Briskly he scanned the lifedome’s instrument displays, watching data on the lifeboat’s mass — about that of an asteroid — and its gravitational configuration, radiation characteristics chatter in.

"I’ve seen pictures and I’ve read about it," Harry said, "but I don’t think I really believed it until now."

"It looks more fragile than I expected," Poole murmured.

"Fragile?"

"Look at it. Why build a timeship under a clod of earth like that, with so little protection… unless, perhaps, you wanted to hide what you were doing."

"They can run, but they can’t fight," Harry said.

"Yeah. Maybe these aren’t the heroic, super-powered gods from the future we anticipated after all. Maybe these people are refugees."

Harry seemed to shiver. "Refugees from what?"

"Well, at least they haven’t fled from us yet. Come on; let’s get to the boat and see if they will let us land."

Chapter 7

Michael Poole brought the Crab’s boat down near the grassy lip of the craft from the future, close to the wreckage of a lifeboat.

Poole, followed by the Virtual of his father, walked out onto a green plain. For a moment he felt disoriented. Beneath his feet there was grass, the blades coarse enough for him to feel through the soft soles of his boots; globes the size of his fist hovered eight feet above him, giving off a Sol-like yellow warmth; and toward the center of the disk-craft a concentration of the globes produced a cozy, Earth-like island of light. There was even a hint of blueness about the layer of atmosphere over the disk of land.

But above him — like some immense roof over creation — hung the banded clouds of Jupiter. It took a conscious effort not to cringe from that lowering sky.

"You know," he said to Harry, "I found it quite hard to step out of the boat. I feel naked, standing here."

"I know what you mean." Harry took a deep, theatrical sniff. "But the air smells as good as the tests showed it to be. Why, you can even smell the grass growing." He bounced on his toes. "And near Earth-normal gravity, as we estimated from orbit."

"Quit showing off," Poole grumbled. "It’s hard to understand how anyone could have the guts to ride through time clinging to this damn thing." He thought of Berg huddled against this ground as the broken exotic-matter walls of the wormhole hurtled past her, and he felt an unfamiliar stab of protectiveness. Damn it, Berg could look after herself as well as anyone he’d known — certainly a lot better than he could himself — but nobody deserved to be put through such an experience.

His protectiveness began to fade to an uncertain guilt, as he wondered if he ought to hold himself responsible, if indirectly, for the chain of events that had resulted in this.

He watched Harry walk out of sight around the Crab’s boat; the craft, a cylindrical lump of metal still frosted from the chill of space, sat on this plain of grass as incongruous as a bullet on an altar cloth.

"My God," Harry called.

Poole followed his father. Harry stood, hands on hips, surveying the wrecked lifeboat they’d seen from the Crab.

The boat had been sliced like a ripe melon. The laser strokes through the hull were paper-sharp — almost pleasing in their clarity and neatness — and Poole could see how the interior of the craft had been scorched and melted, so that interior partitions had softened and flowed toward the soil.

"Well, it’s no ordinary wreck," Harry said. "And look." He pointed to an intact hull panel. "See the registration?"

"It’s from the Cauchy. Harry, this is Miriam’s boat. It has to be." A kind of helpless panic surged through him. "What the hell’s been done to her?"

"Nothing, Michael. I’m all right. See?"

Poole whirled at the sound of the deep, slightly hoarse, and desperately familiar voice. He saw all of her as if in a blur — the tough, lively face, the thatch of cropped hair, eyes that looked soft with tears. Without willing it he found her in his arms. Miriam was a few inches taller than Michael, and her slim body, encased in a coarse, pink jumpsuit, was tense for a moment, though her arms encircled his back; and then she softened, and the length of her body pressed against his. He buried his face in the soft warmth of her neck.

When he was able he released her, held her shoulders, and peered into her face. "My God, Miriam, I thought you were dead. When I saw the lifeboat—"

She smiled, her lips thin. "Not very friendly of them, was it? But they haven’t done me any harm, Mike; they just" — now the stiffness returned—"they just stop me from doing things. Maybe I’m getting used to it. I’ve had a year of it now…"

"And the journey through time? How was that?"

Her face seemed to crumple, before she regained control. "I survived it," she said.

Poole stepped away from her with a trace of embarrassment. He was aware of Harry standing close beside him, but kept his eyes averted from Harry’s face; he was two centuries old, and he was damned if he was going to put up with any more fatherly affection. Not right now.

There was a woman with Miriam, he saw now: as tall as Miriam, slightly scrawny, her thin, bony face young-looking and pretty — except for a dome of a shaven head, which Poole found it hard to keep his eyes away from. The woman regarded him steadily. Her pale-eyed gaze was somehow disturbing; Poole saw the naiveté of youth overlaid with a kind of blank uncaring.

Harry stepped forward to the girl and held out his arms. "Well, Michael got his welcome; how about me?"

Michael groaned inwardly. "Harry—"

The girl swiveled her head to Harry and took a neat step back. "That would be pleasant if it were possible, sir," she said, her face solemn.

Harry grinned and shrugged theatrically. "Are my pixels showing again? Damn it, Michael, why didn’t you tell me?"

Berg leaned close to Poole. "Who’s the asshole?"

"Would you believe, my father?"

Berg screwed up her face. "What an embarrassment. Why don’t you pull the plug? He’s only a Virtual."

"Not according to him."

"Michael Poole." Now the girl, having extricated herself from Harry, was facing Poole. Her complexion was quite poor, the skin around her eyes bruised-looking and tired. Poole felt himself drawn to the weakness of this girl from the future — such a contrast to the high-technology superbeings he’d imagined in his wilder moments. Even the single-piece coverall she wore was, like Miriam’s, of some coarse, cheap-looking artificial fabric.

"I’m Poole," he said. "You’ve already met my father."

"My name is Shira. I’m honored to meet you," Her accent was modern-sounding but neutral. "Your achievements are still famous, in my day," the girl said. "Of course we could not be here to meet you without your Interface project."

Berg cut in sharply, "Is that why you let them land, instead of blowing them out of the sky?"

"We would not have done that, Miriam Berg," Shira said. She sounded vaguely hurt.

"Okay, but you could have cut and run with your hyperdrive, like you did from the other ships—"

The word hit Poole like a slap to the face. "They do have a hyperdrive?"

Berg said sourly, "Sure. Now ask if she’ll let you inspect it."

Harry pressed forward and pushed his young face close to the girl’s. "Why have you come here, to our time? Why has there been only one message from this craft to the rest of the Solar System?"

"You’ve many questions," Shira said, holding her hands up before her as if to ward Harry off. "There is time to answer you at leisure. But please, you are our guests here; you must allow us to receive you into our hospitality."

Harry pointed at the sliced-open wreckage of the Cauchy lifeboat. "Some hospitality you’ve shown so far."