It didn’t matter. The spaceport had no accessible back door. She climbed out, and catcalls started before she was even able to get to her luggage. “Take care on your way out, Molly,” she said. “They might be mad at you too.” She pulled her bags out of the trunk and started to walk toward the entrance. Ordinarily, the car would have driven away as soon as the luggage was clear, but Molly waited, giving her a chance to change her mind.

Security people were present, though substantially outnumbered. Nonetheless, when the demonstrators started toward her, they moved in and set up a restraining perimeter.

The demonstrators were mostly college age, the kind of kids who, in an earlier era, had been animal rights activists or who’d worked to get passage of government-funded elections. A young woman, carrying a sign that read simply: HUTCH, PLEASE BACK OFF, called out to her. “Captain Hutchins, please don’t do this.”

The officers cleared her path to the door.

Voices rose all around her: “Hutch, this is not you.”

“Priscilla, how can you possibly help these people?”

“Is that really her? I never would have believed this.”

There was no way to respond. Eye contact would have been potentially deadly, so she stayed focused on the side of the building, then on the doors, and finally on the security guards who got in the way of the more aggressive demonstrators.

•  •  •

Beth Squires and Clay Clairveau were already in the waiting area, talking. She joined them, and they shook hands and tried to laugh off their reactions to the crowd. But it was unnerving. “It’s okay,” said Clay. “We have a pretty good chance of making the history books.”

“Let’s hope,” said Beth, “that it won’t be because we get everybody blown up.”

“I’ll settle for that,” said Clay with a grin that was almost malicious. “Maybe we could bring a few aliens back to say hello to these Save the Earth nitwits.”

“They may have a point,” said Hutch.

“You okay?” asked Beth. She had dark brown curly hair and hazel eyes and an expression that suggested she was a bit rattled.

“Yes, I’m fine. Just not sure which side I’m on.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“If we had people like those ding-dongs running things,” said Clay, “we’d still be living in caves.”

Beth smiled and her eyes softened. She checked the time and looked around, obviously not happy. “My husband always runs late.”

“He working on another book?” asked Hutch.

“He’s always working on one. But he was a guest on The Public Square this morning. Threw his schedule off a bit. He’s on his way, but that’s all I have.”

Hutch couldn’t remember having met Clay before, but something about him rang bells. “Clay,” she said, “are you related to Marcel Clairveau?”

He grinned. “My dad.”