"Yes, sir," Patricia said quietly. Takahashi—short, half Japanese, well muscled, with close-cropped black hair and large self-assured green eyes, returned Lake's nod. Takahashi was the only one wearing Earthside clothes—a cotton shirt, windbreaker and denim pants. "Dispensation," he had explained back by the tent. "I'm allergic to the dye in the overalls."

Lake urged the truck forward. Carrolson checked off their equipment as Farley read a slate list.

The truck carried a total of eight passengers, four military men and four "principals," as Carrolson referred to the scientists and Patricia.

Patricia kept her eyes on the seat in front of her. In her pocket was a letter from Paul, delivered to her in the first chamber the shift before.

Dear Patricia,

Wherever you are, my mystery woman, I hope all is well. Life here is mundane—especially when I think of where you might be—but it goes. I keep in touch with your folks—Rita's a doll and Ramon and I have had some pretty good conversations. I've learned a lot about you behind your back. Hope you don't mind. My applications to Prester and Minton (two software manufacturers) have been processed, I hear, but things are on hold until the Defense Platform appropriations bill passes. There's some talk about a filibuster and that could screw things up for months.

Enough talk of that. I miss you desperately. Rita asked me if we were going to get married and I kept mum, just as you want. I do want to; you know that. I don't care how weird you are, or where you are right now; just come back and give me a nod. We'll find our own home. Don't be too stubborn this time. Well, enough of this; you probably have other fish to fry, and my particular floppings and slappings on the bank—where you have beached me with your line—are just distractions. (Now, you know I can't end a letter without something clumsy and confusing.) I love you. Neat, prim kisses.

Paul

She had typed up a long, self-censored reply, showed it to Carrolson for approval, and had it sent Earthside on the next OTV.

Surprisingly, writing the letter had been easy. In it, she said all the things she knew Paul would want to hear, all the things she thought needed to be said if, indeed, Paul was going to be dead in a few weeks. Not that she had really accepted that possibility. If she had, she wouldn't be as calm as she was.

Lanier was on his way to Earth by now. Patricia envied him. She would rather be on Earth, waiting to die, than up here, facing what she knew.

No, that wasn't really true. She closed her eyes and cursed herself. This was the most responsibility she had ever had. She had to overcome her crazy grief and fear and work as best she could to prevent.

And—she almost hated herself for it—she was working. Her mind was in the state, finally. Solutions were starting to come to her, presenting themselves like suitors, all formally dressed in equations, each rejected when its inadequacies became apparent.