The three-man, two-woman crew of the OTV greeted her warmly in the narrow tunnel as she "hatched," then guided her to a seat just behind theirs. From that vantage, she had a clear, direct view, and now she could see the steady pinpoints of stars.

So confronted, with none of the comfortable separation of a video monitor frame, space seemed to extend into a mating of infinite, star-cluttered halls. She felt as if she could walk down any one of the halls and become lost in altered perspective.

She still wore the black jumpsuit she had been handed in Florida just six hours before. She felt dirty. Her hair, even though tied up in a bun, let loose irritating wisps. She could smell her own nervousness.

The crew floated around her, making last-minute checks, punching readings into slates and processors. Patricia examined their colored suits—the women in red and blue, the men in green and black and gray—and idly wondered how they were ranked and who commanded. Everything seemed casually efficient with no deference in voice or manner, as if they were civilians. But they were not.

The OTV was a registered unarmed military vehicle, subject to the restrictions imposed after the Little Death. It was one of dozens of new vehicles that had been constructed in Earth orbit since the appearance of the Stone, and it differed substantially from the vehicles that had serviced the Joint Space Force's Orbital Defense Platforms. It was larger and capable of traveling much greater distances; by treaty, it could not carry cargoes to the ODPs.

"We're leaving in three minutes," said the shuttle's copilot, a blond woman whose name Patricia had already forgotten. She touched Patricia on the shoulder and smiled. "Everything will be hectic for a half hour or so. If you need a drink or have to use the lavatory, now's the time."

Patricia shook her head and returned the smile. "I'm fine."

"Good. Virgin?"

Patricia stared.

"First flight, she means," the other woman clarified. Patricia remembered her name—Rita, just like her mother.

"Of course," Patricia said. "Would I be sitting here acting like a cow in a slaughterhouse, otherwise?"

The blond laughed. The pilot—James or Jack, with beautiful green eyes—looked over his shoulder at her, his head framed by the belt and sword of Orion. "Relax, Patricia," he said. So calm. She was almost intimidated by their professional assurance. They were spacefarers, originally assigned to the near-Earth orbit platforms and now working the distances between Earth, Moon and Stone. She was just a young woman fresh out of graduate school, and she had never in her life even left the state of California until traveling to Florida for the shuttle flight from Kennedy Space Center.

She wondered what her father and mother were doing now, sitting at home in Santa Barbara. Where did they imagine their daughter to be? She had said good-bye just a week ago. Her stomach still churned at the memory of her last few moments with Paul. His letters would get to her, that was guaranteed—forwarded through the APO address. But what could she tell him in her return messages? Very likely, nothing. And her time in space had been estimated at two months, minimum.