Frank slowed their descent. "This is as low as we want to go," he said.

Drummond nodded. "So far, so good," he told Marcel.

Another shuttle appeared and drew alongside. "The media have arrived," said Frank.

Drummond activated his e-suit and went into the airlock, from which he watched two people move clumsily out of the other spacecraft. They floated across the few meters separating the shuttles, and he took each by the hand and pulled them inside.

Canyon wasn't as tall as Drummond had expected, but there was no missing that mellifluous voice. He introduced himself with quiet modesty. "And this is Emma Constantine," he said, "my producer."

"We'll want to set up here," Emma told him, "if that's no problem." She indicated a section adjacent the airlock. "We'd like to do a quick interview with you before the rescue."

"Okay," he said.

"August will be asking you how you plan to go about this, who'll be going out with you-"

"Wait a minute," Drummond said. "I'm not going out. Frank's going to do that."

"Oh." She turned away from Drummond, and her eyes suggested he had just vanished from human memory. Canyon smiled at him and shrugged.

Frank saw something he didn't like on his navigation screen. "Everybody into their seats," he said. "Buckle down."

Nobody had to tell Canyon twice. He dived for the nearest chair. Emma was a little slower.

"What's wrong?" asked Drummond.

"Debris field." As soon as his passengers were locked in he began to accelerate.

The AI was talking to Frank, but the pilot had switched the conversation over to his earphones, obviously intending to avoid alarming the passengers. That alarmed Drummond.

"Everybody sit tight," said the pilot. "Nothing to worry about." They began to accelerate. "They're behind us," he explained. "We're going to outrun them."

"How bad is it?" asked Drummond.

Frank looked at one of the screens. "It's a pretty big swarm. Coming fast. We wouldn't want to be there when it arrives."

Behind Drummond, Canyon was talking into a microphone. He caught snatches of it: "… rescue vessel in trouble…""… meteors…" "… harm's way…" Suddenly the microphone was thrust in his direction."… speaking now to John Drummond, who's done most of the planning for this effort. He's an astronomer by trade-"

"A mathematician," Drummond said.

"A mathematician. And how would you describe our situation at the moment, Dr. Drummond?"

Drummond was impressed. He was speaking to an audience of probably several hundred million. Or would be when the signal reached home. How to describe the situation? He began to talk about the dust and debris that accumulates in a gravitational field. "Especially one around a body this massive." Morgan's image was on one of the monitors. He glanced at it.

Something banged off the hull. Drummond tightened up inside and became immediately concerned that the several hundred million viewers would see that he was terrified. "Are we broadcasting pictures, too?" he asked.

Emma, seated off to one side, nodded. They were.

It seemed suddenly to be raining on the shuttle. A hard staccato rattled across the hull.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Canyon softly, in a voice that underscored Drummond's fears, "you can hear what's happening."

"How big is it?" asked Marcel.

"Big. Thousands of kilometers across. Frank's on the forward edge of it. But he's moving pretty quick and should be clear in a few seconds. I've also sent a warning to Miles."

"What about Zwick?"

Actually, he already knew the answer to that. His screens showed the swarm moving directly across the media ship's position. And, of course, unlike the shuttle, Zwick was unable to run.

After Emma and Canyon had left Zwick, the only people remaining on board were Tom Scolari, Cleo, Jack Kingsbury, and Chop. Sco-lari wasn't entirely comfortable being on a ship that was in effect nailed to a pole, with nobody else there. They knew that the shaft had been caught in the grip of Maleiva Ill's gravity well, and that it and everything attached to it was falling toward the surface.

They'd been assured there was no danger. It was a controlled fall. The AI would, at the appropriate moment, fire the engines, as would the AIs on the other three ships, and they would haul Alpha out of the well, along with the landing party.

All very simple.

Still, Scolari would have liked to see someone else on the ship, preferably someone wearing stripes on his sleeves who would know if something had gone wrong, and who'd be competent to fix things. It was why superluminals, which could be operated from the beginning to the end of a journey without human help, retained captains.

They were all in the common room. Cleo and Chop were munching on sandwiches, and Jack nursed a soft drink. Scolari would have preferred to be on the Star, where he'd have felt safer among the fifteen hundred tourists. Where people were actually on duty to make sure everything was okay.

They were reassuring one another when the AI broke in. "We have a swarm of dust and pebbles approaching at high speed," it said in its smoky female voice. "Please retire to an acceleration station at once."

They looked nervously at one another. "Are we in danger?" asked Chop.

"The danger is minimal," said the AI. "However, in accordance with standard safety procedures, please put on an e-suit."

Acceleration stations consisted of bunks installed throughout the ship. There was a rack of six against one bulkhead in the common room. They collected e-harnesses and breathers from the emergency panel and strapped them on. Then they activated the fields.

"It thinks a meteor might come through the hull," said Cleo, looking scared.

Scolari put on his most reassuring manner. "It's just a precaution."

Chop's eyes moved nervously around the interior. Kingsbury clapped a hand on Scolari's shoulder. "When this is done, lad, I'd like to buy everyone a drink."

They climbed in, and the restraints settled over them.

"Make mine Hebert's," he said.

"I'll inform you," said the AI, "when the emergency has passed." There was, he told himself, really no reason to be alarmed.

"I wonder how far away they are," said Chop. "The rocks."

A new voice spoke in his earphones: "This is Captain Clairveau. Your AI has just informed me that you folks are alone on Zwick. Are you okay?"

"Jack Kingsbury here. We're fine, Captain. I wonder if you can tell us what's happening?"

Before he could answer, there was a hammerblow forward, the ship shuddered, and Scolari's earphones clicked. The sound of the carrier wave changed.

"Captain," said Scolari, "are you still there?"

There was another clang. It echoed through the chamber.

The transmission died.

An automated voice said, "Fourteen minutes." "We've reestablished communications with Wendy," Lori told the bridge. "Zwick is still down."

Marcel was studying the situation screen, which depicted the de-

bris field as a blinking yellow glow. Some of the rocks were entering the atmosphere. But it appeared that the worst would be over in another couple of minutes.

"Lori," Marcel said, "do we have a picture of them anywhere? Of Zwick?"

"No. Only vehicle close enough is Miles, but he doesn't have an angle. I'll let you know as soon as we get something."

The comm board lit up. "Captain Clairveau." It was Drummond.

"Go ahead, John."

"Bad news…"

Marcel held his breath. Drummond was still speaking, so it couldn't be too bad. "What is it?"

"Transmitting visual."

An auxiliary screen lit up and Marcel found himself looking at the net. The bottom of the net.

The sack.

Except that the sack wasn't there anymore.

Where the net should have flared out to provide a haven for the lander, where the collar should have lighted the way, everything simply hung down toward the clouds, limp and dead.