Leo paused. "By the way, did you know that Rodeo Warehousing just misshipped the Habitat a hundred tons of gasoline? And they're charging it to us."

"What?"

As Leo turned away he had the small vindictive satisfaction of hearing Van Atta's treadmill stop and the snap of a too-hastily-detached harness rebounding to slap its wearer. "Ow!" Van Atta cried.

Leo did not look back.

*      *      *

Dr. Curry met Claire as she arrived for her appointment at the infirmary. "Oh, good, you're just on time."

Claire glanced up and down the corridor, and her eyes searched the treatment room into which Dr. Curry shoo'd her. "Where's Dr. Minchenko? I thought he'd be here."

Dr. Curry flushed faintly. "Dr. Minchenko is in his quarters. He won't be coming on duty."

"But I wanted to talk to him."

Dr. Curry cleared his throat. "Did they tell you what your appointment was for?"

"No . . . I supposed it was for more medication for my breasts."

"Ah, I see."

Claire waited a moment, but he did not expand further. He busied himself, laying out a tray of instruments by their velcro collars and placing them in the sterilizer, not meeting Claire's eyes. "Well, it's quite painless."

Once, she might have asked no questions, docilely submitting—she had undergone thousands of obscure medical tests starting even before she had been freed as an infant from the uterine replicator, the artificial womb that had gestated her in a now-closed section of this very infirmary. Once, she had been another person, before the downside disaster with Tony. For a little time thereafter she had hovered close to being no one at all. Now she felt strangely thrilled, as if she trembled on the edge of a new birth. Her first had been mechanical and painless; perhaps that was why it had failed to take root. . . .

"What—" she began to squeak. Too tiny a voice. She raised it, loud in her own ears. "What is this appointment for?"

"Just a small local abdominal procedure," said Dr. Curry airily. "It won't take long. You don't even have to get undressed, just roll up your shirt and push down your shorts a bit. I'll prep you. You have to be immobilized under the sterile-air-flow shield, in case a drop or two of blood gets on the loose."

You're not immobilizing me . . . "What is the procedure?"

"It won't hurt, and will do you no harm at all. Come on over, now." He smiled, and tapped the shield unit, which folded out from the wall.

"What?" repeated Claire, not moving.

"I can't discuss it. It's—classified. Sorry. You'll have to ask—Mr. Van Atta, or Dr. Yei, or somebody. Tell you what, I'll send you over to Dr. Yei right after, and you can talk to her, all right?" He licked his lips; his smile grew steadily more nervous.

"I wouldn't ask . . ." Claire groped after a phrase she had heard a downsider use once: "I wouldn't ask Bruce Van Atta for the time of day."