."

It was the hair that finally did it. One night, she yanked at a particularly bad snarl and cried, "Ouch!" And the tears rolled.

"Poor little girl," Whitey said, fairly oozing sympathy. "But crying won't get you out of it."

Her face reddened with real, genuine anger. "Gran'pa, drop dead!"

"But I didn't," Whitey explained.

"Yes, and I'm awful glad! But can't you stop wearing that space suit now, Gran'pa?"

"Sorry, child."

"But the kids next door are making fun of you!"

"Calling names doesn't hurt me."

He could see her registering that, but she went on. "But you look so silly!"

He shook his head. "Sorry. Can't do it."

"Yes you can! All you have to do is take it off!"

"No, I can't," he said, "because if anything happened to me, you'd think it was your fault."

"No, I won't! That's silly! You're not going to get hurt just because I said to!" Then she stopped, eyes wide, hearing her own words.

"That's a very important thing to realize, Lona," Dr. Ross was carefully sitting upwind of Whitey, and as far away as she could.

"Then Gran'pa can take off the suit now?"

"Yes, but not here, please."

"Do you really realize that just wishing won't make something happen?" Whitey demanded.

And he was appalled that Lona was silent.

"Why do you think it does, Lona?" the doctor said kindly.

" 'Cause they said so on the 3DT," Lona mumbled.

Whitey took a deep breath, and the doctor leaned back in her chair. "But those are just stories, Lona—fairy tales."

"No it's not! It was about Mr. Edison!"

Whitey stared.

"Oh, yes, the genius inventor," the doctor said slowly. "But he didn't just 'wish,' and see his invention appear all of a sudden, did he?"

"No." Lona looked at the floor.

"How did he make his wishes real, Lona?"

"He worked at 'em," the little girl answered. "He worked awful hard, and stayed up nights working a lot, until he'd built a new invention."

"Yes," the doctor said softly, "and later in his life, he drew pictures of new machines he'd thought of, and gave them to other men to make. But it all took work, Lona—work with people's hands, not just their minds."

She nodded.

"What wish do you want to make real, Lona?"

"For no one to ever be hurt again from a dome collapsing!" she said instantly.

Now it was the doctor who took the deep breath, though Whitey joined her. "That's very difficult," Dr. Ross warned.

"I don't care! I want to do it anyway!"

"Look, child," Whitey said, "this isn't just pushing your body, like scrubbing the kitchen floor. This means learning mathematics, and physics, and computer programming, and engineering—grindingly hard work."

"I can do it, Gran'pa!"

"I know you can," Whitey said softly, "but not overnight—or next week, or even next year."

"You mean I can't do it?"

"No, you can," Dr. Ross said quickly. "I'm sure you have the intelligence, and we know you have the industry. But it does take a long time, Lona—years and years. It takes high school, and college, and maybe even graduate studies. You won't be able to invent your fail-safe dome till you're in your twenties or thirties."

"I don't care how long it takes! I'm gonna to do it anyway!"

And Whitey and the doctor could both breathe easily again, finally. At least, Whitey thought, we're safe from suicide.

First, of course, she had to find out why the dome on Homestead had blown. It was touchy, but Dr. Ross had said she was ready for it. Still, she trembled when Whitey managed to get her the printout from the asteroid's systems computer. But the trembling stopped when she looked at it. "What's all this mean, Gran'pa?"

"I don't know, child. I never learned enough about computers to be able to make sense of it."

"Can't you hire somebody to tell you?"

Whitey shook his head. "I don't have that much money—and everybody in the Asteroid Belt is too busy trying to earn enough to stay alive."

She stared. "You mean nobody cared?"

"Oh, they cared, all right. There was an investigation, and I read the report—but all it said, really, was that there had been a horrible accident, and the dome field had collapsed."

"They didn't say how or why?"

Whitey shook his head. "Not that I could tell. Of course, I don't understand all the technical stuff."

"Can't you learn it?"

"I could," Whitey said slowly, "if I didn't have to worry about earning a living."

"Well, then, I'll learn it!" Lona said, with determination, and turned back to the computer screen.

And she did. But before she could begin to learn programming, she had to learn a little about how computers work—and that meant she had to learn math, and a little physics. But when she came to microcircuits, she had to learn enough chemistry to understand silicon—and that meant more physics, and more physics meant more math. Then she began to become interested in mathematics for its own sake, and Whitey pointed out that she had to learn enough history to understand the way people were thinking when they invented programming, and history turned out to be pretty interesting, too.

Meanwhile, of course, Whitey was filling her head with bedtime stories about the Norse gods, and the fall of Troy, and the travels of Don Quixote.

"Isn't there any more, Gran'pa?"

"Well, yes, child, but there isn't time to tell it all."

So, of course, she had to start reading the books, to find out what Gran'pa had left out—and that was more fun than 3DT. Not that she watched it that much, there wasn't time. Oh, Gran'pa insisted that she take a few hours every afternoon to play with the other children, and now she was so full of life that she made friends in no time.

And that, of course, was probably why the Board of Education came knocking on the door.

Whitey wasn't about to let her be locked into six hours a day listening to material she'd already learned, of course. Not that he would have dreamed of claiming he knew better than the education professionals—for normal children. But Lona was a special case, and even they would have had to admit that.

If he had bothered arguing. But there were four school districts in Ceres City, and a dozen more on the asteroids nearby, all close enough to scoot over on a rocket sled and visit her friends every afternoon, and Dr. Ross once a month, and whatever cabaret Whitey was singing at in the evening. Not that she had much contact with any of what went on in the clubs, of course—she brought her notebook computer along.

So Whitey started travelling again, living the lifestyle he preferred, even though he wasn't travelling very far. He developed it into a system—move into town a month after the first semester began, and by the time the School Board realized he was there, he was already packing up to move on. Then three months there, and the school year was almost over, so there was no point in starting—and, of course, by the time the next school year was beginning, he'd already put his apartment on the market and gone to contract on a new one in another town-asteroid.

And Lona learned. And learned. And learned.

By the time she was ten, she knew enough to be able to piece-together the sequence of events from the printout. Not that she needed the hard copy, of course—she was able to access it by herself as she explained it to Whitey in a flat, controlled, emotionless voice.

Only one force-field generator had blown. Only one, but all the force-domes interlocked—so when one went, it disrupted its six neighbors' fields badly enough so that all the air poured out of them into its sector—and gushed out into space in a swirl of snowflakes. Their generators all tried to strengthen their domes, and the whole system overloaded, fields weakening to the point where Terran sea level air pressure could rip through them, gusting in the first and only wind Homestead had ever known, howling around the eaves of all the houses the settlers had built in their cocksure confidence in their dome, around the eaves and down the streets and on into the fieldless sector, then out into space, leaving only vacuum behind.

And bodies.

And, in one house, a little girl whose silly, overprotective daddy had insisted on making his house airtight, even though everybody knew it wasn't necessary, because the dome enveloped the whole asteroid in a force field that could never be punctured by any meteor—a silly daddy and a silly mommy who had put their little girl to bed, then gone outside to hold hands and look at the stars.

Whitey held his face immobile, his heart swelling up with pride in his son, but squeezing in with pity for the little girl.

The little girl who had waked up to find everybody else dead, and no one nearby to tell her it wasn't her fault.

The little girl who sat looking at the computer screen with eighty-year-old eyes in a ten-year-old face, a little girl whose foolish grandfather could only stand beside her, wishing there were something he could do, and asking,

"But what made that first generator blow?"

"I don't know," Lona answered, "but I'm going to find out. And when I do, I'm going to make sure that it never, ever happens again."

But she didn't shed a single tear.

Whitey wished that she would.

So they hired a burro-boat and went out to Homestead. It wasn't hard to find a pressure suit in her size—children weren't all that rare in the Asteroid Belt. Not any more; not since the domes had been pronounced safe and fail-safe.

The ordinary domes, that is—the standard ones.

"Anybody who'd take a kid to live in an experiment has all the moral sensibility of a cuckoo," Whitey muttered—but it made him uneasy. Would his son have been a little less cocksure if Whitey had stayed with him?

"What did you say, Gran'pa?"

"Oh, nothing, Lona. Come on, let's go look." He fastened his helmet and checked her seals; she checked his. Then they stepped into the miniscule airlock.

"An hour and ten, standard," the pilot told him. "Any more than that, and I'm pushing an energy crisis."

"Back in forty-five," Whitey assured him, and sealed the inner hatch.

Bastard could wait, he thought—a burro-boat could run for a week or more on a block of ice. Of course, the reason old Herman had taken the charter was because he was down to frost, or so he said—but Whitey had to admit it was better to play safe. Still, he doubted the prospector was that low.

The patch turned green, and Whitey pushed it. The hatch swung open, and he reached out to clip his safety line to a ring bolt. Then he climbed out, moving slowly and smoothly in the negligible gravity, then turned back to take Lona's line, clip it to a ring bolt, and help her out.

She came out easily; free fall was nothing new to her (Whitey had made sure she took gymnastic lessons). But she was pale, her eyes huge. He felt a stab of guilt at having brought her back to the scene of the calamity, but steeled himself to it—the doctor had said it was okay, hadn't she? Still, he watched the child very carefully. "Over here, Lona— Herman did a very good job. It's only fifty yards away."

She nodded, looking all about her, face haunted, as she groped for his hand.

And no wonder, Whitey thought, looking around him at the empty houses and storage buildings. They were near a park with playground equipment, swing chains dangling from a central mast, pathetic in their loneliness. There was only an occasional broken window (windows on an asteroid! The gall, the audacity, the sheer overweening pride of these pioneers!). That was all, no other damage. Oh, here and there, the odd tile had broken loose from a roof, but only a few—when the wind had come, it hadn't had much force. It was vacuum that had killed this place, not hurricane.

It was a grim town, dead and forlorn, with memories of families and laughter and tears—a ghost town in space.

"Are there any—bodies?" Lona swallowed, hard.

"No—the disaster squad took them all away for burial." No need to add that the crypt was under the skin of the asteroid itself. "If it seems you've been here before, it's nothing to worry about. You have been."

"I know," she said, her voice flat in his helmet speakers, "but it's really creepy. It all looks the same, and it makes me feel like I'm little again—but it's all so different."

Yes, without life. Whitey reminded himself that the doctor had said this would strengthen her immensely, would banish any lingering ghosts of guilt, that there was almost no chance of another breakdown, she was a very strong little girl inside now. "Of course, we can't ever be completely sure, Mr. Whitey. The human brain is inconceivably complex."

"Is that the generator?" Lona stared at the hemisphere of metal honeycomb before them, in a fenced-off section of the park.

"No, just its antenna," Whitey answered. "The generator's underground."

Lona stared up at him. "Then how could it blow up?"

"We don't know it blew up," Whitey reminded her. "Come on, let's look."

He found the trapdoor set into the rock beside the antenna, punched in the combination. It had been a real job getting that set of numbers—they were classified material of the highest order, vital to public safety (never mind the fact that the people they were supposed to guard had died four years before). But finally, with a letter from the doctor testifying how important the expedition was for the child's mental health, a few bribes, and a flawless train of logic, the relevant bureaucrat had reluctantly agreed to let him have the combination. It was reassuring, in its way, giving you the feeling that the living were protected as well as the dead.

Whitey swung the lock handle and hauled the trapdoor open. They went down carefully, him first, flashlight probing the darkness around him. "Careful not to foul my line."

"I won't, Gran'pa." But she wasn't being sassy about it—that worried him.

Then he saw the generator.

He stopped stock still, just standing there, staring.

"Gran'pa," she said, "it's…"

"In perfect condition." Whitey nodded. "At least, it looks that way. Let's just check, child."

Then he brought out the toolkit, opened the access panels one by one, and took out the circuit checker. "What do I do with this thing?"

"Red lead to contact A, Gran'pa—there." Lona pointed. "And blue lead to contact D."

"I'm glad one of us knows what I'm doing…"

But Lona was frowning at the meter, frowning and taking out her keypad. She punched in the data displayed on the circuit and said, "Red lead to contact B, Granpa, and blue lead to contact H."

So it went, Whitey placing the probes where she told him, she frowning at the readout and punching data into her keypad. He began to think she wasn't really aware of him any more, was just using him as a sort of voice-activated servomechanism.

Well, at least it was some sign of life.

Finally, she straightened up with a sigh and said, "That's all. We've checked every circuit. There's nothing more here for me."

Whitey fastened the access panels back in place, listening to her words echo inside his head in secret, sad satisfaction. But he kept his face solemn, a little exasperated, and glanced at the time display built into his faceplate. "Not a minute too soon; I promised Herman forty-five minutes, and it's been fifty. Come on, child, let's go—and counterclockwise, please—let's not get our tails snarled."

"Hm? Oh sure, Gran'pa." and she followed him out, frowning, deep in thought.

Whitey fastened the trapdoor back in place and took her hand, turning back toward the burro-boat. "Learn anything?"

"Uh-huh." She nodded. "It's in perfect working order."

"What?" Whitey jerked to a stop, staring down at her.

"It is, Gran'pa." She sounded a little bit afraid, as though she might have done something wrong. "We could power it up, and it could put out a dome."

Whitey kept a firm hold on Lona's hand, but whether it was for her stability or his, he couldn't have said. His mind, at least, was in a whirl. "How could that generator have failed if it was in perfect working order?"

"Somebody turned it off."

He looked down at Lona, startled.

She looked up at him out of wide, grave eyes. "Somebody had to have turned it off, Gran'pa. It's the only way."

"But it took me a full week, a letter testifying need, and a dozen forms to five different offices, to get the combination for that lock—and that's when it wasn't operating! How could anybody even have gotten to it?"

"I don't know," Lona said, "but somebody did."

Whitey froze as a thought hit him. "Child," he said slowly, "I didn't see a power switch in there."

Lona stopped dead with one foot in the air. Then, carefully, she put it down and nodded. "You're right, Gran'pa. There wasn't any."

"Well, if there's no switch, who could turn it off?"

"The computer," she said.

"But that means somebody programmed it to turn off the field!"

She was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Couldn't it have developed a glitch?"

"Chances are obscenely low, child! But who could have reached the computer?"

"Gotta find out," she mumbled, and turned away toward the boat.

Whitey came out of his stupefaction and hurried after her. Abstracted as she was, she was apt to bump into a sharp piece of junk and tear her suit—so he was in the perfect position when he saw the drilling laser on the boat's bow turn toward them.

He hurled himself at her in a long, flat dive that caught her hips right across his shoulder and carried her into cover behind a house as the laser bolt spattered molten rock where she'd been standing. She cried out, of course, and Whitey snapped, "Quiet!" His brain revved into high gear, picking illusion as their only defense and pegging the manner of it instantly. "Now get in there, and lie absolutely still!" he snapped, cradling her in one arm and holding the other forefinger up in front of his faceplate. Helmet or not, she recognized the "Sh!" sign and squeezed her lips shut, eyes wide, stiff as a fashion doll.

The stiffness didn't help any, but he managed to dodge around a corner, weave a right-angled "S" around three houses, find a broken window that he could reach in and unlock, then opened the casement and pushed Lona through. She grabbed the nearest table and crouched under it, wide-eyed. Whitey pointed downward, hoping she understood that he wanted her to go down into the cellar, and very much aware that whoever had fired on them must be listening to their radio frequency. Then he turned away, dodging and weaving as far from his granddaughter as he could, eyeing the black sky with trepidation, knowing the burro-boat must be aloft and hunting.

And it was. Fire spat down out of sun-glare—right into the first house he'd hidden behind. He felt a glow of satisfaction—the would-be murderer had blasted the spot where Whitey had said he was hiding Lona. Because the gunman had been eavesdropping on their suit frequency, of course, and thought Whitey had stuffed Lona into hiding at that first house.

Only you can't "blast" something with a drilling laser—the beam is too narrow, and the power's too low. Constant, but low—and the blast was still walking down out of the sky, stabbing the house again, and again, and again.

How long can he keep that up? Whitey wondered, and the idea blossomed. Because a laser used a lot more power than the bursts of acceleration needed in the Belt, and maybe Herman had been telling the truth, maybe he really was that low on fuel.

But he had to keep that idiot in the boat firing. He'd be done with that house very soon—and he'd figure Whitey wasn't in it.

Hatred seared through Whitey, hatred at any man who could try to burn up a child like that. He put his feet against the nearest wall and shoved off, darting from house to house, looking for something, anything, to keep the man shooting.

And cover—to keep the murderer from shooting him.

A blank wall loomed in front of him—a warehouse. The door was open, of course—why lock anything, when you know all your neighbors? He ducked in and breathed a sigh of relief, then pushed himself over to a window on the long side, and looked out at the square with the park at its far end.

The boat was there, right enough, hovering fifty feet up, high enough to see any movement, low enough to be within range—and not firing.

But if it was in range to shoot at them, it was in range to be shot. Whitey toggled his helmet lamp and cast about frantically, looking for a weapon, some kind of weapon, or at least something that would make a big explosion of light…

And there they were, racked against the side wall, right next to the door he'd come in by, twenty rifles, plugged in to recharge. Whitey hopped over to them, blessing the Belter's inherited sense of caution—the Asteroid Belt detachment of Marines had kept the peace well for the last fifty years, but there were still old-timers around who could tell hair-raising stories of the pirates and claim-jumpers who had riddled the asteroids almost from the day they were opened to prospecting, and had even made a fair bid to establish their own tyranny. The pirates were gone, but it had become traditional to keep a rifle handy.

Very handy. Whitey unplugged one, blessing his luck and hoping the current was still running. No reason why it shouldn't be—the planetoid had been powered by a fission generator, which was good for fifty years. No reason to have shut it down, either, with fissionables so plentiful out here. He picked out a rivet on the far wall for a target, set the rifle on low power, sighted, and squeezed.

The bolt of energy spattered a circle of molten metal, just above and to the left of the target.

Whitey's heart sang as he corrected the sights and fired again. This time the rivet disappeared, and he leaped back to the window, setting the rifle to full power, aiming at the burro-boat, breathing out, and squeezing the firing patch.

A flower of fire lit the boat's bow.

It was turning toward him even as Whitey was squeezing off his second shot. Whoever the pilot was, he recognized a real weapon when he saw its bolt, and knew he had to put it out of action fast. The boat shot toward the warehouse as the drill bored down, punching through the warehouse roof.

But Whitey was already out the door and crouching behind the next house. He popped up above the roof, aimed, fired, and ducked down, then arrowed away behind the next house, then popped up to fire again just as the drill pierced the last roof he'd fired from. He torpedoed away again, but around a corner, because two points determine a straight line, and two events determine a trend, if you're the kind to jump to conclusions.

The assassin was, and the beam hit the third house in the row. But Whitey was firing from two houses south, then from the house west, then two houses west. His blood pounded in his ears, his heart thrilled to the hunt, even though he kept expecting to pop up and see ruby fire all around him.

But he didn't—the assassin never knew where he'd be next. Not surprising—Whitey didn't, either.

Then, finally, the beam grew dim.

That was it—one shot dim, then only a feeble glow from the drill, then nothing. The burro-boat floated in the night, not a light showing, not a flicker of a rocket.

Whitey waited, holding his breath. Finally, he had to breathe, but the boat still hadn't moved. Slowly, he started back to the warehouse, keeping an eye on the burro-boat, but there wasn't the least sign of life, or of movement. Whitey grinned, picturing the man inside raging, stabbing pressure patches in blind panic, not even able to get back to the asteroid and the hidden scooter he surely had ridden out from Ceres, not able to shoot, to transmit, to move.

Out of juice. Completely.

Whitey ducked in through the door and began to search the warehouse more thoroughly. If there were rifles, maybe there was a radio.

There was, and it was plugged in to recharge, too. Whitey turned it on, set the frequency to the emergency mark, toggled his helmet's loudspeaker, and bent down to put it next to the microphone grille. "Emergency! Calling Marine Patrol, Sector 6…"

The only sour note, he reflected, was that the assassin couldn't hear his call.

The Marines were there in an hour—after all, Ceres was a commute, not a day trip. Not that the murderer was going anywhere, of course. But it was time enough for Whitey to go back and collect a very thoroughly frightened Lona, a little girl who was sobbing with fear and dread of the haunted place where she crouched alone, then crying her eyes out with relief. Whitey had soothed her and comforted her and had her looking brave, by the time the Marine ship loomed over them—space suits or not, a hug is a hug.

"His name is Cornelius Hanash," the Marine captain said, closing the door to his office and coming around to sit down by the desk.

Whitey stared. "Millionaire Hanash? The one who built the Ceres Center? The one who has all the filthy rich tourists paying him through the nose to lie back in their loungers and watch the asteroids fly by overhead? That Cornelius Hanash?"

"The same," the captain answered, "and the records show he was thinking of setting up a branch on Homestead, had even bought a major hunk of bare rock there. But he ran low on cash, and got behind on his payments."

"But how did—how did squashing Homestead…" Lona broke off, trying to swallow her tears.

"Insurance," the captain explained. "He had that hunk of real estate insured for the full value of the hotel he 'planned' to build there. When the dome blew, Farland's had to pay—and it was enough to pay off his debts on the Ceres operation."

"But how did he know we were…" Whitey stopped, frowning. "I didn't exactly make it a secret that we were going out to Homestead, did I?"

"No, and even I heard the gossip that some nut was trying to get into the blown generator on the asteroid. Hanash was bound to hear it, with all the connections he has in Sector Hall—and he knew what you'd find."

"Death," Lona whispered. "Death for a hundred thousand people—and Mommy and Daddy."

Then the tears broke. Finally. And Whitey held her and comforted her, and waited for the storm to pass, glad that she could finally grieve, could finally put the past where it belonged.

Cordelia wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and tucked her hanky away with a sniffle. "Oh, she was a brave lass!"

"She was indeed—and, although she did not live happily ever after, most of her life was delightful. The rest was only exciting."

"If 'twas as exciting as her childhood, she did ne'er grow bored," Magnus opined.

"He was a brave man, this Whitey." Geoffrey's eyes glowed. "Valiant."

"I cannot help but agree—though I must say he never sought danger. Still, he had a way of attracting it."

"Oh, praise Heaven thou didst hear of such as they!" Gregory breathed. "Even through all thy years with the miner, though couldst know folk could be good!"

"Aye, what of that miner?" Geoffrey frowned. "How didst thou come to be free of him?"

"By death, wood-pate!" Magnus aimed a slap at his brother's head. "How else could one be free of such a louse?"

Geoffrey blocked the blow easily and slapped back to score as he said, "I could think of an hundred ways, with a club at the beginning, and poison at the end."

"Geoffrey! I trust you jest!" Fess said, shocked. "No, in point of fact, I was freed from him as a result of his own moral turpitude."

"Turp… what?" Gregory asked.

"Turpitude, Gregory—doing wrong without compunction. He exhibited this quality when he received a distress signal from a group of castaways and sought to pass them by, since he perceived no likelihood of immediate gain or pleasure from them."

"The dastard!" Cordelia gasped. "Had he no respect for humankind, then?"

"None," Fess confirmed. "He would cheerfully have left them to die, and never thought twice of it."

"Yet thou wouldst not permit it?"

"I could not. My program dictates that human life is of greater importance than human convenience—and saving lives was more important than my owner's whim. So I turned the ship aside and picked them up, containing them within the airlock. Once they were aboard. I persuaded my owner to permit them to come into the ship itself.''

" 'Persuaded'!" Geoffrey cried triumphantly. "Thou didst not disobey!"

"I did disobey my owner, by rescuing the fugitives—but he sought to break the law."

"And thou didst obey the law!"

"I did," Fess agreed.

"Was there no other time when thou didst disobey?"

"There was," Fess admitted, "for I soon perceived that the castaways had excellent qualities of mutual assistance and support; but my owner had received a broadcast identifying them as fugitives from governmental forces, and offering a reward for information leading to their capture. Since the fugitives had not contributed to his gratification, he attempted to use them as coin to buy it."

"As coin?" Geoffrey frowned. "How can one use people to buy with?"

"There is slavery," Fess answered, "and I am certain that the only reason my second owner did not descend to such depths, is that he lacked the opportunity. But he was not averse to attempting to collect bounty on fugitives when the chance presented itself. Accordingly, he ordered me to transmit a signal to Ceres Station, notifying the authorities of the fugitives' presence—and I refused to do so."

"Thou didst most thoroughly disobey, both thine owner and the law!"

"Not quite," Fess demurred, "for I had reason to believe that the authorities in question were themselves violating the law."

Geoffrey looked exasperated. If Fess said he "had reason to believe," then he had almost complete proof.

"My owner activated a manual transmitter, though, and sent the signal."

Cordelia frowned. "Was that not exceedingly dangerous?"

"Aye," Geoffrey agreed, "and from what thou hast said, he hath not the sound of being a bold man—for would he not have valued his own welfare above all else?"

"He did," Fess confirmed. "The fugitives in question, though, were scarcely dangerous. They were not criminals, but simply people who had expressed a disagreement of opinion with the party that was attempting to overthrow the government of the time. Since they were not dangerous in themselves, the miner showed no hesitation in betraying them to the assassins employed by that party."

"The coward! The poltroon!" Geoffrey cried. "Had he no fellow-feeling in him at all?"

"I suspect not. Certainly, he was not averse to attempting to collect bounty on the fugitives when the chance presented itself. Yet he did not know that he would gain a considerably greater amount than I was worth from the gentleman who purchased me from him."

Geoffrey frowned. "Dost thou say these 'fugitives' did buy thee from him?"

"Their leader did, yes."

Cordelia frowned, too. "Yet wherefore did the wealthy gentleman purchase thee from the miner?"

"Because he and his friends needed me and the burro-boat to carry them away from the assassins the miner had summoned."

"How did he know the miner had called them up?"

"I took the liberty of informing them."

"Fess!" Geoffrey stared at him, scandalized. "Thou didst betray thine owner!"

"I did," Fess said, without the slightest hesitation. "I have explained my reservations about the miner's character, children—but in only an hour's time, I had come greatly to respect the fugitives, and had realized that they were struggling to preserve liberty for all people. My program holds such liberty to be fundamental, equal in importance to my loyalty to my owner."

Geoffrey frowned. "That hath an odd sound, in light of what thou hast told us of thy program aforetime."

"It does seem anomalous," Fess admitted, "to the point that I suspect some error was made in my program, and only in mine. Nonetheless, this was the only instance in which such a conflict arose. Revealing the miner's report to the fugitives was consequently in accord with my program."

"Thou hadst learned summat more of human folk than when thou didst guide an aircar, hadst thou not?"

"Considerably more, and had come to realize as I have said, that there are qualities of goodness and badness in people."

Gregory looked up, puzzled. "Yet thou art but a robot, or so thou wouldst have us believe. How canst thou know good from bad?"

"Be mindful of my programming, children. To me, anything is 'good' if it is conducive to human life, liberty, or happiness, and anything is 'bad' if it is inimical to that life or happiness, or threatens liberty."

"Yet strong drink would thereby be 'good,' " Geoffrey said.

"I spoke of happiness, Geoffrey, not pleasure."

Geoffrey shook his head. "I ken not the difference."

"Nor did my second owner. But even acknowledging the difficulties of his situation, I could not condone his behavior.''

" 'Tis a wonder he did not scrap thee!"

"He did not have the opportunity; for the chief of the fugitives secured his own safety, and that of his friends, by the simple expedient of abandoning the miner on a small asteroid, with a sufficiency of food, water, and shelter—and a beacon to summon assistance."

"Why, how cruel!"

"Not really; there was no doubt of a rescue well before the miner's supplies ran out."

Geoffrey frowned. "Then why abandon him in so unlikely a place. Why not take him to a town?"

"Because, if they had taken him to Ceres, the authorities would have arrested them. But if they marooned him, it would take several days for the rescue to arrive, which guaranteed their being able to vacate the vicinity safely."

"Wherefore did they not slay him out of hand?" Geoffrey demanded.

"Geoffrey!" Cordelia protested.

But Fess admitted, "There was some sentiment in favor of such an action—but the fugitives' leader suggested the more humane alternative."

"Only 'suggested?' " Geoffrey questioned. "Had he no authority, then?"

"I do not know," Fess mused, "for the issue never arose. None of them contradicted him, when he spoke of action."

"Thou dost mean they did not think to disobey." Geoffrey scowled. "Is this admirable?"

"It is," said Fess, "when the commands are right."

"But thou dost tell me naught!" Geoffrey cried. "Am I to disobey, or not?"

"The issue is unclear, Fess," Gregory agreed.

"You must decide for yourselves, children, and decide each case as it arises, not seek to abdicate your power of decision by imposing an inflexible rule."

"Then give us a rule that is flexible," Magnus suggested.

"Your parents have already done so."

The children looked at each other, puzzled.

"Doth he toy with us?" Geoffrey asked.

"Nay," said Gregory, "for 'tis not in his nature."

"His nature is to be loyal to his owner," Magnus said, "and that owner is Papa."

Cordelia turned to stare at the back of Fess's head, beginning to feel angry. "Hast thou sold us, then?"

"I have not," Fess answered, "and if you consider, you will find it so. If you seek to know whether or not to obey, I can only tell you the answer I have gained by experience: 'Obey, but be true to your programming.' "

Geoffrey frowned. "What use is that to a flesh-and-blood person? What programming have we, to be true to?"

"You will have to discover that for yourself, Geoffrey;" Fess answered. "That is a part of what adolescence is for."

The children stared at him, trying to decide whether or not to be outraged.

Then Magnus smiled. "Yet thou didst not know this when thou didst first awake, didst thou?"

"I did not have subroutines for resolving conflicts between my program and the daily problems I encountered, no. But my program does allow for development of such subroutines."

"And thou didst form these subroutines by contemplation of the events of which thou hast but now told us, didst thou not?"

"That is an accurate statement, yes."

"Then thou didst have an adolescence!" Cordelia crowed.

"A period equivalent to human adolescence, yes. I am glad it pleases you to discover that, Cordelia."

"Oh, we ever seek to learn from they who have gone o'er the road before us," Magnus said airily. "From whom didst thou learn to resolve such conflicts as these, Fess?"

The robot was silent a moment, then said slowly, "I worked out my subroutines from principles contained in my basic program, Magnus. However, I did incorporate some concepts from one human being, who professed ideas that formed perfect loops, comparing present events to past events, enabling one to discern similarities and contrasts, and thereby judge the appropriate action to be taken."

"And that person was?"

"The leader of the fugitives."

"Thy third owner?" Magnus stared. "How came he to have so great an impact on thee?"

"Principally by the brilliance of his mind, Magnus—though he would have disclaimed such a statement. And the effects of his ideas were no doubt enhanced by his being the first of my owners to be a good human being."

"I can credit that, from what thou hast said." Magnus frowned. "Who was he, this chief fugitive, this paragon?"

"His name was Tod Tambourin, and he was scarcely a paragon, though certainly, at heart, a very good man."

"Tod Tambourin!" Cordelia stared, aghast. "Dost thou mean this 'Whitey the Wino' of whom thou hast but now told us? He who aided his granddaughter out of the agony of her parents' death?"

"The same," Fess confirmed.

Gregory frowned. "Yet how doth he come to be the namesake of that other 'Tod Tambourin' thou hast taught us of, in our schoolroom?"

"By the easiest of means—he was not the namesake, but the same man."

Geoffrey's mouth dropped open, flabbergasted. "That Tod Tambourin? That weakling man of pen and ink? Him whom thou dost say was the greatest poet of the Terran sphere?"

"That is not merely my opinion, children, but the consensus of Terran critics—and he was scarcely a weakling."

"Yet 'tis he whose verses thou hast made us con by heart," Geoffrey objected, "whether we would or no."

"Wast thou so reluctant, then?" Magnus jibed.

Geoffrey frowned. "Not with 'The Rebels and the Admiral,' nay, nor with his 'Foc'sle Ballads.' Yet for his 'Decline and Fall of Liberty,' I've little use."

"Nor I," Cordelia agreed, "yet I shall ever treasure his 'Young Wife's Rejoicing' and 'The Dandy's Courtship.' "

"Thou wouldst," Geoffrey scoffed.

"Every person who has read his verses has a favorite, children," Fess said quickly, forestalling mayhem, "though they frequently know not who wrote them. Yes, my third owner was Tod Tambourin. He gave me as a wedding present to his granddaughter, Lona, and I have served her family ever since."

Magnus stared at Fess. "Thou dost not mean that we are of the blood of Tod Tambourin!"

"You should not be so surprised," Fess chided. "Have you not found that, when your heart is light, you cannot keep from singing?"

The children looked at one another in amazement.

"But enough now, your parents call."

"More, Fess. More of Tod Tambourin!" Cordelia pleaded. But the great horse shook his head, and led them toward Rod and Gwen, who waited under the shading tree.