“How long till we get back?” “Well, I’m allowing five hours in view of Mister O’Hagan’s condition.”

“Speed it up, Hugo,” Garamond said. “I have to be back before the President, and she’s had a few hours’ start.”

Schilling glanced at the information panel on which changing colour configurations showed that the ship was sealed and almost ready for flight. “That would mean fairly high G-forces. For a sick man…”

“He won’t mind — go ask him.”

“I don’t see…”

“Supposing I said it was a matter of life or death?”

“I wouldn’t believe you, but…” Schilling winked reassuringly, opened an audio channel to the flight deck and instructed the pilot to make the return journey in the shortest possible time consistent with O’Hagan’s health. Garamond thanked him and tried to relax into the G-chair, wishing he had been able to take the other man into his confidence. Schilling was kindly and uncomplicated, with a high regard for authority. It would have been difficult, possibly disastrous, for Garamond to try telling him he believed Elizabeth Lindstrom was a psychopath who would enjoy murdering an innocent woman and child. Schilling might counter by asking why Elizabeth had not done it as soon as she had had the chance, and Garamond would not have been able to answer. It would not have been enough to say that he felt it in his bones. He closed his eyes as the acceleration forces clamped down, but his growing conviction of danger made it impossible for him to rest. Thirty minutes into the flight he got an idea.

“Do you think there’ll be a reception when we get back? A public one?”

“Bound to be,” Schilling said. “You keep hogging the news. Even while you were away a reporter called Mason, I think, ran a campaign to persuade somebody to go looking for your ship. The betting was fifty-to-one you were dead, though, so he didn’t have much success.”

Garamond had forgotten about the reporter from Earth. “You said my wife and boy are well known, too. I want them to meet me at the Beachhead City transit tube. Can you arrange that?”

“I don’t see why not — there’s a direct communications link to the Octagon from the President’s flagship.” Schilling spoke into the command microphone of his spacesuit, waited, spoke again, and then settled into a lengthy conversation. Only occasional whispers of sound came through his open faceplate, but Garamond could hear the exchange becoming heated. When it had finished Schilling sat perfectly still for a moment before turning to speak.

“Sorry, Vance.”

“What happened?”

“Apparently the President has sent instructions from North Ten that your family are to wait in the Octagon until you get there. She’s on her way there now, and they can’t contact her, so nobody would authorize transportation into the City for your wife. I don’t understand it.”

“I think I do,” Garamond replied quietly, his eyes fixed on the forward view plate and its image of a universe which was divided in two by the cosmic hugeness of Orbitsville, one half in light, the other in total darkness.

The effort of moving under multiple gravities was almost too much for Garamond, but he was standing in the cramped airlock — sealed up and breathing suit air — before the transit boat reached the docking clamps. He cracked the outer seal on the instant the green disembarkation light came on, went through the boat’s outer door and found himself in a lighted L-shaped tube. It was equipped with handrails and at the rounded corner, where the sphere’s gravitation came into effect, there was the beginning of a non-skid walkway.

Garamond pulled himself along the weightless section with his hands, forced his way through the invisible syrup of the lenticular field, achieved an upright position and strode into the arrival hall. He was immediately walled in by faces and bodies and, as soon as he had opened his helmet, battered by the sound of shouting and cheering. People surged around him, reaching for his hands, slapping his back, pulling hoses and connectors from his suit for souvenirs.

At the rear of the crowd were men with scene recorders and, as he scanned their faces, an uncontrollable impulse caused Garamond to raise his arm like a Twentieth Century astronaut returning from an orbital mission. He cursed the autonomous limb, appalled at its behaviour, and concentrated on finding the right face in the bewildering seething mass, aware of how much he had always depended on Cliff Napier in similar circumstances. There was a high proportion of men in the uniforms of top-ranking Starflight officials, any of whom could have arranged transport to the Octagon, but he had no way of knowing which were members of Elizabeth’s inner cadre and therefore hostile. After a blurred moment he saw a heavy-shouldered young man with prematurely greying hair working his way towards him and recognized Colbert Mason. He caught the outstretched hand between both of his gloves.

“Captain Garamond,” Mason shouted above tie background noise, “I can’t tell you how much…”

Garamond shook his head. “We’ll talk later. Have you a car?”

“It’s outside.”

“I’ve got to get out of here right now.”

Mason hesitated. “There’s official Starflight transportation laid on.”

“Remember the first day we met, Colbert? You needed wheels in a hurry and I…”

“Come on.” Mason lowered his head and went through the crowd like an ice-breaking ship with Garamond, hampered by the bulk of the suit, struggling in his wake. In a matter of seconds they had reached a white vehicle which had ‘TWO WORLDS NEWS AGENCY’ blazoned on its side in orange letters. The two men got in, watched by the retinue which had followed them from the hall, and Mason got the vehicle moving.

“Where to?” he said.

“The Octagon — as fast as this thing will go.”

“Okay, but I’m not welcome out there. The guards won’t let this car in.”

“I’m not welcome either, but we’re going in just the same.” Garamond began working on the zips of the spacesuit. That was a good line to hand the Press, he thought as the yammerings of panic began to build up. That was an authentic general-purpose man of action speaking. Why do I do these things? Why don’t I let him know I’m scared shitless? It might make things easier…

Mason hunched over the wheel as he sped them through the industrial environs of the city. “This is the part you flattened, but they rebuilt it just as ugly as ever.”

“They would.”

“Can you tell me what’s going on?”

Garamond hesitated. “Sorry, Colbert — not yet.”

“I just wondered.”

“Either way, you’re going to get another big story.”

“Hell, I know that much already. I just wondered… as a friend.”

“I appreciate the friendship, but I can’t talk till I’m sure.”

“It’s all right,” Mason said. “We’ll be there in less than ten minutes.”

For the rest of the short drive Garamond concentrated on removing the spacesuit. In the confines of the car it was an exhausting, frustrating task which he welcomed because it enabled his mind to hold back the tides of fear. By the time he had finally worked himself free the octagonal building which housed the Starflight Centre was looming on a hilltop straight ahead, and he could see the perimeter fence with its strolling guards. As the car gained height, and greater stretches of the surrounding grasslands came into view, Garamond saw that there was also a northern approach road to the Octagon. Another vehicle, still several kilometres away, was speeding down it, trailing a plume of saffron dust. It was too far away for him to distinguish the black-and-silver Starflight livery, but on the instant a steel band seemed to damp around his chest, denying him air. He stared wordlessly at the massive gate of the west entrance which was beginning to fill the car’s windshield. The car slowed down as guards emerged from their kiosk.