“Vyborg is ambitious,” he said aloud. “He’s come to me to ask my help. He feels frustrated, unappreciated.”

“Why doesn’t he come to me? You can’t help him.”

“I agreed to speak to you about the situation,” Eberly said. “Vyborg feels he shouldn’t go over Berkowitz’s head and speak directly to you. He’s afraid that Berkowitz will hold it against him.”

“Really?”

“Berkowitz is a drone, and we both know it. Vyborg does all the work for him.”

“As long as the Communications Department runs well, I have no reason for removing Berkowitz from his position. This discussion is actually over the man’s management method. To his underlings he may seem like a drone, but as long as the department hums along, he’s doing his job effectively, as far as I’m concerned.”

Eberly sat back, thinking furiously. This is a test, he realized. Wilmot is testing me. Toying with me. How should I answer him? How can I get him to do what I want?

Wilmot, meanwhile, studied Eberly’s face carefully. Why is he so worked up about the Communications Department? Does he have some personal grudge against Berkowitz? Or some personal relationship with Vyborg? I wish old Diego Romero were still with us; he kept the department’s different factions working together smoothly enough, before he died.

Eberly finally hit upon a new ploy. “If you find it impossible to remove Berkowitz, perhaps you could promote him.”

Wilmot felt his brows rise. “Promote him?”

Hunching forward on his chair, Eberly said, “Apparently this man Gaeta is going to be allowed to go to the surface of Titan after all.”

“That stuntman?”

“Yes. Dr. Cardenas has convinced Urbain that she can decontaminate Gaeta’s suit so well that the man can go to Titan’s surface without harming the life-forms there.”

“Urbain hasn’t told me of this,” Wilmot said sharply.

Eberly held back a snicker of triumph. You sit in your office and expect everyone to come to you, he sneered inwardly at Wilmot. The real life of this habitat swirls around you and you know almost nothing of it.

“You’re certain that Urbain has approved of this… this stunt?” Wilmot asked.

“The approval isn’t official yet, but Cardenas has worked out an understanding with him.”

Wilmot nodded. “Urbain will notify me when he makes his approval official.”

“Why not ask Berkowitz to join Gaeta’s team, as their full-time publicity manager?”

“Ahh. I see.”

Eberly went on, “Berkowitz would enjoy that, I think.”

“And while he’s enjoying his special assignment, your friend Vyborg can run the Communications Department.”

“He can be given the title of acting director,” said Eberly.

“Very neat. And what happens when Gaeta has performed his stunt and it’s all finished?”

Eberly shrugged, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” To himself, though, he said, By the time Gaeta’s done his stunt we’ll have the new constitution in effect and I’ll be the elected leader of this habitat. Berkowitz, Vyborg — even you, old man — will have to bow to my wishes.

But as he left Wilmot’s office, his satisfaction melted away. He was playing with me, Eberly realized, like a cat plays with a mouse. Like a puppeteer pulling my strings. He let me have my way with Berkowitz because he intended to do it all along; he was just waiting to see how I jumped. Berkowitz doesn’t mean a thing to him. It’s all a game he’s playing.

I’ve got to get control over him, Eberly told himself. I’ve got to find some way to bend the high and mighty Professor Wilmot to my will. Make him jump through my hoops.

When is Morgenthau going to find something I can use? There must be something in Wilmot’s life that I can use for leverage. Some weakness. I’ve got to get Morgenthau to work harder, concentrate on his files, his phone conversations, everything he says or does, every breath he draws. I want him in my grasp. That’s vital. If I’m to be the master here, Wilmot’s got to bow down to me, one way or the other.

Holly saw Raoul Tavalera sitting alone in the cafeteria, bent over a sizable lunch. She carried her tray to his table.

“Want some company?” she asked.

He looked up at her and smiled.

“Sure,” he said. “Sit right down.”

Tavalera had invited her to dinner at least once a week since starting work at the nanotechnology lab. Holly enjoyed his company, although he could get moody, morose. She tried to keep their dates as bright and easy as possible. So far, he’d worked up the nerve to kiss her goodnight. She wondered when he would try to go farther. And what she would do when he did.

“How’s it going in the nanolab?” Holly asked as she removed her salad and iced tea from her tray.

“Okay, I guess.”

“Dr. Cardenas treating you well?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “She’s easy to work with. I’m learnin’ a lot.”

“That’s good.”

“None of it’ll be any use when I go back to Earth, though.”

For a moment, Holly didn’t know why he would say that. Then she remembered, “Ohh, nanotech’s banned on Earth, isn’t it?”

Tavalera nodded. “They’ll probably quarantine me until they’re certain I don’t have any nanobugs in my body.”

“There’s a nanotech lab in Selene.”

“I’m not gonna live underground on the Moon. I’m goin’ back home.”

They talked about home: Holly about Selene and Tavalera about the New Jersey hills where he had grown up.

“A lotta the state got flooded out when the greenhouse cliff hit. All the beachfront resorts … people go scuba diving through the condo towers.”

“That’s something you don’t have to worry about in Selene,” Holly pointed out.

Tavalera grinned at her. “Yeah. The nearest pond is four hundred thousand kilometers away.”

“We have a swimming pool in the Grand Plaza!”

“Big fr — uh, big deal.”

Ignoring his near lapse, Holly went on, “It’s Olympic-sized. And the diving platforms go up to thirty meters.”

With a shake of his head, Tavalera said, “You wouldn’t get me up there, low gravity or no low gravity.”

He just wants to go home, Holly saw. He wants to get back home. It made her sad to realize that she had no home to go back to. This is my home, she told herself. This habitat. Forever.

SATURN ARRIVAL MINUS 266 DAYS

If it must be done, Wilmot said to himself, ’twere best done quickly.

It was a dictum that had served him well all during his long career in academia. He often coupled it with Churchill’s old aphorism: If you’re going to kill a man, it costs nothing to be polite about it.

So he invited Gaeta and Zeke Berkowitz to dine with him, in the privacy of his own apartment. Berkowitz was an old friend, of course, and Wilmot was delighted when he showed up precisely on time, before the stuntman.

As Wilmot poured a stiff whisky for the news director, Berkowitz grinned amiably and said, “Must be pretty bad news, to make the first drink so tall.”

Wilmot smiled, a little sheepishly, and handed the glass to Berkowitz. “You still have your nose in the wind, don’t you, Zeke?”

Berkowitz shrugged. “I’d be a lousy newsman if I didn’t know what was going on.”

Wilmot poured an even stiffer belt for himself.

“Rumor is,” Berkowitz said, still standing by the apartment’s compact little bar, “that you’re going to kick me upstairs.”

With a slight nod, Wilmot admitted, “I’m afraid so.”

Before Berkowitz could ask another question, they heard a rap at the door. “That will be Gaeta,” said Wilmot, heading for the door.

Gaeta wore a denim work shirt and jeans, about as formal an outfit as he possessed. He looked serious, almost somber as Wilmot introduced him to Berkowitz and asked the stuntman what he wanted to drink.

“Beer, if you have it,” said Gaeta, still unsmiling.

“Would Bass ale do?” Wilmot asked.