But the Stone is still here, and the situation seems to be stabilizing—

—Belozersky. Yazykov. Vielgorsky.

Old-liners, hard-liners. Yes. They're trouble, and shouldn't you stick around to blunt their particular axes?

—No.

You'll leave Hoffman with all the problems—

—She'll let me go because she knows I'm at the end of my rope. I can't take any more. I'm of no use to her or the Stone. . . except to go find Patricia.

Lanier opened his eyes and looked at his wristwatch: 0750 hours. He felt paralyzed. The voices continued in his head, back and forth. His mind was trying to cope with the intolerable—and to find his place in a new situation.

He kept thinking of Earth, of people—friends, co-workers, perhaps the very people he had met a few weeks before—crawling through the rubble. Very likely, there was not a single person alive on Earth whom he knew personally. That was good statistics but a lousy thought, lousy psychology. Most of his contacts (his people) had lived in cities or worked in military centers.

One exception was Robert Tyheimer. A submarine commander, he had been married to Lanier's sister, who had died of a stroke two years before Lanier was assigned to the Stone. They hadn't talked since a year after her death. Tyheimer might still be alive, under the ice, waiting. If he hadn't already contributed to the general destruction, then Tyheimer would guard his warheads and wait. . . and wait. . . for the next exchange. For the final blows.

"I hate you," Lanier said out loud, eyes closed again. He didn't even know whom he meant. Three psychiatrists gathered in his head and discoursed; one, a cliché Freudian, always twisted the worst and most sordid interpretation out of his every fleeting glimmer of thought. Yes. . . and your mother. . . and what did you say then? Meant yourself, didn't you?

Another sat quietly, smiling, letting him hang himself in his own ropy confusions.

And the third—

The third nodded and recommended work therapy. The third resembled his father.

That interested the first.

He turned over in the bed and opened his eyes again. No sleep, no rest. How long would it take for the people on the Stone to crack? How many, and how seriously? Who would contend with the problem, himself or Hoffman?

But the decision had already been made. He had given Hoffman the grand tour—and had encountered Mirsky in the third chamber library, sitting before a teardrop. The Russian lieutenant general had been accompanied by three bodyguards, even though the library was otherwise empty. He had appeared exhausted, and ignored them.

Showing Hoffman to a seat some distance away from the Russians, Lanier had taught her how to use the facilities. He had passed the keys to her, and she had welcomed them.

He sat up and flipped on the intercom. Ann Blakely was back at her desk and still in charge of the central switchboard. "I can't sleep," he said. "What's Heineman's schedule now?"