Hope it’s a lullaby, she said to herself.

The woman controller took a sip of her coffee and made a sour face. Then she looked straight at Pancho. Inside the stealth suit, Pancho froze. The moment passed. The woman’s gaze shifted and she started back toward her console, her steaming coffee mug in one hand. Pancho began to breathe again. The woman came back to her console, next to the guy, gave him a disapproving frown, then sat down and clapped a regulation earphone and pin-mike set to her head.

Good, thought Pancho. The big chamber was too quiet to suit her. Normally the rows of consoles would be filled with controllers talking to the traffic coming in and out of Selene. There would be plenty of background chatter to hide her pecking at a keyboard. But then there wouldn’t be any empty consoles to use; they’d all be occupied during normal working hours.

Pancho tentatively tapped on the keyboard before her, once to silence the voice system, then again to call up the status board. The woman at her console did not hear the faint clicks. Or if she did, she paid no notice. The guy was definitely asleep, Pancho thought, his head lolling on his shoulders now, his bulging belly rising and falling in deep, slow breathing.

Only one craft on the schedule, Pancho saw from the status display. Due to land in five hours. Plenty of time for her to do what she had to and get out before more controllers began filing in for the morning shift.

Slowly, cautiously, with one eye on the bored woman sitting on the other side of the room, Pancho tapped out a set of instructions for the morning’s schedule. Then she got up, quietly left the control center, and returned the stealth suit to Ike Walton’s locker up in the storage area near the catacombs. She wondered if she’d ever need it again. Maybe I ought to keep it, she thought. But then Ike would discover it was gone, sooner or later, and that would raise a stink. Better to let it stay here and just hope Ike doesn’t change the combination on the lock. Sudden panic hit Pancho. Elly was not in the locker, where she had left her. Pancho had thought that the krait would snooze away in the chilly air of the storage area; she had fed Elly a mouse only a day earlier, and that usually left the snake in a pleasantly drowsy state of digestion. But moving her to Walton’s locker must have disturbed Elly’s torpor. The snake had slithered through one of the air slits in the bottom of the locker door.

For several frantic minutes Pancho searched for the krait. She found her at last, curled on the floor in front of a heating vent. But when she tried to pick Elly up, the krait reared and hissed at her.

Pancho got down on both knees and frowned at the snake. “Don’t you go hissy on me,” she said sternly. “I know I disturbed your nap, but that’s no reason to get sore.”

The snake’s tongue flicked in and out, in and out.

“That’s right, take a good sniff. It’s me, and if you’ll just calm yourself down, I’ll wrap you around my nice warm ankle and we can get back home. Okay?” Elly relaxed and sank back into a tight little coil of glittering blue. Pancho slowly extended her hand and when Elly didn’t react, she stroked the krait’s head gently with one finger.

“Come on, girl,” she crooned, “we’re gonna take you home where you can sleep nice and comfy.”

But not for long, Pancho added silently.

HUMPHRIES TRUST RESEARCH CENTER

Martin Humphries was awakened from a dream about Amanda by the insistent shrill of his personal phone.

It wasn’t a sexual dream. Strangely, when he dreamed of Amanda it was never sexual. They were on a yacht this time, sailing across a calm azure sea, standing up by the prow and watching dolphins leaping across the ship’s bow wave. He felt nervous on the water, unable to shake the fear of drowning even in this idyllic setting.

Amanda stood by the rail, wearing a lovely pale blue dress, the soft breeze tousling her hair. She gazed at him with sad eyes. “I’ll be leaving soon,” she said unhappily.

“You can’t leave me,” Humphries said to her. “I won’t let you leave.”

“I don’t want to, darling. But they’re forcing me to. I must go. I have no choice.”

“Who?” Humphries demanded. “Who’s forcing you?”

“You know who, dearest,” said Amanda. “You know. You’re even helping him.”

“It’s Randolph! He’s taking you away from me!”

“Yes,” Amanda said, her eyes pleading with him to help her. To save her.

And then the damned phone woke him up.

He sat up in his bed, blazingly angry. “Phone!” he called out. “On the art screen.” A reproduction of a Picasso cubist nude disappeared to reveal the somber face of his security chief.

“Sorry to wake you, sir,” the man said, “but you said you wanted to be personally informed of Ms. Cunningham’s movements.”

With a glance at the digital clock on the nightstand, Humphries demanded, “Where’s she going at four in the fricking morning?”

“She’s apparently asleep in her room, sir, but—”

“Then what are you bothering me for?” Humphries bellowed. The security man swallowed visibly. “Sir, her name has just appeared on a flight manifest.”

“Flight manifest?”

“Yessir. She and three other people are scheduled to go to the Star-power ship, up in orbit.”

“Now? Today?”

“Scheduled for eight this morning, sir.”

Four hours from now, Humphries realized. “And this flight manifest just came up on the launch schedule?”

“About an hour ago, sir.”

“Why are they going to Starpower 1?” Humphries wondered aloud.

“That vessel is scheduled for launch on a test flight at nine o’clock, sir.”

“I know that,” Humphries snapped. “It’s an unnamed long-duration flight.”

“Perhaps they’re going up for a last-minute checkout, before the ship is launched out of orbit.”

“Three other people going with her, you say? Who are they?” The security chief read off the names. “P. Lane, command pilot; L. Fuchs, mission scientist; and C. N. Barnard, flight surgeon.”

“I know Lane,” Humphries said. “Who are the other two?”

“Fuchs is a graduate student from Zurich Polytechnical Institute. He just arrived in Selene a few days ago. Barnard is apparently a medic of sort.”

“Apparently?”

Looking uncomfortable, the security chief replied, “He’s an Astro employee. We have no background data on Barnard, sir. No ID photo, either. All that we’ve been able to pull up from Astro’s files are his name, his position, and his fingerprints and retinal scan.”

“Dan Randolph,” Humphries growled. “It’s an alias for Randolph!”

“Sir?”

“Check those prints and retinal scan against Dan Randolph’s file.”

“Yessir.”

“And send a couple of men to Amanda Cunningham’s quarters. Bring her here, to me.”

“Right away, sir.”

The wall screen went blank for an instant, then the Picasso image reappeared. Humphries paid no attention. He leaped out of bed, snarling aloud, “That fucking Randolph thinks he’s going to zip off to the Belt and take Amanda with him. Like hell he will!”

Dan was already up and dressed in a white flight suit, the kind of coveralls worn by members of Selene’s medical staff. “C. N. Barnard” was one of the extra identities he had stored in Astro’s personnel files, a hangover from the days when he’d been up to his armpits in international skullduggery. He still had modest bank accounts scattered here and there on Earth under various aliases, just in case he ever needed to disappear for a while.

He grinned to himself as he started for the tunnel that led to the spaceport. I’m going to disappear for a while, all right. Completely out of the Earth — Moon system. Past Mars. Out to the Asteroid Belt. The IAA will go apeshit when they find out we’re on board Starpower 1. Humphries’ll have a fit. And Astro’s stock ought to shoot up when we claim mining rights to a nice, rich asteroid or three. The lawyers may squabble over the details, but a few billion dollars worth of high-grade ores will start a feeding frenzy among the brokers. And the publicity will help, too.