"You know," said Saber, "these people are going to be on that plane a long time. It'll be thirty-some hours before departure. Plus whatever the flight time is to Skyport."

"Yeah," said Tony. "I hope they brought a lot of sandwiches."

Saber made a face. "I hope they have good ventilation."

The computer announced a countdown to the maneuvering sequence. Tony went down into the passenger cabin and affected a studied casualness with the passengers. He had sensed during boarding that some of them were uneasy, and he wanted to reassure them that nothing unusual, and certainly nothing dangerous, was going on here.

The Micro would move into a position perpendicular to the space plane's long axis. That wasn't a problem for the computers, but it presented a point of view guaranteed to sicken the passengers. He explained that they might experience some queasiness if they watched the operation, and suggested they draw the blinds on their windows. When one of the fathers tried to do so, his son complained loudly. The father backed off, but picked up a magazine and buried his head in it.

Tony returned to the flight deck for the approach. The autopilot made a minor adjustment to the intercept course, using a series of short bursts from the main engine. Then it began firing the attitude jets in a long, complicated sequence.

This was the first time since the faulty valve had been installed that extensive maneuvering was required.

The Micro rotated and brought the docking port into line. Its sensors scanned the SSTO while the onboard computer communicated with its counterpart on the space plane and compared the Micro's actual and ideal approach attitudes. Meantime, unburnt fuel again leaked out of the twelfth jet.

It was in the form of a fine haze, which began to interfere with the sensors, introducing a degree of uncertainty, and occasionally of contradiction, into their readings. The onboard computer, trying to compensate for the contradictions, fired and then refired the jets, pumping still more powdered aluminum into the Micro's immediate environment.

Tony gradually noticed the unusual activity. He frowned, but assigned it to the fact that they'd changed the flight plan and had come at the plane at less than an ideal angle. He was puzzling over it when Saber called his attention to the radar returns.

The space plane's image on the display had lost its sharpness. The returns were still timed right, but they'd begun to fade in and out.

"What's going on?" he asked, running a quick instrument check. Everything seemed okay.

The jets fired again. Stars burned in wisps of fog. Saber shook her head. "Something's wrong," she said.

Tony finally saw the gray haze of powdered aluminum just as the fuel warning lamp lit up again. He checked his board. The radar returns were getting worse, spreading out all over the screen.

"We've got a burst line somewhere," said Saber.

The radar screen was becoming pure soup.

He switched to manual and looked out into a sheet of fog. "Where's the goddam plane?" They'd been within fifty meters, but now it was lost in the haze, invisible to both their eyes and their scanners. He opened a channel. "Berlin, this is the Micro. We have a problem."

Static. Then the pilot's voice. Tony could make out only a few words over the interference: "… read you, Micro… drifting… advise."

"Can't see a thing." Saber switched from screen to screen. Everything had clouded over. The viewports now looked like poorly silvered mirrors.

Tony went to manual and tried the radio again. The transmission broke up completely. He needed to get away from the cloud, but he was too close to the plane to try his main engine. If he guessed wrong…

"What do we do?" asked Saber.

"I hope they can see us," he said. "We stay put, and let him pull away."

5.

Lunar Orbit. 2:51 P.M.

The cloud that had settled around the Micro did not dissipate. The SSTO pilot, unable to communicate with the blinded vehicle, accelerated away to a distance of six hundred kilometers. Bigfoot dispatched one of the moonbuses, after it had offloaded onto Copenhagen, to help. But chasing down, and then getting close to, a vehicle that couldn't see and couldn't communicate but might decide to move at any time, was a tricky, time-consuming business. It looked as if the situation would require sending someone across. The bus's copilot was in the process of getting dressed for the attempt when Tony roared out of the haze, still leaking fuel.

By then Bigfoot had located the problem.

There were only so many things it could have been. And Bigfoot nailed it on the first guess by the simple expedient of checking the inventory.

Fortunately, no one had been injured in the incident, and repairs would be simple enough. But they'd lost several hours. And he knew whose fault it was.

They made up part of the time by transferring the Micro's passengers to the moonbus, which, after another two-hour chase, delivered them to Berlin. "Not in a very good mood," Stephan reported from the plane.

Since the Micro had already docked successfully at both Moonbase and L1, Bigfoot knew there was no risk bringing it directly back.

No problem, he told Tony. You're probably a little short of fuel, but not enough to matter.

Well, there was some good news. The Micro would be operational again as soon as they installed the correct valve.

But it was scant consolation. The flight schedule, with its carefully arranged windows, had been trashed; and by six P.M., Bigfoot still had not been able to devise a new one that got everybody off. Wrightstown, New Jersey. 2:58 P.M.

The Pine River Furniture Company occupied three and a quarter acres of prime land. It manufactured handcrafted leather chairs and sofas and teakwood desks and tables for the well-to-do. "Every Piece An Original," its flyers proclaimed. "No Finer Furniture At Any Price."

A small, family-run organization, it had resisted pressures to expand and diversify since its institution in 1961. The result was that while its competitors evolved away into other lines of business, or occasionally collapsed, Pine River chugged along, providing exquisite furnishings for the affluent, and consolidating its customer base. At last count it had logged forty-seven consecutive profitable years. At Pine River, conservatism was the faith.

Its chief operating officer was Walter Harrison, namesake and great-grandnephew of the founder. Harrison was a family man, a member of the Rotary, a devout Presbyterian, a contributor to dozens of good causes, an officer of the Coalition Advocating Decency in Media, and a Little League coach. He'd served in the army, had been with the peacekeepers in Africa and in Central America, and had alarmed everyone in his family except his father by marrying a Jew.

He had a tendency to overreact. He knew that, and understood it did not fit well with his conservative soul. Consequently, when trouble seemed to threaten, he treated his own instincts with caution. Today his instincts were screaming.

"What I would like to know, Marshall," he asked the short, gray-haired man seated in the leather chair (Bulhauer model) in front of his desk, "what I am concerned with is, where will we be if any of this actually happens? Are we insured against flood?"

Marshall Waring had been the company's lawyer for thirty-five years. He was a solid man, both feet on the ground, well versed in corporate law and product liability, a competent if unimaginative bridge partner, and an occasional luncheon companion. "Walt," he said, "we are twenty-five miles from the ocean. What are you worried about?"

The afternoon stillness was giving way to the roar of helicopter rotors. From the direction of Fort Dix. "They've been going all day," said Harrison. He leaned back in his chair and gazed steadily at the smaller man. "Why do you think they're doing that?"