“You’d leave?”

He shook his head. “Never. Never. But there’s still a chance of talking the boys into it, isn’t there? We persuaded one to Downbelow; work on your youngest; work on Elene… she’s your best hope. She has friends out there; she knows, and she could persuade Damon.” He pressed her hand. Alicia Lukas-Konstantin needed Pell, needed the machinery, equipment a ship could not easily maintain. She was wedded to Pell and the machines. Any transfer of her entourage of metal and experts would be public, doomsday headlined on vid. She had reminded him of that. I am Pell she had laughed, not laughing. She had been, once, beside him. He was not leaving. In no wise did he consider that, without her, abandoning what his family had built over the years, what they had built, together. “It’s not close,” he said again. But he feared it was.

Jon Lukas gathered the pertinent papers together, glared up at the men who crowded his dock-front office. Glared for a long moment to make the point. He laid the papers down on the front of the desk and Bran Hale gathered them up and passed them to the rest of the men.

“We appreciate it,” Hale said.

“Lukas Company has no need of employees. You understand that. Make yourselves useful. This is a personal favor, a debt, if you like. I appreciate loyalty.”

“There’ll be no trouble,” Hale said.

“Just stay low. Temper cost you your security clearance. You won’t exercise that temper working for me. I warned you. I warned you when we worked together on Down-below…”

“I remember,” Hale said. “But we were run off, Mr, Lukas, for personal reasons. Konstantin was looking for an excuse. He’s changing your policies, tearing up things, disarranging everything you’ve done. And we tried, sir.”

“Can’t help that,” Jon said. “I’m not down there. I’m not running things. And now you’re not. I’d rather Jacoby could have gotten you off with something lighter, but there you are. You’re in private employ now.” He leaned back at the desk. “I could need you,” he said soberly. “Figure on that too. So it could have turned out worse for you… station life now, no more mud, no more headaches from bad air. You work for the company at whatever comes up and you use your heads. You’ll do all right”

“Yes, sir,” Hale said.

“And, Lee…” Jon looked at Lee Quale, a level, sober stare. “You may be standing guard on Lukas property from time to time. You just may have a gun on your person. And you don’t fire it. You know how close you came to Adjustment on that account?”

“Bastard hit the barrel,” Quale muttered.

“Damon Konstantin runs Legal Affairs. Emilio’s brother, man. Angelo’s got it all in his pocket. If he’d had a better case he’d have sent you through the mill. Think about the odds the next time you cross the Konstantins on your own.”

The door opened. Vittorio slipped in, ignoring his instant frown of discouragement. Vittorio came up beside his chair, leaned close to his ear.

“Man came in,” Vittorio whispered. “Off a ship named Swan’s Eye.”

“I don’t know any Swan’s Eye,” he hissed back. “He can wait.”

“No,” Vittorio persisted, leaned close a second time. “Listen to me. I’m not sure he’s authorized.”

“How, not authorized?”

“Papers. I’m not sure he’s supposed to be on station at all He’s out there. I don’t know what to do with him.”

Jon drew a quick breath, suddenly cold. An office full of witnesses. A dock full of them. “Send him in,” he said. And to Hale and the others: “Go on outside. Fill out the papers and hand them to personnel. Take whatever they give you for today. Go on.”

There were dark looks from them, suspicion of offense. “Come on,” Hale said, shepherding the others out. Vittorio hastened out after them, vanished, leaving the door open.

A moment later a man merchanter-clad slipped through and closed it. Like that, closed it. No fear, no furtiveness in that move. As if he commanded. An ordinary face, a thirtyish man of no distinction at all. His manner was cold and quiet.

“Mr. Jon Lukas,” the newcomer said.

“I’m Jon Lukas.”

Eyes lifted meaningfully to the overhead, about the walls.

“No monitoring,” Jon said, short of breath. “You walk in here in public and you’re afraid of monitoring?”

“I need a cover.”

“What’s your name. Who are you?”

The man walked forward and wrenched a gold ring from his finger, took a station id card from his pocket, laid both on the desk in front of him.

Dayin’s.

“You made a proposal,” the man said.

Jon sat frozen.

“Get me cover, Mr. Lukas.”

“Who are you?”

“I came on Swan’s Eye. Time’s limited. They’ll take on supplies and head out.”

“Name, man. I don’t deal with nonentities.”

“Give me a name. A man of your own to walk onto Swan’s Eye. A hostage, one who can deal in your name if need be. You have a son.”

“Vittorio.”

“Send him.”

“He’d be missed.”

The newcomer stared at him, coldly adament. Jon pocketed card and ring, reached a numb hand for the intercom. “Vittorio.”

The door opened. Vittorio slipped in, eyes quick with apprehension, let the door close again.

“The ship that brought me,” the man said, “will take you, Vittorio Lukas, to a ship called Hammer, out on the peripheries; and you needn’t have apprehensions of the crew of either. They’re trusted, all of them. Even the captain of Swan’s Eye has a powerful interest in your safety… wanting her own family back. You’ll be safe enough.”

“Do as he says,” Jon said. Vittorio’s face was the color of paste.

“Go? Like that?”

“You’re safe,” Jon said. “You’re precious well safe… safer than you’d be here, not when it comes to what it’s coming to. Your papers, your card, your key. Give them to him. Go on Swan’s Eye with one of the deliveries. Just don’t look guilty and don’t get off. It’s easy enough.”

Vittorio simply stared at him.

“You’re safe, I assure you,” the stranger said. “You go out there, sit, wait. Act as liaison with our operations.”

“Our.”

“I’m told you understand me.”

Vittorio reached to his pocket, handed over all his papers. There was a numb terror on his face. “Comp number,” the other prompted; Vittorio wrote it down for him on the desk-pad.

“You’re all right,” Jon said. “I’m telling you you’re better off there than here.”

“That’s what you told Dayin.”

“Dayin Jacoby is quite well,” the stranger said.

“Don’t foul it up,” Jon said. “Get your wits together. You foul it up out there and we’ll all be in for Adjustment You read me clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Vittorio said faintly. Jon gave him a nod toward the door, dismissal. Vittorio tentatively held out a hand toward him. He took it perfunctorily — could not, even now, like this son of his. Came closest in this moment, perhaps, that Vittorio proved of some real service to him.

“I appreciate it,” he muttered, feeling some courtesy would salve wounds. Vittorio nodded.

“This dock,” the stranger said, sorting through Vittorio’s papers. “Berth two. And hurry about it.”

Vittorio left. The stranger slipped the papers and the comp number into his own pocket.

“Use of the number periodically should satisfy comp,” the man said.

“Who are you?”

“Jessad will do,” the man replied. “Vittorio Lukas, I suppose, when it comes to comp. What’s his residence?”

“Lives with me,” Jon said, wishing otherwise.

“Anyone else? Any woman, close friends who’ll not be sympathetic…?

“The two of us.”

“Jacoby indicated as much. Residence with you… very convenient. Will it excite comment if I walk there in this clothing?”

Jon sat down on the edge of his desk, mopped his face with his hand.