“I’ve just been very curious to meet The Boss,” Thomas said. He found a seat facing Oakes and sat without invitation.

Oakes scowled. He knew what they called him shipside and groundside, but politeness (not to mention politics) dictated that the term not be used in this room. Best not precipitate conflict yet, however. This Raja Thomas posed too many mysteries. Aristocratic type! That damned better-than-you manner.

“I, too, am curious,” Oakes said.

“I’m a servant of Ship.”

“But what is it you’re supposed to do?”

“I was told you have a communications problem on Pandora—something about an alien intelligence.”

“How very interesting. What are your special capabilities in this respect?”

“Ship appears to think I’m the one for the job.”

“I don’t call the ship’s process thinking. Besides, who cares what opinions come out of a system of electronic bits and pieces? I prefer a human assessment.”

Oakes watched Thomas carefully for a response to this open blasphemy. Who was this man . . . really? You couldn’t trust the damned ship to play fair. The only thing to believe was that the ship was not a god. Powerful, yes, but with limits which needed exploring.

“Well, I intend to have a go at the problem,” Thomas said.

“If I permit it.”

“That’s between you and Ship,” Thomas said. “I’m well satisfied to carry out Ship’s suggestions.”

“It offends me . . .” Oakes paused, leaned back into his cushions. “. . . when you refer to this mechanical construction . . .” He waved a hand to indicate the physical presence of Ship all around. “. . . as Ship. The implications . . .” He left it there.

“Have you issued an order prohibiting WorShip?” Thomas asked. He found this an interesting prospect. Would Ship interfere?

“I have my own accommodation with this physical monstrosity which human hands loosed on the universe,” Oakes said. “We tolerate each other. You have an interesting first name, do you know that?”

“In my family for a . . . very long time.”

“You have a family?”

“Had a family would be more proper.”

“Strange. I took you for a clone.”

“That’s an interesting philosophical question,” Thomas said. “Do clones have families?”

“Are you a clone?”

“What difference does that make?”

“No matter. As far as I’m concerned, you’re another machination of the ship. I will tolerate you . . . for now.” He waved a hand in dismissal.

Thomas was not ready to leave. “You, too, have an interesting first name.”

Oakes had been turning toward the holo projection and its com-console at his side. He hesitated, glanced at Thomas without turning his head. The gesture said: You still here? But there was more in his eyes. His interest had been caught.

“Well?”

“You bear a striking physical resemblance to Morgan Hempstead and I couldn’t help but notice that you have the same first name.”

“Who was Morgan Hempstead?”

“We often wondered if the Moonbase director had allowed a clone of himself. Are you that clone?”