"Just so," purred Minchenko, lidding his eyes. "And that vermin Van Atta billed you as his pet engineer when he brought you in. Frankly, I thought—ahem!"—he looked only mildly embarrassed—"that you might be his triggerman. The accident seemed so suspiciously convenient just now, from his point of view. Knowing Van Atta, that was practically the first thing I thought of."

"Thanks," snarled Leo.

"I knew Van Atta—I didn't know you." Minchenko paused, and added more mildly, "I still don't. What do you think you're doing?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Not entirely, no. Oh, certainly, you can hold out in the Habitat for a few months, cut off from Rodeo—perhaps years, barring counterattacks, if you were conservative and clever enough—but what then? There is no public opinion to come to your rescue here, no audience to grandstand for. It's half-baked, Graf. You've made no provisions for reaching help—"

"We're not asking for help. The quaddies are going to rescue themselves."

"How?" Minchenko's tone scoffed, though his eyes were alight.

"Jump the Habitat. Then keep going."

Even Minchenko was silenced momentarily. "Oh . . ."

Leo finished struggling into his red coveralls, and found the tool he wanted. He pointed the laser-solderer firmly at Minchenko's midsection. It did not appear to be a task he could safely delegate to the quaddies. "And you," he said stiffly, "can go to the transfer station in the life pod with the rest of the downsiders. Let's go."

Minchenko barely glanced at the solderer. His lips curled with contempt for the weapon and, Leo felt, its wielder. "Don't be more of an idiot than you can help, Graf. I know they foxed that cretin Curry, so there are still at least fifteen pregnant quaddie girls out there. Not counting the results of unauthorized experiments, which judging from the way the level is dropping in that box of condoms in the unlocked drawer in my office, are becoming significant."

Kara started in guilty dismay, and Minchenko added aside to her, "Why do you think I pointed them out to you, dear? Be that as it may, Graf"—he fixed Leo with a stern eye—"if you throw me off what do you plan to do if one of them presents at labor with placenta praevia? Or a postpartum prolapsed uterus? Or any other medical emergency that requires more than a band-aid?"

"Well . . . but . . ." Leo was taken aback. He wasn't quite sure what placenta praevia was, but somehow he didn't think it was medical gobbledygook for a hangnail. Nor that a precise explanation of the term would do anything to ease the ominous anxiety it engendered in him. Was it something likely to occur, given the alterations of quaddie anatomy? "There is no choice. To stay here is death for every quaddie. To go is a chance—not a guarantee—of life."

"But you need me," argued Minchenko.

"You have to—what?" Leo's tongue stumbled.