Gaeta broke into a grin. “It’ll do very well, thanks.”

Wilmot steered his two guests to the sitting room chairs. Once they were comfortably settled, he said to Gaeta, “I’ve asked you here because I want to assign Zeke to be your full-time publicity man.”

Berkowitz nodded knowingly. The stuntman looked surprised.

By the time Wilmot carried the dinner tray to the table, though, the two men seemed to be getting along well enough.

“So if Urbain or the IAA or whoever prevents me from going down to Titan, I’ll take a spin through the rings,” Gaeta was saying.

Berkowitz twirled his fork in the air. “Through the rings? Wow. That’d be spectacular.”

“You think you could get me some coverage, huh?”

“A brain-dead librarian could get you coverage for that. I mean, everybody’s seen footage from the automated probes they’ve sent to Titan’s surface. Fascinating stuff, yeah, but it’s been done. Nobody’s been to the rings.”

“No human has set foot on Titan,” Wilmot pointed out.

“I know. But the rings! They’ll salivate over that. I could run an auction right now and gin up enough cash to pay for your whole crew and then some.”

Gaeta leaned back in his chair, looking contented. Wilmot saw that Berkowitz was as happy as a child with a new toy. The professor felt relieved. I can give Eberly and that Vyborg creature what they want without hurting anyone’s feelings. A win — win situation. All to the good.

Pancho Lane could feel her face tightening into a frown as she watched Manuel Gaeta’s message to her.

“So even if I can’t get to Titan, this stunt with the rings oughtta pay you back for the trip with interest.”

Yeah, but what about my sister? Pancho demanded silently.

Gaeta rambled on about his possible stunts while Pancho sat fuming behind her desk. What about Susie? she wondered. Holly, I mean.

At last Gaeta said, “Tour sister’s fine, Ms. Lane. She’s a very bright young woman. Very intelligent. And very attractive, too. She has lots of friends and she seems very happy here. Not to worry about her.”

But Pancho focused on his “And very attractive, too.” Gaeta had something of a reputation. Handsome chunk of beef, Pancho had to admit. I wouldn’t throw him out of my bed. Is he making it with my sister?

Pancho sighed. If he is, there’s not much I can do about it. I just hope Susie enjoys it. I hope he doesn’t hurt her. If he does, this’ll be his last stunt. Ever.

Professor Wilmot rocked slightly in his desk chair as he dictated his status report to Atlanta.

“It’s interesting to observe the different motivations of these people. Eberly isn’t after power so much as adulation, it seems to me. The man wants to be adored by the people. I’m not certain what Vyborg wants; I haven’t been able to work up the stamina to get close to the man. Berkowitz is happy to be rid of the responsibilities of heading the Communications Department. He’s back to being an active newsman. I understand there’s some friction between him and Gaeta’s technical crew, but that’s perfectly understandable. Quite normal.

“Gaeta himself is fascinating, in his own way. He actually wants to risk his hide on these stunts he does. He enjoys them. Of course, they bring him money and fame, but I believe he’d do them anyway, merely for the sheer adrenaline rush they give him. In a strange way, he’s rather like a scientist, except that scientists enjoy the intellectual thrill of being the first to discover new phenomena, while this stuntman enjoys the visceral excitement of being the first man on the scene.”

SATURN ARRIVAL MINUS 205 DAYS

Night after night Holly spent in her apartment, alone, calling up programs from Earth on forensic medicine. She recalled with perfect clarity the way Don Diego’s crumpled body had looked when she discovered it lying headfirst in the water of the irrigation culvert. She remembered every detail of the medical examination report: no heart attack, no major stroke, nothing unusual except that the heels of his hands seemed slightly abraded, and his lungs were full of water.

What would roughen the heels of his hands? Holly wondered. The concrete surface of the culvert, she decided. Then she began to search for a reason why his hands were bruised. Eventually she came to the conclusion that he was trying to push his head out of the water, trying hard enough to scrape the skin off the heels of both hands.

And why, if he was trying so hard to get up, why couldn’t he lift his head out of the water? Because something — or someone — was holding his head down. Drowning him. Murdering him.

Not trusting her memory, good as it was, Holly called up the medical report and studied it for several nights in a row.No sign of violence. Only the abrasions on his hands.

It wasn’t much to go on. But Holly doggedly pursued that one clue. She thought of it as a clue. She was convinced Don Diego had been murdered.

Why? By whom?

Closing her eyes, she envisioned once again the scene when she found the old man’s body. No signs of a struggle. Nothing disturbing the slope that led down to the concrete except some footprints in the dirt. Boot prints, actually.

Professor Wilmot also spent his evenings watching video displays, as usual. The business of the habitat faded into oblivion as he sat in his favorite chair, swirling his glass of whisky in his right hand, watching his collection of vids about naked women undergoing torture. Sometimes, when a scene was particularly revolting, he felt a twinge of guilt. But that passed quickly enough. It’s all make-believe, he told himself. They wouldn’t produce such vids unless there was a market for them. I’m not the only one who enjoys this sort of thing.

He had run through the collection he’d brought aboard the habitat, seen each of them twice and his favorites more than that. For weeks he fretted about ordering more from Earth. They made new ones all the time, he knew. Fresh faces. New young bodies.

There was a certain danger in calling a supplier on Earth and ordering more vids. Even if he routed his order through a middleman at Selene, sooner or later it would be traced to the habitat. But there are ten thousand people here, he told himself. How would they know it’s me, and not some clerk or farm worker? Besides, I’d wager there are others aboard who have similar tastes and make similar orders.

After weeks of arguing with himself, and watching the same old vids, he sent an order to Earth by the habitat’s tight-beam laser communications link. It was all in code, of course. No one will know, Wilmot reassured himself. After all, who would be tapping the comm links? It’s not as if I’m using my personal phone line. Someone would have to tap every outgoing and incoming message to find my one brief little order. Who would be fanatic enough to do that?