Also, time to stop sorting through what had happened last night. The Ruby thing, yes. In her inbox that morning had come a short message from Ruby, Reserved a squash court tomorrow, 1300 hours.

What? Had she agreed to a Loonie squash game? Ugh.

She put the thought aside and rose to the surface to refresh herself with the landscape view. She passed through the Atrium of the SETI Library, head still buzzing with computations and her sleek shoes ringing echoes from the high, fluted columns. Earthlight framed the Great Plaza in an eggshell-blue glow, augmented by slanting rays from the sun that hugged the rocky horizon. She gazed out over the Lasting Plain, dotted with the cryo towers that reminded her of cenotaphs. So they were—sentinels guarding in cold storage the vast records of received SETI signals, many from civilizations long dead. Collected through centuries, and still mostly unread and unreadable. AIs browsed those dry corridors and reported back their occasional finds. Some even got entangled in the complex Messages and had to be shut down, hopelessly mired.

She had just noticed the buzzing crowd to her left, pressed against the transparent dome that sheltered the Library, when Catkejen tapped her on the shoulder. “Come on! I heard somebody’s up on the rec dome!”

Catkejen took off loping in the low grav across the plaza. Rachel followed, glad to stretch. When they reached the edge of the agitated crowd she saw the recreational dome about two klicks away—and a figure atop it.

“Who is it?” Catkejen asked, and the crowd gave back, “Ajima Sato.”

“Ajima?” Catkejen looked at Ruth. “He’s two years behind us, pretty bright. Keeps to himself.”

“Pretty common pattern for candidate Hounds,” Rachel said. The correct staffing title was Miner but Hound had tradition on its side. She looked around; if a Prefect heard, she would be fined for improper terminology.

“How’d he get there?” someone called.

“Bulletin said he flew around inside, up to the dome top. Had a suit and helmet but nobody stopped him. Then used the vertical lock.”

“Looks like he’s in a skin suit, all right,” Catkejen said, having closeupped her glasses. Sure enough, the figure was moving and his helmet caught the sunlight, winking at them. “He’s… dancing.”

Rachel had no zoom glasses but she could see the figure cavorting around the top of the dome. The Greater Dome was several kilometers high, and Ajima was barely within view of the elevated plaza, framed against a rugged gray crater wall beyond. The crowd murmured with speculation, and a Prefect appeared, tall and silent but scowling. Librarians edged away from him. “Order, order,” the Prefect called. “Authorities will deal with this.” Rachel made a stern cartoon face at Catkejen and rolled her eyes.

Catkejen managed not to laugh.

Ajima chose this moment to leap. Even from this far away Rachel could see him spread his arms out and wave them, on the dome summit. He sprang up into the vacuum, made a full backflip, and came down—to land badly. He tried to recover, sprang sideways, lost his footing, fell, rolled, tried to grasp for a passing stanchion. Kept rolling. The dome steepened and he sped up, not rolling now but tumbling. Even 0.17 g can grab you, in time. The crowd gasped. Ajima accelerated down the slope. About halfway down the figure left the dome’s skin and fell outward, skimming along in the weak Lunar gravity. Curving down. He hit the tiling at the base.