CORK
A Battlestar Galactica Fanfic by Paul Robison (Crossover with Gerard F.
Conway's Mindship)
Battlestar Galactica is the property of Glen A. Larson and Universal
Productions (c) 1978
The novel Mindship is the property of the estate of Gerard F. Conway, (c)
1974, D.A.W. Books, Inc.
Spoiler: Mindship, by Gerard F. Conway, D.A.W. Books, Inc. N.Y., N.Y,
1974, All Rights Reserved.
All material herein used without permission of the author. No monetary
gain is intended.
Note: Focuses solely on Apollo. Jolly and Serina are special guest stars
Battlestar Galactica is now the Mentalstar Galactica
No Cylons or battles with Cylons as far as I know.

Prologue: The "Valve"
     We were three sectans out from Sagitara when our Cork blew.
     He was a thin man, as Responsives go, quite gaunt, with lines and
hints of age wrinkling the paper-weight thinness of his skin; but for all
of that, he was a young man, and it showed in the way he moved---easily,
sliding along with that forward shove affected by men new to space, the
lopsided tumble that bumps you off walls and cracks your head against the
low hatches, gives you a hundred bruises and cuts on your first trip out.
Like a mosca on water spinning on gauze wings---he moved like that. He
was a quiet man for a mentalstar Cork; usually the burden of draining the
emotions of a crew makes a man want to talk, but him, never. Occasionally
he would smile, but when he did, the smile would rest only a moment on
his lips, as if waiting to be blown away. I suppose if I were to choose a
word to describe him, a single word, it would be young.
     Like all Corks, he was a Responsive. You could see it in his hands,
the way they fluttered over his lap when he sat in the crew's mess, the
way they touched and lighted on the arms of his chair, rested on his
knees, or moved on to trap themselves under his elbows. His fingers were
long, tapered candles lit from within, always sallow and drained, pink at
the tips where the nails used to be. When he spoke, his hands would jump
and dive, winding tapestries in the smoke-stained air of the lounge where
we sometimes slouched about, chatting and listening carefully to the worn
talkes. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and unobtrusive, and he looked
down, watching his hands. Sometimes he'd stare at them as if they were
apart from him, flesh-tinted avians nestling in his lap. I know that
look.
     Three weeks out from our third port, he blew. We were lucky to get
back to Caprica. Lucky for us. His luch ran out the day he shipped aboard
the Galactica.
     A man can't think of himself objectively, at least that's the way it
is with me. I can't judge my actions; it's too easy to relax the more
important aspects of one's personality and take Hades out on oneself for
the mistakes of one's past. Too easy. We all tend to mark ourselves as
sacrificial victims.

******************************

     I was commanding the Galactica when we first limped in to Virgon.
Half the crew had been blown away by our last jump into Ur space; our
previous Commander had been among the first to go, and because I was his
Captain, I took us up and carried us through and brought us down and kept
us Out. I did all the right things, all the smart things...and we still
lost half our crew.
     By the time we touched down on Virgon, we were a crippled mass of a
mentalstar. Even the Engineer was on the verge of being blown. Somewhere
back during the early moments of the disaster our Cork---this one an old
man way past his third 'juve, a crumpled wreck who'd managed to stick it
through six runs aboard the Galactica with only minor emotional
adjustments; the contrast between him and the Cork we picked up on
Carillon was startling----had cracked up and began fingering the pod
controls in his bay section. Somehow he punched a life-craft node and
ejected himself into hyperspace. Never found him. At that point, we were
all too busy trying to stay alive to go looking for a senile Responsive.
Perhaps we should've sent out a pod, though---after he blew, everything
seemed to crumble at the edges, eating toward our middle like acid rust
on a sheet of cheap tin. It was then that the Engineer began to complain
of stress along the lateral line; it was then that half the crew snapped
and went screaming into madness. I'm beginning to think that we would've
been better off if we had tried to save him after all.
     A Cork is a useful thing aboard a mentalstar. Without one, crews
have a tendency to dissolve in their own insanity. It's the nature of the
game: we need emotion to pass into the Colonial Frontier and we need a
Cork to keep us alive.
     That's why I made finding one a top-level priority when we finally
touched down on Carillon. Some things can't wait on formality.
     In a port, any port, whether it's in the Colonies or the Colonial
Frontier, you'll find three types of human communities: 
          1. Pleasure communities: congregation centers for the less
discriminating Corporeals.
          2. Liver communities: local residents only!
          3. The Communes: the last area you look for when you're seeking
a Receptive.
     That's where I found the new Cork. 

******************************

     I was with the Cook. He pushed through the screen ahead of me,
twisting to hold back the stands and let me through. I ducked under the
low hangings and came up a wreath of sweet smoke tainted by an ancient
odor of dust, the dry, choking flavor of packed earth. It was a basement
room, and it was dark, graying near the center, where candles and oil
lamps tried in vain to alleviate the gloom. I blinked against the smoke
sting and glanced at the unmoving shapes outlined in the dim glow.
     "You found him here?" I asked the Cook.
     "Sure. Where else?"
     "Hey, it's your game." Straightening, I looked around, waiting from
my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Beside me, the Cook hobbled about,
apparently seeking a familiar face---it he could see a face that is. He's
told me that though he wasn't born on Virgon, he considers it his home; I
suppose that's because so many ex-Responsives live there. He'd been my
guide, more or less. I'd received the impression that parts of the
spacedrome were as strange to him as they were to me. I prayed to the
Lords of Kobol this wasn't one of them.
     A figure near the far wall moved, unwinding into a crawlon shape
vaguely resembling a man. The cook moved forward and hooked an arm,
beckoning the house head to him. They spoke in low tones while I settled
myself against a wall latticed with narrow cracks and made a pretense of
relaxing. I was tense because I was a new Commander on his first
independent cruise and I had to make my first crew choices. Sagan, was I
ever tense.
     They came over to me finally, the house head moving in a slow,
stooped slide-walk. I watched him, and in the darkness I saw the left
side of his face, creviced where a set of capillaries had broken. A blown
Cork, one who'd snapped so far from reality the pieces were scattered
like moon dust. His eyes found mine, and he saw my expression. He smiled,
a tug of his lips just slightly askew from the shape of his face.
     "Forget me, Commander, I'm not your man, no, not me," he said in a
broken Receptive's slurry tones. "A quiet boy we've got back here. Fresh
one, no scars, you see, yes, yes." The ruined muscles in his neck slurred
his voice.
     "Let's see him," I said.
     "Back. Wait, hold on."
     He turned and slipped into the shadows. I glared at the Cook, but he
didn't seem to see me.
     Lords of Kobol!
     Then the blown Cork was back, and behind him was another man. No,
not a man: a boy. And just like that, with man coming at me out of the
darkness I snapped! Not on the surface but beneath it, so deep inside me
that I didn't sense it then, or even later when it all surged out. It was
then, right then, that I snapped. It was then that I made my first
mistake and committed my first murder----a homicide of myself and of this
young Cork. Not tangibly. Not so real you could touch it----but real
enough that it would be in my mind forever when I saw it for what it was.
     His hands moved nervously at his sides, finally hooking the loops of
his overjacket and fidgeting in an out of the leather curls. He didn't
look at me, just towards me, and he spoke softly in response to my
questions, almost too low to be heard. I tried to act like the
well-prepared professional.
     "What are you called, boy?"
     He told me.
     "Virgon is your home colony?"
     He shook his head and named a settlement just outside the Colonies.
     "How'd you get here?"
     He's shipped passage. That startled me. Passage from the Frontier to
the Colonies was hardly inexpensive, and twice as expensive to return;
there were many old space travelers caught in the Frontier who'd been
born near the Twelve Colonies, who couldn't return to their homeworld to
die. Not even a non-Colonial trader will take on a man after his fourth
rejuve, and those travelers caught on Virgon were next to cubitless.
Sometimes a charter ship will give mercy passage, but not often, and when
a psi ship does, the man becomes a sort of galley slave, and generally
ends up working harder than he ever had in a life on the spaceways. For
most, though, running to the Colonies is a one-way ticket, and Virgon is
the last stop. It's the final haul, the last jump before death---yet here
was a man little more than a boy who'd shipped passage to the soul dump
of the Colonies. It was odd, more than odd, and I said as much.
     He shrugged and his hands twisted in the loops of his jacket. Virgon
was where he wanted to be.
     "Are you experienced?" I asked. "Have you ever worked on Contract?"
     He'd been on two local runs and had been laid off when the shuttle
lost its in-system permit, something that was constantly happening with
these non-Colonial mentalstars. No Contract with a major company, not
even a slot in the provisional service. Taking him on would've been
tantamount to suicide.
     "Contract him," I said to the Cook, turning to avoid his wild-eyed
stare. I pushed my way out of the commune into the cool night of Virgon.
     I find myself reminded of an old Caprican proverb: "When we cut
ourselves, we use small knives."

******************************

     He was a fair Cork. In time, with experience to back his instincts,
he could've been a good one. He had a natural sense of calm, a quiet
manner that set one at ease, relaxing tightened muscles and soothing
anxieties to a throb rather than a pain. He was a Receptive doing his
job. Just talking with him eased the soul.
     When we were in drive he was everywhere, talking, calming, relaxing,
easing; a mind among our minds, a valve for our combined tensions--a
release. A Cork.
     During those weeks of our first run under my command, I watched him
with half attention. He always seemed to be only a few feet away, a
constantly stabilizing force because of his familiarity. When I was
setting a course or reviewing the flow of the brain waves powering the
ship, he was there, a daggit-soft presence that our previous Corks had
never been. Where they'd been huge, powerful and consuming, he was small,
an undercurrent sewer for our frustrations. He channeled the dirt and the
insanity out of our minds, keeping us, Receptives and Corporeals alike,
on the tightrope between sanity and insanity.
     I say us. That includes the Commander, though he's a Corporeal. Most
of all, it includes the Commander.
     I've heard Corks described as maternal images, psychic wombs into
which the power minds of the ships crawl during times of stress, there to
be cradled and loved. I've heard them likened to sewers as well, draining
the filth of our souls; the poisons that power a mentalstar have to be
sucked away, and so the Cork was the valve that cleansed us all. In a
way, our young Cork was both. The only sane mind in our crew, our valve,
our Cork.
     We were all insane, to a degree. How could we be otherwise? There
can't be a truly sane mind aboard a mentalstar. Corporeal or not; it's a
contradiction in terms. Sane minds don't provide the energy needed to
twirl space and send a ship skidding into Ur space, where all the laws of
our reality exist slightly warped. Sane minds are passage payers, not
crew. Sane minds are useless in space---with one exception: the Cork! If
he blows, he takes everything with him.
     And that's your real one-way ducket.
     I didn't see him again after that nigh tin the commune for two weeks
out from Virgon. I'd been aware of his presence, but there's a difference
between awareness and confrontation. One is unformulated; the other is
stark and real. It's an important difference. It was for me.
     I'd fixed the lines and set the degrees for the dive down the
gravity well to Sagitara; in the Ur the well acts like a magnet on a
mentalstar, providing the pull for a Colony-to-Colony run, so all that's
required is a vector set and a guard crew to watch for magnetic voids.
Going up from Sagitara is another matter, however; you're fighting all
the way, riding light currents while dragging against the gravity of the
galactic core. In a run Out that's a real struggle...and it's during a
run Out that your Cork receives his greatest beating. That's why I found
him in the Crew's Mess sipping a tankard of ambrosa; going In he could
afford to wander outside his station near the Bridge---going Out he'd
have no time for socializing. For now, he could sit there, listening and
drinking, watching with a distant, passive look.
     I went over.
     We made small talk, untroubled talk between a Commander and one of
his officers. He seemed reticent about that part of his life before he
came to Virgon; in passing, when I asked him about his early days before
he left the Frontier he became less talkative. He seemed to wind in on
himself, a slight hardening of the wires in his neck---nothing definite,
just a sudden withdrawal. He circumvented the entire subject with a
single soft phrase, bringing the conversation around to my own past and
me. Strangely, the shift didn't strike me as abrupt. Perhaps I'd wanted
to talk about myself and had only been marking time until the inevitable
return inquiries began. It was friendly and shallow talk. It seemed so.
     I talked about life on my homeworld, a dustbin planet in the western
end of the Frontier. He listened, and is attention seemed to act as a
salve, drawing out things from my past that I'd let rest for years,
things of which I'd been aware, but which for some reason I'd kept
buried:
     Being alone during a dust storm and crouching in a corner of cold
steel while wind pelted the outside walls with a rain of arid, sterile
dust; watching a brother die and being too small to help him, too young
to make the proper moves; then being alone again, never wanting to be
alone again, leaving the planet days later, finally going into space,
being where the walls were still cold steel, where other winds still
pelted the walls with arid, sterile dust, but where you weren't alone,
where there were other minds linking yours to theirs, and theirs to
yours. Speaking of a gut need to stay inside, safe from the naked outside
of vacuum and cosmic dust, to hide within a framework of cozy steel,
running from space into space. I told him about a box I'd seen once that
opened into another box, which flowered to reveal a third box, each layer
peeling away in turn, until there was nothing left but a final cube,
which could not be opened. In languid tones I told him all of this, and
at the time I thought it was all idle conversation, talk between a
Commander and one of his men.
     I see now I wanted him to understand why I had to kill him.
     He listened, and his hands danced at the ends of his arms, alien
hands leading a life separate and aloof from the rest of his body; or
perhaps not so separate after all.
     I didn't ask him about himself again. It seemed distant and
relatively unimportant.
     We talked, and after a while I left.

****************************** 

     We made the run into Sagitara under the line. We'd charted most of
the space assigned to us when the Galactica had left the Cimtar base four
months earlier under a different Commander and a partially different
crew. Now it was time for a trade run, and they'd told us we'd have to
pick up our cargo on Virgon, a shipment of solonite from the factories
there, to the human settlements along the eastern end of the Frontier.
But first, there were two more runs in the center of the Frontier. The
first took us across the celestial plane; five weeks without incident off
ship, and only one incident on.
     The Cook pointed it out. He was a bulky man, the Cook, short and
graying and heavy-jawed, his chin cupped by a webbing of broken
capillaries, yet even so he was a perceptive man. Before the accident
that made him a Corporeal, he'd been one of the best Corks under
Contract. I'd just left the Bridge when he approached and plucked at my
side.
     "The Cork, Commander. I think the poor snitrod's ready to snap."
     "What?!"
     "He's just sitting, not talking to anyone. Something's wrong, I just
know it."
     I stared at him, letting it sink in slowly. The Cork. "All right,
where is he now?" I asked.
     "In the mess. He's just sitting there, Commander. Drinking ambrosa."
     That was bad. I strode down the hall, found myself moving into a
trot, came to the lift shaft and dropped the three levels to the Crew's
Mess. He was sitting by himself just behind the Cook's ambrosa tap,
sipping at a large tankard of ambrosa. He was staring at his hands.
     I asked him, "What's wrong?"
     Nothing. He shrugged and tried a weak smile. I slid onto the bench
opposite him and nervously keyed the remote on the table before me.
Muscles jumped in spasms along the outsides of my ankles as I waited for
the ambrosa: it's a nervous thing I get. I watched the Cork. He kept his
eyes on his hands, occasionally taking a sip of his ambrosa.
     "Cook says there's something the matter..."
     He said no, nothing was wrong.
     I felt uneasy, sitting there with him; everything about him was calm
and gentle---and yet I felt uneasy. I realized that I'd almost
deliberately avoided him since that day in the Mess. Being near him made
me uncomfortable; I couldn't have explained it.
     "Dammit," I said, "say something."
     He did. Quietly he started to talk. Nothing in particular,
commenting first on the smoothness of the run, the attitude of the crew,
who he thought was involved with whom, how much he liked the ship, how
happy he was to be Corking under me, how he liked the Engineer, how he
was glad the others liked him. He rambled, continuing on without saying
anything. His hands drifted across the tabletop as he spoke, brushing it
gently as though smoothing a bed sheet. He talked, and finally I stopped
listening. I didn't want to listen, not really. I pushed away from the
table. He stopped speaking and looked up at me.
     Was something wrong?"
     "No," I answered wearily. "No. Everything's fine. Just OK. I'll see
you later."
     I went out feeling weak. Something nagged at the back of my mind and
I brushed it away, just as I brushed away my last sight of the Cork,
sitting there, watching me leave, his eyes vacant, and apparently
uncaring.

******************************

     I saw him about the corridors of the ship. He moved through the
halls slowly, his head lowered as he took a peripatetic path along the
rim corridors of the vessel, on those decks where the artificial gravity
was activated. Moving like a wraith, he seemed lost in thought, but we
knew that the distant look in his eyes was the look of a Receptive in
contact. He left varying impressions on the crew. Some thought he was
slightly insane, others that he was saner than any of us, and was lost in
our insanity; others simply didn't care. Both extremes, madness and
insanity, were wrong, by my thinking; his mind was a mixture. He was
different, apart from us; dispassionate might have been the word for it,
but for the fact that he was hardly cold. I found him once or twice when
he thought he was alone, shaking himself back and forth and muttering
something low and rhythmic under his breath. In anyone but a Cork, I
would have said it bordered on madness, but the ways a Cork maintains his
sanity sometimes seems stranger than madness...
     That was the way it seemed to me at the time. Now I understand that
I didn't want to recognize his distress; I didn't want to see how he was
crumbling inside. He was the Cork. And I wondered why I picked him.
     So it went. He wandered and listened, and spoke little of
himself---little of substance, little of him---and in his station he took
up our insanities.
     And on our third run, three weeks out from Sagitara, up from the
Frontier, he blew.

******************************

Mind-drive:
     I stand apart from the ship in my analog web, looking down at the
ball of light webbed with a network of power and energy, sparked with
arrows of mental light, a hundred mental waves turning on themselves,
waves on a muddy shore, churning up soot and soil, foaming in coils of
power. Central to that silent storm in the prism of the Cork's
mind-field, which seems to draw the darkness in a whirlpool even as we
generate it, funneling the black richness of our emotions through the
Engineer and out of the ship in a beam that shoves the Galactica through
Ur space, a helix blue and white behind us.
     Behind the ship are the stars. Ahead, the golden glow of hyperspace.
We move through...and in.
     I stand apart from the ship, held in the electric stress of the web
structured about me by the shipboard computers. I guide the mentalstar
with carefully directed bursts of power, power applied through the field
my crew members create around me. I stand apart with my mind, outside the
ship, the noneyes of the Commander's Set overseeing the flow of the
brain-drive.
     Like the Great Starphoenix of the Cosmos, we fly.
     Below, a hundred sick men pour out the filth of their souls, and the
Engineer funnels that filth. Below, a hundred sick minds are filtered
through a sane one, our safety valve, our Cork.
     But here...we fly. The stream of energy pulses, eternal unchanging.
     The Galactica flies.
     I can feel the weight of the Galactic Center dragging at me----a
sensation akin to that one feels when climbing a mountain under a heavy
pack. It sets me aslant. I compensate and the ship shifts, and we move
sluggishly through the stream.
     Images in my mind:
     Twist---
     Squatting in sunlight, sweating from open pores, dying, waiting, and
no one comes. He's dead. My fault. They're all dead: Desert world.
     (Thoughts from the prism: gentle, cool, and draining off the
memory.)
     Twist---
     Dark, cold room around and over me, sounds throbbing in my bones, in
my skull---alone, panicking---
     (His hand comes into my mind and draws away the madness, silken
fingers brushing my thought---cold.)
     Twist----
     The Bridge, chaotic: fires, smashed consoles and screens, the
labored breathing of the madman in the Commander's Set, blood trickling
from his nostrils, a river down his chin. Screaming, I shove him from his
chair, watching his body curl over on itself like paper tossed into a
fire. Screaming still, I clamber into the Commander's Set, knowing I
can't do what I need to, finding the wires, shoving them in---
     (And the Cork comes, plumbing the poisons from my mind, and I am
purged...cleansed...)
     And the ship drives on.

******************************

     On the Bridge, I jerked forward as something took the Galactica and
shook it.
     Walls canted around me. I fell sliding from the Set, catching myself
before the wires could tear from my skin. In the distance alarms wailed.
     Somehow, I was back in the Set, strapping the emergency bands across
my chest. Another shock threw the ship forward. I slammed into the
restraining bands and bounced back, stunned.
     "Engineer...status report." Calm. Tendrils of calm played with the
panic lacing my consciousness. I gripped the armchair, forcing myself to
relax.
     Forcing---
     I cut off the hurried string of numerals from the Engineering
section. "The Cork," I asked, "where is he? I want him on the Bridge with
me. Now."
     "Yes, Commander."
     Punching a key on the board to my left, I studied an exterior view
of the ship. The screen showed a bowl of gray curling to either side,
unmarked but for a puncture of black dead center ahead. A Magnetic Void.
I felt a chill start a slow crawl up my spine.
     "He's not in this section, sir."
     "Then, for Sagan's sake, find him!"
     "Yes sir."
     Not in his section. The implication drove home and fell away. I
stared at the screen, no longer registering the scene of disaster rapidly
approaching. Not in his section!
     "Commander?"
     "What?"
     "We've located him, sir."
     "Where?"
     "In the...ah...Mess, sir. Drinking ambrosa."
     Lords of Kobol!I
     "Get him up here!"
     "Yes, sir."
     The ship lurched forward again: the tidal forces from the stellar
freak ahead: the "Magnetic Void:" a vast area of space where normal
sensors, communications, and even Ur space doesn't work. Few who venture
into them ever get back. They're dangerous bastards, voids. They
bamboozle sensors, rendering them useless, and communications soon lose
their range and break up. Once inside the void, there is only blackness,
and the further you travel, the deeper this gets. It is very rare to
actually find anything within a void, but occasionally rogue planets ore
asteroids can be found there, trapped by the void. The stars can only
shine so far inside a void and as a rough guide, when you can't see the
stars anymore, you most definitely can't communicate outside the void, or
vice versa.
     I sent outs signals to reverse thrust. The image on the screen
flickered, faded, and then enlarged again. I'd need more power. Much more
power, if we were to survive.
     Behind me a pneumatic hiss signaled the entrance of the Cork.
     "Where in Hades were you?"
     He began to explain but I cut him off. "Never mind. You'll be
stationed here. I want you near me when we push past that void."
     He didn't answer. I was busy once more, making course corrections
and feeding new figures into the computer brains that lined the walls of
the Bridge, relaying the discussions and revisions they arrived at along
the mental circuits binding the ship. Around me, the computer hummed, the
screens winked and glowed, and I felt the ship gathering power as its
many minds drew their strength together, preparing.
     During a pause, I glanced up at him.
     He was ready to blow.
     You get to know the look after a while: the slouched posture, the
eyes, the trembling hands fumbling with the buttons and zippers on a
flight jacket. His gaze didn't meet mine. It wasn't a new thing, but now
it seemed to have an unvoiced meaning, where before...
     "Kobol!"
     He didn't seem to hear me.
     I groped in the slot under the left armrest and came up with a hypo
spray kept there for the Commander's use during a hard drive. It was
full. A third of it would be enough. I grabbed his arm and plunged the
needle in, and it was then I sinned; I gave it all.
     But it didn't even faze him.
     "Just stay," I said, "just keep thinking."
     No answer. Didn't he hear me?
     I turned from him and made the connections that would send me over
to brain-drive. I blacked out.
     Black:
     Shrieking:
     Writhing and alive, the void:
     Light.
     Mind-drive:
     It spins from everywhere and it bends in on us, a great obsidian
sore. I throw the ship forward----
     ----boxes, each one flowing into the next, and (a ghostly form comes
and takes my fear away, swallowing it into himself)---
     -----battering past the gravity well, slamming through sees of tidal
pull, while the collapsed sun sinks forever below us, dragging us, Ur
space consumed with heat, wrinkling in the black-pitch energy storm,
bending around us, warping around us, falling from us----
     Twist----
     Seething sun, golden madness leaping now larger always larger----
     (Hands come, take our madness.) (Frail hands, like tissue.) (Tissue
in a maelstrom.) (Breaking.)
     A hundred sick minds pour out their insanity and the sewer swallows
the ichor, and it drives us on, funneled behind us.
     The Magnetic Void erupts.
     I slide the ship around and away---cut forward and pitch into
overdrive.
     And we're gone, splicing from the unreal to the real, in and out
and---gone. Where we'd been, the Magnetic Void blossoms, spreads like
ink, and drains away.
     The ship moved through a fold in space and slid into the graindark
midnight of Outside. We drifted through a sudden calm. In objective
space, the Magnetic Void was light-yahrens distant, already a fading
memory. Around us the stars were brilliant on a velvet sky. There was
silence, blissful silence.
     Silence...
     Silence everywhere...?
     ...no.
     From some dim corner of our collective consciousness there came a
moan of pain and agony, not an audible moan, not a physical scream of
torment---but a whimpering mental whine.
     The Cork.
     I returned to the Bridge, tore off my straps, and swung down to the
Commander's Set. I found him slumped on the floor mili-metrons from my
feet, arms outstretched as though groping for something that was now
forever out of his reach.

******************************

     His mind was gone, lost in the madness I'd forced him to drain. He
lay in a huddle at the foot of the Set, wound in on himself fetuslike,
his pale hair tumbling over eyes that were blank and staring. He'd
clamped down on his tongue sometime during the flight and now a stream of
thick blood dribbled past his lips and onto the floor, where already it
was crusting brown. His clothes were in ragged strips. His arms were
bleeding where he'd struck himself against the sharp edges of the Set. He
was whimpering when I came to him, spitting up blood with each sigh. I
bent quickly, removing the wires from his forehead. I pulled him into a
sitting position. His body was limp and sagging in my hands. I stared at
him and after a time I let him down and left him there to whimper alone,
in silence.

******************************

     Some nights I wake shrieking and huddle under the bed---clothes warm
with my sweat and ask myself---why did I do that, why did I pick him, why
him?
     As yet, I've found no answer, but it doesn't trouble anyone too
greatly anymore. I have release, sort of.
     At night the silken fingers quickly come and take the pain away.

 **************************************************************

Chapter One
Eighth Sectar, Third Day
Colonial Yahren: 7364 

     He'd been awake for centons, lying in the darkness of the room,
watching the dusky glow of his long, torpedo-shaped fumarello crawl
toward his fingertips. The fingers were stained yellow, callused under
each knuckle with a layer of thick white skin. At times, nervously, he
would worry at the callus of his forefinger with the nail of his thumb.
When he was sitting alone in the Crew's Mess aboard ship, or at his
station during drive, or at times like this, lying awake in the early
centons before false dawn, he would worry that lip of skin until the
irritation made the flesh crawl under the callus become inflamed, or
until his nerves were unable to stand the monotony any longer, and then
he would bite the dead skin free. Inevitably, a new callus would form
within a few days and the process would begin anew.
     The storm was over. Now there was only a gentle rain misting the
balcony beyond his window with a faint post-moonlight haze. Apollo looked
at the woman sleeping beside him. She lay turned away on her stomach, her
back bare above the quilt. There was a soft tracing of brown fur across
her shoulders and shoulder blades, just thick enough to be noticed in the
blue light filtering in from outside. The down moved as she breathed.
Just then, as he watched, she shivered and tried, in her sleep, to
snuggle more fully under the covers. Apollo drew them up about her neck.
Her stirrings ceased and she made low throat noises as she shifted once
more, turned her face toward him, and drifted gently back to sleep.
     He stood and drew on his robe, bracing himself against the moist
wind off the Virgon Sea. His legs felt cold, his arms wet. The breeze
tasted like salt, but Apollo new it was only an illusion. The sea
fronting on the tavern district was fresh water, as were most of the
smaller bays of lakes on the young frontier world. He closed his eyes and
welcomed the memory of other planets, especially the clear, crystal
memory of his only visit to the flagship colony, Caprica. He'd spent his
furlon near the sea, on an untainted shore in the eastern hemisphere. The
water had been warm and salty. There'd been a woman...Apollo broke off
the thought, opening his eyes and staring at the motion of the shadow in
the room, and the window showing the industro-community below.
     He was a tall man, a little over two metrons, with hazel-eyes and
long dark hair that curled over his ears and tapered off on the base of
his neck. His arms were well muscled, his shoulders broad and thick, but
his chest was thin, his waist was narrow, and his hips were a bit wider
than normal, all signs of his non-Corporeal background. His legs were
heavy and strong because he'd spend most of his centons off the Atlantia
walking. On the worlds the mentalstar had visited, Apollo had wandered
for centons through forests and deserts, over hills and across plains; it
gave him time to fix a sense of place in his mind, making the planet more
real than it would've been seen only from a port window or studied from
the base of a ship's fin. His wrists were thick and his hands were
callused, and that by itself was odd for a Receptive, especially odd for
a former Cork. Apollo loved to do things with his hands, and had gone out
of his way to find craft work, finally settling on wood carving as a
hobby. His pieces were primitive---he readily admitted it---but they'd
gained some favorable comments particularly from a friend he'd had aboard
the Atlantia, a former art critic who'd worked as Communications
Receptive until he'd blown, the Sagitaran named Jakar, who'd mentioned
something about "an assurance to the work that amazed" him. Apollo smiled
at the memory. He looked at his hands and then tucked them under his arms
and glanced out at the balcony and the port city beyond.
     The air was cool out there. He relaxed against the brick wall,
closing his eyes and trying to visualize the town. It was something he
did when he settled on a planet for more than a day; he tried to place
the buildings and streets in his mind. It gave him a kind of mental
freedom then, to arrange his life around those things---as though he were
studying a new card game, learning, in a way, to play it.
     There: the steeple of worship house. And there: the row of
prefabricated buildings, which had been erected by the Virgon government
for recent immigrants, little white-and-blue dollops on a strip of
yellow-shaded green. And closer: the thick structure of a Colonial
factory complex, the processing and refining plants, the managerial
offices separated from the rest by a rectangular fountain/pool. And also
there, fittingly, the first of the city's taverns, on the same block as
the plant, just half a hectare away from outside the Receptive District,
a small windowless tavern built into an older building's basement. And
here: the newer buildings erected under the provisional government, black
iron balconies set close to pseudo-brick facades. Apollo opened is
dark-brown eyes. It was all there, including the landmark he'd neglected
to remember, accidentally or deliberately: the spacedrome. The ships in
the drome glistened under the arc lights of the maintenance buildings,
their snub prows running with streamers of blue light, the cleansing
autohoses swooping about them in the glow of the bright spots. Apollo
half-turned from the sight and saw instead the Colonial refining plant.
Neither pleased him, but both were the cause of his being there on
Virgon, his reason for picking this planet for his retirement. He rubbed
his hands over his eyes, sighing.
     Behind him the girl moaned. He listened to her rustlings with slight
amusement. He'd slept with socialators before and he knew how foolish it
was to have illusions about them----especially since his abortive affair
with Serina three yahrens before, and even more so, now that he owned a
brothel himself. But still...something of the skirt-chaser nestled within
him, and he turned and watched her movements as she stretched under the
blankets, smiling, almost affectionately. It was simpler to make love to
a woman like this. She was firm bodied, as were all the women in his
brothel; her breasts were heavy, flattening as she shifted to one side,
and there was a coarseness to her features not even makeup could remove,
tight lines at the edges of the mouth and tension in the molding of her
face. Life was rough all over for a Corporeal on Virgon. Even though the
industro-community was a port, its inhabitants rarely found work in
anything but a tourist-service capacity. The refineries employed only
Colonial contractees from off-planet, for reasons Apollo couldn't
comprehend, with the result that hopefuls immigrating to this colony
often found themselves without a job. Many tried for a shipping Contract,
but more often the less qualified Corporeals sought work in one of the
taverns or hotels. How many socialators in the community? Apollo didn't
want to know. In a way he felt responsible for their misfortunes, though
he didn't treat his own women unfairly--yet somehow that didn't matter.
To Apollo, at moments like this one, his very participation in the
economy of the world---regardless of the motives he knew worked within
him, and which he understood---brought out a normally buried sense of
guilt.
     There was a sound in the street below. He stepped to the balcony,
looking over it. A figure drifted by, cape flowing from firm shoulders.
Two men on the opposite corner called again---it was their first call
that had attracted Apollo's attention---and the girl in the cape,
positioning herself by the doorway of the building, motioned them over.
Apollo grunted and turned his gaze to the rooftop.
     He stared at the white buildings of the spacedrome, arranged at
angles to the central mile-square landing strip. He felt nothing, and
sensed pride because of that emptiness. It'd taken him time to heal the
wounds he'd sustained aboard the Atlantia. The six yahrens he'd spent as
a Cork since his eighteenth birthday hadn't been easy for him. He was
glad to forget what he could.
     He turned and reentered the apartment. It was still strange to think
of it as belonging to him. He'd never possessed anything as large as this
building, and it made him uneasy---for a moment. Shrugging off the
gathering concerns, he smiled to himself and walked softly back to the
bed to awaken the sleeping girl.

******************************

     Apollo moved down the short flight of steps into the bar's foyer,
where a man in a high-wasted tunic briefly probed his mind, and,
satisfied that Apollo was a fellow Receptive, took his tip, and led him
into the main lounge. As he walked to the counter Apollo felt the
doorman's eyes on him, admiring his blue tunic and leather trousers; he
smiled, and, still smiling, settled himself on a swivel stood before the
ancient ex-Cork bartender and ordered himself an ambrosa. The old man did
things with glasses, slid a mug across the counter, and accepted the gold
cubit Apollo gave him in return.
     "Any of the others around, Pul?" The ambrosa burned like sunfire in
Apollo's throat, dry and bitter, reminding him it had been yahrens since
he'd enjoyed the sweet taste of centuries-old ambrosa.
     Shrugging bony shoulders, the bartender said, "A few but not many
tonight. Jakar, Wils. The twins were here, but not now. Bad time tonight,
ships out, y'know?"
     Apollo nodded and sipped his brew.
     "Jakar told us you were coming," the old man continued, muttering
through broken lips. "How long Out, huh?"
     "A couple of sectans. Jakar must've left the Atlantia on our last
pass through Virgon, right?"
     Pul passed a hand over his stubbled chin, eying Apollo's empty
tankard. The younger Cork pushed it toward him, asked for one more. The
old man complied and Apollo asked, "How is he, Pul?"
     "Jakar? Now? OK, I guess. Bad for a bit. Couldn't move, too much
trembling, face all swollen, red. Broken bad. But what Hades happens to
us all, y'know?"
     Apollo said yes, he knew, accepted the tankard, and swung down from
the bar, glancing around the shadowed room. In a corner by one of the
draped windows, two men were talking. One had his back to Apollo: red
hair over the thick, florid neck, the collar of a blue Receptive's jump
suit lapping a gray vest that barely stretched between broad shoulders.
Apollo walked over. The man facing him noticed his approach and said
something to his companion. Jakar blinked around, his lopsided face
splitting into a grin when he recognized Apollo. He made room on the
bench, half-turning his face to his friend and making the introductions.
     "This here straight, his name's Apollo. Old buddy, back to back,
sweat same ship five years, the Atlantia. Looks like a fed bovine, hey?
Bet you been slopping off since Jakar left, no one whips you 'round,
huh?"
     Apollo smiled. "Something like that." He gave the older man his
hand. Jakar took it and pressed it loosely. There was something wrong
with the muscles in his wrist. "How are you, Jakar?" Apollo asked.
     "Living, OK. This buddy here, his name's Whyte."
     The two men greeted each other formally. Whyte's eyes were a soft
yellow and seemed somehow out of focus; Apollo realized, startled, tat
the man's right eye was sightless. Whyte's features were devoid of
emotion, though his lips were tucked back in a noncommitted smile as he
shook Apollo's hand.
     Jakar nudged Apollo's hand with his own. "C'mon, drink. We'll get
another."
     Apollo complied and they ordered another round from the console in
their booth. When the tankards came, Apollo started to lift his, but
Jakar stopped him with a toast. "Shipmates," said the broken Receptive,
and both Apollo and Whyte drank with their eyes watching each other over
the rims of their mugs.
     "What now, Bucko?" Jakar asked. "Here good? No more Contracts?"
     "Certainly not this yahren. Never again, if this works out. I've
just about come the route, Jakar; your luck only lasts so long and mine's
been pretty strong, I suppose...but, well...you know."
     "Sure, best that. I guess. Whye, Bucko was good buddy on Atlantia
till last spring, would've been this yahren five together, but I had this
accident, y'know." Jakar flexed the muscles in his arms, smiling with
just a hint of regret. "But Apollo, still goin' him, Righto?"
     "Until now, anyway," Apollo said, uneasily. Jakar's inability to
speak coherently was something he hadn't expected, though he knew he
should've---it was normal with a Receptive who'd collapsed. In fact,
Apollo had almost managed to get the incident off his mind which'd broken
the former art critic; it came back now with Jakar's every slurred word.
"I've gotten myself a lace."
     "Now? Oh, that's right; you quit." The Sagitaran seemed confused for
a moment, finally nodding as though he'd settled something. "You and your
brother, getting together now? You mean place for you two?"
     "My brother?"
     "Sure, him here sectan ago, this bar. Ask Pul. Asking 'bout you,
sure. Hey, didn't find you, huh?"
     Apollo worked on his drink, thoughtfully. He shook his head. "No, he
didn't. The last I knew, he was back home on Caprica, schooling."
     "Well, now here. Or was. Ask Whyte."
     The other Receptive broke in. "What sort of place you got, Apollo?"
     With half-attention, Apollo told the two broken Receptives about the
building he'd bought in the Receptive District. It was a perfunctory
description; in the two weeks since he'd landed on Virgon, he'd given the
report a hundred times to every ex-shipmate he met. He always extended
the same offer of work, and always, it was accepted. He knew what
information would interest his listeners, he knew how to pace all the
elements of the tale, and for a time he'd enjoyed working the reactions
of his audience. But only for a time. For Apollo, the process of telling
a story had become a craft so instinctive it no longer intrigued him, and
a part of him regretted this, more deeply than he would've thought
possible.
     When he'd been Cork aboard the Atlantia, before the run just past,
he'd spent most of his free ship time in the Crew's Mess, spinning long
and involved stories for his mates, each a creation of the moment and
each what they needed to break the tedium of mind-drive. He'd gained a
minor sort of fame, and he supposed there'd been a few disappointed
newcomers on his last run, when he refused to work up a single tale. As
certain as he was that word had gotten around about his storytelling
ability, he was equally certain that word about his accident hadn't been
circulated. Such subjects were taboo, both out of compassion for the Cork
(who was always aware of what was being said and thought about him) and
out of a superstitious notion that if it wasn't mentioned, it hadn't
really happened.
     Thinking about that very effective method of dealing with tragedy,
Apollo wondered briefly if any of the men who'd been with him when Cain
died could even remember how close Apollo had come to breaking. So
complete were those emotional erasures, Apollo reflected as he sipped his
ambrosa and told Jakar and Whyte about his brothel, that it often seemed
as though the bad events were merely dream memories fading away.
     He then remembered his brother, Zac, and realized he'd been
practicing his own emotional erasure. By centering on his own problems,
he'd managed to avoid thinking about his brother's. The boy must've
broken loose, Apollo thought. It was something he'd expected since he
himself had left the family. Zac was an unstable boy: it had been
apparent in the way he moved, and especially in his hands, which were
incapable of rest. Apollo remembered how, when the four members of the
family used to gather for dinner, young Zac would sit with his fingers
knotting and unknotting in his lap until his father allowed the family to
begin eating. They were like pink birds, those hands. Apollo smiled at
the image; it was one Zac would've liked. If the boy were here on
Virgon----
     Apollo shook himself, looked from his own hands to the faces before
him and finished the description of his new project. "Want to come
aboard, Jakar? I could use a friend with a dose of common sense?"
     Jakar tapped both hands on the tabletop, nervously drumming a quick
rhythm, blinking at Apollo, and then at Whyte, and then at his hands.
Apollo glanced at the Sagitaran's fingers, the memory of his brother's
hands still strong in his mind. Jakar's knuckles were red and bloated,
and both little fingers were obviously paralyzed, apparently by the same
nervous disruption that had ruined his forearms.
     "I'm asking you to come with me," Apollo said again, more emphatic
this time, hoping that his tone would tell Jakar what he needed to know.
     The older man stopped tapping, sat one hand in the palm of the
other, and rubbed the two hands together. He was still silent, but the
storm of emotions Apollo felt boiling in the air between them was almost
overpowering---so strong Apollo couldn't determine which emotion was the
dominant one: frustration, anger, love, gratitude, shame, or that other
emotion, the one that Apollo couldn't name. He knew nothing like it in
his own experience, yet it seemed to touch something closed tightly
within him. A sense of...owing? Apollo almost caught it completely, but
then the emotion passed as Jakar regained control. Apollo sighed, pushing
the remainder of the feelings aside: he knew he couldn't afford to open
up fully again, not in the way he'd opened aboard the Atlantia. He wasn't
strong enough yet, not yet. He pressed his hands together and noticed
that his palms were wet. The leather strappings around his wrists were
also moist with sweat, glistening in the dim light.
     Jakar looked at him again, and the Sagitaran's face was stiff and
immobile. He nodded, saying nothing, and glanced at Whyte, who also
nodded, and then Jakar shoved against the table, sliding it back and
easing out past Apollo. The Cork watched as Jakar walked to the bar and
took a drink from Pul. Whyte followed Apollo's gaze and smiled gently
when the Cork turned back to him. Amber eyes smiling: one solid, one
faint.
     "He's had the full route," Whyte said.
     "I know," Apollo answered. Then: "You too?"
     The man's brow furrowed and then grinned again, less sure of himself
for reasons Apollo didn't care to read. "That's why we're together, him
and me. Who else, either of us?"
     "You want in?"
     "Contract pensions go only so far, buddy. Damn right I want in."
     "What about Jakar's pension?"
     "The way he broke, he won't get felgercarb. You know that. You were
there, you saw it happen.
     "You've been supporting him?" Apollo asked; Whyte nodded. "Tell him
I meant the offer. Make him understand. And both of you, be there
tonight. There's going to be a party. A small celebration.
     "We're not good at socializing, Apollo."
     "Stop protecting him, Whyte. Be there." Without glancing at Jakar,
Apollo walked briskly out, pausing at the door to pay his tab and
straighten his vest and tunic, very distinctly aware that on his body, at
least, there were no scars.

******************************

     Behind the bar a narrow alley dropped down a series of wide steps to
a small plaza. Apollo stopped beside the fountain, shifted himself onto
the stone rim, and stared into the waters below. Rectangular bits of
metal were scattered over the bottom of the pool, some unsung genius's
effort to give the fountain an aura of history: green and blue and gold,
the cubits glittered in the moonlight--unaffected by the motion of the
fountain waters, the cubits were only for viewing. Apollo ran his hand
through the water, cooling the heat that throbbed beneath the skin. No
outwards scars, true, but there were reminders.
     Suddenly, his hand clenched into a fist and slammed hard against the
stone rim, splashing water over his thighs. He sat trembling, watching
his image split and reform in the spreading ripples. After a moment
another reflection moved in beside his own. Serina. She tried a smile.
     "Still remembering, Apollo?" Her voice was soft behind him.
     "No memory, Serina. Just a nerve spasm, that's all." He cradled his
bruised knuckles and glanced around at her. "You came up rather quietly
just now."
     "I saw you leaving the tavern. Are you sure you have no memories?
This was our place, one..." She laughed at him, tilting her head as she
moved closer. "I waited for you to come back, that knight. I wanted to
explain. I even went to the spacedrome, but I couldn't find you. I guess
you didn't want me to."
     "If you believe that, what am I supposed to say?"
     He edged off the fountain and stood facing her. She'd lost weight
since the last time he'd been on Virgon, three years before. Her
shoulders were narrower, two sharp strokes under the tan material of her
blouse. Her hips were flat, nudging out only slightly below her waist,
sinking straight into her thighs. She wore a jumper knit from black
synthetic wool: it was frayed beneath her breasts and at her waist. She
went barefoot, apparently no longer attempting to conceal the ruin of her
left foot with boots----perhaps she was proud of the limp she affected,
Apollo thought, proud of the accident that kept her from being a
mentalstar Corporeal.
     She felt him studying her and drew her arms more tightly together
under her bosom. When he continued to stare, she laughed. The laughter
was a return cut, as they each knew the other's weakness.
     "I know I tried to hurt you, Apollo. I was just trying to get back
at you...for being so cold. He didn't mean a thing to me. He was just a
customer."
     "Have you found passage Out yet, Serina?"
     "Who'd take me on, Apollo? Who needs a Corporeal who can't do work?
Oh, I've survived, but it hasn't been good here these past few
months...no jobs, and none of the Colonial plants are
contracting...everything taken Newcomers everywhere for work in the
taverns, so who'd be desperate enough to take me? You?"
     "Maybe," Apollo said. "In a way."
     Her smile faded for a moment, and then returned, a wry upturned
line. "I can't live on might-be's and maybes, Apollo. My pension's almost
run out..." Shivering suddenly, she uncrossed her arms and rubbed her
palms along the sides of her face, as though trying to wake herself from
a half-sleep. She tossed the mane of her auburn hair, eyes him casually.
"How long are you down this time around? Still with the Atlantia?"
     "Not anymore. I'm finished."
     He caught the surge of hope, not so clear as a Receptive's
broadcast, but there: dull and blunt, searching. He cut it out of his
mind. He didn't want to know the reason for the rush of hope inside her.
Practical or emotional, why she cared didn't matter to him. That she did
care was almost enough to touch him---but he jerked away, not wanting
more delusions. He pulled out of the momentary Receptivity.
     "For good?" she asked. "You're done shipping Out?"
     "I almost pushed it one run too many, Apollo. My Contract is up, so
I cashed it in, and now I'm setting up on my own. That's what I meant by
taking you on."
     He explained it all, careful not to look at her again. The last
plaza was paved with cobblestones, new stones, washed clean by the
previous evening's cloudburst. "You can come in with me," he finished.
"I'll need someone experienced to handle the girls."
     "That'd be nice." Her voice was so low he almost missed her answer.
Almost, it was the same girlish voice she'd used when they'd sat on the
balcony of his hotel room that distant summer, holding hands and
pretending to an age they'd left behind centuries before. Apollo brushed
off the feeling of deja-vu.
     "Come to my place tonight," he said. "There's a party. Ask Jakar;
he'll know where." He turned and started to move out of the plaza,
walking quickly. Suddenly he stopped and called back over his shoulder,
"Come tonight, Serina. We'll need you. We'll all need you. Tonight."
     If she answered, he didn't hear.

******************************

     As he came down the main street, Apollo saw a woman with a felus
(cat) sitting in the doorway of a prefab apartment building. The felus
was on her lap and the woman was attempting to pry its mouth open and
feed it a tab of concentrates. The felus was resisting, frantically
pawing at the woman's wrist with a declawed pad and hissing through the
corners of its lips, a sound rumbling in its chest that bristled the long
hairs at the nape of Apollo's neck. The felus had been Reformed. Its eyes
were hooded by thick looming brows, its chest bulging with tufts of black
hair and raised ribs, its back straightened to a humanoid line. To
accomplish this the spinal column had been fused and the legs broken and
then reset in an upright position. However, whoever had done the
Reforming had neglected to reshape the felus's ankles; they were now at
the wrong angle for the legs, effectively crippling the animal. The woman
had dressed the felus in a bright yellow waistcoat and shorts red
knickers; a red hat sat on the felus's lumpy brow, tied under the chin
with a yellow braid. Apollo paused under a streetlamp and watched the
woman and her pet. She persisted in force-feeding the felus until finally
the animal howled and squirmed free. It sprang to the street and stumbled
a few steps on its unbalanced hind legs, and then dropped to its
forepaws, scrambled a foot or two or more, finally collapsing on its back
in the gutter, mechanically stroking the air with its useless, twisted
limbs. The woman said something Apollo couldn't hear, scooped up the
felus and slapped it twice. The poor animal whimpered. It was a sound
Apollo had thought only daggits could make, and hearing it from the felus
caused a violent reaction in the pit of his stomach. He walked briskly
away, trying to wipe out the image of the girl with the felus dangling
limply from her hand, and the implications that echoed in his mind.

******************************

     The pneumatic tissues of the tavern's tent fluttered like the
gossamer wings of a kujaroo in the evening air. Apollo ducked through the
doorway and strolled down an alley flanked on both sides by food and
liquor stalls. Overhead the roof rose and fell silently, settling as he
paused at one gaily curtained stall, filled a plate with steaming meat
and a mug with cold ambrosa, paid a little man with loose, rubbery jowls,
and found himself a seat at the end of a table running lengthwise down
the center of the cluttered, cavernous room. There was a little wind
inside the tent, and the tavern was hot and sticky from the humidity. The
lanterns placed at six-meter intervals were of little help in relieving
the darkness, so at each table several candles had been set to burn on
overage plastic plates. Apollo pushed his candle to one side and began to
work on his meat and brew.
     He could feel the stares of the Corporeals sitting a few meters down
the table. They obviously recognized the beige dress colors of a
mentalstar Cork, and Apollo knew they were all wondering what a Receptive
was doing in a Corporeal tavern. He wondered himself. Perhaps, he
thought, he just needed to be away for a while; the silent pressures of
Receptive District were beginning to unnerve him a little bit, and here,
in the main spacedrome area, where emotions were less sharply developed,
he could relax the psychic barriers all Receptives were forced to erect
in their own company. Perhaps. As he thought it, the released tension
ebbed out of him, like the physical draining he experienced before
falling asleep. He leaned forward and closed his eyes, suddenly conscious
of the hardness of the wood under his elbows, the heat on his neck, the
pressure of one leg crossed over the other. Every physical sensation
crystallized into focus: the nearby sound of spoons against bowls, the
clatter of plates of wood, the undercurrent of voices---all of it seemed
to jump at him, as though he'd removed cotton from his ears and could
suddenly hear unimpeded. He sighed, pushed away from the table, and
walked back to the stalls for another ambrosa.
     The attendant at the stall watched Apollo fill his mug, wait for the
foam to subside, and then fill it a little bit more. Apollo nodded at him
politely as the man took his credit chit. The card slid back out of the
stall's electric eye and was still warm as Apollo returned it to his
pocket, under the attendant's intent gaze. "Is something wrong, sir?"
Apollo asked finally, taking a belt of ambrosa.
     The attendant looked startled. "Oh. No, nothing...You're a
Receptive, aren't you, friend?"
     "Do they pay you to ask questions?"
     "No, just for my eyes. The questions are my idea. They keep things
from getting boring. You are a Receptive, aren't you?"
     Apollo shrugged. "What if I am?"
     The man shifted his weight on the stool and inched forward. "Have to
keep it all moving," he said as the Cork relaxed against the stall wall.
"You don't find many friends on a major colony."
     "You can say that again," said Apollo. 
     "Take that fellow, for instance," the young man said, indicating a
short crewman passing them. "I spent a half-centon with him yesterday,
talking, even stood him a drink. A half-centon. I was interested, that's
all, just trying to make conversation. I thought he was from Sagitara, or
maybe even the Inner Colonies, and I wanted to find out what those
planets were like. Just interested. He took me for a half-centon and a
drink. Then when somebody else comes up to the stall---it was getting
into the dinner hour----he just walks away. Like that. What do you do?
The drink I don't mind. But the time...you spend it, just trying to keep
things moving..." He broke off and resumed his smile. Apollo met it with
a smile of his own. "I mean, what can you do?" 
     "I don't know," Apollo said. He held up his mug and raised his
eyebrows in inquiry. "Drink?"
     The young man grinned and shook his head. "I'll get my own." He did,
and settled back, downing half his ambrosa with a long pull. "I'm not
supposed to," he said, "I'm on duty. But what the hellfire, you know?"
     Apollo laughed. "You just try and keep things moving."
     The attendant blinked at him and nodded slowly. "Yeah, I guess you
do."
 
******************************
 
     A short way into the District the streets became cobbled again.
Apollo and the attendant from the tavern tent (who'd introduced himself
as Jolly after he'd shared Apollo's third ambrosa) walked together in the
gutter, taking alternate swigs from the bottle of Virgonese Pernod and
water that Jolly had supplied. It wasn't the best alcoholic beverage
Apollo had ever tried, but it served the purpose, which was to provide
them with something to drink while the talked. The latter was provided by
Jolly, who was eager to gain Apollo's friendship----a not uncommon desire
expressed by many Corporeals toward Receptives; in a way it made a wake
Corporeal feel more important to associate with a Receptive--and though
Apollo didn't think of Greenbean as weak, he recognized the motivation
and accepted it. The young man had a seemingly endless capacity for
monologue. Apollo didn't mind. When the time came for him to speak, he
would speak. Until then, he would listen.
     Jolly was a big man, a heavy man, but his heaviness wasn't the
product of strength: his flesh rounded his waist and crowded his armpits,
and his walk was slow and awkward. From time to time he would nudge into
Apollo when his balance faltered, which was every second step. At one
point Apollo had to grab him to keep the Corporeal from stumbling over
the curb. Each time the young man laughed nervously. He'd become
accustomed to his clumsiness, he said; it no longer bothered him. Apollo
soon realized there were other things that did.
     "Sorry," Jolly said. He braced himself and stepped away from
Apollo's helping hand. "I've been like this for years. Can't understand
why. Almost kept me off the mentalstars, but once I had that
Contract---well, I suppose it did keep me off in the end. No renewals for
Jolly. No, no. Virgon's not so bad, though, don't you think? How long are
you Down this time, you know yet?"
     "Indefinitely," Apollo said. "I've had it, all that bouncing
around."
     "What bouncing around? It's not so bad. You get to see things, wench
it up a bit. You know how it is." He accepted the bottle, gulped at it,
and belched. "Nobody makes you do anything, not really. Machines do all
that. Hades Hole, most of the time you're asleep. All the time in drive,
sometimes, you sleep. What's so bad about that?"
     "You sleep, Jolly. That's what Corporeals are for. You just dream
and love and hate, and clean up the halls and work in the agro-dome, and
lead your lives like any normal man or woman. I don't suppose it's such a
bad life, but it wasn't my life. Do you know how close I came to going
insane this last trip out, Jolly? That close. I still don't know how I
survived. Two of the people I was involved with didn't. A third, a
Communications man who was only my friend, not even a part of the
disaster---he cracked up, snapped because he was close to me. Don't make
the mistake of thinking everyone has it like a Corporeal. Some of us
fight for our lives."
     The young Corporeal was silent, letting the bottle swing at his side
as he walked. Then: "Apollo, I'm sorry. I really am. I must be a terrible
ass, clumsy mouthed too, I guess. I forgot about what you were. I never
met a Cork before, you know that. I'm sorry."
     "No trauma," Apollo said. "Forget it."
     "No, I really am sorry."
     "So am I." Apollo took the bottle then popped the cork. "When did
you first hit Virgon, Jolly?"
     "A yahren ago. Maybe two."
     "Always at that tavern?"
     "Just this past month." He stumbled against a lamppost, caught
himself. "Stupid. Things like that keep me out, job after job. You don't
Contract for crawler jobs, you know. Things are really tight down here,
especially for Corporeals. There's no room at the plants, non-Colonials
take all the jobs---you've got me why. A girl I had a few nights back was
telling me she worked three shifts at once, figuring she'd manage to hold
one job at least if the others fell though----that and sleeping with
every man who carried a big bag of cubits. Not a very optimistic girl,
but practical. She had herself a nice place in the District and she kept
it clean. You can't really ask for more, if you're a Corporeal. No
crawler ever gets a pension or walking time, or anything else----" He
stopped speaking. Apollo glanced around at the sound of a muffled cry.
     Jolly had halted and was hugging the belly of a streetlamp, the
light running over his shoulders and pants in streamers of electric blue.
Apollo saw that the young man was shuddering, his chest heaving. Not
knowing precisely what was wrong, and not wanting to touch the other
man's mind to find out, Apollo could only touch Jolly's shoulder and
supply a moment of pressure to transmit his concern.
     "Sorry," Jolly said, in a soft voice that for an instant reminded
Apollo of Serina. Abruptly Jolly shook his head, "No, I'm not sorry,
really. There's nothing to be sorry about. It was just the thought that
you could go back to the ships and wouldn't, and that I...well, it was a
silly thought, and I guess I am sorry, after all."
     He straightened and palmed his cheeks as Apollo backed away. The
Cork didn't want to meet the young man's eyes; he'd just received an
emotional blast stronger than anything he'd felt since leaving the
Atlantia. There was anguish there, and self-pity, and fear and hate and
confusion---all of it momentary, returning to the subconscious where
Apollo hoped it would remain. He disliked having his mind invaded.
     Jolly drew himself together and stepped into the light of the
streetlamp. "Apollo---are you all right? You look odd."
     "I feel odd," Apollo said. He started to drink from the bottle and
realized it was empty. They crossed the street to a small store where an
old man in a stained and wrinkled undershirt sold them another decanter.
Back on the street they continued in the direction of Apollo's home.
     "I had a family once," Jolly said. "Brothers and sisters. On
Caprica, I would've been considered an only child because I was the
oldest. We were lucky in a way, but my father didn't think so. The Twelve
Colonies aren't the best worlds to raise children on, but you aren't
allow more than one child on the more civilized planets, and mother
wanted quite a few. My father told me that after she died. She was the
one who wanted us, he told me, and he was the stuck with us. I think he
loved us, though. My brothers said no. Neither of them could understand
him, but I could. So could my sister. It's funny, but I think I was the
only one he could never really care for. Too clumsy, you know? More than
I am now. He couldn't accept that."
     "What did he do?"
     "He was an agro-worker on one of the community farms. What else
could you do in the Colonies? He told me once that in the ancient days on
Mother Kobol you had only two ways to escape from the peasant agro-worker
life: you could become a priest or a thief. There was something else,
about squires for knights, but I never understood any of that."
     "Let's sit down," Apollo said. They climbed the steps of a two-story
building with a stone porch, stretched their legs out, and looked east
toward the rainbow lights of the tavern bazaar. The stars over the tents
and lighted alley were opaqued by the city glow. Most of the eastern
horizon was in pitch-blackness, the night sky obliterated by the lights
of the city and the port. The western sky over the plant area and the
nearer Districts, was brilliant and undulled, cloudless and stark with
the richness of the Cyranus Galaxy. Virgon's atmosphere acted like a lens
on clear nights like this, Apollo thought, bringing it all into focus and
shattering the night into vividness. From the porthole of a ship the
stars would seem one dimensional and flat; the exhilaration of a night
sky was something experienced only by planetbound creatures. Those who'd
been there knew the truth.
     "Isn't it lovely?"
     "It sure is," Apollo said.
     "Do you have any family, Apollo? People you've left behind?"
     "Left behind? Sure. A family? Not really. Six yahrens can do odd
things to certain bonds."
     "You think so? You're probably right. You have any sisters?"
     "A brother. My mother and father died three, maybe four yahrens
back. He was a Receptive too; my father, but he never used it. I think it
burned him out from inside.
     Jolly unwound his arms, grunting as the kink slipped in his
shoulders and neck. "Burned out? How do you mean?"
     "You can't let your Recpetivity sit. It'll rot you. Like ambrosa or
anything that ferments if you bottle it up. When you finally tap it,
there's an explosion. Anything that was once there is expelled"----he
unfisted his hands---"and lost."
     "Sound frightening."
     "It sure as Hades is."
     "What about your brother? Is he a Receptive, too?"
     Apollo set the bottle down carefully on the steps beside him. "I
don't know. I haven't thought about it." He shrugged. "It's not a
dominant gene. Fifty-fifty; maybe I used it up for the family. We hadn't
noticed anything by the time I left. Zac was too young for anyone to
tell. It's connected with puberty, except in freak cases. Something about
hormone distribution. The planet you come from counts too; whether it has
a high electromagnetic field. The stronger the field, the weaker your
Receptivity. Caprica's field was pretty weak. I suppose Zac could have
it." He took a sip of the Pernod and returned the bottle to the stoop. "I
guess I'll find out soon enough."
     "What do you mean?"
     "From what I hear, he's on Virgon, looking for me. Tomorrow I
suppose I'll go search for him in the communes, send him packing back to
Caprica. I don't have anything to offer him here. What good would a boy
be in a brothel?" Apollo laughed. "It will be good to see him, though. I
don't really know him anymore; I've been sending him cubits since our
parents died, but that's the only contact I've had with him in years..."
His voice trailed off. He looked down at the bottle. 
     "How'd you get in, Apollo? I mean, get a Contract?"
     "Easily enough. You can sign on at eighteen. I took a yahren's
training, and from there"----he spread his hands---
     "Moved up, rung by run. It's not hard, if you tend toward the
suicidal."
     "Training, hey? They don't train Corporeals, so what----"
     Apollo smiled. Jolly's attempt to change the subject was painfully
transparent----as transparent as Apollo's dislike for talk about his
family must've been.
     "You think a Receptive can just bounce into a mentalstar crew?" he
asked. "You have to work, my friend. It's like being a Corporeal. You
have to train, because if you don't, you can't last a week. You're a dead
man. There are a lot of broken Corks around as proof, men who never
learned to break away, to stand outside. Have you ever been in the
District before?"
     "A couple of times. I can't remember. I was probably drunk."
     "Must've been fun for the crowd around you. Drunken normals blast
like a damned foghorn."
     "Blast?" Jolly blinked at him, eyes glistening from the light on the
building above them.
     "Don't worry about the semantics. Call it broadcasting your
emotions. Have you ever really looked at the Receptives in the Districts,
Jolly?"
     "How do you mean, look?"
     "Their faces."
     "Oh sure. You know, I never mean to stare at anything, but---"
     "But you could see it, couldn't you? There's something shattered
inside them, and it's echoed in their voices, in the way they speak, and
it's sculptured on their faces and their hands. You have to watch the
hands of a Receptive, Jolly. His hands will tell you stories his thoughts
and words can't."
     As Apollo spoke, Jolly took his bottle from his lips and stared at
it, as though the beverage had become suddenly sour. He placed it on the
stoop beside his feet and closed his eyes, leaning his head back and
twisting it from side to side. "I've got a muscle wrong in my neck," he
muttered. He glanced at Apollo. His eyes were in shadow, and his voice
was soft---like Serina's----as he said, "What's wrong with you, Apollo?
You've been a Cork a long time. Why aren't you with the others, the
broken ones?"
     The Cork smiled bitterly, a self-mocking tug at his lips. 
     "I got out before it worked on me," he said. "Bonus Contracts or
not, I wasn't going to spend another term on that ship. I've no desire to
break myself, if I can help it." He rapped his hands together, rubbed
them on his knees. "And I can, Jolly. Believe me, I can."
     "How do you know when you've had enough, Apollo?" Jolly asked. Both
men were speaking quietly; realizing this, Apollo laughed.
     "You can tell. Sometimes something happens which almost pushes you
over the brink, and you know you've had enough. The stupid and greedy
ones stay on for that extra high-risk Contract. The smart Receptives get
out at once. When Sheba died, and Boomer and Jakar broke, and I found
myself looking for a length of strong rope...well, I knew it was time I
cashed in and pulled out."
     He upended the bottle of Pernod, drank, set it down and wiped a hand
over his moustache and beard; he needed a shave again.
     "It was a mixed ship, see, men and women. We cared for each other,
something most mentalstar crews never do. Maybe that was what made us all
so susceptible when things began to go sour. I know all the
theories---sometimes a bisexual mentalstar can be as bad as a single sex
charter, if not worse. But it'd worked for the Atlantia for the twelve
years before I shipped out on her, and it'd worked for most of the six I
spent aboard. Until I came back from a leave on Virgon and mated with a
girl named Sheba.
     "There's one thing a Cork should never do, Jolly, and that's look
into the mind of a woman he's loving. You can see things you never
expected you'd see, and sometimes...things you don't want to see. I
wanted a simple physical mating...she wanted more. She felt more. It
wasn't what I wanted, so I broke off with her. That's when she stared
with Boomer, a Communications man I'd counted among my friends. They
shouldn't have done it, Jolly; not then. Not right after she'd broken up
with me.
     "See, I'm a Cork, and a Cork has to touch everybody's mind.
Everybody, even ex-lovers. Sheba was a Technician, she should've realized
she wouldn't be able to make a clean emotional break...but she tried to;
she tried to transfer her desire to Boomer, who wasn't really strong
enough to take that kind of strain. Both of them were constantly aware of
me, and I was constantly aware of them. We couldn't get away from each
other to heal. We never had that chance. The tension kept building and
building, and one day when we were heading back toward Virgon...it broke.
     "Everything broke: Boomer, Sheba, a friend of mine named Jakar. And
almost, I broke too..."
     Apollo's voice trailed off. In reflex his foot straightened out,
knocking the Pernod bottle over, sending it tumbling down the stone steps
to smash on the pavement below.
     "Sheba died before we made planetfall," he finished. "Boomer and
Jakar were left here in a life station; Boomer died. Jakar's slowly
pulling back together. I kept on with the Atlantia for six more sectans
and then I quit. I had to. Otherwise I'd go insane."
     "I get the picture," said Jolly.
     Apollo spat into the street and looked up at the man sitting next to
him. "You know something, Jolly?" he said. "I think you do."

******************************
 
     The party had been in progress for over a centon. There were thirty
or forty people clustered together in the three rooms of Apollo's private
suite, and the Cork would've invited almost half of them if he'd seen
them. In some cases he had; as it stood, though, most of the present had
heard about he gathering through the District grapevine, and knowing
Apollo from other parties, had felt free to invite themselves. The other
half were either strangers or friends of friends...and some of these were
undesirables, people who for one reason or another were avoided by the
majority of the District population. As he sat perched on the kitchen
sink, seeking a moment's solitude, Apollo decided that perhaps the two
were the same---strangers and undesirables. Apparently those who didn't
know Apollo personally felt no compunction to be polite or careful. In
the morning, Apollo knew, the apartment would be in shambles. It didn't
matter. Enough friends would remain to help set things right. That too
was the way of their crowd.
     Apollo had drawn his feet up and hooked his arms around his knees
and now he peered over them, watching the movements of the three brothers
dancing in the next room. The music was loud, yet at times the voices
around him seemed louder. The moments were few when the melody would
reach him clearly, but at those moments Apollo would close his eyes and
feel himself sway in sympathy with the rushing beat. He was doing this
when a hand touched his wrist. He looked up, smiling, to see Jakar.
     Whyte hovered in the background, his hands tucked self-consciously
into his overjacket pockets. Jakar's expression was stiff and forma, and
his voice was without emotion as he said. "Whyte say you told to come. So
we come. And I take your job, yeah?"
     "I'm glad you're here, Jakar. I really am."
     "Sure. Just the man to liven things up, right? Good thinking, you."
The ex-Communications man sniffed, relaxing visibly. He half-turned and
settled his hip on the edge of the sink. "So what's happening, you in
sink, them dancing out there? How many people and who, huh?"
     "Couple's dozen or so. Some old mates and their friends. You know
them," he said. "But what's wrong with you joining them, Jakar? You can't
play social outcast forever."
     Jakar shook his head slowly. "Something, you. Really something. What
you think, I'm glad the way I am? Think I want everyone know, give me
claps on back, offer money, smiles? Sure, friendly me. Maybe not let them
too near, huh?"
     "Sorry, Jakar. You know that's not how I meant it."
     "Sure, well. Guess everyone's close enough edge, huh. Sure."
     He shoved from the sink and left the room, limping past a couple
entwined in the doorway. Whyte caught Apollo's eye and lumbered over.
"You shouldn't be too rough on him. He hasn't healed over."
     "And your protecting him will help?"
     "Maybe a little."
     Apollo swung off the sink. He brushed arms with two men talking near
the food dispenser console. "You're just helping him stay inside himself,
Whyte. Sure, he's hurt---he's lost a lot these past twelve yahrens, from
what he told me when we were on the Atlantia, together with what happened
to him six sectans ago. Strong people who lose their strength don't
really have much to fall back on, except the sympathy of other people."
He frowned at Whyte, and then turned and moved toward the doorway. "Think
about that the next time you excuse him."
     He located Jolly near the speaker system. The Corporeal was crouched
under the two triangular apertures, clutching his glass in both hands and
eyeing the Receptives moving past him. Apollo slid in next to him and
took the young man's glass. "Thanks," he said, and downed it. "Want
another?"
     Jolly shrugged. "I haven't figured out where to look."
     Apollo led him across the room to a small table bearing the balcony
windows. Pul was there, squatting on a stool and gazing across the
rooftops, his featherlight hair blown back from his forehead by the
evening wind. "Hey, good buddy," said Apollo, "fix my friend a drink."
The old Cork swiveled around and fixed Jolly with a suspicious stare.
     "A normal, Bucko?"
     "I said fix my friend a drink."
     Pul hurried to his feet and worked with glasses and bottles, and
something with ice in it appeared in his hand, topped with a shade of
yellowish green. The old man gave it to Jolly, who tasted it and nodded.
     "Thanks, Pul," Apollo said. He brought Jolly onto the balcony and
found a place by the rail a safe distance from the threesome crouched in
the shadow of the farther wall.
     "Why'd he look at me like that?" Jolly asked.
     "Pul's an old man. He's not too quick."
     "He's not that old, Apollo. Am I crashing something private?"
     The Cork laughed. Despite himself he found Jolly's whipped-daggit
attitude amusing. "No, nothing private, really. You're just not a
Receptive, Jolly. Some people are bothered by that."
     "Does it bother you?"
     "If it did, you wouldn't be here."
     "Who was that old man anyway? A friend of yours?"
     "He's a bartender in the Llyia's, one of the private pubs. I guess
bartending's in his blood; if there's any such thing as a servile
instinct, Pul's got it. If automated bars ever come to Virgon, old Pul
will just wither and die."
     "Is he a Cork?"
     "He was a Cork. He broke about fifteen years ago; some people never
come out of it."
     Jolly was silent, and after a while Apollo went back inside.
     The brothers had stopped dancing, and now a young girl had assumed
their place on the spot of bare flooring. The lights were dim and
improperly directed, so Apollo was unable to make out her face. She was
one of his though; there were ten of them at the party at least. He
studied her from the edge of his bed. Only part of her body was visible
in the shifting light, swathes of skin and strands of hair, all of it
moving and swinging. He looked away. Standing apart from the knot of
unfamiliar people near his bed, in the shadow of the arch that led into
the hall, was Serina.
     She'd changed her clothes. In the semidarkness, and perhaps because
of the drinking he'd done, it seemed to Apollo that she'd recaptured
something of the woman she'd been three yahrens before. She'd done things
with her hair, and she wore a dress of some lightweight material, a
single piece that covered one breast, uplifted the other, rounded her hip
and swirled about again to flow to the floor. She saw him as he
approached and she raised her glass in a mock salute.
     "To the rebellion," she said.
     "Rebellion?"
     "You know, in the Colonial Frontier."
     He smiled and took a drink from a passing cart. "I'm not with it in
spirit, but I'll drink to your toast."
     When she'd finished her teavinol, she said, "It's a fine party,
Apollo."
     "I'd like to say the gallant thing about it because you're here,
Serina, but I don't think you'd take it quite properly."
     "You're right. I wouldn't," she said.
     They smiled at each other, and then someone said something behind
him that made him turn around.
     "I'm Apollo," he said to the portly man who'd asked for him. The man
swung around from the group he'd been querying, sized up Apollo with a
flicker of his eyes, and nodded, as though silently agreeing.
     "I'm Uri, Sire Apollo," the man said. "I represent the Colonies here
on Virgon." The official name of the Colonial commercial organization was
meaningless; all of the small offices belonged to one major licensing
organization, chartered by the Quorum of the Twelve, governing body of
the Twelve Colonies of Mankind. Uri was their representative here.
     "You were invited, Sire Uri?" Apollo asked him.
     "No, uh, I'm afraid I'm not here socially, Sire Apollo."
     "I gave up the Sire when my Contract expired, Uri." Apollo separated
from Serina and moved closer to the squat, red-faced Colonial
representative. "And if this isn't a social visit, then what do you
want?"
     They were attracting a crowd, Uri realized this and apparently found
it disturbing, for he inhaled heavily and removed a packet from his
waistcoat. "You're brother's name is Zac?"
     Apollo felt a chill of premonition. He resisted a temptation to
probe the man's mind and learn what the interruption was all about. He
answered Uri's question carefully: "Yes. Why do you ask?"
     The fat man zipped open the packet and shook out a square wafer and
some gold cubits.
     "These are Zac's effects, Apollo. The cubits are the money he had on
his person at the time of his accident. The wafer is his Contract."
     Apollo accepted the items. Something warm was rising under his ears.
The wafer weighed nothing, the cubits were cool and sharp, biting into
his flesh as his fist closed over. "Accident, Sire Uri? What accident?"
     "Your brother was killed aboard the mentalstar Galactica two days
ago. It occurred while he was acting in his capacity as Cork for that
vessel. The details are all recorded on that wafer. My superiors expect
to hear from you within the next forty-eight centons concerning your
decision on the fulfillment of the terms of your friend's Contract."
     Uri frowned, and then briskly added, "I'm sorry, Sire Apollo. The
Quorum of the Twelve sends its condolences." He left the room, passing
between two of Apollo's former shipmates from the Atlantia. The taller of
the two men glanced from Uri to Apollo, his hands moving at his sides.
Apollo caught the look the Receptive threw him and shook his head;
hurting Uri would do none of them any good. He looked down at his fist
clenched about the wafer and the cubits, and then he brushed past Serina
and hurried down the hallway, hearing the first hesitant whispers
beginning behind him.
     He knew what they'd be saying; not the precise words perhaps, but
the feeling behind those words---and he hated the pity his friends were
going to feel for him. It was just too much, to say nothing of his own.

****************************** 

     He sat on the ledge of the chimney, staring over the rooftops of the
buildings that cupped the spacedrome peninsula. The spotlights of the
spacedrome were swinging in narrow arcs across the cloudless sky, beams
of topaz and sapphire straining against the night. There were the sounds
of the tractors in the distance, or perhaps the cranes rumbling in their
concrete beds, sounds too familiar to an ex-spaceship voyager: a ship
being readied for a morning launch. He hated that sound.
     For a while he examined his hands. They lay in his lap, one resting
loosely on the other, relaxed in a way Zac would never have allowed. The
cubits and the wafer glittered in the moonlight as he looked at them. He
closed his eyes. His mind was empty. He couldn't think.
     When he looked up again, he saw Serina standing in the arch that led
onto the roof from below. She was silhouetted in the glow from the plates
in the stairwell ceiling. She'd spoken his name and he'd turned to her,
but he couldn't recall either the word or the movement. Against the
yellow light she seemed ethereal, hair sparkling in the golden wash.
There were too many shadows for him to make out her face, but her voice,
when she spoke again, was the young voice he'd known years before.
     He didn't understand what she'd said. Once again, the words were
lost. Something seemed to have dropped away inside him; his mind was no
longer able to connect words with their abstract meanings. Finally, she
left the stairwell and came over beside him. Her fingers were cool on his
arm. He showed her the things in his hand, and she took them from him and
slipped them into her shift.
     He tried to say her name. No sound came out. She pressed her head
against his chest and glanced up at him, her features outlined by the
stairwell light. It was Serina. Her features were soft, not the harsh
features he'd seen earlier in the evening. He didn't understand her
expression, but a part of him responded to it and he dropped from the
ledge and stood facing her. Her hands were holding his, and as he slipped
down she drew him closer. He enfolded her tightly, impulsively. His mind
felt sucked clean. He couldn't think, didn't want to think. Serina
pressed against him, whispering, but even though he tried, he couldn't
make sense out of her words.
******************************

     He woke in the morning, conscious of the sunlight filtering in
through the window beside him. He was in his bed and the sheets covering
him were moist with his own sweat. He tried to recall his dream---a
feeling of darkness and pressure---but was unable to summon the details.
He rolled over wearily, feeling a feminine arm pressing into his side.
Remembering Serina, he smiled and shifted to face the woman sleeping next
to him. He ran a hand along her back and she shivered and settled again,
and when he slid his fingers into the warmth of hair at the nape of her
neck, she turned over completely and dropped her hand against his hip,
smiling at him, groggy with sleep. He took her hand away and sat up. 
     "What's wrong?" she asked.
     He didn't answer; he found his robe on a chair and pulled it on as
he walked into the kitchen. He needed java, he thought, and maybe
something stronger. He wondered if Serina had left during the night, and
then wondered if she'd ever been with him at all.
     The java was hot and bitter, and he sat on the dowsill drinking it
for a long time, waiting for the stranger in the next room to leave.

******************************

     An hour later, dressed and warmed by a hot breakfast, Apollo started
toward the distant spacedrome, and the duties that awaited him there.

******************************

Chapter Two
Eighth Sectar, Fourth Day
Colonial Yahren: 7364 

     He was met at the entrance to the Galactica's private docking bay by
a short man dressed in Corporeal blues. There was a moment's wait as the
man examined the Contract wafer and Apollo spent the time studying the
lines of the ship above him. The Galactica had been built more recently
than the mentalstar Apollo had crewed, but still, despite the lack of bow
lights and the addition of another cargo hatch beneath the main airlock,
the Galactica was fairly standard. Its bridge was snug in the center of
the ship, the engines, six main thrusters to lift the ship off a
planetary surface with several smaller thrusters for guiding it within a
primary gravity well, were hung on the underside, and its overall shape
was wonderfully cylindrical. All of the external equipment was painfully
familiar to Apollo. In many ways, the ship was a duplicate of the
Atlantia. 
     Finished running the Contract through a portable scanner strapped to
his waist, the small man returned the wafer to Apollo, noticing the
expression on the ex-Cork's face. The man nodded, his features twisting
in a parody of a smile. Apollo realized that the other man was a blown
Receptive, partially healed.
     "Don't you sense it too?" the man said. "The ship? It's a hate ship,
Sire Apollo. It destroyed your brother; that's why you're here, isn't
it?"
     "You knew my brother?"
     "I was there when the Commander signed him on. He was too young to
understand what sort of ship this was."
     "You were there?" Apollo studied the Corporeal. "Are you the Mate?"
     "Nope. The Cook. We don't have a Mate aboard the Galactica. Just
me."
     "And the Colonial government allows this?"
     "There was no choice. The cargo comes first, yes! That's why the
Commander took your brother. He had to." The Cook sighed. "Maybe."
     Apollo frowned as the short man took his sleeve and drew him up the
ramp into the airlock. The fingers holding Apollo's arm were loose,
twitching; the Cook was agitated beyond his ability to control the finer
movements of his limbs. Once inside the ship, Apollo was led down a
passage lit on four sides by translucent light panels. They came to the
mess and turned in. "I want to talk with you before you see the
Commander," the Cook said. "It's important you understand."
     Apollo wandered across the wide, low-ceilinged Crew's Mess, becoming
aware of the forces present in the room. This was the nexus of the ship,
the focal point for the psychic energies of its crew. The room was
roughly circular, sloping toward a central point, a counter and console
arrangement that Apollo recognized as the main food dispensing area.
Overhead glowplates cast a soft light too delicate to create a shadow.
Apollo walked a few steps into the lounge, peering down at the rows of
tables and booths, aware of the tensions that lived in the room. He felt
himself opening up to the emotions in the Mess in the same way he'd
opened up to the emotions in the Mess aboard the Atlantia. It was
different here, however. The emotions he received were twisted and
misshapen, ugly, inhuman. Waves of hate beat like a drum against him,
within him, and he turned away, cutting off his reception and closing in
on himself while he regained his breath. He felt unclean, as though he'd
been physically assaulted.
     When he finally straightened out, Apollo saw that the Cook had been
watching him, eyes bright and gleaming. "See what I mean?" the small man
asked. "This ship is frakkin' crazy! I've been with her for three
yahrens, and it's always been this way. The first time I stepped aboard I
nearly dropped. It's strong."
     "How do you stand living with it?" Apollo asked.
     "You learn. It's not easy, but it's not hard either. Think about it.
There's nothing here that's not inside each of us."
     "But there's so much...felgercarb."
     "Quite a few crew members have a little of it in them. Even the
Commander."
     "The Commander. I wanted to talk to him." Apollo glanced at his
hands, forcing them to be steady. "About Zac. He was too young to be
contracted, not for something like a Cork's position. You know that, if
you knew him."
     "I knew it, but not the Commander. The whole business was new to
him. He'd been a Mate until our previous Commander was killed. He's never
had to meet a crisis like this before, picking a Cork..." The Cook's
voice faded. He smiled, wrinkling the left side of his face. "Try to
understand him, Apollo. Living in a ship like this can damage a man's
sensibilities...he didn't mean to hurt that poor kid. He seemed strong.
He made a good Cork, until we had that accident."
     "A good Cork, on a ship like this...?"
     "Listen: we hit a Magnetic Void, our Cork was breaking, the
Commander had to hold him together, any way he could. He tried too hard.
You've played the wafer, haven't you? It's all there."
     "The how, yes," Apollo said. "But not the why. I've got to know why
the Commander contracted him. I don't care what happened; that's done,
Zac's buried already...but I need to know why it was done. Showing me
that this ship is insane doesn't tell me any more than I already knew. I
don't believe a Corporeal Commander can be affected that much living
here. There has to be something more. I've got to find out what it is.
You're a Receptive; you can understand that, can't you?"
     The Cook looked at Apollo, his mouth working as he tried to phrase
an answer. "The Commander's changed," he said finally. "He hides inside
himself, but he's a good man. A good Commander, now."
     "Maybe he is," Apollo said. "I'll find out for myself, won't I?"
     "I guess you will," the Cook said with resignation. "I guess you
will."

*******************************

     On Apollo's second knock, the door hissed silently open. He stepped
through into the Commander's quarters and moved down a narrow hallway
that curved with the main corridor of the ship. There were sounds from
the refresher cubicle set apart from the main cabin, the hum of the
cleaner fading as Apollo entered the main room. He waited, standing with
his arms folded and letting his eyes adjust to the bright
lighting---harsh compared to the rest of the ship---as he looked around
at the one-and-one-half room suite.
     The walls were bare, the sparse furniture completely functional, the
only item betraying any real wear being the viewing console tucked off
near the inflatable bed. The console was still turned on when Apollo
entered, though unfocused and untuned; images moved across the screen in
random patterns, the sound too low to be audible. Apollo glanced at it
only briefly as he scanned the room, looked for some hint of the
Commander's personality in his choice of objects and design. The room
looked frankly uninhabited. Apollo shivered, and then laughed at himself
nervously. Intimidated by an empty room.
     "Yes? Can I help you?"
     Apollo turned at the sound of the voice and faced a man roughly his
height and weight though obviously older. Apollo estimated the Commander
to be approaching thirty. The man stood at the door to the 'fresher,
drawing on his jumpsuit and zipping up the suit's front as he stared at
Apollo. Apollo smiled. The Commander started, his eyes widening, a frown
flashing for an instant, and then fading away.
     "I'm sorry," the Commander said, "but for a moment you looked like
somebody I knew. It's nothing. Are you signed aboard? Did the Cook send
you up?"
     "Not exactly, Commander. As a matter of fact, he tried to convince
me not to come."
     The Commander scowled---firmly, this time---and moved across the
room to the viewing console. He flicked the screen off and returned his
attention to Apollo. "He did? Can you tell me why?"
     "I'm Zac's brother."
     "I see."
     "I wanted to talk with you about the way he died."
     "Weren't you told?"
     "Things like that...information gets garbled. I prefer to hear it
from you. You were there when it happened." 
     The Commander's face relaxed and he sighed, settling onto the stool
molded into the desk before the console. His shoulders moved restlessly
as he spoke. "I was there. We made it all the way to Sagitara with our
cargo, we'd shuttled out so some of the human settlements in the western
Frontier, and we were heading back to the outer Colonies. Three weeks out
from Sagitara, he blew. Like that. I tried to save him, but it was
impossible---between keeping the ship together and saving Zac, it was all
I could do to maintain my sanity. There was nothing, nothing I could do
for him." His hands moved over his knees, pulling at the material,
straightening it. "I'm very sorry it happened the way it did."
     Apollo leaned against the wall that ran into the narrow hall,
feeling the muscles in his arms knot as he forced his hands to his sides
and into the loops of his suit. He felt dizzy from the emotions surging
within him. Up to that moment he hadn't truly encountered his friend's
death on a personal level---he'd been shocked, grieved, pained---but
until the Commander had told him in simple words how it had happened, the
death had no gut meaning to Apollo. Now it did. For a brief moment he
closed his eyes and trembled. When he opened them once more, he searched
the eyes of the Commander.
     He wanted to know the reason for what had happened. No more and
certainly no less. It was part of being a Receptive: he was all too aware
of the random nature of events, and how the most well-intentioned plans
may have disastrous effects. What mattered was not the effect but the
intention. He needed to know the Commander's intention in hiring his
brother, and in driving Zac to his death. At that moment it was the
consuming force in Apollo's life.
     He searched the Commander's eyes, but the other man's feelings were
buried too deeply. Nothing was visible, only a cool barrier. Apollo
paused, hesitating. He was not sure he had the stomach for a direct probe
of another man's mind, so soon after leaving the Atlantia. Was there an
alternative?
     No.
     Gathering himself up, he concentrated on the field of the
Commander's mind---and he pushed. 
     His mind drove forward into the Commander's soul.
     There was a moment of darkness for Apollo, during which he
floundered, searching for some common ground of orientation between
himself and the Commander. At last he found it: the mentalstar world, the
crew/officer relationship. Steadied, Apollo plunged deeper, into the
other man's subconscious---and found himself stopped by the mental
counterpart of the barrier he'd seen in the Commander's eyes. Here,
however, it was more than an unemotional attitude. It was a block rising
between the conscious and unconscious. Apollo pressed, but the mindblock
was unyielding. He searched for an opening, but there was none. He tried
to filter through, but couldn't. There was no way past the block, none at
all; he was totally and completely halted.
     He stepped back mentally. It was a psiblock, and not one erected by
a machine----those were clumsy, ill-fitting affairs, useful to hide
select information, but not whole areas of experience. No, it was
psychologically organic, which was, of course, a flat impossibility. The
Commander wasn't a Recpetive, couldn't be, if he were part of Crew
Administration. There were strict Quorum regulations about Receptives
being in charge of a ship, enforced with careful screening of all
applicants to an administrative position. The Commander couldn't be a
Receptive, therefore he couldn't have planted the block himself; it was
too complete.
     Then who? And more importantly for Apollo's purposes: why? What was
the Commander concealing so well that he kept the secret even from
himself? The reason for Zac's death? If so, who would help him hide it?
     Stunned and confused, Apollo withdrew. Less than a second had
passed; the Commander hadn't noticed the changing expression on the
ex-Cork's face. The man was still straightening the material of his
trousers and only now looked up at Apollo.
     "I've already explained it to the Colonial representative here on
Virgon," the Commander said. "There was some discussion concerning my
behavior, but that's all over and done with. They decided I'd acted
rashly, but considering the circumstances surrounding the matter, they
thought my actions perfectly excusable. You should know that they docked
me two sectans' pay for endangering the ship. They think that settled the
matter, and though naturally I'm----saddened about what happened. I agree
with them. There was nothing I could do. Nothing. Don't you understand
that?
     His voice grew lower as he ended his speech, and Apollo had to
strain to make out the last few words. He was still trembling from his
experience inside the Commander's mind, and was already beginning to feel
ashamed for attempting the invasion in the first place. It was against
all codes of conduct to do what he'd done. Apollo felt his face and hands
glowing warm as he listened to the Commander's hurried apology. When it
was over, he nodded quickly.
     "Yes, I understand. Of course I understand, Commander. But, I just
wanted to speak to you about it because you were the last person to see
him alive."
     "He was a fine Cork, Sire Apollo. One of the finest."
     "I am honored."
     "Have you decided what you're going to do with the remainder of his
Contract?"
     "I could buy it out," Apollo said. "I've got a little money save,
though I'd planned to use it on other things."
     "Are you a Receptive yourself?" The Commander eased himself off the
stool and stood crackling his knuckles; he seemed distracted.
     "It runs in the family."
     "So I've been told. You could finish his Contract term yourself,
then, couldn't you?" The Commander's eyes rose and looked fully at Apollo
for the first time. The Receptive shrugged and found himself looking
away. "Let me know when you decide," the Commander said. His eyes began
moving again. "Just about now I could use a good Cork."
 
******************************

     "Is he always like that?" Apollo asked. "He made me feel like a
child, an absolute simpleton."
     Beside him the Cook shrugged. They were walking down the broad
avenue leading from the port area into the tavern district. "It's hard to
say. Sometimes he's worse. He turns on and off; sometimes he sees you,
sometimes not. He was like that with the Cork, your brother, going Out."
     "How well do you know him?"
     "Well, enough, I guess. We came aboard the same time, when the
Galactica was commissioned. He was the First Mate and I was Cook. We
talked sometimes, but not very often."
     "When was that? When the Galactica received her commission?"
     "Fifty-nine. Sixty-one? No, it was sixty-one."
     "She's only been commissioned three yahrens?" Apollo shook his head.
He pointed down the street they were crossing. "Pul's place is down that
way, and the drinks are on the house."
     "Lead on," said the Cook, and crossed the street ahead of him.
 
******************************

     Though it was still early in the day, the Llyia's was partly filled
with crew from the five or six ships staying over at Virgon spacedrome.
Even so, Pul filled Apollo's order promptly and found time to join them
in a toast, raising his own mug to his lips with a trembling hand. "Gets
this way a bit, sometimes," he said when the hand trembled too much and
spilled ambrosa on the bar. "In the mornings not so good. Old, y'know?"
He eyed the Cook, who was watching him rub the liquor into the counter
with a rag. "Who your friend, Apollo?"
     "Calls himself Cook," Apollo said. "He's with the Galactica."
     "Heard many things 'bout that ship, not too good. People speak,
round spacedrome. Here at party last night..." Pul frowned. The muscles
in his cheek jumped and tugged at his lower eyelids. "Wasn't..."
     "That's the one," Apollo said quietly.
     "Drink," Pul asked, in apology.
     "Let me finish this one," Apollo answered. He turned to the Cook a
moment later. "Isn't the Galactica a cargo ship? That's why she's on
Virgon now, right?"
     "Ambrosa. You have it. After Virgon, we head into the Colonial
Frontier, along the eastern spiral."
     "Ohhhh, that bad. Very bad," Pul said, leaning forward. "Colonies
not strong, not there. Heard. Like Sagitara in '28."
     The Cook nodded. "But if the Quorum of the Twelve says go, we go.
The cargo pays for the charting...or so they say."
     "Could we please not talk about that?" Apollo said. "I want to think
about this a moment. Pul? Another ambrosa?"
     The bartender gave it to him and Apollo snipped at the sweet liquid,
staring past the edge of the bar at the pipes winding in the console
behind the counter. He let his gaze travel along the pipes, his mind
drifting back to memories of his years on Caprica. Not much of that time
was left within him. Most of the memories were dulled, but some were
still bright and alive. Caprica. His homeworld.
     It was a cold planet, not semitropical like Virgon, half again as
far from it's G-type star as the mythical planet Earth was said to be
from its native sun---one-point-five parsecs, in contemporary
measurements. During the winters his father would spend most of the day
collecting wood and bargaining for the native mineral called coal. When
summer came---mild summers that were over before they'd really
begun----Apollo's father would bring him out to the fields, where they'd
labor from dawn until sunset to bring in a crop of Roots, the all-purpose
vegetable that had been designed for the Caprican climate by Colonial
botanical engineers---and for which they extracted a harvest percentage.
He remembered the feel of sweat crawling down his spine, and he
remembered the bitter chill that would lodge below his ears, and
remembering, he shivered and sipped at his mug of ambrosa.
     There were other memories; pleasant memories. His brother was six
yahrens younger than he, and Apollo could recall the day and centon of
Zac's birth very clearly. It'd been during the early days of spring, in
7328. They'd received word about the trouble on Sagitara just a sectan
before, which was why the time of yahren remained so clearly fresh in
Apollo's mind. His father had been worried, wondering if the attempted
rebellion would affect the Caprica's attitude toward the other eleven
colonies---and how this would in turn affect the upbringing of Adama's
second child. As it turned out his fears were unfounded. There had never
been any reprisals, at least, none that were apparent to the young
Apollo. His brother was born a week later, small and pink, a wizened old
man's face squinting out of white bedclothes, small hands---even
then---moving and exploring. Mouth squealing. Apollo's initial feelings
were mixed. For some time he had a vague feeling of discomfort, and once,
when he was alone with the infant, he found himself wondering how to
dispose of the child. When he realized what he'd bee thinking, he'd
become upset and then ill, and was unable to go into the fields with his
father for several days. After that he treated Zac with distant respect,
which later hardened into cool reserve.
     Remembering this, Apollo found himself shaking, and he groped for
his glass of ambrosa and downed it in one long swallow. The Cook was
watching him with an odd expression. Apollo ignored him and ordered
another ambrosa, and only after he'd finished half of it did he turn to
the diminutive ex-Receptive.
     "Is something bothering you, good buddy?"
     "Yes," the Cook said. "You are."
     "Don't concern yourself with me, buddy. I'm capable of handling
myself."
     "I know. But it's still bothering me, and you asked. After your
brother died, somebody had to Cork the Galactica. Only one man could. Me.
Yes, I used to be a Cork, nine, ten yahrens back. I broke pretty bad, and
it took me four yahrens to get back even this much"----he gestured with a
hand that moved awkwardly, nervously---"control. Four yahrens, and then I
became a Cook. But after your brother collapsed, the Galactica was
falling, and it needed someone to save it---the same man who saved it
before. Me. You know what that does to a blown Cork? To go back?"
     "I can imagine," Apollo said softly. The Cook's voice was crackling
with emotion as he went on.
     "Sure you can. So listen, maybe you know, maybe you don't. But you
know this much----I can still feel things, and right now, I can feel you.
You're burning red hot inside. They're bad, those feelings you've got.
It's a waste, a hurt. I don't want to feel it with you, but I can't stop
it now, inside of me. You can imagine, I'm sure. But you can't know." He
cut off Apollo again before the Cork could speak.
     "Beware Apollo. You understand pain...but you don't understand
enough. Too much pain inside you, and you can break. Like I broke. Or
like he broke." He swept a hand over to indicate Pul. Ill coordinated, it
caught the rim of his glass and sent the mug spinning off the counter and
into the console. Glass shattered loudly, the spell was broken, and the
room became noisy once more.
     "Sorry about that," the Cook said quietly.
     Pul shuffled over and cleaned up the glass. "Forget it. Breaks all
the time."
     Apollo looked into his own glass and smiled. "If you can read me,
Cook, then you already know what I've decided to do."
     "You've made a bad decision, friend. Trust me."
     "Maybe. Now, how about you telling me where the Commander could get
a psilock."
     "Forget it."
     "Never mind, then. I'll find out for myself," Apollo said. He swung
off the bar stool and stood up; his smile was empty and mechanical this
time, as he added, "I want to know why he killed my brother, and that's
why I'm singing aboard."
     The Cook said nothing. He shook his head once, and then, limping, he
followed Apollo out the tavern door.

******************************

     Jolly was on the third floor of the brothel, in a room opening off
the main hallway, sprawled over one of the suite's large beds, arm draped
across the bosom of the thick-waisted girl whose gray hair had been
tinted a delicate blue. Apollo left the Cook outside and entered the
room, catching the eye of the walking girl and gesturing for her to
leave. She did so, hurriedly. He took her place on the bed beside Jolly
and poked the sleeping Corporeal in the ribs. The young man stirred,
opened his eyes, closed them, and opened them again. 
     "Hello, buddy."
     Jolly jerked to a sitting position, wide-awake. "Where'd she go?"
     "Downstairs, where I sent her," Apollo told him.
     "Frak!" Jolly closed his eyes again. "Did you have to do that?"
     "I'm afraid so. I wanted to speak to you privately."
     "I hate waking up alone," Jolly said. He kept his eyes closed. "That
always happens. I hate it." One eye winked open. "What did you want to
talk about? Did I do something wrong? Hey, if you want me to pay for the
girl---"
     "Oh, don't worry about that. It's on me," Apollo answered. He got up
and bent over the bedside console. "How about some breakfast?" Jolly
nodded and Apollo selected items, punching out their coordinates on the
keyboard. "I just wanted to tell you I'm signing up again. Taking another
Contract."
     Jolly swung his legs off the bed and reached for the container of
hot coffee that had appeared in the food slot. "What?! After all you'd
said to me last night about it being suicide for you?"
     "Things have changed since then," Apollo sat down beside the
Corporeal and picked up the tray of food he'd ordered.
     "Oh. You mean that stuff about your brother?"
     Apollo nodded.
     "But if it's so dangerous for you---"
     "Maybe I overestimated the danger," Apollo said. "I'm not a weak
man. I've always been proud of that."
     "Still. You're lucky you're alive, after being a Cork as long as you
have. That is what you said, isn't it?" Apollo peered at him over the
piece of salted lettuce he was nibbling.
     "That's what I said. I hope I'm wrong. But that's really not what
matters. I wanted you to know, because I want you to take care of this
place for me while I'm gone."
     The Corporeal shook his head. "No. Sorry. I can't do it."
     "If that's the way you feel," Apollo said, standing, stopping in
mid-turn when Apollo's hand caught his arm.
     "You don't understand," the young man said. "It's not because I
don't want to. It's because I'm coming with you."
 
******************************
 
     "I just want her to know," Apollo said. "That's all."
     "You don't have to explain. I understand. I'll wait here. You go
upstairs."
     Apollo left the Cook at the doorway to the tenement and walked up
the two flights of slick vanlithminium steel stairs. The building was not
in disrepair, at least not physically. It was a good building, and would
remain a good building for decades: when the Colonies built these tract
apartments they'd built them to last. Yet the building was in decay: a
spiritual decay, Apollo thought. The building and its occupants had been
abandoned by the colony in favor of a new look, one preferred by its new
provisional government. The older buildings of Colonial construction,
though useful, were treated with contempt. They were now the slums, and
the people within them, the derelicts. Though the people survived, they
didn't live. People like Apollo, fortunate enough to have a job. People
like Serina, who didn't.
     She opened the door and blinked at him, her face puffy with sleep.
She gazed at him a moment and then stepped back, holding onto the door as
he entered the cluttered room.
     "I expected you earlier," she said.
     "Sorry about that. Business at the spacedrome."
     "Sure." She walked across the room, skirting the ragged bedding in
one corner. The bones of her rib cage were visible under her olive skin,
her breasts rising and falling as she limped. "I'd offer you something if
I had anything to offer," she said. She stepped into the fresher by the
kitchen. "I'll be with you in a mili-centon."
     When she came out again, the paleness in her cheeks was gone, her
eyes less bloodshot, and she was looking almost young. "What was your
business?"
     "Zac's Contract," he said. I'm taking it up."
     Something moved behind her eyes. "Why?"
     "To find out why he died."
     "That should be obvious," she said dryly. "You weren't here to stop
him."
     "I didn't come here for a lecture, Serina."
     "I know that."
     "I won't ask you to come along. I can't."
     "I know that too."
     Apollo nodded. "That's all, then. Maybe we'll get together before I
leave."
     "When does the ship launch?" she asked him.
     "In three days. We'll be taking a cargo run along the western Arm,
to most of the worlds of the Colonial Frontier. Charting."
     "That's where the rebels are," she said. Then, about the ship: "Can
you handle it?"
     "I don't know," he said.
     At the door there was a brief moment when her breast touched his
arm; he wondered if he should ask her about the night before, but decided
against it. He didn't want to know. She stepped back and thumbed the lock
for him. The door slid opened. He left. A moment later, the door slid
shut behind him.

******************************

     Apollo wasn't prepared for the Galactica's Mess to be crowded that
evening. It was usual for a mentalstar's crew to take a furlon as soon as
the vessel cleared port, but for some reason the Cook couldn't or
wouldn't explain, the Galactica's crew was different. When Apollo arrived
at the ship in company with the Cook, he found the halls busy with
crewmembers, intense-looking men and women hurrying from cabin to cabin,
pulling on jump suits as they walked, tabbing jackets and brushing back
hair. The Cook left Apollo in the recreation room and went off to prepare
the evening's menu, and after the small gray man had left, the Cork
collared a passing Corporeal and asked him what was happening.
     The boy gave him a brusque once-over, apparently decided that Apollo
belonged on the ship, and answered. "The Commander just released the
route, Sire. From Odap to Tertius, first off. Then down the Colonial
Frontier." Apollo released him with a deeply felt thank you, and the
Corporeal rushed off.
     Tertius. No wonder the crew had gathered for mess. There'd been a
centon or more of excited speculation, Apollo knew. Tertius was one of
three major human settlements in the region. Apollo had never been there
himself, though he'd heard rumors about the planet, stories from
Receptives who'd experienced some of the exotic thrills the settlement
had to offer. If Virgon was an industrial port, with all the economic and
social gestalts such a designation implied, then Tertius was a pleasure
center. According to the more elaborate tales, the Quorum of the Twelve
had written an unlimited charter for the planet, in much the same way
they'd managed to receive full exploitation rights for Virgon's native
ceshafium processing industry. 
     It was going to be an interesting voyage, Apollo decided, in more
ways than meets the eye.
     The Cook reappeared twenty centons after Apollo had settled in the
Rejuvenation Center. Returning with the Cook to the Crew's Mess, Apollo
received a tray and took his place in line. Most of the crew had been
served already and were scattered about the room in groups of five and
ten, talking loudly between mouthfuls of soup and bread. Against one wall
the ship's Receptives were gathered, twelve men and women on one long
bench, supporting their trays on their laps and speaking softly, their
hands moving in both broad and subtle gestures. Apollo filled his plate
and mug then processed his credit chit---though he'd signed aboard that
afternoon, he wouldn't officially be a member of the crew until 0100 the
next day---and crossed the room to join his fellow Receptives. 
     There was room at the end of the bench. One of the women slid over
to make room for him. A moment later the Cook arrived and proceeded to
make introductions. Apollo nodded to each of the Receptives in turn. The
Engineer, Nephicroran, and the chief Technician, a Sagitarian named Tyger
particularly struck him. The Communications agent, Rigel, was the most
cordial, pausing to shift her pet---a small anthropoid with large silver
eyes---to her shoulder before shaking Apollo's hand.
     "You're from Caprica, aren't you?"
     "Guilty as charged," Apollo said.
     "So is Nephicroran. You too should have much to talk about."
     After this she was quiet, her attention returned to her pet, which
she fed with scraps from her plate as Apollo watched her, absorbed.
     "Have you heard?" the Cook asked him, breaking the spell.
     "About Tertius? I have, yes. Your first time there?"
     "Once," the Cook said. "But not about that. I'm talking about the
Colonial Frontier."
     "You're not going to let what Pul said worry you, are you? Don't.
He's just a broken old man trying for a little attention."
     "Still," the Cook said. His muscles remained fixed, his jaw taut
with worry.
     "Still," Apollo said. "It's nothing to be concerned about."
     "What about you, Sire? Have you ever been to Tertius?"
     The voice belonged to Nephicroran, the Engineer. Apollo turned to
him. "No. The last ship I crewed mostly did charting work. We ran the
western Arm."
     "What ship was that, Sire?"
     "The Atlantia, out of Sagitara."
     "The Atlantia?" This time it was the wiry Sagitarian, Tyger. His
bleak eyes rose to meet Apollo's. "Did you say the Atlantia?"
     "That's right," Apollo answered. "You know her?"
     "Someone who crewed her once. Perhaps he still does."
     "What's his name? I know most of the crew."
     "Jakar," Tyger said slowly.
     Apollo felt something tighten between him and the other Receptive.
Like a physical presence something had come into the lounge and gathered
around them, dark and cold. Against his will Apollo felt the alien
emotion invading him, thrusting through the defenses he'd erected months
before and which he'd only recently begun to relax. He clamped down
tightly, shutting off his Recpetivity. There was a flicker in the dark
eyes of the Sagitarian. It faded, to be replaced by emptiness.
     "I know him," Apollo said. "He's had some trouble lately."
     'That's too bad. I would've liked to see him. We could've talked."
Tyger said vacantly. He seemed to have lost interest. "It's been a long
time," he added.
     Apollo said nothing. The other man made him nervous; he seemed to be
drawn into a wiry tightness. His movements were strained as he turned
back to his meal; Apollo was disturbed by that appearance of tension, and
watched the other man for several minutes before looking away.
     Nephicroran brought up the subject of their mutual homeworld and the
two men spent the remainder of the Mess hour talking about Caprica.
Nephicroran (whose name was the last remaining indication, he said, of a
distant connection to the colony's founder) came from the southern
hemisphere, where the temperatures were not quite as intensely cold, but
as the traditions of the colony were planetwide, he and Apollo had much
to talk about. They traded stories about the colonial schools, discovered
that they'd both spent a month at the same correctional facility for
adolescents, and learned that aside from this accident of birthplace,
neither had much in common with the other. Apollo found the conversation
diverting, however, which was more or less what he needed. The pain of
his brother's death was receeding, though slowly. As he had many times
since the incident aboard the Atlantia, Apollo wished for the
intercession of a Cork----something he could never experience. At best,
he could distract himself, but only for a short while and only
superficially, as he was doing with his dialogue with Nephicroran.
     The pain would always remain. There were no Cork hands for him---no
other soul would take the guilt away.
 
**************************************************************

Chapter Three
Eighth Sectar, Fifth Day
Colonial Yahren: 7364

     It was a cool midnight. Apollo took the boardwalk path along the
Virgon shore, listening to the clap and pad of his footsteps and watching
the line of lights pointing out into the harbor channel in the distance,
and smelling the fresh early morning air. (Salt, dammit. There was salt
in that air!)
     His midsection felt full and warm. There was something about ship
food---though usually bland and tasteless, there was always enough of it
to go around, served in a style that mad it at least spectacular, even if
not very appetizing. He paused for a moment and leaned on the boardwalk
railing. The waves rolled in toward the shore, driven by the milky,
strangely smooth moon overhead, in lazy parody of the waves he'd seen on
Caprica. There was no sound to this ocean. Apollo listened, but he could
hear nothing more than a faint whisper that rose and fell with his
breathing.
     He thought about his brother. How much did he really know about Zac?
Did he know enough to justify his commitment to this "quest"? Not really.
Then why was he determined to join the Galactica? To find the reason for
his brother's death, or-----?
     A shape moved at him out of the darkness. Apollo had time to push
from the railing, take a step out to the boardwalk, and then the shape
was upon him.
     They fell to the boardwalk, Apollo landing on the bottom, feeling
the weight of a man on his chest, feeling arms tightening into a lock
around his neck, feeling knees digging into his hip and abdomen. He tried
to jerk free, but the man holding him began to apply pressure to his
grip. Blood pounded in Apollo's ears. With a grunt he twisted onto his
back and slammed his elbow and knee into his assailant's chest and groin.
     The man gasped and relaxed his leg grip. Apollo gained leverage,
shoved, pulled free and lunged away. Hands caught at him, tripped him. He
skidded along the planking, sensing the motion of the man behind him as
his attacker dived. The man hit him squarely in the small of the back and
carried him over the edge of the boardwalk under the railing, and onto
the sand below.
     Turning, Apollo snapped the heels of his hands hard against the jaw
of the man struggling to get on top of him. The man spun back and sprayed
to a stop in a gray sand dune. Apollo got to his feet, staggered and sat
down. His heart was racing. With an effort he forced his breathing into a
regular pattern. He closed his eyes and opened them again, and glanced at
the man lying next to him, stunned.
     It was Tyger.
     "Well?" Apollo asked.
     Tyger glared at him. Two flushed patches marked his jaw where the
Cork's palms had caught him, which promised nasty bruises by morning.
Edging himself up on one elbow, the Sagitarian worked a hand along the
back of his neck. "I'll this for you, Sire," he said. "You sure do know
how to exchange blows."
     "As you would expect. It's something a man picks up when he visits
one unfamiliar spacedrome too many," Apollo told him. He waited.
     "They told me you're a friend of Jakar?"
     "That's right. You're not, I gather?"
     "I was going to try to force you to take me to him," Tyger said. His
voice was husky, and he paused to clear his throat. "I have things I want
to talk to him about."
     "Talk to him? Like you talked to me?"
     "You wouldn't take me if I didn't force you. Not when you found out
what I want."
     "How do you know?" Apollo asked.
     "I just do." The Sagitaran got to his feet, but not without
difficulty. Apollo followed him to the stairs leading up to the
boardwalk.
     "Try me," he said. "I'm willing to listen. That's what I'm here for.
I've had enough practice."
     "Don't you think I know that? I can tell. I know what it's like. I
know what you're thinking and feeling. You think there's something wrong
with me, and you want to know what it is so you can warn your friend. I
can hear you. You think I can't but I can, Apollo, I can." The other
man's voice went low and the Cork strained out to make the last few
words.
     "You don't want to believe me," Tyger whispered, "but you know you
must. You know what I am. It's something you can't help thinking about;
you keep worrying it's happening to you. It's why you quit Corking. I can
tell, Apollo.
     "I can hear you."
     He walked away, his footsteps a soft clap and pad on the boardwalk
planking. Watching him, Apollo felt a brief chill. He didn't need a
Receptive's training to understand what was wrong with the
Sagitaran---but only a Receptive could sympathize.
     Tyger was one of the growing number of Receptives who were
constantly "on," whose minds were in perpetual reception of the thoughts
and emotions of people around them. It was obvious now that Apollo knew
what to look for. The man was abnormally thin, and there was a haunted
look in his eyes. And the way he moved: the strained quality Apollo had
noticed earlier, like someone moving in a room filled with glass
figurines...all too aware of the boundaries of privacy surrounding him. A
part of Apollo's mind had recognized it earlier, he realized, without his
conscious mind understanding. Apollo realized something more. Tyger was
right. It was something he feared at times was happening to him. It was
something he feared more than breaking.
     And perhaps because it frightened him, it fascinated him, too.
     Sighing, he started off after the Sagitarian's receding form. His
footfalls echoed on the wooden planking---clap, pad, clap, pad----and
then faded as he turned down the street that led into the city.
*******************************

     "Why do you want Jakar?" Apollo asked. The two Receptives were
following the alleys on a wandering path through the central port area.
They were on the fringe of the Receptive District; ahead of them were the
shops and taverns frequented by Virgon's large Corporeal population. The
odors of cooking food drifted to them, sweet on the moist sea air.
     Tyger took his time answering. "I've known Jakar almost all my life,
Apollo. You've known him for six years. Which of us knows him better, do
you think?"
     "I don't know. How much does a man change in six yahrens?"
     " 'It depends on the man.' That's what you're thinking. You've
changed. I've changed. It follows that Jakar must also have changed.
Perhaps. I don't think it matters. A man is what he's made to be, no
more, though perhaps a good deal less. Tell me, Apollo: what do you know
of Jakar? Of his life before you met him on the Atlantia?"
     "Damned little," Apollo admitted. "He used to be a critic of some
sort on Caprica. He formed a school of art..."
     "Jakar is a brilliant man. Talented like his father. We went to
school together on Sagitara; I know him like a brother. Let me tell you,
Apollo: he conceived an entirely new approach to aesthetics. I couldn't
begin to explain it. It had something to do with Receptivity and its
effect on the appreciation of art---perhaps even the creation of it. I
can't understand it, though I've had it explained to me a thousand times.
It's the difference between us, him and me; some people are born
artists...others are not. Jakar told me that once when we were children.
It was something his father had taught him. His father had taught him a
great deal.
     Apollo walked silently beside the thin Sagitaran, listening, his
hands thrust through the loops of his jump suit. The odor of cooking
became stronger and sweeter.
     "You know about the Sagitarian Police Action, don't you? You're
about twelve yahrens younger than me, but you should've been aware of
what was happening."
     "My father mentioned it."
     "Good for him. These rebels in the Frontier should've learned from
our mistake, but no, they're making the same errors we made. Yes, Apollo,
'we.' I was a lad of eighteen at the time, but my brothers and sisters,
and my father had been active in the anti-Colonial movement for several
Yahrens before I was able to join them. We believed in what we were
fighting for, Apollo. We were fools. It doesn't matter who owns a
planet---the Twelve Colonies or the people----you still have to trade at
Colonial prices and make the Colonies' deals. Look at Virgon. They've had
a provisional government now for eight yahrens. The Quorum of the Twelve
voted to make it semi-autonomous because it acted peacefully and because
it had no chance of becoming self-supporting. Eight yahrens. Look around
you, Apollo. Has anything changed?"
     "I suppose not," Apollo said. "The new buildings---"
     "---mean nothing. You may have noticed that Colonial personnel work
at Colonial plants, yet there are hundreds of people available native to
the planet, who go without work. Hundreds of people on welfare, supported
by the provisional government. Ever wondered why they allow the Colonies
to get by with it?"
     "Constantly."
     "Because they've got no choice. The Twelve Colonies are the only
game in town, Apollo, and it makes this planet pay. In another few years,
the provisional government will be bankrupt---and when that happens,
Virgon is one of the Twelve Colonies again. Business as usual. Revolution
or not."
     "And the folks in the Colonial Frontier haven't figured this out
yet?"
     "They're as stupid as we were, that's why. The Colonies have seen to
it that no single planet has the ability to support itself without trade.
Those who get close"----his voice rose and he lifted his hands from his
sides, waving them expansively----"get crushed. They crushed us. They'll
crush the settlements in the Frontier. And they'll do it through people
like Jakar."
     "What do you mean?"
     "Do you know what he did?" Tyger turned his eyes on the Cork. The
pupils were dilated, the eyes moist. "His father, his brilliant father, a
Colonial man, bought by the Colonies, controlled by the Colonies---his
father told him to spy on us. And he did. He was my closest friend,
Apollo. I loved him and trusted him more than I did my own family. And he
betrayed me. It cost my mother and father their lives. It cost my
brothers and sisters their minds. It cost me my soul."
     Apollo looked away. Tyger continued, his tone like the rasping edge
of a saw.
     "They killed my mother and father outright; both of them were too
old for retraining. My brothers and sisters were much younger---Jolia was
only twenty---and with a little work their minds could be emptied of
revolt. And of everything else. I saw Jolia after they'd fixed her. She
didn't recognize me. She smiled when I spoke to her, and she nodded at my
questions. Something must've been left inside her, I think, for when I
started to cry----she cried herself. She never said a word, just sat
there, crying.
     "Since I was the youngest of the lot, my mind was the most easily
reclaimed. That's' when I learned about my Receptivity. It was an
accident. They were probing, excising little bits of brain here and
there, and they hit the Treacher Lobe and burned out their instruments.
They burned out some of my mind as well. That's why I'm a Reciever. Day
and night. Even in my dreams.
     "They let me go after that. They knew I'd never have the control to
work against them. They've been right so far.
     "All I want is Jakar, Apollo. Sometimes it doesn't matter that much
to me, and I stop thinking about him for a while. Then the memories
return, slowly at first, and with the memories---hate. You know about
hate, Apollo I can feel it inside of you. There's a woman, but you don't
really hate her, do you? But you understand how I feel. I know you do.
You know why I want him."
     Tyger paused by the gutter and toed the neck of a small decanter
lying tilted toward a sewer grating. "Was I right in saying I'd have to
force you to take me to him? Don't bother answering. You know I am."
     "What do you want me to say, Tyger? I'm sorry."
     The Sagitarian looked at Apollo. Light from the nearest streetlamp
crossed his face, somehow missing his eyes, which remained in shadow. "I
know you are," he said, nodding hesitantly. "I know. But you can
see...that doesn't really matter?"
     This time it was Apollo's turn to nod----with hesitation.

*******************************

     They found in the tavern in a side street that curved to a plaza
similar to the plaza near the Llyia's. A narrow flight of steps bordered
by an iron rail led to the heavy wooden door of the tavern, which opened
to a wide atrium. Apollo went through a side door into a sitting room
where a waiter would serve them. He and Tyger took a booth by the window,
Apollo sitting on the side facing the room.
     "I've never been to a Coporeal pub on Virgon before," Tyger said.
"The way they're watching us...their thoughts are confused, Apollo. I
can't make them out."
     "Don't worry about it," Apollo replied. "There isn't that much
trouble in the city. Out in the fields...that's another story. Receptives
aren't greatly appreciated by the laborers."
     Tyger shrugged. Apollo glanced around and caught the attention of
the waiter, who took their orders and moved off to the wall console. When
they had their mugs, Apollo raised his, smiling. "Good charting."
     "Hm." The Sagitarian sipped at his ambrosa. His eyes shifted, gazing
over the rim of his mug. "You're definitely aboard, then?"
     "I signed the papers this afternoon, before Mess."
     "And I can tell you still don't know why."
     "I'm pretty sure. I want the Commander's motives. Besides, is there
ever enough of a clear reason for an action?"
     Tyger snorted. "There should be. But I see what you mean."
     Apollo relaxed; the other man was winding down, the pressure on the
fringe of the Cork's dormant Receptivity easing as Tyger calmed.
     "Those Corporeals, Apollo...I don't live what I'm receiving."
     "What do you mean?"
     "They're tense," Tyger said. "They've been drinking." He turned
slightly and indicated a table in the corner where several men were
sitting hunched over mugs of ambrosa. One of the men leaned forward and
spoke urgently to the others. His voice carried, but his words were
slurred and incomprehensible at that distance. "They're looking for
trouble," the Sagitarian said.
     "They'll not find it with us," Apollo assured him. He slipped out of
the booth, dropped a credit chit next to the drink, preferring the
unquestionable----and therefore less time-consuming----standard cubit at
the moment to the credit tab, which would require processing. Tyger did
the same. Together they crossed the room, passing in front of the
whispering Corporeals, and stepped out into the atrium. "You still want a
drink?" Apollo asked. The other man shook his head. "Then let's go," the
Cork said. They went outside.
     A few minutes later Tyger leaned close to Apollo and said, "I'm
still receiving them, Apollo. They're about a block behind us."
     "I noticed."
     "What do you want to do? Wait for them?"
     "It's their game, Tyger. Let's just keep walking. The District isn't
far from here."
     "They know that, Apollo."
     "Then it's up to them, isn't it?"
     They turned a corner and started down the sweeping street that
eventually led to Apollo's bordello. Here the storefronts were dark; this
was primarily a business area and most of the shops closed after sundown.
Tyger glanced over his shoulder. "They're coming, Apollo."
     "Any particular spot you'd like to meet them?"
     "Not really."
     Apollo pursed his lips in thought. "There's an open building a block
ahead. I suggest we stop there, if they give us time."
     He crossed the street, Tyger beside him. The Corporeals followed.
Entering the shadow of the walled transparent herculite-walled office
building, the two Receptives ducked behind a column that rose to the
building overhang, present more for ornamentation than function. Voices
echoed on the street, footsteps sounded on the plasticrete surrounding
the building. Apollo tensed. Tyger said something softly. The two of them
lifted their hands from their bodies and waited.
     The footsteps came closer and then stopped. Voices conferred. Three
of the Corporeals stepped into view and turned. The chunky man in black
pointed at Apollo and shouted, but the Cork was already in motion. He
struck the black-suited man in the middle, a full tackle that knocked the
Corporeal back, both of them thudding into a bony adolescent who was
grappling for a hand weapon, all three of them going down in a tangle of
limbs. Tyger launched himself after Apollo, over the fallen Corporeals
and into the second group, his head tucked low and his arms spread wide
and grasping.
     Behind you, Apollo. Knife.
     Apollo started at the sudden invasion of his mind, but quelled his
amazement and moved, curling into a ball and rolling aside. The third
Corporeal of the first group----a broad-shouldered redhead with a sparse,
ill-kept beard---tottered past the Cork, the glint of metal in his fist
bright in the comparative darkness. Apollo continued his roll into the
redhead's legs. The man tripped and came down, his knife clattering onto
the plasticrete. Apollo kicked it away, followed through with the kick
and toed the redhead hard in the groin. The bearded man doubled in agony.
     Good. Now help me.
     Tyger?
     Don't think, Apollo. Move!
     The Cork came to his feet and dove over the bodies of the three
downed Corporeals. The second group had caught Tyger, and while two young
men in dark jump suits held his arms, a burly half-bald Corporeal was
slamming calculated blows into the Sagitarian's abdomen. Apollo landed on
the bald man's back, his weight bearing him over.
     He felt the sharp crack as the falling Corporeal's chin shattered on
the plasticrete, and then he was up again, his fist moving along a narrow
curve that ended on the side of another attacker's head. Apollo cursed.
Another mind than his own had guided the blow, putting too much force
into it. His hand stung as though his knuckles had been broken.
     Tyger, don't try that again. You'll get me killed.
     Then get your heart into this, Apollo. These men want to kill
us----or hadn't you noticed?"
     There was a prodding in the back of his mind. Apollo whirled and
ducked. One of the first group of Corporeals went over his
shoulder----the redhead. He palmed the forehead of another---the black
suited man---spinning him back. Tyger, freed from the men holding him,
danced over the form of the man Apollo had slammed into the ground. The
Sagitarian's foot came up, met the kneecap of the redhead, who was trying
to maneuver behind Apollo; the Corporeal screamed, tipped over backward,
and went down, clutching his leg.
     A matter of moments----not quite twenty seconds more----and it was
over.
     Apollo stared at the sprawled bodies. Some of the men were
unconscious. Two of them were bent over in obvious pain. The sixth man
looked dead.
     Don't touch him, Apollo.
     Apollo paused with his hand hovering over the collar of the bald man
whose chin he'd shattered on the plasticrete.
     "We're not fighting anymore, Tyger," he said aloud. "You can get out
of mind."
     He's dead, Apollo. There's nothing you can do.
     Apollo's hand tightened into a fist and drew back from the bald man.
He straightened and tugged at the folds of his jumpsuit. 
     What do we do now? Tyger's thoughts were like a whisper in the
corner of the Cork's mind. He shrugged to conceal the trembling in his
hands.
     "I don't know," he answered. "We'd better get out of here. I'd
rather not have my Contract in contest over a liability suit."
     What about the others?
     "Just leave 'em," Apollo said firmly. "They won't report us. Right
now the dead man's their problem, not ours."
     You're sure?
     "I'm sure," Apollo said.
     Psilock.
     Apollo had experienced it twice before, with Serina and aboard the
Atlantia, with Sheba. With both women it had happened in the midst of
their lovemaking, and it had seemed somehow expected and proper----until
he discovered what she'd wanted from him. Most of a yahren had passed
since then, and he'd managed to forget what a psilock could feel like:
now it came flooding back, invading his mind and reaching into his soul.
     His first reaction demanded release. Tyger's precence, while helpful
during the fracas, was now vaguely threatening. Yet, as they made their
way along the side roads of the port city, hoping to lose anyone who
might be following, Apollo discovered that he enjoyed the exploratory
touch of another mind. True, Tyger's thoughts were structured in
absolutes---right and wrong, black and white---and Apollo's instincts
reacted against such shallow identification, but another part of him
welcomed the elemental simplicity. Gradually, he accepted the
Sagitarian's continued probe, and Tyger came in, fully.
     You fought well back there, Apollo.
     When you lead a hard life, you learn hard tricks.
     I noticed. We're a great deal alike, you know that, don't you? Both
of us from the Colonies, both of us trained to admire the strong and
despise the weak. That's why we worked together---like brothers.
     Apollo drew back slightly. The Sagitarian noticed it and laughed
within the Cork's mind.
     Don't you trust me, Apollo?
     Not completely. Am I supposed to?
     Of course. I saved your life back there.
     And I saved yours.
     But you're still afraid of me.
     That's because I still don't know you.
     You will, Apollo, the voice inside him said, laughing, you will.
     Images came, thoughts and memories from another man's mind. Apollo
examined them, amused to see that he himself was prominent among them.
From Tyger's viewpoint---effectively an alien viewpoint---Apollo was
relatively small. His chest, narrow for a tall man, seemed concave to
Tyger's eyes. His hands, which Apollo had always thought were the most
impressive part of his body, looked gnarled and ugly, the calluses of his
thumbs and palms---to Apollo the mark of a craftsman----were to Tyger the
scars of a laborer. Apollo drew back from the image Tyger had of him. He
knew that what he'd seen was tainted by the Sagitarian's peculiar ethics,
but even so he wondered if there'd been validity in the man's picture of
him.
     I ask a great deal of a man, Apollo.
     Do tell. How do you live with yourself, Tyger? How do you get by day
after day?
     I wait. My moment will come, Apollo. I've come to terms with that.
     What if it doesn't?
     How do you survive, Apollo?
     By dreaming. He thought of his brothel, only several blocks away,
but already light-yahrens distant in his thoughts. Someday I'll get out.
     I dream too, Sire Apollo. Someday I'll get in.
     Another image supplied by Tyger rose in Apollo's mind. It was Jakar,
but a Jakar Apollo never knew; younger, a blocky redhead of about twenty,
whose eyes seemed darker than what was objectively possible. Apollo
remembered those eyes and how they had followed him and his brothers and
sisters at the final meeting of the cell, studying and absorbing details,
always shifting whenever Apollo glanced their way. Those were the eyes of
a cold-blooded killer.
     And the voice. In Apollo's (no, Tyger's) memory the tones were gone,
and all that was left were the words mouthed without emotion, spoken with
mechanical precision. Apollo felt his stomach turning. It was the voice
he knew, and yet it wasn't. Had Jakar changed that much? Was it even the
same man?
     Or was Apollo's view distorted---had the burly Sagitarian, a man
he'd accepted as his friend for six yahrens, tricked him?
     You know it's true.
     No, Tyger. He's changed. He's no longer the man you knew.
     Why should you believe that? You've seen what he was---what he is.
     Because I know him. I have to believe I know him.
     Other memories arrived as the psilock extended through the levels of
their minds, peeling away the barriers of thought and emotion. Dazedly,
Apollo wondered what Tyger was seeing of his past.
     The Cork remembered his father, a Sagitarian of average height,
capable of dominating a room simply with his presence and bearing. He
recalled his father's manner, the bunching of muscles in his upper arm as
he lifted his son and sat him on a chair and the laughter in his voice
when he spoke to the young Tyger.
     He remembered his mother, a stern woman who always ended a
conversation, demanding the final word. He remembered also her moments of
softness, when she'd sing to him in the morning hours when the others
were out working in the mines. He remembered the last he saw of her
alive, a gray-haired fighter who'd taken two men with her before the
Colonial agents had torn her face away.
     His brothers. Big men, taller than he, wider and broader in their
humor than he would eve be. He remembered the way they walked beside him
when he was a child, careful t keep him in view and always dragging him
back when he wandered away. His sisters. Like his mother stern; each of
them as strong as his brothers----except Bage, who was the changeling of
the family, golden and gentle, the one he loved most.
     He remembered what they did to her, and his mind shut off the scene
of her tears.
     Apollo remembered the part of another man, and as he did that past
became his own.

******************************

     You loved your brother, Apollo?
     Loved him? Hah! I hardly even knew him.
     But you loved him.
     I suppose.
     Then you understand how I feel?
     Yes, thought Apollo. Then, a moment later: No.
     Tyger shifted himself to look at Apollo more closely. They were
seated on the stoop of a moderately well-kept building within the fringe
of the District. A near streetlamp lit the scene, yellow light washing
over the gray stones of the stoop, touching the blue material of Apollo's
jumpsuit and the darker blue of Tyger's. The two men sat at opposite ends
of the steps. Apollo had his knees up, arms around his legs, his back
braced against the stone railing where it joined the building.
     The Sagitarian frowned. What do you mean----you don't understand?
     I find it difficult to understand a view so simple that it doesn't
leave room for judgment.
     Does your view leave such room?
     At least I want to find out the reason why something happened,
Tyger. I don't' want blind revenge. I want to know a man's motivation.
     Is that what you think it is? Is that how you see yourself?
     The Sagitarian slipped to his feet and stood with his arms hanging
straight from his sides. His face was contorted and his eyes were bright.
     Let me tell you about yourself, Apollo. You haven't faced the truth
once in all your life. You're afraid to let someone get close to you. And
why? Because you're afraid you'll become dependent on them. You see that?
You see that? Tyger laughed triumphantly. You're closing me out! You
don't want to listen to that, do you? All right then, listen to this,
Apollo----perhaps it won't hurt quite so much.
     The only truth is what happens in plain and simple reality. I've
seen the inside of too many minds to think any man's intentions can be
good. We're evil inside ourselves, Apollo. We're sick and foul and
filthy. The only ones who come close to purity of heart spirit are the
feeble minded---and that's because they lack the good sense to be
anything else! You won't admit it, Apollo, but it's true. Look at
yourself: you hate. I've seen it inside you. You can't face what this
woman Serina's done to you, thereby making it impossible for you to admit
your pain. But is that your so-called motivation? No, Because your
conscious mind thinks it's something else. So what is truth, Apollo? What
truth do you hope to find in the Commander---what truth do you hope to
find in Jakar? They're guilty, both of them. The only difference between
you and me is you don't have the guts to----
     The thought snapped off in mid-pulse.
     "Maybe we'd better go," Apollo said quietly. "I've got things to
attend to at the brothel."

******************************

     When he returned to his townhouse, taking the long route to work out
the kinks in his body and to allow himself time for thought, Apollo found
Whyte and Jakar waiting for him in the bordello's brightly lit anteroom.
The two broken Receptives rose as Apollo entered. Whyte held a folder in
his hands and bent it back and forth as he faced Apollo, greeting him.
'Your man said we could wait. Jakar wanted to talk with you, asked me
along."
     "Friend of yours, Jolly," Jakar said. "Told me this afternoon. About
ship, you. Felt you needed help." He paused, a ridge forming between his
brows as he wrinkled his forehead in thought. "Checked ship. They need
Corporeals."
     "You've signed aboard," Apollo said flatly. Jakar ducked his head in
a nod, smiling. Whyte held the folder closer to Apollo.
     "He hasn't had the contracts filed yet, Apollo, but they're all
legal and binding. He wants you to keep them for him, have them made into
a disk."
     Apollo took the file and glanced within. He felt a cold weight
lodged in his middle, but could do nothing to get rid of it.
     "Why aren't you coming along, Whyte?"
     The ex-Receptive indicated his bad eye, smiling wryly. "Two reasons.
That, and the fact Jakar wants to do this himself. He felt you needed
help."
     Jakar was frowning, and the frown deepened as he studied Apollo's
unmoving expression. "You want me along. Apollo? Right? Like you wanted
me here?"
     Apollo's grin was forced. "Of course I do, Jakar."
     "Wanted to thank you for that, asking me here." The Sagitarian
grinned back and jerked his arms in an expansive wave. "I knew you'd want
me on Galactica. Whyte said no, but I knew. You, me, buddies, right,
Apollo? Like old times, Apollo?"
     "That's right, Jakar," Apollo said, glancing at Whyte and then
turning away. "Just like old times."

******************************

     Two days later, after taking on its cargo of ambrosa for trade to
the Frontier planets, the Colonial mentalstar Galactica lifted from the
Virgon spacedrome. Apollo stayed at the airlock until the last moment,
watching the field gates and the window of the massive observation tower.
     Serina never came.
     It wasn't until the next day that he found out why.

**************************************************************

Chapter Four
Eighth Sectar, Eighth Day
Colonial Yahren: 7364

     She was in the rejuvenation center with Jolly when Apollo entered.
She glanced at him from behind her disarrayed hair and smiled wryly as he
sat down. "You don't seem very pleased to see me, Apollo," she said.
Jolly twisted around to see the both of them, shifting awkwardly on
Apollo's side of the narrow game table. Apollo motioned him back. 
     "The Cook told me you were here," he told her. "I didn't believe
it."
     "We tried to catch you before the ship took off, Apollo," Jolly
said, "but you were already in Receptive, and the Cook said we weren't
supposed to disturb you until the Galactica was on course and you came
out of it."
     "Why didn't you tell me you were coming along, Serina?"
     "I didn't know until the ship was ready to leave."
     "She caught me at your place and asked me to take her down to the
port," Jolly said. He looked nervously from Serina to Apollo. "She said
you'd want me to."
     "I appreciate it, Jolly. I'm just a little stunned."
     "Obviously," Serina replied. She lifted her fumarello to her lips
and drew on it. "When you feel like talking, please let us know." She
returned her gaze to the game board.
     Apollo pursed his lips, frowning. He stared at Serina, his hand
tapping lightly on his left leg where it crossed his right. Jolly pushed
the pieces on the board about aimlessly, starting with when Apollo got to
his feet. "I'll speak with you later," Apollo said to him. Jolly watched
as the Cork walked out of the room.
     "Why is he like that? I thought he'd be happy the Cook signed you on
board."
     "Then you don't know him very well, my friend." Her hand dipped as
she ground out the ash of her fumarellos on the small tray set into the
tabletop. "Shall we play?"

****************************** 

     Apollo followed the corridor around the inside shell of the ship to
one of the main cross-paths. He bent, ducking under the low hatch, and
came up in the area of the ship set off for the Corporeal crew. Elsewhere
on board the Galactica, the walls were colored a neutral tan. Here, the
colors varied from section to section, first a bright red then a pastel
blue, followed by a gold, and so on. Each bay had its own color. There
were psychological reasons for this, Apollo had been told, reasons that
dealt with creating a strong sense of identity in the Corporeal members
of a mentalstar crew. One of the hazards of the mentalstar-class
structure was the gradual dissolution of individual identity, something
that affected the Corporeals far less than it did Receptives, but still
affected them enough to destroy their efficiency as psi fuel. The
Colonies' concern was not with the problems of the individual but with
the effectiveness of the ship; thus, the colored walls were less noble
than they appeared to be at first. Perhaps this was why so many of them
had been repainted with a layer of concealing white.
     The rest of the ship was tomblike in its silence. Here, however, the
halls were filled with sound, from the distant clatter of footsteps to
the light music of laser harps----the latest product of the Picon artisan
guild---and other less distinct instruments. Apollo traced the music to a
pod bay, which grew out of the vessel's "eastern" wing. He'd been told he
could find "the cripple woman" there.
     As he moved he became aware, once again, of the aura of violence
permeating the ship. It chilled him, and it took a moment for him to
shrug the sensation off before he could proceed through the hatch and
into the pod bay.
     The bay was dark, the blackness irregularly broken by the glow of
fumarellos and the winking lights of several ship's indicators. Apollo
recognized the pod's lines. It was a lifeboat, minimally connected to the
ship, designed for quick ejection in the event of the mentalstar's
destruction. According to Colonial regulations the pods were to be kept
in proper working order and inviolate until shipwide emergency. Apollo
wasn't surprised to find the lifeboat serving as a rejuvenation center,
however; it was done on every ship. It was tradition.
     Serina was seated in a corner under a softly throbbing light screen
display. She glanced at him as he settled beside her. "Are you ready to
talk now, Apollo?" she asked him.
     Apollo drew his legs up and wrapped his arms around his knees. He
found the callus on his thumb and worked at it nervously. "I didn't
expect to find you here," he said.
     "We've been through that already," she answered. "I'm here. Let's go
from there, Apollo. I think I'm making my feelings fairly plain. Isn't it
up to you to do something about it?"
     "Serina, why are you here? Really?"
     Here eye caught a flicker of light from the display screen over her.
"I'm not the sort of person who thinks in terms of 'whys,' Apollo. That's
for you to do. I do what I think is right and important. I do as much as
I can, and no more. That's the way I've always been, even before you left
on your last run. You act, I react; you hurt me, I hurt you. You love
me...I love you. You're the one who's suspicious, not me. I know what I
want, Apollo. For now, at any rate."
     "I know what you're trying to say," Apollo said.
     "Then do something, Apollo. I can't go back to Virgon now. Do
something."
     He reached forward and touched the skin of her arm, ran his hand
along the tight muscle to her shoulder, and felt the crisp material of
her ship tunic lift as his fingers and palm cupped the jut of muscle and
bone. "I'll try," he said. "For now."

******************************

     The Galactica's schedule demanded a maximum of speed for the run to
Tertius, and because of it the ship's psychic field was strained to its
limits by the demands of the Engineering sector. Apollo found himself
Corking during most of his waking centons, including the small amount of
time Colonial regulation allowed for the rest of the Receptives. There
were centons "on" and centons "off" ordinarily, and the latter centons
were intended for rest and a form of gentle "coasting" through Ur space.
However, with the agreement of the crew----many of whom were eager to
reach the Tertius pleasure port----the Commander shortened the breaks to
three-fourths of their normal length. Apollo found the strain unbearable
at first, but gradually, as he grew to understand the structures of the
psychic field peculiar to the Galactica, Apollo gained control over the
situation. Occasional outbreaks of anger and violence were usual for a
ship of the Galactica's reputation and aside from these minor upsets the
early days went well. Apollo soon found himself enjoying his work once
more; apparently it relieved an unrecognized pressure within him. He
tried to explain this to Jolly on an evening three days after they left
Virgon.
     "You aren't aware of being a Receptive until you reach puberty,"
Apollo told the young Corporeal. They were sitting in the Mess, drinking
from mugs of ambrosa. "And even then you don't recognize it for what it
is. There are too many other feelings, sensations, emotions----and each
of them is strange and new, each struggling for domination. The
Receptivity is obscured. Gradually your conscious mind shoves it into a
corner of your unconscious. If it isn't discovered by a mind-probe, or by
accident, it can go unused and slowly deteriorates the more subtle
instincts---such as intelligence. You go mad. That's what happened to my
father. A Receptive who suppresses his talent decays mentally. It may
take yahrens, but it happens...eventually.
     "There's something else. If a Receptive learns about his ability and
trains it, he becomes bound to it. Like a man who builds his muscles; he
must keep working them all his life or the muscles will go fat and kill
him. It's the same way with Receptivity."
     Jolly nodded, the corners of his mouth drawn in a tight, intent
frown.
     "I tried to ignore my Receptivity, Jolly," Apollo told him. "Worse,
I tried to suppress it. That was a mistake. I could never have kept it
up. I need this"----he gestured with his mug----"even this ship, even the
men here. I need it."
     "I hope you're right," the Corporeal said. The creases in his
forehead vanished as he smiled. "Will you be at dinner tonight, not to
change the subject?"
     "I should be," Apollo said. "We'll be in mind-drive for only another
centon or two."
     "Another centon or two? You're in drive now?"
     Apollo laughed. "Talking doesn't take much concentration," he said.
"I had a certain reputation for storytelling once, and I'm afraid all
that talking go to be an unconscious habit. But why dinner?" he asked,
rising. "Is the Cook planning something?"
     "No. But Serina is?"
     "Oh?"
     "The four of us from Virgon. We'll be sitting together, at the same
Mess." At the Cork's expression of concern, Jolly said anxiously, "Just
for tonight. She and Jakar and I were tired of eating with the other
Corporeals. You don't mind, do you? You don't have to sit with the
Receptives, do you?"
     "I don't think it's wise," Apollo said, "but there's no reason why I
have to---"
     "Then it's all right," Apollo said happily. "Serina seemed to think
it was important."
     "She would," Apollo said.

******************************

Mind-drive:
     Apollo strolled down the corridors of the ship. His gaze traveled
over the squares of flooring that stretched ahead of him, touched the
seams where the floor joined the walls and rose to the ceiling that
glowed overhead. His head tilted as though he were listening to a distant
sound. His eyes went out of focus, and he paused. For several seconds he
remained motionless. At last he shook himself, glanced around the
corridor, brow furrowing. He whispered something to himself, shook
himself again, and continued down the corridor, strolling.

******************************

Mind-drive:
     His room was small as far as quarters for Receptives go. There was
barely enough room for him to stand upright. He keyed the heat-sensitive
tab on the wall next to his door and the desk and chair folded out of
their wall shelf with a nearly silent hum. Apollo sat down, zipping open
the sleeves of his jumpsuit and rolling them back, detaching them from
the shoulders and placing them on the desk. Bare armed, he flicked a
switch on the wall and accepted the tidy transparent pouch that dropped
into the open slot below the controls.
     Wood and metal fell from the pouch onto the desk as Apollo peeled it
open. He picked up the knife and the half-worked block of wood, and began
carving.
     As he worked, he hummed softly to himself. Twice the knife nicked
the underside of a finger. He never noticed.

******************************

     Apollo passed the Commander on his way to the Crew's Mess. The older
man saw him, paused to grip the Cork's shoulder, and smile vacantly.
"Delighted you could join us, Apollo," the Commander told him. "If you
ever have any problems, anything you want to discuss, be sure to let me
know." The grip tightened a moment and then dropped away. Apollo thanked
the older man and went inside the Mess.
     Serina was already seated behind a table that was tucked in a corner
by the hatches to the lifeboat bay. Her arms were folded on the tabletop,
but she stretched as Apollo came up, ending the stretch with her fingers
knit together behind her neck. "Jolly is getting us food," she said. "He
tried very hard, doesn't he, Apollo?"
     "He means well."
     "I'm not complaining," she said. "I think it's pleasant. He's a nice
guy. But he'd probably blush to death if he ever heard me say it." She
laughed. To Apollo, it was the same laugh he'd heard three years before.
Something about it made him uncomfortable. "Do you mind all this? Do you
think it's terribly sentimental?"
     "I don't really see the purpose, no," he said.
     "Must I remind you that you dragged the three of us along with you?
Not by force, naturally. But we're here because you want us to be. That
makes you a bit responsible for our well-being...don't you think?"
     "I suppose," Apollo said. He didn't like the direction the
conversation was taking, and was about to change it when Jakar arrived,
tugging at the bulky folds of his ship tunic. The Sagitarian slid in next
to Apollo, grinning.
     "Work down in the gardens, cleaning trays, washing tubes. Still
stink. Tried fresher, but can't get smell off." He pulled at the ragged
locks of his hair. "How, all the time? Others, I mean. Corporeals,
others----how?"
     "How do we do it?" Serina took a fumarellos from a sleeve pocket.
"It's a job, Jakar. We've been doing work like it all our lives. You've
never been inside a hydroponics plant before; for you, it's something
different. Something ugly." She shrugged, lit the fumarellos. "To the
rest of us, it's just life. You have any complaints...tell them to the
Quorum of the Twelve."
     They sat in silence, waiting for Jolly. Finally, Serina said in
annoyance, "Where is that boy? He's been gone almost a half-centon."
     "This isn't your usual mess centon," Apollo said. "Maybe he's having
trouble finding the right line."
     "Oh, undoubtedly," she replied.
     Jakar rose awkwardly to his feet. "Wait," he said thickly, "Stay.
I'll go." Apollo started to get up, but Serina reached across the table
and pressed him back. They watched him lumber off between the tables
toward the mess lines at the far end of the room.
     "He can take care of himself, Apollo."
     "I wish I was as sure as you are," Apollo said. "Damn him!"

******************************

     A shout from the center of the mess brought Apollo's head around. He
stared, cursed, and pushed to his feet. Serina followed beside him. "What
is it?" she asked. "What's wrong, Apollo?"
     "It's Jakar," he said. He jerked out of her grasp and ran down an
aisle between two partly empty tables. Ahead a crowd was gathering,
obscuring his view. He pushed into the crowd, slipped between an
overweight Corporeal and a goggling Technician, elbowed past and out into
a clearing. In the center of the clearing was Jakar.
     Or rather, Jakar and Tyger.
     The aura of the crowd was tense with emotion as the diners watched
the two men grappling on the floor. Tyger had Jakar in a hammerlock and
was trying to maneuver his knee into the base of the big man's spine.
Both of them were grunting. Tyger snarling something unintelligible, his
words consumed in the roar of the crowd. Jakar managed to work his elbow
against the other man's chest, heaved and threw Tyger backward over the
polished vanlithminium steel floor. Apollo chose that moment to step
forward. Someone caught him and drew him back, shouting in his ear, "It's
their fight, let 'em at it, Sire." Apollo tried to pull away, but the
grip on his arms tightened, another pair of hands joining the first.
     In the middle of the improvised arena, Jakar was trying to get to
his feet. His bad arm was moving without coordination. When he saw
Apollo, he widened his eyes, cried out, "Apollo----" and was hit from
behind by Tyger, borne down.
     Apollo strained against the hands holding him. The grip was
unbreakable. He closed his eyes---and pushed.
     A surge of hatred swept into his mind. Apollo sagged mentally under
the onslaught of Tyger's emotions. With an effort he forced himself to
face them, absorb them. There was no sense to the emotions swelling into
Apollo's mind---there was only the Sagitarian's hatred, a pressure that
grew as Tyger snapped a choke on Jakar.
     Tyger, no!
     The Sagitarian twised back, his eyes rolling, hands falling from
Jakar's throat.
     Apollo? Is that you? What are you doing to me?
     I want you to stop, Tyger. Now!
     Tyger fell from Jakar's limp form, striking the floor, his back
arching into a bow, his hands clutching his face as he strained against
an unseen force.
     You're hurting me, Apollo---
     Will you stop?
     Yes. Yes, dammit!
     Apollo relaxed. On the floor, Tyger ceased to writhe. His body
slowly flattened to the vanlithminium. Breath trailed out of his lips in
a long sigh. Around the arena, the crowd began to mumble in
disappointment.
     Don't ever do that again, Apollo.
     The Cork disregarded the thought, pushing Tyger's presence out of
his mind while he slipped out the loosened hold of the men behind him. He
crossed to Jakar. The Sagitarian looked up at him. "You all right?"
Apollo asked.
     "Now, sure," the other man said. He swallowed, frowned. "Who...?"
     "He calls himself Tyger," Apollo said. "He thinks you should know
him."
     Comprehension darkened the large man's heavy features. He tried to
speak, but the words choked in his throat. Apollo laid a hand on the
Sagitarian's shoulder, wondering, at the same time, how he could remove
himself from the problem. "Take it easy, Jakar," Apollo said. "You'll be
OK. Don't get excited."
     He looked around for Tyger, but the other Sagitarian was already
gone. The crowd was thinning, people breaking away to return to their
tables and their interrupted meals. One Corporeal pushed through the
crowd, his round face contorted with fear. It was Jolly. He was holding a
large tray set with several plates and mugs.
     "Where were you with the gallmonging food?" Apollo asked.
     "I---they wouldn't let me through the first line----"
     "Forget it," Apollo said. "Take Jakar back to the table. I've got
something else I have to do."

******************************

     "Be seated, Apollo," the Commander said. "You'll have to give me a
moment. I'm still tied in to the Set; I've been in touch with Odap,
working out the details for our cargo transfer. That Communications
agent, Rigel; she's done a fine job of keeping me patched in. We've been
having trouble with an astralon cluster----excuse me--"
     The Commander returned his attention to his Set, pushing buttons and
keys on the console swung over his knees. Apollo watched without interest
as the Commander spoke into the throat mike that connected him to the
Set, which in turn brought him in contact with the psi field powering the
ship. After a moment, the Commander finished and unplugged from the
console.
     "Gemelybe, the man on Odap, tells me we'll be hitting some trouble
in the Frontier. I asked him for details, but he had none to share with
me." Detaching the throat mike, the Commander rubbed his neck,
thoughtfully. "Probably rumor. Quite a bit of it at most of the
spacdromes nowadays." Finished with the microphone, he turned to Apollo
and said briskly. "You mentioned one of the Corporeals, didn't you? Any
problems?"
     Apollo told him of the run-in between Tyger and Jakar. Toward the
end of his explanation, he realized that the Commander had stopped
listening. The other man rose to his feet, standing before the wide
screen at the rear of the Bridge, his hands in the back pockets of his
jumpsuit. Apollo stopped speaking. The Commander remained silent.
     "Commander? Are you going to help Jakar?"
     "There's something you ought to know, Apollo. I've been with Tyger
for three yahrens. He's a violent man; I know that, Apollo. He has more
hate in him than any man I've ever encountered. But I also know what kind
of ship this is---it needs emotion, any kind of emotion, to power its
drives. Love, hate: Galactica doesn't care, just so long as the emotion
is strong. She needs a man whose emotions are deeper than normal or
natural. That man is Tyger."
     "Are you telling me you won't do a damned thing?"
     "That's right, Apollo. As a Cork you should understand the
priorities here."
     "I understand them, Commander."
     "Glad to hear that. We should reach Odap in another six or seven
centons. You'll be on duty around 0800. I suggest you begin your sleep
period now."
     Smiling, Apollo unfolded from the bench that ran along the wall
opposite the Set. Smiling, he bowed and said, "I'll do that, Commander."
Still smiling, he left.

******************************

     The Galactica touched Odap and remained a day's rotation on the
bleak gray world, unloading part of its cargo and taking on the supply of
exotic fruits harvested by the Odap's small population of agro-workers.
Apollo spoke briefly with the Colonial agent at the spacedrome. The
agent, a muscular man on the cusp of middle age, offered to take Apollo
out to see his fields nearby, but the Cork refused. He'd seen
agro-communities before. Such places were the main reason behind his
choosing a bordello on Virgon for his retirement.
     Apollo asked the man what he knew about the Galactica's Commander,
asking first if he'd ever been on Odap before.
     "You'd know more about him than I do," Gemelybe replied. "He's your
Commander. The last time I saw him"---he sniffed at his mug of ambrosa,
blinking----"was almost two yahrens ago, and he was only a Mate then. You
want some nanhazel roots?" he added. "Good chewing. Affects motor
control, they tell me." He offered Apollo a handful of velvety leaves.
The Cork refused them.
     "A Mate? How did he seem to you? Ambitious?"
     "Never noticed it. Kept it hidden, if he was. The Commander before
this one, he was a hard man. Not the sort you could get friendly with.
Haven't gotten friendly with this one either, mind you, but at least with
him I feel I could." He sipped at his mug. "This right from Virgon? Some
other kind's floating around these days, you know, from the Frontier.
Going to be deep dark trouble when the Colonies get wind of it."
     "Have they found out from you?" Apollo asked, buckling his canteen
back onto its shoulder strap.
     "Me? Tell them? Perish the thought. The other stuff's cheaper." He
drank, finished off his tankard. "Not so good, of course---but easier on
the pockets."
     Apollo returned to the ship. Twenty minutes later, the Galactica
lifted off for Tertius.

******************************

     Serina approached him the evening before the entered the Tertius
Sector. He was in Receptive, standing near one of the wall-length screens
that showed a view of Ur space beyond the ship; he didn't notice her
until she put a hand on his arm, and then he felt her only dimly, as if
she were little more than a tinny voice speaking through the fog of a
dream. "Are you going to stay with me when we reach Tertius?" she asked
him.
     "I want to," Apollo said. He continued to watch the maze of color
winding on the screen. Serina stood with him a moment, her fingers
clinging to the cuff of his jumpsuit. She wore a brightly-colored
dress-shift that curved diagonally around her body, concealing her left
breast, her right hip, and all of her left leg. She'd dyed her hair a
pale shade of gold and added makeup to her chin and underjaw, in the
current fashion. For several minutes, she waited, her eyes holding on
him. Finally she broke away. 
     "I'll see you when we berth," she said.
     He nodded and said nothing.
 
******************************

     It was late afternoon of the following day before the Tertius
spacedrome authorities had processed the Galacitca's crew. Apollo and
Serina left the ship after most of the others, waiting to file their
Contracts and have their blood ID'd, according to the regulations of the
colony. Apollo saw Jakar and Jolly pass near them, but he gave no sign of
noticing the two Corporeals. Jakar seemed distracted; Jolly was speaking
to him in a low voice and the Sagitarian was nodding absently. Apollo
watched them until they disappeared into the fourth of the gray and blue
stalls provided for spacedrome clearance.
     When they left the last of the stalls behind, Apollo took Serina by
the hand and led her down corridors lit with glowing signs. He found a
sign that told him what he wanted to know, and headed in the direction
the sign indicated. Serina, reading the message over his shoulder, cried
out in surprise. "A cloudrider, Apollo? On Tertius?"
     "Why not? Don't you want to get the feel of a world you're going to
spend some time on? Don't you want to see a bit of it, get to know it?"
     She stared at him a moment, and then shrugged and allowed herself to
be led.
     The cloudrider rental shop was on the roof of the spacedrome
building, a vast structure that dominated the city. Several levels of the
building were devoted to a business, the rest to pleasure: signs
announced some of the various diversions available, broadcasting their
messages in several languages, as well as on the Receptive frequency.
Apollo found it necessary to shut out the advertisements on several
levels. Each sign was more intense than the last.
     Taking a turbo-lift, they arrived on the roof and picked their way
through a forest of antennae to a squat building tucked between two
triangular neon signs. There were no people here; the crowds were all on
the levels below. No one found it necessary to view the moons of Tertius
in person---except, Serina reminded him peevishly, Apollo. He ignored the
comment and rapped on the window of the squat building, knocking until a
face appeared, followed by a man. "You from the Colonies?" the man asked.
     Apollo said no. "I want to rent a cloudrider for the evening."
     He and the proprietor of the cloudrider agency dickered through the
window about the size of the flier necessary and the fee Apollo was
willing to pay. The other man seemed confused at first, as though he
couldn't believe someone wanted to leave the city. Eventually, however,
the arrangements were completed and Apollo took possession of a
waist-high leaper, powered by an antimatter engine. The cloudrider was
large enough for he and Serina to stretch out on, their shoulders and
necks comfortably socketed by the leaper's form-fitting backrest. The
proprietor watched them lift off the rooftop and shoot into the darkening
sky. Their last view of him showed his round face upturned, his
expression blurred by the distance. Then he was gone, swallowed by the
glare of neon lights far below.
     "Where are we going?" Serina asked.
     "I don't know," Apollo said. "We're looking. That's enough by
itself, isn't it?"
     "I suppose."
     Below them, Aquatene, the principal city on Tertius, covered the
land like a puddle of molten gold, portions of it glistening red for an
instant, or blue, as if catching the dying light from the setting sun.
Apollo guided the leaper through the clouds, moving in over the city from
the north, and the air around them went from dry to moist, warm to cold,
and then clear again as they left the clouds behind. The dome's bubble
came up around them, shielding them from the rarity of the upper
altitudes. They went into a curve that brought them out over a rolling
pasture that extended west as far as they could see in the fading
sunlight. Aquatene was behind them, already sinking beyond the low
horizon.
     They flew west, dipping low now and then to skim hedges, and rising
to leap the crest of low hills, pushing forward through the night.
     Apollo resisted the temptation to probe Serina's thoughts and
discover what she felt about the world around them. He was afraid of what
he might find. He wanted her to be the same---and yet not the same---as
the woman he'd known three years before. It was a precarious balance, and
one that he didn't want to upset.
     Silently they went west, through the alien dusk.

******************************

     "I think I understand why you wanted to come here, Serina said,
holding herself against the chilly air. "It's nice, different, not at all
like the city."
     They sat together on a rise before a shallow brook. The water
bubbled and hissed at their feet as it moved unnaturally slowly over
rocks that were just the wrong shade of red.
     "Places like this remind me of Caprica," Apollo said. "We had a farm
there, trees, our own river. Not a natural river, mind you, we had to dig
it ourselves, but it served. Nights like this we'd go down to the stream
and sit under one of my father's trees, and listen to the water. Zac and
I. He was quiet, like my father. Neither of them talked much. My
mother...I could listen to her for centons. Sometimes I did. But Zac was
quiet, which was good sometimes."
     "It must've been very nice," she said. "Do you miss it?"
     "Yes, but then again, no. I like the cities."
     "That's because they're new to you. You haven't lived in them all
your life." She lifted her head and tossed her auburn hair back from her
face. Apollo watched her profile as she gazed up past the trees, at the
smoky night sky and the two melon-sized moons. "I was born on Tauron,
Apollo. I've told you that. Have you ever been there?"
     "Two yahrens ago, after I left you."
     "You probably went to Albynaea. Sure you did. Everybody does. Not
many come to Pelavas anymore, and I don't blame them. Most of the smaller
cities have been abandoned, and the larger ones aren't fit to live in.
Even Old Senzavaea is nothing but ruins and tourist traps. That's where I
was born. In Old Senzavaea." Her voice was quiet as she finished
speaking.
     "What was it like?" Apollo asked. He glanced over his shoulder, the
movement of a small animal near the cloudrider bringing his head around.
The creature blinked at him with luminous emerald eyes.
     "It wasn't very good," Serina said. "That much I can tell you. My
mother was on the dole, and when I came along, she didn't have enough
cubits in the bank to feed me. I was illegal, you see. An accident; my
mother's sterility shots didn't take. She sent me north to Eulini, to an
aunt who was doing well off her dead husband's pension. My aunt and I
disliked each other from the first. She sold me as soon as she found a
buyer. My mother should've done it----eliminate the middleman, as they
say. The buyer wasn't so bad. I was but three yahrens old when he got me.
I was ten yahrens when I left. It's truly amazing what you can learn from
a man in seven yahrens, Apollo."
     She looked at him through the twilight. He didn't meet her gaze.
After a micron he cleared his throat and said, "Would you like to leave?"
     "Would you like to tell me about your family some more? No? Then I
think it's time we go." She got to her feet. "Don't you?"

******************************

     It was just midnight when they returned the cloudrider to the
agency. Apollo found out the directions to the central entertainment area
of the Tertius port, thank the man, gave him a generous cubit tip, and
then went with Serina to the lift tubes, catching the next hovermobile to
the lower levels.
     There was only one other man in the hovermobile with them, a Tertius
native. Thin, wearing body paint on his chest, arms and legs, he crouched
on the bench than ran around the wall of the vehicle, his legs drawn up
and his fingers clasping his ankles. His eyes were shocking white, his
pupils dilated to near invisibility; his mouth was open and his breath
hissed through lips that were cracked and raw. Apollo stood half-facing
the Tertian; he caught almost nothing from the man's mind, no emotion or
whisper of intelligence. As Apollo watched, a line of mucus crept out of
the man's nostril and slipped down into the corner of his mouth. Apollo
turned away. He and Serina left at the next stop. The Tertian didn't.

******************************

     Tertius deserved its reputation, Apollo decided a centon later. It
was indeed the most complete pleasure community he'd ever encountered,
offering diversions he'd never imagined possible, as well as standard
distractions for the tourist whose interests lay in more prosaic areas.
There were brain devices of varying complexities, neural stimulators and
depressants, exotic parlors, foods and liquors, women, men, animals,
children---a literal explosion of the perverse. Apollo became rapidly
ill. The third time he encountered a man like the one they'd seen in the
hovermobile, he realized it wasn't an unusual state for a native Tertian.
To one extent or another, everyone who lived and worked on Tertius was
addicted to some form of narcotic. No doubt, Apollo thought, it was
shipped in from the Colonies.
     The Fantastic Palace was circular, several concentric corridors
enclosing an immense amphitheater where spectacles were staged on a
centonly basis. The nearer one came to the amphitheater----the visitor
was forced to proceed from ring to ring in order to reach the
center---the more bizarre became the entertainments offered. Serina and
Apollo worked their way through the nine rings in a little over two
centons, neither speaking to the other; since the riverbank earlier in
the evening, both had remained cool and introspective. Apollo felt no
anger, himself, but knew that Serina was irritated with him, for reasons
he didn't care to comprehend. He respected the silence she offered him,
however, and kept to it as they wandered from stall to stall, sometimes
pausing to examine an article whose purpose seemed difficult to
understand at first. Several times Apollo wanted to bypass a stall that
Serina insisted on investigating. The Cork knew she was doing it to
punish him for whatever sin she thought he'd committed against her. He
accepted it, but gradually it began to wear thin upon his nerves. When
they reached the final ring, he wanted to take the hovermobile back to
the port area, but she insisted they visit the amphitheater. For the
first time in several centons, she spoke directly to him.
     "How can I ever tell anyone I'd been to Tertius and hadn't seen the
theater?"
     He sighed. "All right. We'll go if you want to go."
     They avoided a man who was moving blindly through the crowded
corridor, his skull enclosed in a helmet that cut off his vision and
hearing, and when he was past they continued down the hall, toward the
light that marked the theater entrance.

******************************

     Tyger was standing outside the entrance to the theater, talking with
a young woman in Corporeal blues whom Apollo recognized as one of
Galactica's crew, and as the Corporeal half of Tyger's
Receptive/Corporeal exploration team. Apollo wondered what she was doing
here on Tertius with the Sagitarian; normally a Receptive/Corporeal team
acted together only on unexplored planets, psilinked to make a more
effective agent than either would be alone. Vaguely, the Cork remembered
and image of the woman from his own mindlink with the Sagitarian: her
name was Lesi, he recalled, and Tyger's relationship with her extended
beyond the surface of alien worlds. It was unusual, but not unheard-of.
Apollo debated approaching the two of them, had decided against it when
the decision was taken out of his hands.
     "Apollo----Serina----just the people we were looking for." Tyger was
striding toward them, grinning, leading Lesi with a hand tight around her
wrist. "We were about to go inside, but Lesi said she didn't want it to
be just the two of us. We were discussing it when you two showed up and
solved anything. You will join us, won't you?"
     Serina flicked a nervous look at Apollo, and then smiled back at
Tyger. "If you want us to," she said.
     "You're still concerned about the other night, aren't you? Yes. I
know you are. Well, don't be. That was then," the Sagitarian said, "and
tonight is a different story altogether. It's like I told you, Apollo.
Some days I just don't care about that friend of yours. Some days I just
want to forget."
     "Tyger, you're burning my hand," Lesi said behind him. He glanced
around, looked from her face to his hand around her wrist. He let go and
she stepped away, rubbing her fingers along the band of pink skin where
his fingers had squeezed her too tightly.
     "I'm sorry," the Sagitarian said.
     "Actually, we were thinking about not going----" Apollo began, but
broke off when Serina glanced at him. He felt himself growing angry.
     "Felgercarb," Tyger said loudly. "You've got to see the theater,
Apollo. Get your cubits or credit chit out now, that's it; now come
along---it seems we're in time for a new show."
     He led the three of them into the theater, keeping up a stream of
conversation that Apollo mostly disregarded. The Cork was concentrating
on placing a probe through Tyger's mind, and was finding it impossible;
there was no way to learn what the Sagitatian was actually thinking
because Tyger had thoroughly blocked his mind.
     Inside the amphitheater they located four seats near the balcony
rail. There were headsets connected to the armrest of each seat; Serina
and Lesi put theirs one, but neither Apollo nor Tyger needed to----their
natural talents would enable them to read the emotions of the performers
quite well. Receptives did not usually frequent the theater, it seemed,
for around the four of them the majority of the audience wore the
helmets. Apollo viewed the expressions on the Corporeals in the
amphitheater with distaste. There was a mixture of greed and fear visible
in their twisted mouths and staring eyes. Apollo felt uneasy, though he
hadn't yet let down his barrier against the audience's reactions, somehow
he knew he would have to do so during the course of the show.
     "Wait'll you find out what they're thinking," Tyger said, noticing
the look in the Cork's eyes.
     "I'm not sure I want to," Apollo replied.
     The spotlights came on in the theater below. Serina leaned forward,
bracing her arms on the railing that protected her from the fifty-foot
drop to the circular stage. Seven or eight men stood in the glare of the
lights, positioned in such a way that each stood at the vertex of a huge
star. They were dressed in silver and gold. Each man's hands were encased
in heavy vanlithminium gauntlets, and the gauntlets were studded with
steel spikes. Apollo frowned as he received the first psi-pulse from the
"actors." Their thoughts were muted and confused, and not one of them
projected an aura of consciousness. He probed deeper---and jerked out
with a start. The men were nearly mindless: part of their frontal lobes
had been removed.
     "Good Lords of Kobol!" Apollo said.
     "Wait," Tyger whispered. "Watch."
     The spotlights shifted. Seven more figures stepped out of the
shadows, moving gracefully into the center of the stage. They were women,
modestly clad from the waist down, their legs concealed by tight bands of
cloth wound from ankles to hips. All seven moved with a silky ease that
astounded Apollo: they seemed almost animalistic. Touching their minds,
he learned why. They too had been altered, but whereas the men were
almost mindless and devoid of emotion, the women still had their emotions
intact---only their intelligence was missing.
     He watched, stunned, as the preconditioned "actresses" moved into
position around the men, forming another star that enclosed the first.
The audience became hushed. Apollo caught a glimpse of Tyger's face and
beside him Serina's. Lesi wasn't visible, hidden behind the Sagitarian's
shoulder. Apollo returned his attention to the stage. Light glinted on
the vanlithminium gauntlets.
     Slowly, at first, then with increasing frenzy, the actors and
actresses began to dance.
     Apollo watched for several minutes. Then he asked Serina if she
wanted to stay. When she didn't answer, he got up and left the theater,
and found a public lavatory and was sick.

******************************

     "More ambrosa?"
     "Please," Apollo said. He accepted the beverage gratefully.
     "You're too pale. You sure you don't want anything to eat?"
     "Nothing, Cook."
     "You want to talk about it, Apollo?"
     "No. Just leave me along, Cook. Just let me sit here. Just leave me
alone.

******************************

     After a while, he left the Crew's Mess and went to his cabin. Apart
from the Cook, the mentalstar was deserted; there were no other minds to
intrude upon his. All the other crewmembers were down at the port. Even
the Commander. Apollo reached his cabin and shut himself inside. Taking
out the transparent pouch with its blocks of wood, he sat staring at them
for several minutes, toying with a knife that he'd honed to a glittering
edge.
     Very deliberately, he took the smaller of the two wooden blocks, a
partially finished carving of a tiny animal, and he jabbed at it with the
knife until the block was cut and scratched, chips of wood lying on the
desk around it, and he continued to jab at the figure until the knife
blade snapped and he cut himself on the jagged edge.
     He sucked at the wound, eyes closed. He didn't hear the door to his
cabin whisper open, but he heard it when it shut.
     She looked at him with eyes that were red and swollen, but not, he
thought, from crying.
     "What do you want?" he asked. She flinched at the harsh, clipped
sound of his voice.
     "Cook told me you were in here. He told me you'd been sick."
     "Why do you care?" Apollo asked. "I'm surprised you noticed I was
gone."
     "That's uncalled for, Apollo. Don't you know how----hypnotic that
sort of thing can be?"
     "No, I don't, Serina. On my world people would've been killed for
doing something like that. People would've been beaten just for watching
it. And you just sat there----enjoying it."
     "I didn't enjoy it," she said quietly.
     "Felgercarb! You enjoyed everything in that place," the Cork said.
He glanced at the figurine lying in a clutter of wood chips on his desk.
He poked at it with his knife.
     "Apollo, I was trying to---to hurt you because you hurt me. I never
thought it'd go so deeply with you----"
     "I? Hurt you?" Apollo looked up. "When?"
     "On the riverbank, when you were telling me about your family.
Flaunting it. I never had a family, Apollo, and you knew that. The way
you spoke about your parents----your brother----how was I supposed to
feel?" Her voice had a pleading quality in it. Apollo was suddenly less
certain about her eyes.
     "I didn't realize it would bother you," he told her. Seeing her like
this made him uncomfortable. "I wouldn't have said it if I'd known."
     She didn't answer. The muscles in her face worked. Turning her head
to avoid his eyes, she glanced at the shelf over the bed console. A dozen
wooden statues stared back at her, none of them higher than six
milli-metrons. "I never saw your cabin before," she said. "Or those."
     Apollo waited. Finally she turned back to him. "I'm sorry too,
Apollo. I didn't think your Caprican morality was so strong. I'm sorry if
I hurt you."
     "I'll talk to you tomorrow, Serina," Apollo said. She pursed her
lips, as if she were about to speak then shook her head, said something
too softly for him to understand the words, and left the room. He
listened to her footsteps recede, and pressed the heat-sensitive tab
beside the door, and the door whispered shut. He went back to his desk.
     He didn't like the way he felt. It was too much like the feeling
he'd had three yahrens earlier, when he'd found himself becoming
dependent on Serina. It was an uncomfortable sensation. He didn't know
what to do.
     Lifting the scratched carving, he placed it carefully in the pouch,
sealed the bag, and set it back in its niche in the desk unit. The niche
whirred shut around it.

**************************************************************

Chapter Five
Eighth Sectar, Twentieth Day,
Colonial Yahren: 7364

Mind-drive:
     The colors come slowly, washing one over another, pulsing from
infrared to ultraviolet. Apollo feels the colors moving through him, warm
to cool, and he sifts his psychic hands through that arterial river,
letting the strong emotions through and halting the ego-destructive
"silt."
     Here, a man contemplates suicide----and Apollo's hand reaches,
touches, soothes.
     There a man trembles on the verge of madness----and Apollo caresses,
removes.
     Ahead of the Galactica, bands of color appear from a central point,
widening to their maximum width as they run beside the mentalstar and
shrinking once more as they vanish to the rear. Enlongated spots of white
dot the rainbow streamers, indicating stars and sometimes, galaxies. All
seem alike here in Ur space: chronal outbursts, phased nova spirals, the
remains of nebulas or portions of a galactic cloud. Each is a speck of
white in the river of color. Size varies little, as does intensity. In Ur
space, all lights are the same---only the mentalstar glows brilliant.
     Apollo senses other minds riding outside the mentalstar sphere. The
mental field of Nephicroran, the Engineer, is quite apparent, as are the
fields of the Communications agent, Rigel, the Technicians, the
Navigators, and the other Receptives who help maintain the psychic
sphere. The most prominent of the fields, however, is not an organic
one----it is the artificial mind-web of the Commander, the electronic
field established by his Set, which allows him to supervise the ship's
progress and course. Like a king on horseback, he rides at the forefront,
dominating the scene. His presence invades Apollo's thoughts. His control
is absolute.
     He's everywhere.
     And so is Apollo.
     Here, the beginning of a fight in the rejuvenation center---and
Apollo soothes, calms, removes the pain and anger.
     There, a stark burst of hate, a woman's anguish----and the Cork
guides, gentle fingers releasing and revealing.
     On through the darkness, deep into Ur space, the Galactica glides.
And everywhere there is Apollo, their valve---soothing and alive.

******************************

Mind-drive:
     He sat with Nephicroran in the Engineer's quarters in the southern
hemisphere of the ship. They sipped ambrosa and talked, from time to time
moving the pieces on the board they'd set on the bed between them. Apollo
found the game relaxing, though ultimately boring. Nephicroran, on the
other hand, was a true enthusiast. Both men had learned the game on their
homeworld, but Nephicroran had gone on into collecting and studying the
various versions that popped up during history. He had several antique
sets and would display them at the drop of a handkerchief. Apollo had
learned not to show too much interest, or else he'd be forced to suffer a
long and involved lecture on the origin of each piece, its history, and
its classic use in the strategy of the game of warchecks.
     "How long have you know him?" Apollo asked, continuing their
discussion.
     "The Commander? Lord, six yahrens now, at least. I met him just
before he became mate on the Galactica. We shipped on the Columbia
together, back----oh----back around '40. He was in Administration then,
and I as a Technician. He'd been working his way up on the Columbia for
almost seven yahrens, and I'd been a Tech for about that time myself.
Quiet fellow; we had a drink or two in a crowd when we'd hit port,
nothing special. Then this Galactica thing came along and they asked me
to join up---it was a new ship, just commissioned----and I recommended
him for First Mate. That was in '43. I was friends with the Colonial
Hiring Officer at the time, you see."
     "Hmmm," said Apollo.
     "We got along, the Commander and I. A bright lad, even then. Bit
quiet, like I say, but he can handle himself in a tight spot, that's for
certain."
     "Oh?"
     Nephicroran moved a playing piece, grinning. "Find your way out of
that, Sire." He scratched at his neck, still grinning, and continued,
"Sure, he was a quick one. One time when he was Mate we were hit by some
sort of epidemic on one of these settler worlds in the Frontier. The
entire damned area was down with this bug, and was killing our crew one
after another. Our old Commander sent the lad off to one of the other
cities, where they had some sort of serum. Classic. He took along two
other Corporeals, and both of them got sick, but somehow the Mate managed
to get back the serum by himself. He did. You should've seen his face
when he came back to the ship, carrying those damned big packs----like a
haunted man's. Serum didn't work, though. Bug died out on its own."
     "Sounds like an apocryphal story," Apollo said.
     "Maybe," Nephicroran said, "but it's true."
     Apollo moved a piece on the board, and Nephicroran gave a laugh. He
placed a pawn on the same square with Apollo's horseman. "Mate," he said,
"you are checked."

*******************************

     Morning greeted the Galactica when the mentalstar made its third
landfall of the trip. Apollo was one of the first on the surface of the
virgin world, in time to catch the earliest rays of the rising sun. The
other members of the ship's exploratory team bustled about him, but
Apollo hardly took notice of them; he was totally immersed in the dawn,
in the beginning of a new day on a world no man had ever seen before. He
wondered if this would be the planet where they'd finally discover
intelligent life. The odds were as much for it as against it. He drew in
a deep lungful of the bitterly cold air, knowing he was foolish to feel
the way he did---but unable to help himself, anymore than he could ever
help himself the first few mili-centons on a completely alien shore. The
air tasted clean in his nostrils, with perhaps a slight hint of salt in
that taste.
     He turned his back to help the other members of the team unpack the
survey craft they'd need to explore this section of the planet. Colonial
regulations required that the psi traders make occasional explorations of
new planets----this was one of those occasions. Apollo welcomed the break
from the ship's routine.
     Serina finished opening a vanlithminium crating box and limped over
to stand near him. "Are you sure you don't mind if I come with you?" she
asked him. "Cook said it could be dangerous for the two of us, if you
don't----"
     "Cook worries too much," Apollo said. 
     "Is he right, though, Apollo? Could it be dangerous?"
     "Teaming up is standard procedure, Serina. All of the other
Receptives coming along will have a Corporeal with him. Rigel's bringing
that hydroponics man, Terok, on top of her own pet. Tyger's with Lesi.
You're with me. It's best that way. And don't be afraid if I won't be
able to keep you in contact---what happened on Tertius is over."
     "But Cook says if there's any doubt we---"
     "There isn't any doubt, Serina."
     She broke off what she'd begun to say and looked at him oddly.
Apollo glanced away. After a moment, she went back to unpacking the
crate.
     Apollo wondered if the Cook was right, if he wasn't using this
teaming as a test of his trust in Serina, and her trust in him. Something
had changed in their relationship since Tertius, despite what
reassurances he'd made to her, he was less certain of her, and perhaps,
he thought, this way of testing her will. He hoped not, for if the Cook
was right, and he didn't commit to the contact, the results would be
disastrous.
     A new voice brought him back to reality. It was the Commander. The
older man was directing most of the landing party back to the ship under
the orders of the Cook. Apollo smiled at the though that the small gray
man had become the First Mate of the ship, effectively---contrary to
Colonial law, which forbade any Receptive to act in the administration of
a mentalstar. Apollo found it amusing---and puzzling. It reminded him
that the Commander's motives were still a mystery to him, more now than
before, as he learned about the man. Perhaps on this survey, Apollo
thought, he'd learn just a little bit more.
     "Sire Apollo, are you going to accompany us?"
     Apollo faced about. "Whenever you're ready, Commander."
     "Good. I want you to ride in the first car with Nephicroran and me.
Rigel and Tyger will follow in the second car with their respective
partners." The Commander raised his eyes to the sun, which was bulging
over the mountain range to the east, large and sweltering red in the
emerald sky. "This looks like a fairly unextraordinary world," he said.
"We shouldn't have any difficulty carrying out a reasonable survey over
the next two days. We'll head north, and then cut across the tundra to
the western sea."
     He held up a clipboard and keyed the miniature screen. Aerial
photographs flickered across the face of the board, showing a jagged
coastline, the white glare of snow, a dark patch Apollo guessed was
forest. "The computer indicates a probability of heavy metal isotopes
here"---the picture shifted, showed a glacier and a hillside of barren
stone----"and here. Our survey will concentrate on the more likely of the
two spots, in this forest some two hundred miles to the northwest."
     Rigel asked a question about the weather, which the Commander
answered in detail. Apollo wandered away, found Serina pulling on an
overjacket that she'd taken from her pack, open on the ground before her.
The other crewmembers were moving past, back up the ramp and into the
mentalstar.
     "You ever go on a survey before?" Apollo asked her.
     "I had a Contract for five years," she answered.
     "That's not answering my question."
     "I've been down once," she said, angrily, turning to snap at him.
"One time, and that's when I shattered this." She gestured at her booted
foot. "Does that satisfy your curiosity?"
     "Let's get ourselves in the skimmer," Apollo said.

******************************

     He couldn't read the Commander. The man's mind was as closed to him
as ever.
     It was as though a wall had been erected between them, so carefully
mortared no sound could penetrate, so thick no vibration could move
sideways. Apollo pried at that wall for several centons during the
journey north; the palms of his hands became wet with sweat and he began
trembling under pressures working within him----not so badly that Serina,
sitting next to him, would notice, but badly enough that if the trembling
had grown worse she would've.
     Other thoughts came to him clearly as he worked at the Commander's
mind: he could hear the deep mental echo of Nephicroran's ruminations,
the smoldering whisper of Serina's brooding----but from the Commander,
nothing. He broke off finally and slumped against the neck and shoulder
brace of the rear seat in the four-man skimmer; he almost passed out once
the pressure he'd been inflicting on himself was released. He lay there,
eyes closed, breathing deeply, and when they came, his dreams were
troubled.

******************************

     "Something's moving down there, Commander," Nephicroran pointed
through the windscreen that curved down to meet the floor of the skimmer.
"See it?"
     The Commander grunted something in reply. The skimmer tilted and
arced toward the stretch of white-and-gray hillside Nephicroran had
indicated.
     "There, Commander," Serina said. Her hand went past Nephicroran's
shoulder. "It just ducked behind those boulders."
     "Yes, I see it," the Commander said. "Nephicroran, contact Rigel.
Tell her we're heading down, and tell her where we are. I think we've
just spotted our dinner."
     Apollo leaned forward to peer past the Engineer's bulky shoulder.
Below, the snow-covered plain drifted into the foothills of a ridge of
glacial mountains, sparkling in the noon sunlight. The skimmer was moving
in a slow circle over a grouping of crystalline rocks, midway up the
hillside, dropping lower with each pass. Apollo tried to find the object
of everyone's interest, but couldn't see anything in the glare of the
snow. "What is it?"
     "A native animal," Serina said. "Weren't you watching."
     "I was asleep," Apollo said.
     "There it is again," Nephicroran shouted. Apollo jerked his head
around and followed the Engineer's jabbing finger. Against the white, a
black something darted. It had no definite shape, at least none that
Apollo could recognize, but it moved like something alive. As he watched,
Apollo saw it jump behind a crag, appear on the other side, make a short
hop to another rock, and vanish once more.
     "You think we should try to capture that thing, Commander?"
     "We're not going to capture it, Apollo. We're going to kill it."
     "But why? We don't know if it's edible----it might turn out to be
poisonous."
     "That's what our survey lab is for, Apollo."
     "Yes, Commander," said Apollo. He braced himself as the skimmer
tilted into a shallow drive. There was a moment of vertigo, a sense of
weightlessness, and then the floor moved up against his buttocks, the
brace against his neck, the skimmer skidded, jerked, and stopped. They
were down.
     "Siress Serina," the Commander said to Serina, "will you pass
forward the weapons?"
     She complied, and the Commander distributed the hand weapons to
Nephicroran and Apollo. He gave the light rifle to Serina, first flipping
the safety into the off position. "Just aim that weapon in the general
direction of what you're shooting, press that stub----you'll see it there
by your thumb----and the rifle's finder will do the rest. You know how to
work your handgun, Apollo?"
     "Yes, Commander."
     "Good. It's a bit cold out, so I suggest we activate our climate
suits prior to leaving the skimmer. Ready? Nephicroran, will you lead?"
     The Engineer pushed the windscreen up and back over the roof of the
skimmer and dropped through the opening to the ground a meter below. The
others followed, the pink crust of snow crunching under their feet as
they moved away from the skimmer, toward the cluster of rocks farther
upslope. The Commander passed Nephicroran and struck out at an angle to
the others, circling around the crystal boulder they'd seen the creature
duck behind. He moved lithely, his thin frame graceful even under the
heavy material of the climate suit. Apollo studied him with a grudging
admiration; the Commander seemed completely at east, totally in control
of himself and the situation. It was a trait Apollo realized that he,
himself, sometimes lacked. There was no doubt about it: the Commander was
an extremely competent man.
     A shadow shifted on the far side of the boulder, above the
Commander's cowled head. Apollo saw it, brought up his handgun---
     Before he could fire, the creature leaped.
     Nephicroran spun around at the same instant and the Commander
realized the animal was attacking him. The two men moved in uncanny
coordination, the Commander dropping flat against the hillside as
Nephicroran fired in a swinging arc that swept the beam of his weapon
through the space occupied by the attacking creature an instant before.
The beam intersected the creature's flight, struck the animal squarely in
the center of its pitch-black form.
     But nothing happened.
     The creature landed, rolled, came back to its feet (feet? Apollo
realized he'd been thinking in human terms; the creature had no feet in
the conventional sense), and sprang.
     Nephicroran staggered at the weight of the beast as it slammed into
the Commander. Apollo recognized the symptoms. "Get out of his mind," he
called to the Engineer. "You can't help him like that---get out of the
Commander's mind!"
     His mind. Abruptly Apollo stopped in his forward motion. Nephicroran
had entered the Commander's brain, had managed a symbiosis, a psi-link
with---at least----the Commander's consciousness. It was
impossible----and yet obviously it had happened. But how? And how deeply
had Nephicroran gone? Apollo pulled himself out of his sudden reverie. It
didn't matter at the moment; if the Commander died, Apollo would never
know the full answer to that, or any other question. He ran forward
again, Serina at his side, moving around the boulder to get into position
to use his handgun.
     And he staggered, caught in a psychic web.
     Beside him, Serina stopped also. The two of them stood paralyzed,
staring at the struggling forms in the snowbank above them.
     Serina...
     Serina, I can't...
     Serina, I can't move----
     "What's happening?" she asked, frightened. "What's wrong with me?"
     You're holding me back.
     Your mind is holding me back, Serina.
     Let me go, Serina.
     "Apollo, my arms won't work----Apollo, I'm afraid I can't----"
     Above them the Commander braced his legs against the chest of the
beast and shoved. Snow sprayed as the creature heaved backward, skidding
downslope. Apollo saw that the animal was covered entirely with black
fur, save for a gray patch on its underside that quivered as the creature
tried to regain its balance. The Commander straightened and dove for his
handgun in a single motion, hitting the hillside with his shoulder,
grabbing up the handgun and turning, all in one continuous action. A beam
of steel brilliance lanced out of the weapon, poked hard into the
creature's belly, into the center of its wiggling gray area. There was a
wet hiss, a curl of dark smoke, and a stench of burning flesh.
     The animal ceased motion all at once, though the Commander held the
beam on it for a half-centon, cooking the tender gray area until it was
charred as black as the rest of the beast. The stench worsened.
     "I hope you like your meat well cooked, people," the Commander said
finally, dropping his gun to his side.
     Nephicroran laughed. Apollo, finding himself free of the psi-web
that held him motionless, turned to Serina and said, "Cook was right. It
doesn't work for the two of us. I don't think it ever will."
     He walked away from them, leaving the Commander and Nephicroran bent
over the smoking animal, discussing what to do with its carcass. He
returned to the skimmer. He was tired and slightly ashamed. But more
importantly...he wanted very much to think.

******************************

     A sign on the wall of the prefab shed proclaimed that the
settlement, Tyssos's Bluff, had a population of 24,058 and a Gross
Planetary Income of some 34 million Colonial Cubits per yahren. Below, in
finer print, the sing gave the details of the planetary economy:
percentage of unpaid Colonial loans, and so forth. Apollo read it all,
and when he was finished, he reread it. The wall clock beside the sign
gave the time as 1632; the temperature outside the shed, according to the
information screen under the clock, was a mild 12.6 degrees centigrade;
and the wind, from the southwest at 2 kph. Apollo glanced aground the
shed. He returned his attention to the sign. He read it once more. He
looked around. He could hear voices coming from behind one of the closed
doors. The door opened; Jolly stepped out. Apollo walked over to meet
him. The wall clock now read 1651.
     "Trouble?" Apollo asked the Corporeal. Jolly shook his head.
     "They're touchy, but I finally convinced them I'm not a Colonial
spy. Tyger's in there now. They're giving him a really hard time. They
don't like Receptives in the Frontier, do they?"
     "Not much," Apollo admitted. He studied Jolly thoughtfully. "Do you
mind if Tyger comes with us?"
     "He's your friend, Apollo. It's up to you."
     "Give him a chance, Jolly. He's toucy too, you know. It's not easy
being a Receptive in the first place, and when you----"
     "I know. You told me. That still doesn't excuse what he tried to do
to Jakar." He eyed Apollo. "Or why you're so friendly with him. Jakar's
your friend too, you know."
     "I know what I'm doing, Jolly. I need both of you." 
     "Yeah? Well, just be sure he doesn't come too near me. I'm not as
sophisticated as he is; he can tear me apart with just a word. But if he
tries to touch me, just once----I'll hurt him.  Really hurt him."
     "Simmer down, will you?" Apollo surveyed the younger man; some of
the fat had been worn away in the past few weeks, but Jolly was still too
heavy. He wasn't as much of a threat as he wanted to be----but he was
enough of one. "We only have a few centons while the ship's unloading the
material from that world we visited. I wanted to take care of our
business here as quickly as possible----and with as little trouble as we
can manage."
     "Don't worry. I won't start anything. I owe you that much, at
least----for getting me back on a ship, for making me feel lie---well. I
owe you."
     "You owe me nothing, Jolly," Apollo said. He looked past the young
man's shoulder, smiled. "Say, here's Tyger now."

******************************

     During the week it must have served as a general products store, but
on the weekend and in the evenings, stools were placed along the outside
of the counter and a few tables were set in the middle of the dusty
floor. There were perhaps thirty men in the makeshift bar when Apollo and
the others entered; most of them were drinking a thick black beer popular
in the Frontier because of availability and price. The few drinkers who
favored wine or ambrosa were obviously municipal employees. The rest were
agro-workers, proud in the battered clothes and ill-maintained beards.
     Apollo and Tyger were conspicuous in their Receptive tans, made more
obvious by Jolly's sober Corporeal blues. The three men found a spot at
the counter, aware of the eyes of the settlers upon them as they ordered
ambrosa from a dour-faced bartender. As he handed them their mugs and
accepted their cubits, the bartender asked in a low, urgent voice,
"What're you fellows doing here? Trying to get yourselves mashed? If
you're looking for trouble, you've found it, y'know."
     Apollo shook his head. "We just want ambrosa, friend. That's all."
     The bartender shrugged and turned away. "Trouble?" Apollo asked.
     "You wouldn't want to know, boy, " Tyger told him.
     "You feel something?" Apollo asked the Sagitarian; the other man
nodded, his jaws taut with tension. Jolly glanced from one to the other,
his features registering concern.
     "Maybe we'd better remove ourselves," he said. Apollo sipped at his
ambrosa, shaking his head.
     "I don't think it's directed at us," the Cork said calmly. "I
scanned this place before we came in. There's tension, all right, but we
aren't part of it. Not directly."
     "We could've gotten falling down drunk on board the Galactica,
Apollo, if that's what you brought us here for," Tyger said.
     Apollo sighed. He pushed his empty mug across the counter to the
bartender, who refilled it, expressionlessly. "You've know the Commander
for quite a while, haven't you, Tyger?"
     "I know what you're thinking, Apollo, and yes, he's had that
psiblock for as long as I've known him. It never seemed important to
me---not an aggressive thing, y'know. Something passive."
     Apollo digested this and turned to Jolly. "What's your opinion of
the Commander?"
     "He's the Commander? What else should I think about him?"
     "Doesn't he seem odd to you?"
     "I haven't seen many ship's officers, Apollo. How's he supposed to
be odd?"
     The Cork shook his head. He drank a bit of his ambrosa. "I can't
explain it if you haven't noticed it," he said.
     "Is this why you asked us out here? To talk about the Commander
behind his back?"
     "I'm afraid so, Jolly. I was afraid he'd hear us if we'd talked
aboard the ship."
     "You don't mean that, do you Apollo?" Jolly stared at him, a
half-smile playing at his lips.
     "Yes, I mean it," Apollo said. "I don't pretend he's listening to us
in our cabins, nothing like that. But he has spies. Or at least someone
in the crew who's close to him, and who's helped him erect that
psiblock."
     Tyger's forehead creased. "Who do you think is responsible for the
Commander's block?"
     "Nephicroran," Apollo said blandly.
     Jolly almost choked on his ambrosa. "The Engineer? But why? I don't
understand, Apollo----why would the Engineer do something like that to
the Commander?"
     "Not to him," Apollo said. "For him." He explained what he'd seen
during the expedition of some days earlier, finishing with, "There's
something the Commander doesn't want anyone to know, and whatever it is,
he has to hide it so thoroughly no Receptive can reach it---not even his
Cork. He needs a psiblock, but he's a Corporeal, so he can't make one
himself; it has to be done for him. Who's the one man on the ship that's
known the Commander longest, who's closest to him, and whom the Commander
allows in his mind during a survey? Nephicroran. Our Engineer. He's the
only one to have gotten past that block as far as I know. Bottom line:
he's got to be the man behind it."
     "You might've said something there, Apollo," the Sagitarian said,
setting his mug down on the counter with a click. "But so what? What does
it matter?"
     "It matters to me," Apollo answered, "because it means I'm close to
learning why the Commander killed my brother."
     "Killed?" Jolly said the word softly. He was sweating, and under his
wavy black-brown hair his face was pale, his forehead wrinkled in a deep
frown.
     "Well what else would you call it?"
     "But killed----" Jolly shook his head. "I suppose you know what
you're saying," Apollo. But why are you saying it to us?"
     "I may need a little a help," Apollo said.
     "You're thinking we can find out things for you about Nephicroran
and the Commander, and that Nephicroran won't think of probing our minds.
Is that it?" Tyger smiled. His eyes glistened in the dim light.
     "Essentially," Apollo said. "I can block off any probing from
Nephicroran or anyone else, but doing that limits me. I don't really
think I'll need either of you in a pinch, but it'll simplify things
having you around."
     The other two men glanced at each other. Tyger's gaze went back to
Apollo first. "I'll do what I can, Apollo. It may not be much."
     "Me too," Jolly added. "Like I said before: I owe you."
     Apollo nodded. "Fine," he said. "Let's get another round of
ambrosa."

******************************

     Approaching them, the settler seemed smaller than he was; his body
moved in a shuffle, one shoulder dripping, rising, the other repeating
the motion, both hands stuffed shyly into the large pockets on the front
of his dusty suit, tousled hair falling over a grainy face. He stopped a
short distance from the three shipmates and looked them over, tilting his
head back to free his eyes from his ragged bangs. He let his gaze linger
on Jolly. Then he looked at Apollo, catching the Receptive's eye. "You
two from the ship? One that just landed?"
     "We all are," Apollo said. The settler nodded and frowned down at
his hands.
     "First ship in six sectars," he said. "First Colonial ship."
     "There weren't many people to meet us at the spacedrome," Apollo
said. He waited for the settler to comment, and then he went on
explaining, "Usually in small settlements like this, people come to see
the crew down. To hear the news. That sort of thing."
     "Bluff ain't 'that sort of' world, mister. We've been a little cold
around here, past six sectars. Past six yahrens, actually."
     "But you're here," Jolly pointed out. "You're interested."
     The settler ignored him. "Staying long?" he asked Apollo.
     "Another two or three centons, at least."
     "Think it'd be a good idea if you left."
     "Why?" Apollo asked. Tyger touched the Cork's elbow, but Apollo
shrugged away. He watched the settler's eyes, which were still fixed on
his hands.
     "Because you're a Colonial, mister. And Colonials ain't welcome much
'round here no more."
     Jolly coughed. Apollo paid no attention to the Corporeal's nervous
hint; he continued to face the settler, coldly. "You've got something
against the Colonies----Sire---?" He paused, waiting for the small man to
supply a name. He noticed that the room around them had grown quiet and
that all eyes were aimed in their direction. Feet shifted almost
inaudibly. A burly man in brown overalls cleared his throat noisily. The
tension in the room deepened.
     "My name's none of your business, mister," the settler said. "And I
ain't no Colonial Sire neither. Told you, Colonials ain't welcome 'round
here. That was a friendly warning, human-to-human. Told myself I'd do
that much. Ain't gotta do much more." The vague look vanished from the
settler's face. His hand came up and brushed the hair back from his eyes.
Lean, hard features; the thin slash of a mouth, the black of squinting
eyes.
     "We didn't come here for trouble," Apollo said.
     "Then get outta here now," the man said, "and take your friend with
you."
     Jolly's mouth worked, but before the portly Corporeal could speak,
Tyger cut in. "What's wrong with our friend that's not wrong with us?"
     The settler's facial muscles jerked into an expression that mixed
distaste and pity. "You were born like you are, mister, can't help being
the way you're being. But him, he can, and he's sitting with you,
drinking with you. He knows what he's doing ain't right."
     "What's he doing?" Apollo asked. Beside him, Jolly began to speak,
but was stopped by Tyger. The three of them stared at the settler, who
leaned over to spit between the Corporeal's legs.
     "Being with you," the small man said.
     Tyger grunted. "Are you going to wait on this one, too?" he asked
Apollo. The Cork shook his head. Both he and the Sagitarian moved forward
in a single motion. The settler went back over the bar, into the far
shelf of bottles and glasses, sending them flying in a dozen directions.
With a cry, the other colonists lunged forward and the fracas began.
     Within moments, Apollo found himself at the center of a twisted
bundle of arms and legs. He snapped his knee up, heard someone on top of
him cry out in agony, and slipped through the path the injured settler's
form provided when it collapsed out of the way. Across from him, Tyger
was dodging the wild swings of a middle-aged agro-worker in faded
coveralls; the older man held the arm of a chair in his fist, and was
brandishing it at the Sagitarian with no attempt at aiming. Several times
the end of a swing connected with one of the settler's colleagues, but
the man seemed unaware of the effect his blows were having. The room was
in an uproar. Two of the lanterns fell from their niches, and half of the
bar was swallowed in darkness. Apollo searched for Jolly, but was unable
to find the Corporeal visually. One particular tangle of settlers looked
promising, and he plunged toward it, opening his mind to draw in the
young man's thoughts.
     Panic. Pure, hysterical fear.
     Reacting as a Cork, Apollo slipped into Jolly's thoughts, made an
attempt to soothe the young man's fears, to help Jolly gain control of
himself. Instead, he discovered himself slipping into a psilock, however:
where the link with Serina had paralyzed him, this one freed him in some
way. Where before he'd found himself enveloped by emotions he didn't
understand, he now felt balanced on the end of a psychic lever attached
to Jolly. It was a true psilock symbiosis. He was in control. Jolly was
in control. The two of them thought with the same mind.
     Now, Jolly! Bring your leg up, twist it around his knee. Hard,
now...now, now, now! Hard!
     There was a crack that was audible across the room. The tangle of
bodies broke apart suddenly, exposing Jolly, lying half across and half
under a man whose leg was twisted at an impossible angle. Jolly's face
was white with terror, but there was also a quiet awareness in his eyes.
He pushed the broken man off him, thrust himself to his feet, whirled in
time to avoid the fist of a gaunt man with bulging eyes, ducked and
grabbed the man by the arm, jerked him over the shoulder and slung him
into three men who were rushing Tyger. All four went down with a
simultaneous grunt.
     To your left, Apollo.
     Leaning aside, Apollo felt a form driving past him. A crash
thundered to his right, chairs splintering as the settler completed his
dive by landing in their midst.
     The fight ended quickly. Once Jolly and Apollo linked the settlers
had no defense against the two of them, or against Tyger, who fought like
a madman. Less than ten mili-centons after it started, the brawl was
over. Apollo and his two shipmates found themselves alone in the pub,
surrounded by the remains of wooden chairs and tables. The bartender was
gone; most of the lanterns went out: the place was in ruins.
     "Want a drink?" Apollo asked. He went behind the bar and fetched a
bottle for each of them. They drank somberly. After several seconds,
Tyger set his bottle down with a muttered curse.
     "They weren't really fighting us. They were fighting the Colonies.
And we had to hurt them. Frack, felgercarb and shit!" He looked up at
Apollo and Jolly, who were still working on their bottles. "What happened
to you two back there? One moment we were fighting as a team, the
next---" He passed. Then: "Psilink? You two?"
     Apollo nodded. Tyger raised his eyebrows. "Fine," he said. He took
another pull on his ambrosa, set it down a mili-centon later. "Are we
still together on this Nephicroran thing? Yes?" Apollo said they were,
and Tyger shrugged. He seemed colder than he'd been earlier, more
distant. Finishing off the last of his drink, he tossed the bottle over
his shoulder. It shattered on the floor, glass scattering in a rough
circle around a pool of dark liquid. "Fine," he said again. "I'll see you
back at the ship."
     Apollo and Jolly watched him leave. Then Apollo took a credit slip
out of his pocket----a standard chit worth about several hundred Colonial
cubits----and placed it on the counter where it could be found. Two more
bottles disappeared from under the bar. Skirting the wreckage, the
shipmates left through the wide-open door.
     On their way back to the ship much later that evening, they met the
Cook. He was returning from the market section of town, which Apollo and
Jolly had bypassed during their wandering because of its lights and
activity, and he was pushing a cart that was filled with brown-and-green
vegetables and several kegs of a sweet-smelling liquid he called milk.
Apollo and Jolly took turns helping him push the cart until they reached
the ship.
     At midnight, the Galactica lifted off for the planet Yaruyome; all
hands were aboard.

**************************************************************

Chapter Six
Ninth Sectar, second Day,
Colonial Yahren: 7364
 
     In his quarters during the last few centons before they would reach
the planet, the Commander briefed his officers on the situation they
would encounter on Yaruyome. Apparently, the settlement was in active
rebellion, the settlers seizing much of the main port area, a few of the
Colonial holdings in the main community, Australona, and were in the
process of attacking the planet's Colonial Administrative Office as the
Galactica approached. Rigel, the Communications agent, had received this
information earlier in the day, as well as certain instructions, which
the Commander now relayed. The Galactica was to land at the Australona
spacedrome, and its officers were to make every effort to rescue the
Colonial agent held there under siege. The agent's name was Hammerwolf.
More than this, the Commander didn't think his officers needed to know.
They were dismissed.

******************************

     In the corridor outside the Commander's quarters, Apollo approached
Rigel for further information. Her pet eyed him with luminous orbs as
Rigel turned and blinked at him; Apollo was surprised to discover she was
crying. She brushed a hand over her face, blinked again, calming herself.
"I left Yaruyome fifteen yahrens ago, Apollo," she told him. "It used to
be my home once, but I don't know what it's like now. I always thought we
Yaruyomese were a quiet tribe, frankly. I don't know what to make of
this."
     "Do you have family down there?" Apollo asked. He gestured a
greeting at the Cook, who was passing them, and the other man lifted a
hand, went on, leaving Apollo walking with Rigel and Nephicroran, who
didn't seem to notice them in front of him.
     "Just my sister. She's probably not there anymore, though."
     "What's the planet itself like, Rigel? I like to know that sort of
thing."
     "It's an easy planet for those who understand it, Apollo. Good soil,
better than Virgon, better than Caprica. I've never felt soil like it
anywhere. The winters are long, but the yahrens are almost half again as
long as Standard: there's time for a big harvest, warm summers. It's a
nice world, Apollo."
     "And the people?"
     "Fifteen yahrens; I don't know them anymore. But when I was there,
they were a hard lot. It was strange," Rigel said, turning her head to
gaze at him through the graying bangs of her hair; her pet started at him
also. "An easy planet, but the hardest people I've ever known. The
Colonial administration made them that way. We would draw in several
lexars of Spippa---it's a kind of wheat that grows in stalks, close to
the ground---and the Colonies would take most of it in interest payment
on the land, the tools and the transportation to the planet.
Second-generation Yaruyomese were still paying off their parent's
emigration fees. Paying for the privilege of supporting twelve greedy
planets."
     Her anger touched Apollo's mind. He closed it off. "Sounds as though
you haven't changed much in fifteen yahrens."
     "I have," she said. "Yes. I used to hate the Colonies a great deal
more. But I learned something every Yaruyomese knows in his own way. If
you want to survive, you have to play the Colonial game."
     She left him. Apollo watched her turn a bend in the corridor and
disappear. The last he saw of her was her pet, leaning off her shoulder
to peer at Apollo until she carried him from view.
     "Ready for another game, Apollo?" Nephicroran asked him. The
Engineer slipped in beside the Cork, matching his long stride to
Apollo's. When Apollo said no, Nephicroran laughed. "Pity," he said. "I
enjoyed beating you. Commander's the only worthwhile player aboard and he
can't leave his Set when the ship's in Drive. Pity you won't play."
     They fell silent, continuing to stroll down the main corridor toward
the Crew's Mess. Apollo paced the lumbering Engineer, letting his mind
relax until external sensations were dim shadows just lightly touching
his brain. Inside, his mind opened, the portion of it that acted as a
Cork maintaining its efforts as another portion separated and drifted in
a gentle probe toward Nephicroran. Apollo felt the fringe of the
Engineer's mind, the anxieties naturally present in any ship officer,
combined with the less natural disorder derived from Nephicroran's
position as Engineer, the irregularities of personality shifting on this
inner sea. He probed deeper, past the level he usually touched as
Cork---and found resistance to his probe.
     Quickly he backed off. Something had touched him when he'd tried to
slip past Nephicroran's conscious level. Apollo paused, thinking. Another
psilock? It was possible, but---
     He tried again, extending a probe around the area of his initial
attack. He met the same resistance he'd encountered before. It was a
psiblock, and an efficient one at that. Most of Nephicroran's
subconscious was cut off to Apollo's probing and it was done in such a
way that Nephicroran's consciousness was unaware of the barrier within
his brain. Which meant that the block had been erected by the Engineer's
subconscious, or by a conscious order that had been consumed in the
psiblock's inception. There was no way for an outside mind to discover
what Nephicroran was trying to hide.
     Warily, Apollo withdrew his probe. He glanced at the Engineer, but
the man gave no sign of having noticed either the Cork's probe or its
removal. He can't know what's happening, Apollo thought. He can't be
responsible for the Commander's block...Yet there it was, the Engineer's
own psychic barrier: why did it exist, if not to conceal Nephicroran's
culpability in fixing the Commander's psiblock? It had to be
Nephicroran's defense against Apollo; when he'd realized what the Cork
planned, the Engineer must have sought a way to protect himself----and
his own psiblock was the result.
     What else could it be? Apollo wondered.
     "Maybe a game later," he said quietly. Nephicroran brightened,
looking up from his feet, which he'd been studying as he walked. "Good,"
he said. "I'd like that."

******************************

     Leaving Nephicroran outside the rejuvenation center, Apollo tucked
his hands into the loops of his shipboard jump suit and went on down the
corridor toward the Library. He was barely aware of the rumblings of the
ship around him; the sounds seemed removed, and he knew it was because
he'd sectioned his mind in order to probe Nephicroran. He didn't mind the
resulting alienation from the physical world; in a way it was relaxing.
The pressures on board the Galactica were beginning to get to him, and he
was glad for whatever relief he could find. It made his load as a Cork
easier to bear.
     He stepped through a hatchway and stopped. Jakar stood before him,
blocking his path.
     Gradually, Apollo realized that the Sagitarian was speaking to him;
it took the Cork a moment to tune back to awareness and he did so
regretfully. "Talk, please talk now?" Jakar was saying. He was clearly
agitated; his face was pale, his eyes bloodshot and wide, his hands
moving toward Apollo's jump suit and away, as though he couldn't decide
whether to force himself on the Cork or not.
     "I can't," Apollo told the burly Sagitarian. "I've got something I
have to do."
     "Please, you can tell him, tell him please. Wants to kill me. Jolly
says you stop him, please stop him. Apollo, don't want hurt, no more,
please?" Jakar's head bobbed on his reddened neck. He was close to total
panic, Apollo saw. He laid a hand on the Sagitarian's shoulder and
squeezed reassuringly.
     "Everything'll be all right," he told him. "I just can't talk to you
now. Later."
     "No, no," Jakar said. His voice seemed to jerk out of him. "Don't
understand, you. Thinks I told warriors about him, his brothers, sisters,
parents, thinks I told. All years thinks I killed them. But wasn't me,
Apollo, tell him that. My father, he told the warriors, I didn't,
wouldn't----tell Tyger that, Apollo, my father, not me----tell him---"
The Sagitarian's mouth worked and his arm twisted out of Apollo's grasp.
His eyes squeezed shut in pain, his face turning red. Apollo grabbed
Jakar's hand quickly and snapped the big man around, spinning him so he
struck the far wall. For a moment, Jakar didn't move. He leaned against
the corridor wall, breathing heavily through his nose, his body calming
and coming under his control. Finally his eyes opened and he stared past
Apollo, slowly focusing and shifting his gaze until it touched the Cork.
His breathing became more regular.
     "You nearly broke again that time," Apollo said. "If I hadn't done
that, you would have. You've got to relax, Jakar. For your own good,
you've got to force Tyger out of your mind. He's changed. He won't hurt
you. I wish I could make that clearer to you, but I've got some things of
my own I've got to do. Relax now. We'll talk later."
     "Apollo, please---"
     The Cork stopped. He was already several meters down-corridor from
the Sagitarian, but he could still hear Jakar's ragged breathing, still
feel the fear running out of the man. He shook his head. "I'm sorry,
Jakar. It's something you'll have to handle yourself." He started walking
again. "I've got other things to do."
     Jakar cried out once more, but the Cork had ceased to hear.

******************************

     Like most mentalstar libraries the room was small, scarcely large
enough for Apollo to move around in. The walls were bare except for the
console and the stool protruding from the machine's base. Apollo sat down
and punched out the identity code of his Contract as a ship officer,
which would open the ship's entire memory bank to his scrutiny. As a
Receptive he'd never thought he'd need to resort to the Library
records----but so many minds were closed to him he knew he'd have to gain
the information he needed by any means possible. The code light came on.
The Library was activated. He punched out the call letters for the
personnel files, feeling oddly unclean and uneasy. The file codes and
names appeared on the display screen and he ran through them until he
found the file he wanted.

The Commander's.

DATE OF BIRTH: SEVENTH SECTAR TWELFTH DAY, COLONIAL YAHREN 7317

PLACE OF BIRTH: TATHAR SETTLEMENT, PLANET ATATAREI NONUS (COLONIAL
FRONTIER)

SPECIAL NOTE: IN 7321 ATATAREI NONUS DESTROYED BY DISEASE. BACTERIA SINCE
IDENTIFIED AS MUTANT BACILLUS EXIGUOBACTERIUM. SUBJECT AND SIX OTHER
SURVIVORS SINCE INNOCULATED. NO LONGER CARRIERS.

EDUCATION: EDUCATED COLONIAL ACADEMY IN CAPRICA CITY, CAPRICA FROM 7321
TO 7333. GRADUATED ADMINISTRATIVE SCHOOOL, MAXIMUM HONORS. ALL RECEPTIVE
PROBES NEGATIVE: PSYCHIC OUTPUT MINIMAL.

SERVICE RECORD: FROM 7333 TO 7334, SUBJECT ACTIVE ON COLONIAL MENTALSTAR
COLUMBIA, OUT OF CAPRICA CITY SPACEDROME. 7333 TO 7337 SERVED AS
ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT. RECEIVED COMMISSION FIRST MATE 7342. IN 7343
TRANSFERRED TO NEWLY COMMISSIONED VESSEL OUT OF VIRGON SPACEDROME:
GALACTICA, 7346. ASSUMED COMMAND GALACTICA FOLLOWING DEATH OF PREVIOUS
COMMANDER.

PHYSICAL STATISTICS: SUBJECT HEIGHT: 187.96 CENT-METRONS. SUBJECT WEIGHT:
81.648 KILOGRONS. SUBJECT DIMEN---

     The rest was useless to Apollo. Most of it was a record of the
Commander's physical health, which was good, and his mental stability,
which, as far as Apollo could tell from the official records, had never
come into question. There was a brief record of the investigation that
followed Zac's death. It was pretty much as the Commander had told Apollo
during their first meeting.

----ACTED IN ACCORDANCE WITH HIS UNDERSTANDING OF COLONIAL LAW, AND IN
CONSIDERATION OF THIS (the transcript of the investigation went) THE
TRIBUNAL WISHES TO DROP ALL CHARGES AGAINST HIM, TO COMMEND HIM FOR HIS
INENTION, AND TO CENSURE HIM FOR A LACK OF SUFFICIENT INQUIRY INTO THE
BACKGROUND AND EXPERIENCE OF CONTRACTED CORK ZAC----

     There was more, but Apollo didn't read it. 
     He now turned to the file on Nephicroran.


DATE OF BIRTH: NINTH SECTAR, TENTH DAY, COLONIAL YAHREN 7309

PLACE OF BIRTH: CAPRICA CITY, CAPRICA

EDUCATION: CENTRAL CAPRICA EDUCATION CENTER, 7314-7324. RECEPTIVE PROBES
POSITIVE.

SERVICE RECORD: ENTERED COLONIAL WARRIOR CORPS ON CAPRICA 7325.
TRANSFERRED OFF--PLANET 7327 TO COLONIAL BARRACKS WORLD ON SAGITARA.
PROMOTED TO WARRIOR ENGINEER EARLY 7328. SECOND SECTAR, THIRTHEENTH DAY.
ACTED IN BEHALF OF COLONIES DURING SAGITARA POLICE ACTION, FOURTH SECTAR,
TWENTY-SECOND DAY, 7328, TO SEVENTH SECTAR, THIRTEENTH DAY, 7328. TOOK
SERVICE FOR TRADE AND CHARTING VESSELS ON EIGHTH SECTAR, FIRST DAY, 7328,
TO SEVENTH SECTAR, THIRTY-FIRST DAY, 7334. RENEWED TERM CONTRACT TWICE,
EIGHTH SECTAR, FIRST DAY, 7334, TO SEVENTH SECTAR, THIRTY-FIRST DAY,
7335, AND EIGHT SECTAR, FIRST DAY, 7335, TO SIXTH SECTAR, TWELFTH DAY,
7336. RENEWED FULL CONTRACT FOURTH SECTAR, EIGHTH DAY, 7341. SHIPS
SERVED: PACIFICA (7328 TO 7330), PEGASUS (7330 TO 7334), RYKON (7334 TO
7336), COLUMBIA (7341 TO 7343), AND GALACTICA (7343---)

PHYSICAL STATISTICS: SUBJECT HEIGHT: 195.58 CENTIMETRONS. SUBJECT WEIGHT:
113.4 KILOGRONS. SUBJE----

     Apollo skimmed Nephicroran's file. He looked for some contact with
the Commander previous to the Columbia, but found nothing. Nephicroran's
filed was more detailed than the Commander's, obviously, because the man
had lived longer. Both the Commander and the Engineer had lived lives
almost devoid of major incidents, apart from the Commander's early loss
and the Engineer's enlistment as a Colonial warrior---and even these
things were not unusual in the Colonial society. Apollo's own life had
been spiced with moments that pained him. They meant nothing, though,
because they'd happened to everyone, and would happen to him again. He
studied the screen, thinking. His hand drifted to the console, dropped,
and keyed out the code for Serina.


DATE OF BIRTH: ELEVENTH SECTAR, SEVENTEENTH DAY: COLONIAL YAHREN 7321

PLACE OF BIRTH: OLD SENZAVAEA, TAURON

EDUCATION: NO FORMAL EDUCATION. ALL RECEPTIVE PROBES NEGATIVE.

SERVICE RECORD: CORPOREAL CONTRACT SIGNED EIGHTH MONTH, SIXTEENTH DAY,
7337 IN PELAVAS, TAURON. SHIPPED ABOARD PEGASUS FROM EIGHTH MONTH,
SIXTEENTH DAY, 7337, TO SECOND MONTH, FOURTH DAY, 7342, WHEN CRIPPLED
DURING PLANETARY EXPEDITION. PENSIONED ON VIRGON. CONTRACT RENEWED
GALACTICA EIGHTH MONTH, SEVENTH DAY, 7346.

PHYSICAL STATISTICS: SUBJECT HEIGHT: 177.8. C.M. SUBJECT WEIGHT: 53.52
KILOGRO----

     Apollo shut off the console and got to his feet. He knew little more
than he'd known when he'd entered the Library, and the little he'd
learned was next to useless. The files weren't designed to answer
questions about motivation; they were simply required to list the
crewmember's vital statistics. He'd have to look elsewhere for his
answers, he knew.
     But where?

******************************

     "Apollo, did you hear what I asked you? I wanted to know if we'd be
going down to Yaruyome together."
     "I don't think that'd be a very good idea, Serina. Considering what
happened last time.
     "That wouldn't happen again...would it?"
     "I'd rather not find out. We're going to have a hard enough time
down there without adding problems. I can't take the chance."
     "I said I was sorry."
     "No. That's not good enough, Serina. Besides, I never said I
accepted your apology, did I?"
     "You don't want to have to worry about me, is that it?"
     "Serina..."
     "Apollo, do you know what you're doing to me?"
     "You're not making any sense."
     "I'm not making any sense? I thought you wanted me. I let you take
me, I trusted you...and you're not willing to take a chance. And you
don't understand why I..." She turned away from him, sitting up on the
edge of his bunk. "You're making me feel the way I felt when I waited for
you at the spacedrome three yahrens ago. I wanted to explain, but you
never gave me a chance. The way you'd treated me, I wanted to get even
with you. So I brought a customer in and waited until I knew you'd be
coming back to the apartment----I wanted to hurt you, because you----"
She broke off again. "I knew it was a mistake to start with you again,
from the first, I knew it was a mistake."
     "Listen."
     "Don't touch me. Not just now. Let me alone, a mili-centon."
     "All right."
     She fumbled in the pocket of her jump suit, pulled out a rectangular
palm-sized box, and opened it. She sat cross-legged on the end of the
bed; Apollo could see the twisted hump of her ankle and arch where it
rested on her thigh. She managed to pull a fumarello free of the box and
twisted the end to light it. Smoke hovered near her face a moment then
drifted away.
     Watching her, Apollo waited for her to speak.
     She didn't.

******************************

     The main port of Yaruyome was on the outskirt of the central
community, Australona. The shuttle settled down with a minimum of fuss,
the snow on the pad evaporating into steam as the turbos' heat preceded
the vessel onto the field. A moment passed, the steam faded, swirled away
on the heels of the wind that swayed the stubby ship, and the hatch
cycled open. Leading his men, the Commander swung out and down the
ladder, dropping to the surface several meters from the scorched
vanlithminium directly under the ship.
     The field was empty, the buildings that made up the spacedrome
seemingly deserted. Apollo dropped down beside the Commander, followed by
Jolly and then Nephicroran. Tyger and Lesi brought up the rear.
     Together they entered the main spacedrome building, a tower that
looked as though it'd been cut from a single slab of stone. Windows
opened onto the field, each window several metrons high, four or five
metrons wide. The light from outside was the only light available inside
the spacedrome building, and it leaked across the wide empty floor in
pale yellow rectangles. There were shadows everywhere, behind every
column and post, and behind each of the six crewmembers. Apollo listened
to their footsteps; they were the only sound in the port.
     They came to an exit, stepped out into the street.
     Alleys and sidewalks; cobbled streets; the facades for a dozen
different architectural styles. It was a spacedrome like any spacedrome,
but in one major feature it was different. It was empty.
     "Well, Commander?" Apollo asked. "What now?"
     Casting about, the Commander indicated a direction. His breath came
in white vapor as he spoke. "Hammerwolf's office is that way, according
to our information. We'll find him there, if anywhere."
     The street curved ahead of them, swinging down toward the center of
the city and a plaza that was visible beyond the roofs of the buildings,
which were farther away. As he strode beside the Commander, careful to
avoid the patches of ice that spotted the street, Apollo let his mind
roam the buildings on either side of the cobbled road. He could sense the
presence of many minds, men and women standing behind the curtains and
shades of the windowed buildings, children crouched in corners, all
listening to the passage of the Galactica's landing team. Apollo read a
mixture of emotions, most of it ingrown and self-directed. Fear was
present, and anger, and a slow, corroding resentment that was vaguely
directed at the men striding down the street. Apollo pulled away; he
didn't like what he'd seen. He glanced at Jolly beside him; the Corporeal
kept stumbling over cobbles and bumping into Apollo. The Cork wondered if
he'd made an error in bringing Jolly along. He thought not---but he'd
have to wait and see.
     The Commander halted at an intersection. The others waited as he
examined the buildings that met at the crossing. Finally he nodded and
gestured at a structure that was set between two older, smaller
buildings. The Colonial office and quarters. Apollo recognized its
utilitarian form.
     "Apollo and Jolly, around the side. Tyger, Lesi...the rear. You and
I will take the front Nephicroran."
     The teams split and went to their posts. Jolly clutched at Apollo's
sleeve to stop himself from falling as the two men took their position
outside the alley door. "Sorry," he said, mumbling. "Do you think we'll
have any trouble?"
     "What do you think?" Apollo answered. Jolly didn't bother to reply.
     A sound came to them from the front of the building. Something
splintered and crashed inward. Glass rained musically inside the
building, followed by a shout and the dull whut! of numos. Apollo tensed,
feeling the wave of emotions sweeping toward him as someone clattered
down a flight of stairs, running for the alley door.
     They're coming, Apollo thought.
     Where? I don't see them.
     Wait, Apollo told the Corporeal. Wait.
     Abruptly the door over them bulged and flew open. Two figures
slammed out, stumbling over the shipmates crouched below them. Apollo
straightened, grabbing one of the two men by the collar of a furred vest,
lifting the man and throwing him through the back through the door into
the building. He felt Jolly's disorientation and calmed the Corporeal,
guiding the younger man into a smooth kick that shattered the second
man's jaw. Without speaking, Apollo and Jolly lunged over the doorsill
and into the hallway beyond.
     Down there, Apollo thought. I'll go this way.
     They parted. Jolly, half-stumbling down the steps of the basement,
Apollo proceeding onto the main floor.
     Brushing back the hair from his eyes, Apollo surveyed the scene. ON
his right and left, Tyger and Lesi were struggling with three or four men
each; the movements of the two men were graceful in their lack of wasted
effort, neither making a motion that seemed out of placed or forced. They
drifted from posture to posture, ducking and dodging. Lesi trying to
throw an attacker off balance, Tyger ramming his weight into a man's
chest, the two halves of the psilink moving in a give and take dance. It
was a perfect lock.
     Directly before Apollo, however, was the Commander. Nephicroran was
nowhere around. A man dressed in a loose-fitting tunic and baggy shorts
had his arm around the Commander's neck, and was tightening his grip as
Apollo watched, paralyzed. Somehow, the Commander got his legs under him,
managed to bring his weight to bear, and thrust. The former First Mate
snapped forward, dragging his attacker off the ground, swinging him with
startling speed until the Yaruyomese was thrown from the older man's
shoulders like a length of rag. The tunic wearer struck the near wall and
fell.
     The Commander straightened and saw Apollo standing in the doorway.
"Come with me, Apollo." Without waiting for a reply, the older man
sprinted for the archway that opened into an oval chamber dominated by a
dusty conference table. Apollo ran after him, his heart pounding with a
mixture of excitement and fear, a delicious feeling of confidence and
vulnerability.
     Another arch broke the wall ahead of him. He ducked through; saw the
Commander's vanishing form as the man went up a flight of steps three at
a time. There were sounds of a scuffle overhead. Apollo took the stairs
in three bounds.
     Darkness greeted him when he reached the landing. To his left a dim
light glowed, barely enough to affect the gloom. Apollo glanced around.
The Commander was gone, the hallway was empty, but one of the doors at
the end of the passage was half-open. The Cork started toward it, and as
he did he saw something move in the opening, a splash of soft light upon
metal.
     He hit the ground as the energy bolt lashed the wall above him,
burning a scar deep into the vanlithminium. In a single motion he came to
his feet and slammed shoulder first against the partly open door,
crashing into a room filled with struggling figures. Apollo didn't wait
to identify who was fighting whom; he drove into the settler holding the
weapon he'd seen glinting through the door. The man doubled as Apollo's
fist whipped into his stomach; he fell as Apollo cracked the side of his
skull with the edge of his hand.
     It was a computer room, Apollo realized. The tall machines ranged
along three of the walls, the consoles hulking in the center of the
chamber. Between the consoles men were moving in a rapidly paced ballet.
One of the men was the Commander; another was Nephicroran. The others
were strangers to Apollo.
     "Over here, young man----" Against one of the machines a shadow
moved. "Over here, please, I'm here----"
     Apollo went quickly to the agent's side. The Colonial man was lying
in an uncomfortable-looking heap, legs twisted at an odd angle under him,
his head moving weakly, gray-bearded face turning to stare at Apollo as
the Cork squatted. "It's my legs, you see," Colonial agent Hammerwolf
said apologetically. "They're broken."
     Apollo saw. After a moment, he nodded. "We'll get you out of here,
Sire Hammerwolf. Don't worry."
     "I'm not worried," the old man said. "Just hurry, young man. Will
you do that, please? " The agent's pale cheeks trembled. "I'm afraid I'm
in a great deal of pain..."
     Swinging around, Apollo picked out a settler and hurt him.
     Badly.

******************************

     "Is he all right?" Serina asked as she and Apollo watched two
Corporeals maneuver Hammerwolf into the corridor of the mentalstar. Both
Apollo and the Commander, who supervised the operation from a few metrons
away, were bare chested; their tunics had been sacrificed to the
construction of the makeshift stretcher that now bore the Colonies'
former Yaruyomese representative. The stretcher was a mili-metron short
for the old man, but Hammerwolf didn't seem to mind, though the
arrangement must've been causing him considerable agony. Apollo avoided
looking at Hammerwolf below the waist. He'd also avoided looking at the
settlers the landing team had left behind in the Colonial Office on the
planet far below.
     "He'll live," Apollo said. Serina's head came around; her gaze
pinned him.
     "You don't sound concerned," she said.
     "I'm not. Now," he added. "In fact, I'm a little bit ashamed of
myself."
     "For Sagan's sake, Apollo----why?"
     "I don't think it's something you'd understand," he told her. He
ignored the look she gave him, turned and left her with the men preparing
to bring Hammerwolf to the Life Station on the inner level. He felt her
staring after him, but he didn't really care.

******************************

Mind-drive:

     Apollo entered his cabin and stepped into the fresher cubicle. He
stayed under the cleansing radiation for several minutes, wishing for the
feel of a needle shower spray; he grown used to water as a washing agent
in the few short weeks he'd been on Virgon. He didn't even feel clean
without it.
     In the room again, he worked the mechanism that released the drawer
on his desk. Opening the flip-down lid, he pulled out the tray within and
set it on the sloped writing board. The tray was cluttered with bits of
wood in the shape of animals, crudely carved by hand, the souvenirs of
hundreds of trips to primitive worlds, the only souvenirs Apollo ever
collected. Among the carvings were several other personal items: a credit
tab, a small printed booklet with a metal clasp, a round concave mirror,
half a dozen hologram cubes---two of which were of obvious commercial
origin---a dinner bracelet, and a Contract chit.
     He picked up the chit and placed it in the player located in the
upper half of the desk console.
     "---signer swears fealty and allegiance to the Twelve Colonies of
Mankind, to the Council of Twelve, its commercial officers and
specialists, it's--"
     "---all personal and professional efforts in the Colonies' behalf,
such efforts not to exceed seventy-four days or fall below sixty----"
     "---of legal age, physical and mental competence---"
     "----for the maximum signing period of six yahrens, with options for
two terms of one yahren each at---"
     "---do so profess these statements to be true, within my
understanding and----"
     "----Zac, second-born son of Adama of Caprica---
     "----Contract reassigned---"
     "---Zac."
     He played the disk twice more, his eyes closed and his hands resting
flat on the top of the console. When the disk finished its third
run-through, he removed it from the player and slid the tray home. He
slammed the flip-down lid shut. He sat silently, his hands clenching
until his fingers became mottle with pressure and obstructed blood, and
then he relaxed, remained motionless for several seconds, finally left.

******************************

Mind-drive:

     Jolly caught up with him on the outer deck, one level below the skin
of the ship. He clutched the Cork's sleeved, tried to pull him around.
Apollo jerked away and continued walking.
     "Apollo, it's about Jakar----"
     "Not now, Jolly," Apollo said.
     "He needs your help, Apollo. He's really afraid of Tyger---and
frankly so am I. You owe him---"
     "Goddammit, Jolly----I said not now!"
     The portly Corporeal gaped at him, his mouth working as he tried to
comprehend Apollo's anger. "I'm sorry, Apollo---I just---"
     Apollo didn't listen. He continued walking, leaving Jolly standing
near a port window, the glow from Ur space giving the Corporeal's face a
pallid cast. Jolly stayed there, watching the Cork until Apollo stepped
into a lift tube, dropped and was gone.

**************************************************************

Chapter Seven
Ninth Sectar, Tenth Day,
Colonial Yahren: 7364

     A sectan after the incident on Yaruyome, the Galactica touched port
at Annaran, on Trysatta, where Hammerwolf was to be transferred to the
main Colonial medical facility. While the rest of the mentalstar's crew
went into the city for the weekend, Apollo found a room on the outskirts
of the industrial district and locked himself in with a keg of beer and
several large bottles of ambrosa.
     Two days later he paid off his landlord---a stubby settler who eyed
the cubits in Apollo's hand with obvious avarice---and walked the
half-mile to the Receptive District. He'd accomplished his purpose in
renting the room and going on a binge: his senses---inner and
outer----were so dulled he doubted his ability to find his way back to
his ship. In fact, he half hoped he wouldn't.
     He came across Jolly and the Cook in an ill-lit tavern two blocks
from the port buildings. Both men were drinking ambrosa, sitting in a
narrow booth in the rear of the low-ceilinged room. They saw Apollo
before he saw them, and the Cook went up to him as the Cork ordered at
the bar. "You OK, Apollo?" Apollo started, glanced around. Finally he
nodded and sipped at his drink, guiding a cubit across the counter to the
bartender, who clawed at it and slipped it out of sight. The Cook watched
Apollo's arm.
     "Listen, why don't you sit down over here with Jolly and me, hey,
Apollo? We've been looking for you. Where were you, hey?"
     "Around," Apollo said. He allowed the Cook to pull him to the booth
where Jolly was sitting, and sat down at the small gray man's urging.
     "How've you been, Apollo?" Jolly asked.
     Apollo said something noncommittal. "The Commander's given us six
days off," the Cook told him. "He's picking up some cargo in one of the
other cities, some special consignment for the Colonies. All these
special trips...not much to like about 'em, Apollo."
     "I suppose not," Apollo said.
     "Nephicroran went with the Commander," Jolly said. He lifted his
mug. "I thought you'd like to know. Nothing else has happened."
     Apollo looked up. In the darkness of the room his face was heavily
shadowed, but his two crewmates could see the lines of strain that marked
the underlids of his eyes. He frowned, bringing out other lines in his
forehead. "I'd almost forgotten," he said.
     "Why'd you go off, Apollo?" Jolly asked him. "Something that
happened on Yaruyome?"
     "I suppose," Apollo replied. "Up to that point, I'd been working for
the Colonies as I've always worked for them. It never occurred to me what
I was doing. But when we hit those men...I realized what side I'd been
fighting on."
     "I understand," Jolly said. "What do you want to do about the
Commander?"
     "The Commander?" The Cook spoke up. "Is this about your brother,
Apollo?"
     "Don't worry about it, Cook," Apollo said.
     "But I do worry, Apollo."
     "Well?" Apollo asked again.
     The Cork shrugged. "Wait until they get back. Nothing much else to
do. I'm not even sure I care. Maybe I don't want to care."
     "Sure," the young Corporeal said. "Another ambrosa?"
     Apollo shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm fine."
 
******************************

     There was a curtain across the doorway. Apollo ducked, went through
and held the drapes aside for Jolly and the Cook. Inside the room they
found several people sitting against one wall, staring into the glowing
coals of a brazier on the hardwood floor. Another group, similarly
dressed in brief shorts and long bulky tunics woven from native flax, sat
under the room's single window. Three men and two women, they rested
against one another in a circle, head on lap, head on shoulder. The
youngest of the women opened her eyes and stared at Apollo. The Cork
looked back at her: dark green eyes offsetting the red of her hair, which
was bright against her pale skin. She was conspicuous in the room, the
fairest of the Receptives present. Meeting Apollo's look with smiling
arrogance, she said, "You want to see Jakar, don't you?"
     "We were told he was here," Apollo said.
     "I'll take you to him," the girl replied.
     They followed her through another curtained arch into a hall that
ran parallel to the room they'd just left. There was a scent of something
sweet in the air that faded as they moved down the corridor and was
replaced with another odor: the bitter tang of paint. Apollo understood
why Jakar was at that commune, and he knew what they'd see when they
found the ex-Receptive. A moment later the girl slipped through a final,
uncurtained arch, and Apollo's guess was proven correct.
     Jakar was perched on a window shelf, his long legs dangling to the
floor, his hands bracing himself as he leaned forward to greet his
shipmates. He seemed transformed. His eyes were empty of fear, and his
voice when he greeted them was firm and steady. Apollo's glance went past
the Sagitarian and fixed on the man and woman kneeling in the sunken area
of the room below.
     They sat before an immense canvas, the woman's hands on the man's
shoulders, her eyes closed, her head forward and touching the back of her
partner's. He held a paint trowel delicately; its tip rested on the
surface of the canvas, at the end of a long stroke of purple. Neither the
man nor the woman moved as Apollo and the others entered. Both were
motionless as stone.
     "Quiet," Jakar whispered. His eyes were bright, flickering briefly
over Apollo, the girl, and the two Corporeals with them. "Watch: Hand and
Eye."
     Apollo squatted beside the red-haired girl who'd been their guide.
She rested on her haunches, arms folded across her knees, and chin set in
the crossing of her arms. Seeing her posture, Apollo smiled. Jolly
started to say something, but the Cook silenced him, gestured for the
Corporeal to take a seat beside Apollo on the ledge surrounding the
sunken area. Looking confused, Apollo did so.
     "Watch," Jakar said softly.
     And slowly the man began to paint.
     His hand moved up, bringing the trowel with it, in a long arc that
eventually bisected the original slash of purple. As the trowel moved,
the man's thumb lightly pressed the control set into the handle, and the
color released through the trowel's single aperture began to change:
first the purple, gently melting into blue, then to green, finally to
yellow. The man's hand trembled with the effort of maintaining the
stroke. Gradually, a shape began to take form on the canvas, shadows
bringing out the highlights of the figure, adding depth to the
background, perspective and tone with a minimum of detail. Not once did
the trowel leave the surface of the canvas. Twice the man paused and the
woman behind him moaned, almost inaudibly. The man's hand would then
shiver, a muscle would jump in his forearm, and the painting would begin
once more. A single stroke, swinging around and back and around the
canvas until a picture formed. A scene in a field, someone kneeling on a
mound of earth and grass, shoulders thrown back, head tilted to a golden
sky. The light in the picture was harsh at first, but as the painting
progressed the glow became muted, gentle. Apollo realized that the woman
was speaking. Her voice was too low for the words to be understood, but
the syllables seemed to fall in a formal meter. He listened, drawing his
attention away from the canvas with an effort. The woman's words were
modulated into one continuous moan------what was said, Apollo understood
at last, was irrelevant.
     They watched for two centons.
     When it was completed, the painting was filled with bright colors,
each of them developing out of some darker shade and building on each
other to achieve the total effect. Apollo wouldn't have been able to
fully describe the picture had he not watched it forming, for the
painting now bore no resemblance to a man in a field, kneeling or
otherwise. It merely felt like a man in a field. It felt like someone
raising his head to the sky, rising out of earth, reaching-----Apollo
couldn't have explained why he felt the way he did, looking at the
painting. He simply knew that the feeling was not an accident; it was an
effect sought and achieved by the painting's creators.
     By the Hand and Eye.

******************************

     In the room at the end of the hall, seated under the single window,
Jakar explained to Jolly what had transpired between the two painters.
     "By selves, not good, one good sense, good feeling, other hands
steady, strong. Neither paint by selves; together they paint, he holds,
she guides. Receptive, her; he's Corporeal. Hey, what's their names,
Sharan?"
     The red-haired girl handed Jakar a tray she'd filled with food, and
as he accepted it, she said, "I'm not sure what his name is, but she
calls herself Modra. She came her about a year ago, with another Hand. I
don't remember his name either, but he was a nice man. You would've liked
him, Jakar; he looked a little like you, only his hair was black and
longer than yours." She touched the Sagitarian's red man, smiling at him.
     "Are they always like this?" Jolly asked. "In contact with each
other, psilocked?"
     "No. Kidding? Burn out much faster. No. Only when painting, safe
only then. Need each other for painting, need psilock then, not before,
not after."
     "Are they lovers?" The portly Corporeal pulled a length of warm meat
from the stew he was sharing with the Cook, and dabbed it in the sauce
set on the floor next to him.
     "Lovers? Yes, no. Together, yes," Jakar said. "Close like lovers,
but maybe not so deep. Ask them if care."
     "Do you know who designed this kind of art, Apollo?" Sharan asked
the Cook. He glanced up from his own bowl of stew; he hadn't been
listening to the conversation. He found talk about psilinks disturbing at
times, especially in public. Seeing she'd gained his attention, the
red-haired girl went on. "Jakar. He did it on Sagitara, a long time ago.
Didn't you, Jakar?"
     The Sagitarian nodded, grinning shyly. The girl ran her hand over
his hair, returning his smile. "He couldn't keep it up, though," she said
finally. "Things happened. His father went into bankruptcy on Sagitara,
with Contracts still outstanding. Jakar was forced to take over the
Contracts; he had his choice of service, of course, so he chose the
mentalstars over the processing plants. That was a long time ago, wasn't
it, Jakar?"
     "Long, Sharan," Jakar said.
     "I knew him then, Apollo. I was just a girl, only about---what three
or four yahrens old?----but I knew him. My mother and he were Hand and
Eye for those first paintings. It started a whole school, with Jakar its
leading exponent and its sharpest critic. When he left, it all fell
apart. No one could guide us, tell us what to do. People stopped coming
to the shows, without Jakar to lend them authority, and pretty soon all
the cubits mother had saved were gone, and we had to leave. She
Contracted out to the Frontier. So did a few of the others. Groups of us
ended up here, on planets like Trysatta. We kept working. What else could
we do?"
     She flicked her green eyes toward Apollo. He shrugged uneasily.
     "I never thought we'd see Jakar again," Sharan said, "until two days
ago, when he walked into a pub a few blocks from here. There aren't many
men in the Frontier with hair like that. It's a dying gene. He'd changed,
but I'd expected that. I really did. Jakar; mother told me to, she knew
what the Contracts would do to you. She said you wouldn't be the same.
She was wrong."
     "Lybris," Jakar said.
     "She's dead now," Sharan told Apollo. "Four yahrens ago in a
Colonial plant."
     "Here?" the Cook asked.
     "I don't know where. The Colonial authorities wouldn't tell me."
     Jolly said quietly, looking at Jakar, "He and your mother must've
been very close."
     She smiled. "He's my father," she said.
     Apollo blinked down at the half-eaten bowl of stew resting in his
lap. He'd lost what little appetite he'd had. He didn't feel well, and he
knew why. "Jakar, I'll talk to you later," he said, and rose to his feet
unsteadily, catching himself with a hand to the concrete wall. He managed
to cross the room and escape to the outside with a minimum of difficulty.
He paused just beyond the arch and listened for a moment to make certain
none of his shipmates was about to follow. He heard Jolly ask the Cook
what was wrong, and he heard part of the Cook's reply, and then he turned
and went down the stairs to the street and out into the setting night.

******************************

     Toward morning he wandered back to the city from the outlying
suburbs. He hadn't answered any of the questions he'd felt within him,
but he had, at least, subdued them.
     The sky was splintering with dawn when he returned to the
spacedrome, found the apartment where he'd left Jakar and the others, and
rolled into one of the blanketed corners to sleep.

******************************

     The girl named Sharan woke him and gave him some food. As he ate she
asked him about the worlds he'd visited and the people he'd seen. He
found that conversation was difficult, but out of gratitude for the food
she'd prepared for him, he told her the things she'd wanted to hear, in
short sentences that conveyed his objective meaning and little of his own
experience. Toward the end of the meal she sensed his reticence and
abandoned the questioning, launching into a monologue that Apollo
listened to with half-interest. She went with him to the street, still
talking, and together they walked the few blocks to the spacedrome where
the Galactica stood ready to lift from the planet. In answer to a
question of his, she'd told him that Jakar and the other two crewmembers
had gone ahead shortly after dawn.
     She told him about a show she was planning with other of the artists
in Manacis, a major display of their best work, and she revealed that she
hoped to organize a sojourn to one of the major colonies with the
proceeds from the local exhibition. Apollo expressed polite enthusiasm.
She continued to talk until they reached the spacedrome, where they
parted company. Before he entered the building, she touched his arm and
leaned up to kiss him. Apollo was startled.
     "What was that for?" he asked.
     She smiled at him, her eyebrows rising. "Don't be threatened," she
said. "I just want you to know I like you."
     He stared at her. Her smile faded, and she shook her head once.
     "You must be an awfully lonely man," she said.
     His last view of her was as she swung away from the transparent
doors of the spacedrome entrance and strode down the street to a squat
port bus waiting at the corner, her hair trailing out behind, her hips
rising and falling as she stalked, her shoulders straight. He watched her
until she climbed inside the bus. Then he entered the spacedrome and
headed for the Galactica. 

******************************

     A crowd was gathered around the lower exit port of the ship, men and
women dressed in maintenance overalls leaning against one another,
shifting and pressing to obtain a better view. Apollo pushed through the
crowd, sensing the anxiety and distaste that played through the
Corporeals gathered there. He pushed out the sensations and shoved
through into a clearing, which centered on the end of the cargo ramp. He
recognized three of the Corporeals standing guard over a large plastic
container set on end at the ramp base. He asked the closest Corporeal
what had happened. The man eyed him, noting the Receptive's tan uniform
and the officer's patch on Apollo's right shoulder, and decided to
answer.
     "Bit of a fight on the bridge. Man's dead, t'other's in with the
med-tech. All over now, I imagine."
     "Who's dead?" Apollo asked.
     "A Corporeal from maintenance. Started screaming at the girl in
charge of Communications when she wouldn't put through a message, went
right off his head. She tried to report him, he attacked her, there you
go----" the Corporeal indicated the container. "Blew out his brain, from
what I hear. Mess, it was. Fool didn't have a chance."
     Apollo recognized the repressed anger in the Corporeal's tone;
behind it were the same emotions he'd sensed in the settlers of Yaruyome.
Apollo had been awaiting an outbreak of resentment since the voyage
began; now that it had come he found himself unprepared for the reality.
He glanced from the plastic container to the Corporeal's guarding it.
     "Is she all right? Rigel, the Communications agent?"
     "Imagine so," the Corporeal said. "Check for yourself, Sire."
     "I'll do that," Apollo replied. He moved around the guard and
hurried up the ramp into the ship.
     Another crowd--smaller than the one around the dead man's
coffin---blocked the entrance to the med-tech's suite. Shouldering his
way through, Apollo managed to get near the speaker grill beside the
door. The third time he pressed the call button, a voice answered.
"Med-tech's busy. We'll talk as soon as we can."
     "This is Apollo, med-tech. I'm Cork on this ship. I demand
admittance at once!"
     After a mili-centon's wait, Apollo was able to slip through a partly
opened door into the cramped medical quarters. The med-tech faced him,
flushed a deep red, annoyed at having his orders superseded. "She's
inside if you want to see her," the thin faced man said. "Not conscious."
     "I won't be but a moment."
     Her face was badly bruised, one lump under her eye swelled to the
size of Apollo's thumb and discolored an ugly purple. Part of her face
was bandaged, gauze covering her neck and jaw. Apollo looked a question
at the med-tech who'd followed him to a table in the nook. "Broken," the
med-tech answered. "Almost crushed her windpipe."
     "Rigel?" Apollo whispered it, bending near the communications
agent's uncovered ear. The impressions he received from her mind were
chaotic, without form or design. He said her name again, hoping to spark
some level of her brain into response, but there was nothing. Nothing for
him to latch onto, no path to follow into her mind, where he
could----well, what could he do? Apollo had no idea. It was hardly
important though. There was nothing he could do.
     "Is she a friend of yours?" the med-tech asked him when Apollo
straightened.
     "No," Apollo said. "Not really." He lifted her eyes from the
Yaruyomese's unconscious form. "I just know her."
     "So?"
     "She reminds me of someone. It happened to her too, in a way."
     "Here? On the Galactica?"
     Apollo stirred. He blinked at the med-tech. "Not here," Apollo said.
"On another ship, the Atlantia. It was a long time ago." He shook his
head angrily. "And dammit, it's not important now."
     Apollo felt the med-tech's eyes on him as he left, but at the moment
the Cork couldn't have cared less.

******************************

     Rigel died the centon before the Galactica was due to lift from
Trysarra; her pet disappeared at the same time, out of the Communication
agent's cabin, where it'd been put while the Yaruyomese was in the
med-tech's suite. Apollo never learned the fate of the small animal.
Apollo didn't attend the funeral; he couldn't help thinking that if the
woman had been allowed in the Colonial medical facility that had taken
Hammerwolf, she'd be alive. But regulations forbade it. So instead of
attending the funeral later that evening he found an automated pub in the
spacedrome terminal and was drinking there when the Commander entered.
     "Mind if I sit?" the older man asked Apollo, sliding onto the bench
across from the Cork. Apollo shrugged, watching as the Commander punched
a drink combination into the console section of the tabletop.
     "You weren't at the funeral either, Commander?"
     "I made an appearance," he said, loosening the collar of his jump
suit. "Business called me back to the spacedrome, I'm sorry to say. Cargo
manifest needed adjustment before the port officials would sign out the
ship. We're carrying a full load now, you know."
     "Are we?"
     "Yes," the Commander said, mistaking Apollo's tone. "First time
since I took command. We almost ran full out of Virgon, but not quite.
Bad weather there a few yahrens ago, and we're feeling the effects with
this yahren's trade. Not much liquor. On the other hand, Tyssara had a
fine crop last year. One of the more exotic natural narcotics. Ferments
nicely in milk, from what I hear."
     "Commander, may I ask you a personal question?"
     The older man frowned. His drink appeared, and he sipped at it
before answering. "What do you want to know, Apollo?"
     "Does Rigel's death bother you in any shape, size or form?"
     "What sort of a daft question is that, Sire?" Lines of contention
furrowed the other man's brow.
     "I'm asking if you're sorry Rigel's dead."
     "Am I sorry? She was a good officer, a good agent. You're damn right
I'm sorry."
     Apollo drank, set his mug down gently. "Sir? Did you ever speak to
her? Did you know anything about her?"
     "Not very much, no. The private lives of my officers are none of my
business."
     "I'm glad to hear that, Commander," Apollo said. He got to his feet,
tossed a cubit on the table by his empty glass. "I'd hate to think you'd
known here, and felt the way you do."

******************************

     Apollo managed to avoid Serina on the run along the Frontier, making
a point to leave the ship whenever the Galactica touched port, keeping to
the less-frequented areas of the mentalstar whenever it was in drive.
During this same period the tension aboard the psi vessel rose to an
unbelievable peak, building to the deaths of both the Corporeal and
Rigel; Apollo found himself under constant pressure to relieve the
straining emotions of the crew. This delicate balance was maintained for
almost ten days, through six stops at various minor colonies, but on the
eleventh day after the Galactica left Tryssara, Serina, in the processing
area of the hydroponics garden, cornered Apollo. She'd lost what little
weight she'd gained during the early days of the voyage, her face was
pale, the lines under her eyes pronounced, and when she grabbed at his
tunic and spun him around, her hands trembled slightly.
     "Where in Hades have you been?" she shouted. "I haven't seen you in
almost two sectans."
     "I've been avoiding you," Apollo said.
     She opened her mouth and then closed it back up again. "Thanks for
telling me," she said. "Now try why. What have I done to you, Apollo?
Tell me what I've done?"
     "You were crowding me," Apollo said, "just like before. I don't want
that, Serina. I thought that was clear."
     Muscles worked in her jaw. She looked away from him. There were
eight planters in the room, shallow trays connected by wires and cables
to the main processing bank in the floor beneath the platforms. She ran a
hand along the rim of the glass-enclosed tray nearest her. "You're really
holding that over me, what I did that night you found out about your
brother. Aren't you? You never mentioned it, but you hate me for leaving
you alone. That's what it's been all along, isn't it?" Her hand stopped
moving on the rim. "Listen, I'm sorry I did that, OK?" She looked at him.
"Is that what you wanted to hear?"
     "You just don't get it, do you?" Apollo said.
     She let her hand drop to her side. "Is it what happened before? When
you found me with that man? Tell me, Apollo. I want to understand."
     "I've already told you."
     "About us getting closer? I can't believe that. There has to be
something I haven't done, or something I did do---there's gotta be
something Apollo. I won't believe you just don't want me." She was
becoming hysterical. Her hands went toward Apollo's jump suit; he eased
aside.
     "Believe what you want, Serina. I've told you what I felt."
     She brought her hands up and held them clenched before her. The
knuckles whitened, the fingers mottling from the pressure. Her hands
trembled. "Tell me, Apollo, please," she said. "Please, I want to
understand. What you're saying just doesn't make any sense!"
     "It makes plenty of sense," Apollo said, "to me."

******************************

     When the Galactica landed on a Frontier planet named Bonok, Apollo
went down on the first shuttle boat with the Commander and Nephicroran,
accompanied by the Cook. He waited beside the craft while the commander
signed the release papers for the first batch of cargo, and he helped
with the unloading, guiding the automatic handlers into places around the
open hatch and supervising as the machines emptied the hold of liquor and
placed it on the patch of vanilithminium that was Bonok's only landing
pad. The rest of the spacedrome was equally small; there was only one
building, and that was little more than a shack.
     The unloading completed, the Commander dismissed the three
shipmates, Apollo and the Cook, with Nephicroran filling out the
three-man cloudrider they borrowed from the spacedrome agent, set off on
a tour of the planet's southern hemisphere.
     Bonok was a lower-class planet, with a few local industries, which
produced novelty items that had little practical importance; these were
exported in return for the necessities of life, graciously provided by
the Colonies. There was a tape that came with the cloudrider, supplied by
the spacedrome's information bureau, which described these industries in
detail. The tape also gave geographical data, which the three shipmates
ignored. They agreed that they preferred to meet the planet fresh,
imagining themselves the travelers who had first colonized the world a
hundred years before. They could've been at that, for much of the planet
was virgin country.
     Like most of the worlds opened up in the past hundred and fifty
years by the discovery of the mind-drive, man still only subtly invaded
Bonok. Unlike Caprica and Sagitara, two of the more cultivated worlds,
the Frontier still had many rough edges, such as climate, air quality and
pressure, and general dispostion---which was normally antihuman. On the
whole man settled on worlds that approximated Colonial conditions to a
fair degree; Bonok was one of the few exceptions, and because of its
abnormality it survived as a starbase. On Bonok, gravity was one-fourth
again Colonial normal; air pressure was a bit greater than sea level on
Virgon; climate was generally wet and cold; and the planet's
electromagnetic field was twice as strong as it should've been.
     Because of that powerful electromagnetic field, almost all of the
materials used by the settlement had to be plain plastic or stainless
steel, rather than the usual vanlithminium compound. Apollo had no clear
idea of what effect this EM peculiarity had on Bonok's industry; he only
knew it was a considerable effect, allowing the settlers to make novelty
items that would've been impossible to realize under normal conditions.
     He also knew the field had a considerable effect on psi powers, as
all EM fields had; he could already feel the effect taking hold of him,
in the form of a mild headache. The headache would grow, Apollo knew, and
as it did, his resistance to psychic probing would become weaker, as
would the resistance of the two men in the cloudrider with him. Apollo
knew this because he knew about the field; and so did the Cook, because
Apollo had told him.
     Nephicroran didn't know. As far as the Engineer was concerned, the
three of them were touring. Apollo and the Cook knew otherwise.
     Most of the planet's surface was barren, sparsely covered with a
layer of unhealthy weed the Cook identified as a form of grass. There
were no trees or large plants of any kind; in the distance the hills were
a naked brown tipped with white.
     As he brought the cloudrider closer to the foothills----cursing the
cloudrider's rickity-twin-propulsor, which was apparently running low,
making steering difficult----Apollo saw that the ravines were bright with
water. The plains below the foothills were also well irrigated, a fact
that made Apollo wonder about the poorly growing weeds. He realized it
was an effect of the planet's magnetic field. Probably the field screened
the full effect of the local sun during the spring months, collecting the
radiation in the ionosphere until late summer, when the energy was
finally released or filtered through, melting the snow and ice formed
during the long winters----and thus creating rivers or lakes. Apollo
hoped Nephicroran wouldn't work this out on his own, and so arrive at a
realization of the planet's field. Apollo didn't see how the Engineer
could, but the anticipation of finally probing the man's mind was making
Apollo tense and nervous. He wished the magnetic field would have the
same effect on implanted psiblocks, so that he might probe the
Commander's mind and solve the mystery of Zac's death at once; but such
an easy solution was not to be. Angrily, he turned his attention from his
thoughts to the land beneath the cloudrider.
     A centon out of the port, they reached the upper hills of what the
maps called the Southern Range. Apollo guided the cloudrider to a landing
on a shallow slope, setting the three-man craft down at a cant.
Nephicroran and the Cook climbed out ahead of Apollo, the Engineer moving
downslope and finding a promontory that overlooked a wide valley. "Hey,
Apollo, not much like home, huh? This is one sick planet. Look at that
dead grass, plants no taller than a man's knee"---Nephicroran waved his
hand, taking in the spotted vegetation below----"not fit for animals,
never mind us. Cold as Hades, too. Hey," he said, laughing, "did you hear
that? Cold as Hades."
     Apollo came up to the Cook. The small gray man was sitting on his
haunches near the front of the cloudrider, watching Nephicroran. "This
better be worth it, Apollo," the Cook said. "My head hurts like a demon."
     "It's worth it," Apollo told him. He called out to the Engineer.
"You want to do some climbing? There's enough of a path over this way."
     After a moment's discussion, it was decided that the Cook would stay
with the craft and prepare the day's meal, while Apollo and Nephicroran
followed the cut of a ravine to the top of the mountain, in search of a
high-altitude plant the touring tape claimed grew wild in the Southern
Range. Nephicroran agreed vigorously, which disturbed Apollo; the large
man hadn't yet given any sign he was suffering the same headache effect
that plagued Apollo and the Cook.
     The slope was uneven, composed mostly of a fine soil that slid away
under the boots Apollo had worn specifically for the expedition. There
were few large rocks, and those were spaced awkwardly for climbing. The
two men progressed slowly, pausing frequently to catch their breath,
which was easier in the higher altitude.
     "Not much like Caprica, is it?" said Nephicroran during one of the
pauses.
     Apollo shook his head. "You do much climbing back there?" he asked.
     "No. Left the colony when I was a kid no more than ten, I guess. My
father couldn't take the land. He hired himself out as a med-tech for the
Colonies, and my mother took me back to the lowlands to wait for him to
fill his Contract. Not many hills down there. Not much going for it,
besides the weather."
     "Guess not," Apollo said. He was from the lowlands of Caprica
himself.
     Another moment passed, and they began climbing again. Apollo's head
was clearing with the crispness of the mountain air, and after another
few metrons had crawled under them, he tried a probe on Nephicroran, who
was climbing above him.
     He encountered the block at once, a hard shell enclosing the
substance of Nephicroran's subconscious mind. To Apollo, the shell was
vaguely spherical, pulsating with a silver glow, and the area surrounding
it was murky, the thoughts of the Engineer's conscious mind sheering from
the hideous portion of his brain. Once more Apollo realized Nephicroran
was not aware of the psiblock; if it was a defense against Apollo, it was
probably more efficient than the Engineer would've wanted, for not only
did it prevent the Cork from seeing the secrets within, it prevented
Nephicroran from seeing them also.
     Gently at first, Apollo pressed against the barrier. He felt the
resistance, power being summoned by the block from other sources in the
mind. But the block acted sluggishly and the power came too slowly, and
Apollo, sensing this, took the opportunity and thrust. 
     The shell shattered, the psiblock collapsed, and in the same instant
the Engineer screamed.

******************************

     It happened quickly. Too quickly.
     One moment the two men were climbing, the Engineer drawing himself
up with a hand clasped tightly to the jutting edge of a huge stone.
Apollo waited below him, balanced on another rock, leaning against the
slope, his hands flat on the stone facing him.
     The next moment Nephicroran cried out and released his grip on the
ledge. Apollo felt the large man's bulk sliding past him, and
instinctively his hand shot out, his body turning to slam into the
Engineer's and break the falling man's momentum.
     Both men tumbled from the slope, Apollo locking his arms around
Nephicroran, trying to pull the Engineer's head against his shoulder to
protect him as they fell. Nephicroran kept screaming. In Apollo's mind
the screams had an echo, and it was all he could do to keep from blacking
out.
     He half saw the ground canting wildly about them, first on the left
and then on the right. His leg struck rock; he stumbled and felt stone
rip through his jacket; he ploughed through loose dirt, waiting for the
inevitable boulder to smash up into them, crushing ribs and snapping
their spines. Somehow, he lost his grip on Nephicroran. The two
Receptives fell free of each other, continuing their plummet downslope.
     When Apollo came to, the Cook was bending over him.
     "You OK, Apollo? What happened? He try to kill you or something?"
     The Cork elbowed himself into a sitting position. He saw Nephicroran
lying with his head propped on an aid kit, a few meters away. "Is he all
right?" Apollo asked. The Cook nodded, and Apollo sighed gratefully. "I
nearly killed him," the Cork said. "See if you can get him awake. I want
to talk to him now."

******************************

     "It was on Sagitara," Nephicroran said, "back in '28. I was a Corps
Engineer then, working on one of the barrack moons, Phoes Base. I was a
warrior, fixing things, jimmied special project devices, like that. It
was the kind of thing I enjoyed doing; I didn't even feel like a Colonial
warrior, truth be told. The fighting was someone else's job. We'd heard
about the revolutionaries on Sagitara; some of them had even come to
Phoes to talk to us, but none of us paid it any attention. People were
always talking against the Council of Twelve. We did it ourselves.
Nothing new; nothing to get hung up about.
     "Nothing, that is, until the rebels tried to take over the Sagitara
spacedrome."
     Apollo watched the Engineer sip at the ambrosa. The big man held the
mug in two large hands that were marked with the white lines of calluses.
The Cook sat next to Apollo, listening. Apollo wanted it that way, for
the Cook to hear it directly from Nephicroran. It was not a story the
Cook cared to repeat.
     "We were called up pretty quick," Nephicroran said. "Same day they
took the spacedrome over. The Colonial Security officers must've been
figuring on trouble for months, which was why they had all the warriors
there to move down to the planet fast. We went down in eight ships, each
about the size of the Galacitca. I found myself going with them, carrying
a weapon like all the others. I'd been trained for it, I knew how to use
the damned thing, but I never thought I'd need to. Even then I didn't
really believe I'd be part of the attack.
     "We hit the m after dawn. Two ships to each of the major cities,
three to Sagitara spacedrome itself, one to the suburb. I was in the last
ship. We came out in patrols of ten. They put me in charge of a patrol
and told me to sweep the area, look for any locals on the street,
felgercarb like that. They called them locals, not Colonials. We looked.
Not a soul in sight.
     "I reported in. My commanding officer told me to take my team into
an apartment building overlooking the central plaza. There'd been sniping
in the area, he said, six of our men were down, he said, and he thought
the sniper might be hiding in one of the apartments. We went up."
     Apollo poured Nephicroran another ambrosa.
     "Three men in my patrol were settlers. The settlers were different
then, in a lot of ways. The Colonies hadn't pressured them yet and they
still felt secure being settlers; they liked it. To them the
revolutionaries were madmen. Mad daggits. That's what Ontesus called
them. Ontesus was my right-hand man. I wasn't too familiar with the
warrior corps---they'd put me in charge of the patrol because of my rank;
Warrior Engineers were full staff sergeants in those days----so I was
dependent on Ontesus for tactics.
     "He heard gunshots----he said he did---from a room at the end of a
hall in one of the buildings. I asked him what we should do. He told me
to go in with him and Blitz, one of the other settlers, and keep the
other members of the patrol as backup. So I did.
     "Ontesus went in first, firing his weapon in an arc spray. He'd told
me to lock my rifle in the same position; he said it was the most
effective setting. I did. I came in behind him, spraying the side of the
room he'd missed. Blitz was behind me.
     "You can guess what we found."
     "No snipers," Apollo said.
     Nephicroran stared into his ambrosa. "An old lady and an old guy,
some kids. The parents of the kids were in the next room, doing the
sniping. We got them too, but we get the kids first."
     "What happened then?" the Cook asked quietly.
     "We went back outside and the commander assigned us another
building, and we did the same thing there. For three sectars we did that.
When it was over, I quit, joined up with one of the traders the Colonies
owned, and for eight yahrens I shipped back and forth along the Frontier,
didn't once head back to Sagitara. Around '36 I quite those ships and
went on a binge until my cubits ran out, which took about two yahrens.
     "Finally, I forgot everything. It was the only thing I could do.
Even the ships' Corks couldn't help me. I forgot it all, and I've been
able to live with myself these past seven yahrens..."
     "...until now," Apollo finished for him. "I'm sorry, Nephicroran. I
misunderstood."
     "Sure," Nephicroran said.
     A little later the Cook whispered to Apollo, "What are you going to
do for him?"
     "He's not the man I want," Apollo said. "What am I supposed to do?"
     "Your job," the Cook said. "Fix his mind."
     Apollo glanced at Nephicroran, sitting apart from the two other men,
nursing his cold cup of coffee. The Cork nodded. "You're right," he said.
"That much, at least."

******************************

     "Hey, Apollo. Are we going to do any climbing or not?"
     "It's getting late, Nephicroran," the Cork said. "The Captain said
the ship's lifting at 2100."
     "Outside air agrees with you," the Cook added, helping the Engineer
to his feet.
     "Sure," Nephicroran said. "How long have I been asleep, anyway?"
     Apollo shrugged. "Long enough," he said.

******************************

     He accepted the Cook's offer of a beer when they returned to the
ship, following the small man into the almost fully deserted Mess and
taking a seat on the counter near the food console. As it had the first
day he stepped aboard the Galactica, the psychic aura of the
vessel---centered here in the lounge---threatened to overwhelm Apollo.
His increase Receptivity to the aura was due partially, he knew, to the
recent unpleasantness with Nephicroran, but there were other factors at
work as well. Serina was near, Apollo sensed, and her presence made him
uneasy. More, the tension in the crew had doubled since Rigel's death.
That and other pressures he couldn't discern gave the ship's atmosphere
an almost physical weight. Apollo tried to shut out the emotions, but
found that his training as a Cork wouldn't let him; he was forced to act
as a valve to those minds around him, and for the first time since the
incident aboard the Atlantia, Apollo doubted his ability to handle to
pressure.
     "Make that two beers," he told the Cook. The small man blinked, but
made the necessary adjustments and handed the mugs to the Cork. Apollo
drank, said, "What now, Cook? If it isn't Nephicroran, who's responsible
for the Commander's block, who is it?"
     The Cook's expression became puzzled. "Anyone at all," he replied.
He eyed Apollo's mugs. "More beer?"
     "Ambrosa this time."
     "Right."
     Apollo closed his eyes. He felt weary, weaker than he'd been in many
years."
     "Hey, Apollo," the Cook said softly.
     He uncovered his eyes. The Cook was looking past his shoulder, at
someone who'd entered the Mess. Apollo swiveled around and saw Jolly and
Serina sliding into a booth under a blank display screen. Jolly was
engaging Serina in conversation, but at that distance, Apollo was unable
to hear the fat Corporeal's words, and was unwilling to probe his mind.
He returned his attention to the Cook, who was punching an order into his
console.
     "Serina's been pretty upset lately," the Cook said.
     "Who told you that?"
     "Jolly. And even if he hadn't, I've still got some senses left.
Enough to tell about a thing like that."
     Apollo said nothing. The Cook removed two glasses from the console,
each brimming with ambrosa, and set them on a tray. He pushed the tray
toward Apollo. "Take that to them, would you? It's their usual."
     "And if I refuse?"
     "Then I'll do it, and I'll tell them you wanted to speak with them.
Just do it, will you please, Apollo?"
     Reluctantly, Apollo took up the tray and carried it to the booth. He
sat down opposite the two Corporeals and raised his own glass in a toast.
Neither of them followed. He drank it anyway.
     "It's my turn not to want to see you, Apollo," Serina said.
     "It wasn't my idea to come over here," he answered.
     "Then make it your idea to leave."
     "OK," Apollo said. He got up and started toward the door. He was
stopped by Jolly's hand on his shoulder. Apollo tried to shrug off the
Corporeal's grip, but the young man only tightened his hold and moved
around in front of the Cork.
     "Can I talk with you a mili-centon, Apollo?" Jolly asked.
     "Your hand's in the way, Sire."
     Jolly dropped his hand, curled it into a fist, and stuffed it, and
the other one into the loose pockets of his jump suit. Apollo realized
that the young man had lost most of the extra weight he'd had when the
Cork first met him.
     "Listen," Jolly said, "I feel bad about what's been happening with
all of us. I really hate to see us breaking up like this. The way we came
together and all, it seems a shame----" He stopped, started again more
slowly. "I don't understand what's wrong, and I hoped we could talk about
it so maybe we could work something out. If that's OK with you."
     "I'm going for a walk," Apollo said. "Come along, if you like."
     He waited while Jolly went back to speak with Serina and when the
young Corporeal returned Apollo struck off at a full stride. It was an
effort for Jolly to keep up with him, but not as great an effort as it
once might have been. Apollo headed up a ramp that during Drive would
become a curving wall. Jolly trotted alongside him, huffing to stay
within talking distance.
     "What happened with Nephicroran today?" Jolly asked between breaths.
Apollo told him and Jolly asked a few questions, which Apollo answered
with a minimum of detail. Finally, Jolly asked: "Apollo, are we friends?"
     "Yes," Apollo replied.
     "Is the way you're acting because of what you're trying to find out
about your brother?"
     "How am I acting?"
     "Apollo, please. You know what I'm talking about. You're treating
all of us as though we were the ones who destroyed Zac----at least that's
the way it seems. Avoiding us, being brusque, cold...if we've done
something to hurt you, don't you think we should know about it?"
     "You've done nothing you couldn't help doing," Apollo said.
     "That's very clear," Jolly said bitterly.
     "Look," Apollo said, over his shoulder, "I didn't ask any of you to
come with me. I'm not taking that responsibility. You're all trying to
make me out as some sort of freak because I don't want to get involved in
your problems. Serina wants me to love her; Jakar wants me to save him
from Tyger; you want me to be your friend. All I want is to be left
alone, and to be given the minimum help I ask for---and maybe that's
where I made my mistake, in asking any of you for help. That was weak of
me. I apologize. I don't like people to need me, I don't like to need
people, and is that simple enough for you?" He was shouting, he realized.
He calmed himself and continued walking. "I'm sorry, Jolly, but that's
it."
     "Guess I'm sorry too, Apollo. For you, not with you."
     Apollo stopped to stare at Jolly, but the Corporeal had already
turned and was walking down the hall, back toward the lounge. The Cork
shook his head and walked on.

**************************************************************

Chapter Eight
Ninth Sectar, twenty-ninth Day,
Colonial Yahren: 7364

     Rumors about the Frontier insurrection dominated the conversation
aboard the Galactica during the next few days of drive. Apollo paid
little to no attention to it, concentrating for the most part on
maintaining the equilibrium of the crew. Rigel's death----and the death
of the Corporeal who killed her----had caused more of a disturbance than
even Apollo had anticipated at first. As the days passed, reaction set
in, and the resulting pressure grew more and more dangerous. Resentment
was building in the Receptives, mirroring a similar resentment in the
Corporeals. Apollo found it more and more difficult to soothe the
tendency toward violence present in the crew. On the fourth day out from
Bonok he decided to go to the Commander.
     It was his third visit to the Commander's private quarters, and the
room was still as bare as it'd been the first time he'd seen it, save for
the addition of a tiny figurine set on the display console near the bed.
The Commander noticed Apollo glance toward the statue as the Cork
entered, and he smiled, motioning Apollo closer. "I found it on Tertius,"
the Commander said, "in one of the antique shops on the second level. I
believe it's third millennium Sagitarian, but Nephicroran doesn't think
so. He says he's never seen anything like it."
     "Commander, I wanted to talk to you about the crew."
     The older man broke his attention away from the figurine, turning to
regard Apollo with a frown. "Yes? What's the problem?"
     Apollo told him. The Commander listened with expression as the Cork
offered his opinion of the nature of the ship's distress and its probable
outcome. When Apollo was finished, the Commander looked up at him,
unsmiling.
     "I've been told to expect it," the older man said. "The Colonies
have been having trouble all across the Frontier, and of course there was
that business on Yaruyome. The Frontier settlements, some of them, are in
open rebellion...and it seems to be spreading to the mentalstars. I
should've realized Rigel's killing was a part of it, but there's so much
to think about..." His gaze returned to the figurine. "You do understand
that, don't you, Apollo?"
     Apollo shrugged. "I don't think she was killed as part of a plot,
Commander, but it doesn't matter. What should we do?"
     "We'll be reaching our last port in this sector within the next two
days. Planet named Ogocao. After that we head down to Sagitara. I think
we can hold out that long."
     "Yes, Commander," Apollo said. He turned to go, peered once more at
the figurine, a delicate sculpting in blue stone of a man cradling a
child. He caught a final glimpse of the Commander raising his hand toward
the statue, and then Apollo moved down the corridor to the outside door,
the wall cutting off his view.

******************************

     The Commander was wrong. The problems didn't hold until the ship
reached Sagitara. They didn't hold until the Galactica touched its final
Frontier port. Trouble broke out almost at once, that evening in the
Mess, and most of the ship's Receptives were fortunate to survive.

******************************

     Apollo came to the lounge late; he often arrived after the other
Receptives because he wanted to avoid the added pressures of a crowded
mess hall when he was Corking during mind-drive. Entering the
low-ceilinged chamber, he could feel the tension as an almost tangible
barrier separated him from the men and women in the benches and booths
lining the walls. Hostile stares greeted him; Apollo ignored them---he
knew the difference between expressed dislike and hidden hate, the latter
more dangerous because it permitted no release. Apollo, as the Cork, was
poignantly aware of the crew's need for release, and so in a way he
welcomed the glares.
     He picked up a tray from the counter, accepted an ambrosa from a
sullen Corporeal who'd clipped her hair too close to her scalp, and
struck across the room, looking for the Cook. The small man would be off
duty and was probably enjoying his dinner in a booth far from the food
console.
     Someone jostled Apollo. He stumbled, tripped over a foot he hadn't
seen a moment before, and sprawled on a table, his tray skidding out of
his hands and splashing ambrosa and fortified meat-product on three
Corporeal women. The men with the women came to their feet and lunged for
the Cork. Apollo almost blacked out under the onslaught of their hate.
Before he could move they were upon him.
     Hands locked on his elbows, snapping his arms back and restraining
him. A fist planted itself in his stomach. Another flicked against his
jaw. A third connected with his cheek. It was then that Apollo made his
move.
     Jerking from the man who held him, Apollo butted his head into the
face of the Corporeal before him. As that man crumpled, the Cork swung
around and brought the edge of his palm up, striking the second Corporeal
hovering beside him. The heel of his hand struck the man's nose,
shattering cartilage and shoving the splinters into the man's brain.
Spinning, completing his turn, Apollo kneed the Corporeal who'd held him
and carried through by doubling his fists and slamming them down on the
man's neck as the Corporeal bent in agony.
     Apollo stepped back, aware of the emotions firing the room around
him.
     Hate, pure and stark. And fear, and anger, and concern. He was
unable to pick out the individual feelings; there was too much, all of it
mixed together in one gestalt---violence. Violence was going to happen,
and quickly.
     "Apollo, over here"----the voice cried to him from the left; Apollo
whirled---"get over here."
     Past the faces of the men and women nearest him, Apollo saw the
Cook, and with him, Tyger and Lesi. The Cook was waving, his features
twisted with worry and terror. The small man was close to panicking,
Apollo realized, and also realized with a start that so was he. 
     Around him the room was in stasis. Corporeals stared, not quite
comprehending what had happened. Everyone in the lounge was caught in the
paralysis of the moment, that peculiar inability of those involved in an
instant of decision to accept the decision and act. Apollo took advantage
of the moment to run down the aisle toward his three friends. Midway to
them, he was attacked.
     A bare-chested Corporeal in shorts that only partially covered a
heavy punch hit Apollo with a bloody block. The Cork careened into two
Frontier women who caught him and tried to lock him in a stranglehold.
Apollo twisted. The thinner of the two Corporeals lifted over his
shoulder and landed on the back of the still-pitching bare-chested man.
Leaning into the motion, Apollo continued to turn, managed a grip on the
leg of the woman still gripping his neck frantically and heaved her over
his head. She fell onto a table a meter away.
     "Watch your back, Apollo," the Cook's voice said beside Apollo. The
Cork didn't bother to acknowledge the warning; instead he ducked and
sensed a tray sail over his head. "What in Hades did you do to those
people?" the Cook asked him, gasping. Out of the corner of his eye Apollo
saw the small gray man wrestling down a Corporeal half his size.
     "Nothing," Apollo replied to the Cook's question. He stepped between
the small man and his assailant, snapped the edge of his hand down on the
neck of the Corporeal. "It's been in the wind, waiting to break," Apollo
said. "If I had a moment to think I might"----he slipped out of the path
of a black-bearded Corporeal charging at him with a knife---"be able to
do something about it. Don't have time. Only react." He tripped the knife
wielder. The man fell, the knife clattered across the floor, and Apollo
jerked his foot in a kick that assured no further threats from that
Corporeal's direction.
     "We'd better get out of here," the Cook said.
     Apollo swore. "I've been trying."
     Tyger called to them. Not far away, the Receptive was under siege by
two youngish Corporeals in the mottled jump suits of the hydroponics
attendants. "Head this way," the Sagitarian shouted. "Exit's here, under
the mural."
     Near Tyger's table, the girl Lesi swung her fists in blows that
seemed more mechanical than human. She was under Tyger's direction;
Apollo could tell. It was there in her movements, graceful yet unnatural.
More graceful than the situation deserved, Apollo thought. He grabbed the
Cook's arm and pulled him out of a circle of Receptives and Corporeals
already locked in combat.
     "Tyger's holding a way out for us," Apollo told the Cook, dragging
him past men and women who slipped forward and back, bodies blocking the
full view of the battle that had sprung up. Apollo sensed the hatred
about him. Spontaneous, it came from a variety of sources, not all of
them rooted in the class rivalry between Corporeal and Receptive. It was
that rivalry that had provided the tinder, but it was the combination of
Rigel's death and the incident on Yaruyome that had provided the spark.
Now the ship was afire----and Apollo couldn't find the strength or
concentration to dowse the flames.
     Ahead, Tyger was waving. Apollo waved back.
     "Move, Cook," Apollo called. "Outside, maybe we can---"
     He saw it happen and he tried to stop it as it happened, but already
it was too late. The girl was dead.
     There was a gracefulness to her death, as there'd been a
gracefulness to her fight. Arms lifted over her head she seemed to writhe
as though on fire, making the silver jutting from her rib cage move in a
slow figure eight. At the center of the figure eight a circle of red
spread out until it reached the underside of her left breast and extended
a curving tail across her stomach. He mouth worked and her eyes pinched
shut, and at the end of her arms here hands spasmed into fists as she
writhed, more slowly now. Gradually her arms relaxed and her hands came
down, hovering for a moment over around the handle of the knife. Then her
hands fell, and the girl was dead. Slumping to the floor, she was dead.
Lesi was dead.
     The Corporeal who'd killed her danced back from her body clumsily.
     Tyger screamed and turned and sprang in the same motion.
     Apollo watched. Consciously this time he did nothing.
     When it was over, Apollo caught Tyger's neck and pulled the
Sagitarian to his feet. Tyger's hands were stiff; he held his fingers
splayed as though his hands were unclean. He stared at them dumbly as
Apollo shook him, said, "We've got to go, Tyger. Come on."
     Tyger glanced up. His eyes were unfocused. Apollo knew what the
Sagitarian was seeing: the inside of Lesi's mind, frozen at the instant
of her death.
     "We must go now," the Cork said quietly. Tyger rose.
     Outside the Crew's Mess, Apollo and the Cook shut and locked the
door behind them. The Cook worked the complicated punch-and-spin
mechanism. His hands trembled as he fumbled at the controls. From within
the sounds of struggle continued unabated.

******************************

     "There's nothing you can do for him," Apollo told the Cook. "You
don't understand what he feels, what's happened to him."
     "Maybe I do, a bit," the Cook said. He ran a hand through what
remained of his hair, blinking at the display screen over their booth,
shifted his gaze to take in the rest of the rejuvenation center. Tyger
sat on a chair with padded armrests and back support; he lolled in it,
unconscious. The Cook sighed, looking at the Sagitarian. "Will you be OK
with him here? I want to have a talk with the Commander."
     "Why?" Apollo asked. "Things are quieter now. I've seen to that, now
that I've had a chance to think."
     "You can't keep Corking this ship alone, Apollo. You shouldn't have
needed time to concentrate; you should've been ready to Cork immediately.
The strain's telling on you, Apollo. I'm going to ask the Commander to
find another Cork to work with when we reach Ogocao."
     "Don't do it, Cook," Apollo said evenly. "I don't need any help."
     "Now look, Apollo---"
     "I said I don't need any help." The Cork's voice went very soft. "Is
that clear? I can handle this. I can handle it myself."

******************************

Mind-drive:
     Apollo stands apart from the ship, in Ur space. Here and there in
the structure of the psi field he can see ripples of discontent. The
emotions that destroy, the frustrations that will betray first the other
members of the crew, and then ultimately, the self. There are madmen
aboard the Galactica, and their madness is visible in the lines of the
mentalstar net. There are angry men aboard the Galactica, and their
anger, too, is visible.
     Gently, Apollo touches. His psychic fingers soothe, remove anger,
relieve---for a moment----madness.
     In a chamber near the Engineer's room a woman cries hysterically.
Apollo reaches into her mind and sees the anguish that has sprouted from
concern: she'd feared for her lover's life, now lost in an argument with
another member of the crew. He sees also how the anguish is mixed in with
self-loathing: she'd seduced the other crewmember; she'd been bored with
her lover. In her mind the two were connected, though in reality, they
were not. He removes that self-loathing but leaves the anguish. The woman
cries, but no longer does she think of hanging herself from the bulkhead.
She stops twisting the cable in her hands.
     He finds a group of Corporeals leaving the Mess, stumbling in a
daze. The force of their combined will is weaker than it should be, and
Apollo sees why: when he touched them before, immediately after the fight
in the Crew's Mess, he'd been more brutal than necessary---he'd cut
through their souls. Now they are empty, their emotions drained, and they
themselves like husks. Gently he works to correct this. A push there;
here, a guiding pressure. At first slowly, and then more quickly, he
moves among them, returning lost motivation. He keeps the tension light,
however, not allowing it to build anew. It doesn't take long.
     Finished, he turns to other troubled souls within the ship.
     For many mili-centons he works, Corking the minds of the mentalstar
field. He avoids the mind closest to him for as long as possible; it is
not a task he relishes. Finally all else that can be done now is done,
and he turns at last to Tyger.
     Tyger's mental beacon is the strongest among the lights of the
mind-drive, yet now the beacon is off shift, directed inward rather than
out. Apollo digs deeply into the Sagitarian's sould. He sees the
Receptive's despair. He sees the love---flawed, true, yet love
nevertheless---Tyger had felt for the girl Lesi. He sees the invovlment
of the Sagitarian with the young Corporeal's life. The moments of
intimacy shared, the thoughts held in common. Apollo's solution: he
readjusts the thin man's emotions from without. It is more challenging
and the product is not perfect, but Apollo feels no desire to go further
than that.
     Leaving Tyger, he continues through the mind-field netting the ship.
The evening lengthens before him.

******************************

     He'd seen this kind of game before, but was not familiar with the
Galactica's version of it, and so he remained in the rejuvenation center
after Tyger left, and sat in front of a console that connected with two
display screens set equidistant on either side of the control console
board.
     On the left screen green mingled with blue. On the right, red with
yellow. By adjusting tabs on the console, Apollo found he could direct
the colors from one screen to seep into the other. If the adjustments
were delicate enough, an optical effect would be created that would seem
to bring a third set of colors into being directly before him. The third
set of colors was an illusion, and its effectiveness depended on the
deftness of the hands operating the controls. Apollo enjoyed the soothing
pastels he created in the "center" display." Images came and went, sounds
faded to a background whisper, and everything around him
vanished---except the screen.
     He came to abruptly when a hand brushed his shoulder. He was halfway
off the console stool before he recognized the man above him. He sank
back wearily. "You still don't understand Receptives, do you, Jolly?"
Apollo said. "When I'm Corking, I'm on the edge of my life. Don't ever
cut into that, not if you want me to stay sane."
     "I'm sorry, Apollo. I just wanted to...well, apologize."
     "For what?" the Cork asked.
     "The way I behaved the other day," Jolly said uneasily. "I keep
forgetting you've been under a strain, with your brother and...you see,
I've got brothers and sisters too, and I know how I'd be if one of them
died like Zac did. We're not so different, you and I. At first I thought
we were, and it made me feel important knowing you----but I guess I
expected too much. I'm sorry." He shrugged. "I know better now."
     "How do you know better?" Apollo asked. He swung around, putting his
back to the display screens.
     "What you said about keeping to yourself. That's the way I've always
been, only with me, it's because no one would bother to pay ole Jolly any
attention. You, you're from one of the Twelve Colonies, and I know what
those planets can do to people. I know what they almost did to me, but I
had a reason to stop it from happening: nobody wanted to need me, so I
had to make them need me, somehow. You never had that to worry about;
you're the sort of person a fellow thinks he can depend on. Jakar,
Serina, me...we thought you could take care of us. Especially Jakar. He
even gave you his Contract."
     Apollo waited. Jolly cleared his throat before continuing.
     "We were wrong, of course. You didn't want that, any more than any
Colonial does. It's the way we're bred. Independence first, last, and
always." Jolly laughed without humor. "The pioneer spirit."
     "Which means?"
     "You don't want us on your back. OK, we'll keep our distance. But
Apollo, will you help us with one thing? It's important, and you may be
the only man on this ship who can do something. No exaggeration. You know
the facts as well as I do."
     "Jakar."
     "That's right," said Jolly. "Ever since Rigel was killed, Jakar's
been sick with fear. He doesn't know what to do. He's afraid to ask you
for help, after the last rebuke you gave him---the gentle letdown. But he
needs you, Apollo. Tyger might listen to you; you're both Receptives, and
from what the Cook's told me, you've locked, so you must be able to reach
him somehow." He let out a sigh, injured eyes focusing on Apollo. "He'll
kill Jakar if you don't stop him. He will, or the strain will. Please
help us, Apollo? Please?"
     Apollo looked down at his hands. "You've said one thing that's come
close to being true, Jolly. Tyger and I are both Receptives, and we're
locked. I've seen the inside of his soul and he's seen mine. Perhaps he
isn't all a man should be, but he's closer to what I think is right than
you'll ever be. He doesn't ask anything of me; he goes his own way. We've
had fights, but he hasn't pushed them. We're friends, but he doesn't'
infringe on our friendship. You do."
     Apollo reached into his tunic and pulled out something that
flickered in the light of the display screen. It was a Contract disk. He
held it out to Jolly.
     "Thanks for reminding me about Jakar's Contract," he said. "Here's
the disk I had made for him. I never asked for it. He can have it, or you
can hold it for him. As far as I'm concerned that tears it."
     "You're condemning him to death, you know," Jolly said tightly. 
     "I don't think so," Apollo answered. "Now, are you going to take
this or not?"
     Jolly pulled the disk from Apollo's hand and dropped it in his
pocket. His mouth opened and he almost began to speak; then he stopped;
his eyes became hard; he turned and left.
     Expressionless, Apollo returned his gaze to the game. Fingers
pressed tabs, and an image formed slowly in the air before his eyes.
     It was red. The warm color of blood.

******************************

     Passing the custom stalls on Ogocao after receiving his clearance,
Apollo almost ran into several other people form the Galactica crew. He
stepped back under the awning of an open bar and watched Serina and Jolly
walk by in a group of Corporeals, and felt relieved when neither of his
two former companions noticed him. Jakar, he saw, was still having his
disk checked; the Sagitarian stood with his arms folded nervously, his
back to Apollo as he answered the port official's probing questions.
Taking advantage of the opportunity, Apollo went around the stalls and
through a push door, into the spacedrome proper.
     Walking the length of the terminal, through a crowd of short, stubby
people he decided were Ogocaoan settlers, Apollo passed merchant shops
offering clothes in the current Frontier style: severe jackets cut at the
waist, loose pants without pockets and blouses that looked as though
they'd fit like a second skin. The colors were dark, not a red or an
orange visible. The only concession to brightness Apollo saw as a white
blouse in the display screen of a store that, unlike the other merchants,
who advertised in the port but had their shops elsewhere, boasted a
retail outlet on the main floor of the spacedrome. On impulse, Apollo
stopped and picked out one of the white shirts in the largest size the
shopkeeper could find. He also bought a pair of slacks and a jacket---the
former in the smallest size available. He tired the outfit on in the shop
fresher. The pants were still loose, but the shirt fit nicely, showing a
handsome bit of cloth at the wrists and neck. The shopkeeper clucked his
disapproval when Apollo reappeared.
     "It's you money," the man said, "but I think you look terrible.
Receptive?" he asked, indicating the tan uniform Apollo was stuffing in
the disposal unit. Apollo grunted assent. "Staying long?" the shopkeeper
asked.
     "What's that to you if I am?"
     "There's not much work for Receptives here on Ogocao," the
shopkeeper said. "We've been having a bit of trouble with the
non-Corporeals looking for spacedrome jobs. Our Colonial masters won't
hire them. Factories have their own crews from Out-system, and
agro-workers won't touch a Receptive with a pole. So it's either your
pension or the dole. Too many people without work: people in the city
have begun thinking...you know?"
     "Thanks for the advice," Apollo said. He paid and left.
     In contrast to most Frontier worlds, the central city of Ogocao,
Faraway, was a subtle mixing of architectural styles. Normally the local
government of a settlement chose the style in which the capital would be
built, as the civil government on Virgon had chosen ancient Kobolian, a
style dating back to the Sixth Lord of Kobol, thousands of yahrens ago.
Some ports had pyramids, some Classic Caprican, other Contemporary Picon;
many had developed their own styles, differing from those imported from
the Twelve Colonies. The Ogocaon port of Faraway, however, had settled on
a blending of several milieus. The streets were narrow and winding in the
manner of pre-spaceflight Caprica, but the buildings rose to several
dozen stories, creating a dense effect Apollo found unsettling. The
buildings themselves were a combination of ancient Kobolian and
contemporary Caprican: slabs of stone and steel rising monolithically
into the yellow afternoon sky. Few windows broke the walls of the towers,
which Apollo supposed was due to either a lack of industry or
resources---it had developed that on some planets, silica and limestone
were extremely rare and therefore difficult to obtain, thus limiting the
availability of glass. Apollo found the blank effect of the unrelieved
tower walls oppressive. He wondered how the absence of windows would
affect the people who were forced to live and work in those buildings;
even a mentalstar had viewports and display screens. Apollo supposed the
buildings of Faraway had similar screens to provide a view of either the
city, or, more likely, the surrounding countryside. Though he realized
the irony of the emotion in a spacer, Apollo thought it was an
unsatisfactory way to live.
     The streets were active, more or less. Children ran in and out of
alleys, an occasional animal looked up out of the gutter, men and women
bustled on mysterious errands. Apollo weaved through the light crowd with
relative ease and soon found his way to a park located near the north
gate of the city. Buying a bottle of ambrosa from a park vendor, he
strolled along the grass-lined paths, looking for a spot to sit and
drink. He found a place on a knoll overlooking a blue lake. Few
pedestrians came near the lake, though an infrequent cloudrider would
cross its surface as a shortcut from one end of the park to the other.
Apollo settled down and watched the ripples, which accompanied the
passage of each cloudrider. He wanted a few moments to think and decide
what to do next.
     One thing was clear. To date his efforts to learn the Commander's
motive in killing Zac had been in vain. Nephicroran had been a blind
alley; unfortunately, Apollo could sense no other alleys to follow. He
knew no more now than he did when he first met the man.
     No---that wasn't true. Certain things were now obvious; the
Commander's competence in a crisis situation and his corresponding
incompetence in handling interpersonal affairs, such as the pressures on
a mentalstar's crew. In some way, Apollo knew this inability of the
Commander tied in to the man's treatment of the Cork's brother, but until
he was able to probe the Commander's mind, Apollo was helpless to
discover how.
     The question remained: what to do next? Apollo disliked the thought
of a direct confrontation with the Commander. He'd avoided it because he
felt the possible benefits were outweighed by the definite danger of
permanently alienating the Commander. Now he wondered if he had any other
choice.
     He hadn't heard the Ogocaoan approaching and was startled when the
squat man lowered himself and asked, "You going to hold that or drink it,
buck?"
     Apollo jerked around. "What?"
     "I asked if you were going to drink it, that bottle you got. If not,
I'll be glad to take it off your hands."
     The Cork flustered. "I'm drinking it," he said. The Ogocaoan frowned
with thick, black eyebrows, scratched at a dangling moustache, and said
nothing. Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, Apollo said, "Do you want a
drink? Is that it?"
     The other man lifted narrow shoulders. "I'd like one, 'less you
prefer drinking alone."
     "It doesn't matter," Apollo said. "Help yourself, friend." He handed
the bottle over and stared as the Ogocaoan ripped out the plastic stopper
and upended the bottle in his mouth with a single flicking motion. After
several swallows, the stranger returned the bottle, sighing.
     "Not as good as what we used to have," he said, "but it serves the
purpose fine. You're not from around here, are you? Noticed the way you
dress, not many people dress like that in Faraway."
     "I'm off the Galactica," Apollo said.
     "Heard another ship landed. Haven't had too many out this way, last
month or so. Trouble in the Frontier; guess it's slowing up trade.
Getting harder to find good liquor every day. Your ship brining any?"
     "Some Virgonese ambrosa."
     "Hey, now that's drinking. Say, my name's Qual. Used to be a
Corporeal myself, till I dropped ship here in Faraway. Pension's kept me
in bed and board, but not much left over for drinking, which is why I
bothered you, you seeming friendly and all. Want to thank you for that,
by the way."
     "Forget it. My name's Apollo. Out of Caprica."
     "Have a hand, Apollo."
     They shook; Qual's palm was moist in the Cork's hand. 
     "Now," the squat man said, "how about another hit of that ambrosa?"

*****************************

     Apollo had no idea why he concealed his Recpetivity from Qual; it
just seemed to happen---the man assumed Apollo was another Corporeal, and
at first Apollo didn't think to set him right. By the time it became
apparent that the two men would be spending more than a few casual
moments together, Apollo had already learned enough about Qual's
attitudes to know what he could expect if he revealed his true position.
     "Those Receptives," Qual had said when they first started drinking,
"you see them everywhere, and you know what? They've always got cubits,
even the pensioned ones. I'm dying of thirst and those Reeks are taking
baths in ambrosa. It's true. Colonies keep them fed like they were made
of limestone or something."
     "They need them for the mentalstars, don't they?"
     "They need us too, but you don't see Corporeals getting six-yahren
Contracts. Term Contracts, that's all, and not even full insurance. I get
a leg broke, I get my pension, but nothing else. A Receptive goes stupid
in his head, he gets a pension and enough insurance and cubits to support
him for, what, ten, fifteen yahrens? What kind of fair is that?"
     "If he breaks a Contract he's in as bad shape as you are. And
insurance doesn't help a man if he's insane."
     "Hey, what do you care about those Reeks anyway? They're stiffing
you as much as they're stiffing me."
     "I merely thought you were being too simple about it, that's all."
     "What's so complex about being robbed?"
     Part of what kept Apollo from telling Qual the truth was his desire
to learn more about the Frontier situation. He had a growing suspicion
that his trouble with the Commander was tied to the rebellion brewing in
the Frontier, and he wanted to learn as much about the rebellion as he
could. At least, he thought that was his reason.
     He and Qual had a meal in a dome tavern on the far end of the lake.
Apollo picked up the tab for it. Qual led him to a seat near a clear
plastic wall, the only one Apollo had seen so far in Faraway, and
insisted Apollo take the outer seat. Apollo found himself eating on a
transparent platform six metrons off the lake's surface. Qual explained
that only Colonial factory employees usually frequented the tavern.
"They're the only ones who can afford it," he said.
     While they ate, Apollo and the Corporeal talked. 
     "Now what we've been planning, some of the others and me"----Qual
paused and scratched at his moustache--"well---how long have you been in
the Frontier, Apollo?"
     "Six yahrens. Since I left Caprica."
     "Then you know how the settlers are?"
     "They seem tough and hard."
     "That's the word, Apollo. I'm from Caprica myself, the Northern
Continent, province called Shania, and that's pretty hard land---but
these settlers, they beat anything I ever saw at home. They have this
plane, they want their own nation---you see? They figure the Reeks and
the Colonies have done enough to them, to us, to everybody. You see
that?"
     "I understand what you're saying," Apollo said. He forked greens
into his mouth from the plate before him and chewed. He preferred the
ship's algae product to natural-grown greens, but sometimes enjoyed the
variation.
     "You do? Good. Maybe you'd like to meet some of the men, hey?"
     "Sure."
     "You're OK, Apollo." Qual nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, you'll meet
'em tonight."
     "You didn't just come over to me at random, did you?" Apollo asked.
Qual shook his head, laughing.
     "I saw you, I knew what kind of guy you are. The way you were
holding that bottle you looked like the last guy in the world. You know?
Sure. People get pushed around, they get confused, don't know what
they're going to do...they look like you did. I saw you. I knew where
your mind was, and I figured you and I'd have the same things in common.
Figured you'd want to meet the others. Like that." He snapped his
fingers.
     "Like that," Apollo said, and thought: That's the way it is to be a
Corporeal. You can never know for certain where you stand. You're always
guessing and depending upon body language. Just as I'm guessing about the
Commander.
     He joined Qual in his laugh. For Apollo, the laugh was bitter.

*****************************

     "Hey? What's the matter?"
     "I thought I saw----would you wait here a moment?"
     "Sure. I'll be inside. You want me to order you a beer or an
ambrosa?"
     "Beer's fine," Apollo said. He left Qual and crossed the street down
which they'd been walking, dodged a hovermobile that bleered! at him as
he waved it aside, and trotted to the corner. 
     The street was busy with people, but nowhere did he see the two men
he'd glimpsed a moment before.
     Reluctantly, he recrossed the street and joined Qual in the bar the
Corporeal had indicated. Qual gave him the beer he'd ordered for Apollo,
and the bartender handed the Cork the tab.
     "What was that all about, anyway?" Qual asked him.
     Apollo looked for the bartender, who'd taken his cubits.
     "Just two men who shouldn't be together," he said. "Two former
friends of mine."
     Qual looked confused, and then shrugged. "Your business," he said.
Draining his glass, he added, "Want another beer or another ambrosa?"

*****************************

     Twilight turned the Ogocaoan sky a mellow orange and traced the
clouds with tinted gold along their western edge. Repeatedly, Apollo's
gaze went to the part of the sky visible between the high buildings, and
repeatedly he had to force his attention back to the ground, and the
route Qual was taking through the alleys of Faraway.
     Even the most modern of cities had their slums, an area where the
poor and disadvantaged congregated in communal misery, and Faraway was no
exception. The streets Qual led Apollo along were dark, the pavements
cracked and worn; it was the oldest section of the city, and thought it
wasn't in the same state of disrepair as its counterpart on Virgon, the
area gave off the same aura of weariness and apathy. Apollo wondered why
Qual's friends found it necessary to meet in a ghetto, and then decided
that many---if not all---of them were probably from the ghetto area.
Crippled Corporeals, pensioned crew, settlers who'd emigrated to Ogocao
to find a job and found instead that all of the jobs were spoken for---
Apollo was sure these would be the revolutionaries. He sympathized with
the people of the Frontier in principle, though he found the application
of the principle distasteful; he couldn't blame the Receptives for the
Colonies' oppression, and he didn't think this was solely because he was
a Receptive himself.
     "We've got a place in the basement of a confab," Qual said. "Belongs
to Adred. He rents it on the side."
     Apollo said nothing. He followed the Corporeal up a flight of stairs
to a wide court. Several buildings larger than any Apollo had seen in
Faraway faced the court, their lobbies brightly lit in contrast to their
upper stories. Qual skirted the edge of the court, slipped down a passage
between buildings, and halted in front of a vanilithminium door. Apollo
watched as the squat man put his palm against a checkplate beside the
jamb. The plate glowed and the door cycled open. Qual shook his head,
laughing wryly as he gestured Apollo inside. "Always burns a bit, that
thing," he said.
     Another flight of stairs led downward, around a corner to a second
door. Qual pressed a call tab and the speaker grill asked his name. He
gave it, the door opened, and Apollo followed him in.
     Apollo's first impression of Adred was amazement at the man's size.
Adred hulked at least two and a half metrons tall, with shoulders half
again as broad as a normal man's, hands that were each as massive as both
of Apollo's and arms that dangled to Adred's mid-though. After size what
impressed Apollo was Adred's face: the revolutionary's features were
ascetic, aquiline---completely self-possessed. He greeted Apollo with a
grim nod and indicated that he and Qual were to take seats with the
others.
     "We were talking about this ship of yours, Apollo," Adred said after
Qual had introduced Apollo and explained the Cork's background. "From
what we hear, she's a hate ship. Is this true?"
     "Yes," Apollo said. "That's what she's been called."
     "A man we have in the spacedrome tells us there was trouble aboard
the Galactica two days ago, before she landed on Ogocao."
     Apollo related the incident. Adred inclined his head as he listened,
his eyes shifting as he took in the expressions of the other men and
women in the room. When Apollo finished, Adred said, "It's happened all
across the Frontier, then. Thank the Lords of Kobol. If what we're
planning is only local to Ogocao, we'd be dead. But if the Colonies can
be kept busy jumping from outbreak to outbreak, we may have a chance
after all."
     "That's a little much to hope for, Adred," a squarish man on a bench
not far from Apollo said. "I think we'd do best to work with whatever we
can expect to encounter here and not depend on outside influences to save
our outstretched necks."
     "Of course, Gint," Adred said wearily. "We've been through that, and
we've made our decision." To Apollo: "I'm sorry if we seem a bit
disorganized, but as usually happens in groups like ours, though he wall
agree on ends, we don't all agree on means. Some of us, including Gint,
opt for violent revolution; others, for what they call education
evolution---showing the Colonies our wants and needs, in effect educating
them to our condition. Recently, our more patient contemporaries decided
to abandon us as hotheads, and for the past few days we've been trying to
finalize a course of action. We haven't yet all agreed on what to do.
When you've been a member of our group a little longer, you'll be allowed
to assist in our plans---but for now, I think, we'd simply like to learn
a little more about you."
     "Precisely," said a woman behind Adred. "Tell us about yourself."
     Apollo did, omitting all reference to his Receptivity. Adred
listened without expression, while those around the group's leader showed
varying degrees of interest. Least attentive was Qual, who wandered over
to a table stocked with bottles and casks of ambrosa and beer, and after
opening an ambrosa for himself, the Corporeal got one for Apollo, handing
it to the Cork as he regained his seat beside him. Apollo nursed the
bottle, using it to cover what he felt must be the obvious trembling in
his hands. He didn't like the emotions he felt surrounding him; if the
men and women in the room discovered he was not a Corporeal, he would be
dead inside of a mili-centon.
     Finishing his story, glad for the verbal ability he'd always
possessed and taken for granted; Apollo paused for a long swallow of
ambrosa. He closed his eyes as he did, and shut his mind to the feelings
of those around him. If the reaction to his story was negative, Apollo
preferred not to know until action was taken. There was, after all,
little he could do. He was on their turf.
     Adred cleared his throat. He glanced at the woman behind him. Apollo
opened his eyes. The woman's face was hard, her eyes unreadable, but she
inclined her head in a curt nod, and when Adred turned back to Apollo he
was smiling. "Well," Adred said, extending his hand, "welcome to the
group."
     Apollo laughed and grasped the outstretched hand.

*****************************

     "Essentially what we want to do is this," Adred said, resting an arm
around Apollo's shoulder and pointing at a spot on the diagram on the
table before them. "The main Colonial processing plants are here, sixteen
levels below ground in the third building of this complex. That's where
they refine the hide, press it, add the preservatives to the juices; it's
where they make the milk. If there's any single place on Ogocao which is
paramount to Colonial operations on this planet, that's it."
     "I'm not sure I understand," Apollo said. "What's this 'milk'?"
     The woman who'd spoken earlier answered Apollo's question. "You know
what Palteth Root is? You've drunk ambrosa? You've eaten Varel? Bloodmilk
is the same kind of thing, a narcotic. If you're not an addict of the
drink, you probably haven never heard of it. It's highly specialized."
     "And makes quite a profit for the Colonies," Gint added.
     "I can imagine," Apollo said, peering down at the diagram more
closely. "Cutting down on their production will probably hurt them
badly."
     "Not just cutting down, Apollo," Adred said. "We intend to cut it
off completely."
     "By destroying the plant?"
     "By destroying the plant," Adred agreed.
     Apollo sighed. "That's a bit ambitious."
     "We don't have the patience for anything less ambitious," the woman
said quietly. "We've been pushed to extremes."
     "Do you honestly think this is the answer?" Apollo looked around at
them. Qual, he saw, was drunk; the man's head rested on his folded arms,
his mouth fluttering in a snore. "I've worked on the rim for six years
and there've always been plans to cut off the Colonies. Do you know why
none of them have worked? Because the people behind them have always
ignored the economics of the situations existence. This planet stays
alive because of this----what did you call it, 'bloodmilk'? Wipe that out
and you wipe yourselves out, never mind the Colonies."
     "That's a simplistic attitude, Apollo," Gint said. "Admittedly,
there's a risk involved----"
     "Risk is the least of your worries. Understand, I'm not saying
anything about your revolution. But try to go about it realistically. Ask
yourselves this: is Ogocao self-supporting? Do you need Colonial products
to survive? Are your agro-parts home produced? Listen, I was on a world
where every piece of machinery was rented from the Colonies---and none of
it was self-replicating or repairing. Do you understand what that meant?
The planet needed Colonial engineers to fix the crop harvesters, the
planters, the processing machines----and all of the repair equipment was
kept off planet. Ditto the men to repair them. The result: effective
slavery."
     "You're not telling us anything we don't already know," Adred said.
"We all understand what our situation is here. That's why we're trying to
change it."
     "But don't you see you can't go about it violently? If you do,
you'll only be hurting yourselves. I want change as much as you do,
perhaps more: I work on a mentalstar. I have to live with Colonial edicts
daily. I've suffered at their hands, their collective hands---so believe
me when I tell you, this is not the way."
     He paused for a moment and looked at the settlers standing around
the table. They were watching him intently. Gint was frowning; the woman
smiling wryly. Adred, again, was expressionless.
     Shaking himself, Apollo let out a sigh, relaxing. "First of all, you
have to make Ogocao self-supporting. Remember that the Twelve Colonies
you emigrated from are generally human-friendly planets. Most of the
worlds here in the Frontier are not. The Colonies help to keep their
colonies alive. Before you can throw off the Colonial yoke, you have to
tame this world...completely."
     He glanced up. "Do you understand that?"
     The woman's laugh was harsh, bitter. She glared at Adred, her smile
vanishing. "Well? Are you going to answer him? Are you going to tell him
what we've been through?" When Adred said nothing, she screeched, "Are
you going to tell him?"
     Adred started and shifted his gaze from Apollo to the woman. "If
that's the way he feels, Rom, there's nothing I can tell him." His
attention returned to Apollo. "You say you want change, Apollo, but you
refuse to accept the risk of change. I was going to ask you to help in
our efforts, but now I think it's best to simply ask you to leave...and
to think about what's been said here. I think, in some way you're not
even aware of, you're tied to the Colonies. Possibly you're right in your
beliefs. We may be risking too much. But that's something only we can
decide, because only we've live through the oppression from this
perspective. For you, the solution may be different. Perhaps. I won't
pretend to have all the answers...and neither should you.
     "Qual will take you back to the port. Rom, waking him up and set the
two of them on their way."
     This was done. At the door, Adred gripped Apollo's shoulder and
leaned close to him. "I want you to know you came very close to being
killed. It's only because I believe you meant well that you're leaving
here alive." His hand dropped, and he said. "Don't make me regret it,
Apollo."
     Calmer now---strangely calm, he thought---Apollo said, "It's your
affair, Adred. I hope you're doing the right thing."
     "So do I," Adred said, studying him. 
     Apollo went out the door, Qual at his side.

*****************************

     The spacedrome was splashed with light from the spots to aid the
repair crews working on the ships being readied for lift-off. Harsh
shadows stalked the tarmac as Apollo left the terminal and struck out in
the direction of the Galactica, which occupied a pad apart from the other
ships many of which had been on Ogocao for several sectans----near an
unloading conveyor.
     There was no one visible around the ship; the pad was deserted,
silent but for the continuous hum of the equipment working to unload the
Galactica's hold and replace its contents with a shipment---Apollo
supposed---of bloodmilk. Apollo wondered where the watch crew was.
Procedure demanded a three-man team on hand during all trade operations,
including cargo transfer. The team's ability was ominous.
     He took the ramp up to the air lock in three bounds, entered the
ship, and called for the watch officer. No one answered.
     The halls were empty. So were both the rejuvenation center and the
Crew's Mess. There was not a sound other than the whisper of the ship's
LS system and the hum of the unloading equipment. He probed----no one was
aboard. He was alone.
     Back on the ramp he looked around the field and saw a port mechanic
sitting on a pile of crates not too far away. Apollo hurried in that
direction.
     "The Galactica? You mean that Reek ship on pad twelve? Yeah, I saw
it, you don't need to point it out. Sure must've been a centon ago, some
sort of commotion. Only about fifteen people there, I guess, everybody
else in town, but those fifteen, they lit out like a fire was after them.
How'd I know where they went? I'm just waiting for my relief, Sire."

*****************************

     He found them on a side street on the fringe of Faraway's Receptive
District. The psi blast was "audible" from a lexar away, the mingled
emotions of the Galactica's crew acting as a beacon to guide him against
his will. And it was against his will. Apollo didn't want to see what he
knew he'd find when he reached the crowd, but he had no choice. Like a
moth to flame, he was drawn to his doom.
     He was dead: Apollo saw that immediately. There'd been no doubt in
the Cork's mind, ever since he missed the man's presence when he scanned
the crowd. He'd hoped there'd be some other explanation, that perhaps the
Sagitarian was unconscious or in a coma----anything but the finality of
death. Until the last possible moment Apollo refused to accept the
reality of what had happened. He knew that if he did, he'd be forced to
accept culpability as well.
     The two of them were in the center of the crowd, one kneeling over
the other, his hands bloody, his jump suit soiled with garbage from the
gutter in which they'd fought. The crew members parted as Apollo pressed
against them, until he stepped into the circle occupied by Tyger and
Jakar. Apollo looked at the dead man and felt a sting of agony. The
Sagitarian's neck was mottled, the skin pierced by the white edge of a
broken bone. His eyes were open and staring, already glazing and dull.
Apollo knelt and closed them. The other kneeling man stirred but said
nothing.
     "You should've helped Jakar when we asked you to," a voice said
behind Apollo. "This wouldn't have happened, if you---"
     "Shut up," Apollo said. He didn't need to look to know it was Jolly
who'd spoken. "I know it," the Cork said, "I know it, I know it."
     He searched the eyes of the Sagitarian with the bloody hands and
asked of him, "Will you forgive me?"
     There was no light of understanding in the other man's eyes. His
mind was gone, Apollo knew; the Corks question had been rhetorical.
     Jakar would never answer.

**************************************************************

Chapter Nine
Tenth Sectar, Second Day,
Colonial Yahren: 7364

     "Tyger never had a chance, not really," Jolly said. Jakar was twice
his size, half again as strong. Tyger may have frightened him, but in a
struggle Jakar had to win. Tyger pushed him and pushed him, until all
Jakar could do was defend himself...even then, I don't think he intended
to...it just happened. Now he's cracked up, broken completely, finished.
He's ruined, Apollo. How does that make you feel?"
     They were outside the clinic where they'd left the shattered
Sagitarian. Apollo had said nothing since that moment in the alleyway
several centons earlier; he'd listened, accepting Jolly's verbal attack,
not permitting it to touch him. Now he roused himself to ask, "When did
it happen? How? I thought Jakar was avoiding Tyger, but I saw the two of
them walking together this afternoon...or thought I did. I didn't believe
it."
     "Tyger came to Jakar an hour before we all left the ship. He told
him he wanted to end the fued. He said he'd been wrong to blame Jakar for
what happened to his family. I was there, and I thought Tyger was
sincere...but I'm not a Receptive therefore I couldn't know." He glanced
at Apollo coldly. "Neither could Jakar. He wanted so badly to see an end
to the trouble, he bought Tyger's story. He didn't have a choice, did
he?"
     Apollo was silent. He'd closed himself from the Corporeal's
emotional attack centons before; the verbal assault meant nothing. Apollo
felt isolated, filled with emotions he couldn't comprehend. He wanted
time to think. He needed time.
     Finally, he said, "I am sorry, you know."
     Jolly stared at him. "That's fine, Apollo," he said. "That's just
fine."
     As though that was what he'd been waiting to say all the time the
two of them had stood outside the clinic, Apollo sighed and moved away.
Apollo covered his eyes and listened to the sound of the young man's
footsteps fading into the night. Soon the sound was gone and Apollo was
alone.
 
*****************************

     Once he found the pub he became drunk very quickly. Bloodmilk didn't
taste as bitter as he'd expected it to; it was sweet and rather syrupy,
like a kind of honey he'd tasted once when he visited the planet Bacchus.
The bartender advised him to take it easy, but Apollo paid him no mind.
     He passed out after his third drink.
 
*****************************

     When he woke he went in search of Quel, and found the squat
Corporeal in the park, eating crackers out of a paper bag and sitting on
a bench not far from the spot where he'd introduced himself to Apollo.
Quel looked up as Apollo approached, stared, swallowed, and got to his
feet, dropping the paper bag and wiping his hands on the sides of his
pants.
     "Apollo, hey, we were hoping you'd show up again." He grinned,
offering Apollo his hand. The Cork took it and pressed it briefly. Quel's
smile waned. "Hey, you OK? You look like you've been drinking?"
     "I have been drinking," Apollo said.
     "Well, we all get a little now and then, right? Listen, what made
you change your mind? Seeing things Adred's way after all?"
     "Not quite," Apollo said. Quel's face puckered into a frown, but the
little man pried no further.
     Adred, on the other hand, apparently felt no need to be delicate. He
was frankly suspicious of Apollo's change of heart, and said as much when
Quel brought the Cork before him. The three of them stood in the anteroom
of a factory located in the central industrial area, an outlet for the
processing plant where Adred worked. The large man's face and hands were
smudged with grease and sweat, and Apollo found his appearance disturbing
and, in a way, intimidating.
     "You expect me to believe you've turned around completely in your
thinking?" Adred asked. He peered at the Cork intently. "Why, Apollo? Why
should I accept that at face value?"
     "I never said that," Apollo replied.
     "Last night you thought we were committing suicide. Now---?"
     "Last night I was sure of myself. Since then I've had to question
some of my reasons for doing things...for thinking things."
     "And you've decided you were wrong?"
     "No," Apollo said. "I've decided my reasons were wrong."
     Forehead wrinkling, Adred said, "You want to run that by me again,
Apollo?"
     "Listen. On Virgon in the Twelve Colonies I own a bordello. I turn a
nice trade; or at least I expect to when I return. It's occurred to me
that maybe I was trying to protect my interests in the Colonial economy
when I told you that what you were planning was a mistake. If that's
true, it isn't fair to me, or to you. A man shouldn't let something like
that affect his moral judgment. That's why I'm here. I have to help you,
to find out if some of my other ideas were wrong also. Mostly I'm here to
get a handle on myself before my ship lifts for Sagitara. I have to
decide if I want to be on it when it does."
     Adred rubbed a grease-darkened hand along his jaw thoughtfully.
"Strange thinking, Apollo. Most people settle for a code they can apply
to everything. You seem to want something to fit every situation as it
comes up. Just be careful you don't ask others to be as hard on
themselves as you are. You'll be disappointed. You might also be killed."
He regarded Apollo a moment, and then asked, "What brought on the
self-doubt?"
     "I let a man be killed, and I let another man destroy himself. I got
drunk. It made me think."
     "I imagine it would," Adred said. He grunted. "I should throw you
out of here and Quel with you"---the squat man cringed----"but I've a
feeling that would be a mistake. I don't quite know what to do with you,
Apollo...but I'll think of something."
     He strode away, and Apollo realized that he and Quel were dismissed.
Looking down at the Corporeal, Apollo said, "Come on, friend. I'll buy
you a drink."
 
*****************************

     Quel was talkative until he had his second ambrosa; then he fell
silent, speaking only now and then to ask Apollo a question. The Cork, on
the other hand, became more verbose as the afternoon wore on. He
preferred ambrosa's familiar sweetness to the milk he had the night
before, and was working two drinks to the Corporeal's one before a full
hour had passed. Eventually he told Quel about Serina, and what had
transpired on the Galactica between them.
     "If you felt that way about her, why'd you let her go?" Quel asked
him at one point. Apollo stirred the bit of plastic that bobbed in his
mug, and lifted his eyes to the midafternoon shadows filling the open-air
tavern bar.
     "If I knew the answer to that, maybe I wouldn't have pushed her,"
Apollo said.
     "Do you want to know?"
     "I'm not sure," Apollo replied. "I have to give it time. I'm
beginning to understand things about myself I never thought about
before."
     "Things are coming up fast, aren't they?" Qual asked
sympathetically.
     "A bit too fast," Apollo said.
     "Imagine getting burned by two men at once," the Corporeal said.
"Wouldn't want to be that girl for anyone's money."
     "Neither would I," Apollo said.
 
*****************************

     On their way back to Adred's basement apartment, Apollo and Quel
paused at the spacedrome on Apollo's insistence. The drome was empty---it
was almost midnight---and the gates leading to the pad area were closed.
Apollo didn't go near the gates, however. He stopped by a wall-sized
window that showed the six-ships that were in port, five in-system
shuttles and one mentalstar: the Galactica. Apollo couldn't tell whether
the Galactica's cargo doors were open or not, but he supposed they
weren't---no spotlights were directed on the ship to aid in the loading
and unloading. At this time of night, despite the brilliant starlight
from the galactic spiral filling the sky, spots would be necessary if any
work was to be done.
     The ship would be leaving at daybreak, then.
     Next to him, Quel asked, "You want anything here?"
     "Perhaps," Apollo said, "but not now."
     The Corporeal checked his watch, replaced the pendant in its case.
"We'd better hurry," he said. "Adred wants to be started before 0200."
     Apollo nodded and they continued on their way.

***************************** 

     "You and Qual are going to stay here on watch," Adred told Apollo.
"Gint, Rom, Divendris, and I will go down there together. If we're gone
for more than fifteen mili-centons---fifteen mili-centons exactly,
Qual---get out of here. The solonite mines will go off automatically,
taking most of this building with them. You know what to do if anyone
shows up before then. Are your weapons in order? Apollo, you're sure you
don't want one?"
     "I'm not sure of anything," Apollo said. "You'd better keep your
pistol."
     The large man shrugged. Light from the processing plant's lobby
played off the pillars surrounding the group, casting shadows that hid
features and expressions. "I hope you know what you're doing," Adred
said. He eyed the cask of ambrosa under Apollo's arm. "Gint, Rom, you
come with me. Divendris, three metrons behind. Wish us luck, Apollo."
     "Luck," Apollo said. Qual echoed it. The two men watched as Adred
and the rest slipped through the open doorway into the lobby proper, each
of the rebels carefully stepping over the Colonial security man who was
lying unconscious outside the door arch.
     "Nervous?" Qual asked.
     "A little bit, I suppose," Apollo admitted. He glanced at the
building above them. Several of the windows were lit, sparkling in the
darkness and acting as a set of spotlights pinpointing the Colonies'
wealth and the planet's priorities: no other building in Faraway had as
much glass for a simple decoration. No other agency could afford to
import it.
     "Do you think they'll make it?" Qual asked.
     "They're trying," Apollo said. "That's all that matters."
     And wasn't that the difference between these men and the crew of the
mentalstar? These settlers were prepared to take their lives into their
own hands, while the crew allowed themselves to drift from incident to
incident, without goal or direction. For Apollo, that latter course had
become suddenly intolerable.
     Yet, as he thought this, Apollo sent his mind probing outward
through the darkness ahead, into the bright light of the lobby. He "felt"
the light as an ethereal obstruction, something he was forced to push
aside in order to reach the object of his probe. Gently he touched his
goal. He sifted through the layers of his subject's forebrain and passed
into the subconscious, where he could watch without disturbing. Adred was
unaware of Apollo's presence, and that was precisely how Apollo wanted
things to remain.
     The view through Adred's eyes was distorted, as vision always was
for Apollo when he took on another man's perceptions. Here and there the
tones of the colors were slightly off, the textures on some objects too
refined, on others too vague, the depth perception extended too far---or
not extended enough. Sound was also a difficulty, coming at a different
pitch. Adred's whispered instructions to the other members of his team
were harsh to Apollo's psychic ear; at first the Cork could barely
understand the words. He heard them as though through a filter, as they
echoed in the large man's mind.
     According to the plan Apollo had lifted from his host's memory, each
of the four rebels carried a supply of industrial-grade solonite, in
shaped charges designed by Adred and Gint. In his capacity as an engineer
at the plant that processed the solonite for cloudriders, Adred had been
able to obtain enough of the material to destroy thirty cubic metrons of
the narcotics plant----enough to kill the Colonial operation on Ogocao
for at least six sectars, till replacement machinery could be imported
from the Twelve Colonies. Six sectars was long enough, by Adred's
figuring, for the rebels to completely undermine the strength of the
Colonial administration. As the large man kept reminding himself, a
government that starved its constituents could not long remain in power.
It was Adred's plan to instigate that "starving," which would be chiefly
a reduction in Ogocaoan luxury.
     Through the leader's eyes, Apollo saw a flight of stairs leading to
the subbasements. Adred and Rom jogged down the steps, while Divendris
and Gint slipped inside.
     The processing room was immense----at least, that small part of it
that was visible. Apollo knew, from Adred's memory, that this was only a
portion of the entire factory, and even at that, the chamber was
impressive. Walls stretched into an arch far overhead, joining over an
array of catwalks that held Apollo in fascination when Adred glanced
upward. Here and there spotlights were set into the bottoms of the
walkways, each light directed in such a manner as to light a block of the
deck below. Apollo counted quickly before Adred turned away. Sixteen
spots. The architect had been a master: the room was at least two hundred
metrons square, and that the designer had managed to illuminate that much
floor space with so little in the way of lights and reflectors was a feat
Apollo could respect. Adred, he knew, would not understand this. With a
start, which broke his contact with the rebel, Apollo realized that Jakar
would have understood---even in his former state of near-madness---and
what was more, would have commented on it in a way that would have made
it something both he and Apollo could share.
     He shook himself, and found that he was crouched beside Qual next to
a pillar on the plaza outside the glass-walled lobby.
     "Are you OK?" the small man was asking him. Apollo nodded. "You
looked bad there a moment," Qual said. "I wanted to be sure you weren't
sick or anything."
     "I'm fine," Apollo said. He returned to his place in Adred's soul.
     The large man and Rom had walked several meters into the chamber,
and Adred was directing her toward a massive machine set in the center of
the wide space beyond the archway, connected to several wide tubes of
vanilithminium. Without a word the woman slid into kneeling position
under one of the polished cables. Adred strode around the processing unit
and found another bulky machine against the far wall. He too bent and
unstrapped the pack he carried on his shoulder. Several items were
inside, neatly arranged. Adred removed them and placed them in order on
the floor before the machine. The only thing Apollo recognized was the
cube of a tylinium power pack.
     "Open up that cask," Apollo said to Qual. The Corporeal complied,
snapping off the top and offering the Apollo the first swallow. The Cork
took it and drank for a long half-mili-centon. Qual's face went from
polite interest to concern to outright dismay. Apollo didn't seem to
notice.

*****************************

     Six mili-centons later the packs were set and the rebels were on
their way back to the lobby. Apollo had made spot checks with the other
two members of the team, Divendris and Gint, and had found them
performing similar duties in another section of the plant. Each rebel in
both teams worked with a mechanical precision Apollo didn't understand,
even when he witnessed it from within their leader. It seemed as though
they'd disconnected their minds and were acting on reflex, letting
training assume control of their bodies for the time it took to plant the
makeshift bombs. Now that the operation was completed, however,
personality was returning to the teammates, and two of them----Gint and
Adred---were eager to escape. Apollo sympathized. The empathetic tension
he'd experienced during the bomb placement was too strong for his
strained nerves. He wanted the evening to be over.
     In a mili-centon, it almost was.
     Adred and Rom were on the staircase when the Colonial warriors hit
Divendris and Gint. Apollo hear the weapon fire from two sets of ears:
his own and Adred's. Instantly he drove more deeply into the large man's
mind, sending directions to the motor control of Adred's brain, making
the man's head snap up, latch onto Rom's wrist, and literally drag the
woman upward, four steps at a time.
     "Adred, what is it?" she shouted at him, "What's wrong?"
     Adred didn't answer. His personality was in a state of shock,
stunned at seeing his body act without his instructions. He watched from
a corner of his mind as his body launched itself for the door to the
lobby, struck and went thought, rolling to the floor automatically, and
pulled Gint down with it, thus ducking the burst of weapon fire that tore
off the top half of the swinging door. Adred watched, amazed, as his body
came to its knees and threw itself with a kick across two metrons of
space to land heavily against a Colonial warrior holding a rifle. He
gaped within his mind as his body fought a battle without his actual
control.
     Apollo, however, realized that something was wrong. Though moving
more rapidly than it could have done under Adred's direction, the rebel
body was still reacting sluggishly to Apollo's commands. It was not the
smooth lock Apollo had felt with Jolly, nor was it the tense linking the
Cork had experienced with Tyger---rather, it was painfully incomplete, as
though Apollo's hands were holding Adred's and forcing them to move,
instead of guiding them from within.
     Something was wrong with the linking, and if Adred was to survive,
Apollo had to discover where the wrongness lay and correct it quickly,
before the moment was past.
     Outside the lobby, Qual was on his feet, clutching the ambrosa cask
to his body with trembling hands. "It's Adred, all right, Apollo. That's
him on the floor. And Rom too. They've gotta get outta there, Apollo. The
warriors haven't gotten this far yet, maybe they can still escape. But
they've gotta get out of there."
     Rom was on her feet now, Apollo saw. He stared at the woman in the
lobby.
     "There's nothing we can do," Qual said beyind him. "There's nothing
we can do."
     Rom did a dance. Like most settlers she'd been taught the age of
self-defense at an early age, for use against the unknown dangers of a
new world. Now she used it against the known dangers of an old one.
     Her foot came up in an arc that ended in attacking a warrior's jaw.
The jaw splintered under the skin; Apollo could see the shape go out of
the man's face. Rom carried through with the kick, ending the motion with
a dip forward and back, straightened fingers of her hands poking into the
soft material of another warrior's chest. From this she moved into a
balletlike motion Apollo couldn't follow. The motion ended and another
man fell to the floor, squirming. Startled with the violence of the act,
Apollo squirmed uneasily himself.
     Adred was recovering from the leap, pushing himself off the body of
the man he'd thrown to the floor and casting his glance about as though
he were wondering what he was still doing in the plant lobby. Across from
Adred a door opened and more guards stumbled into the hall. Rom noticed
them at the same instant as Adred, but Apollo saw the men just an instant
before.
     He eased into the rebel's brain.
     Who is that? What are you doing to me?
     Apollo ignored the question and swung Adred's body into action. A
moment later, the question was repeated.
     What are you doing to me? Who are you?
     Qual's hand touched Apollo's shoulder. "It's fifteen mili-centons,"
the small man said.
     "So?" Apollo's eyes were unfocused. He couldn't see Qual's face, but
he could feel the Corporeal's hot breath upon his neck.
     "That's how long Adred said we were to wait. He said we were to get
out if it was any longer. You heard him, Apollo. The packs are going off
at any moment." The squat man's voice shattered and he choked into
silence. Apollo ignored him, concentrating on developing the link with
Adred's mind.
     Something surged in the subconscious Apollo had invaded. A part of
Adred was straining for dominance. Apollo sense that the trouble was
here: the core of the problem, the failure of the linking here, with
Adred. He stepped back from the motor responses and centered his
attention on that portion of Adred's brain that was fighting him. The
Cork sense disorientation and fear; to quell Adred's disturbance, Apollo
opened his memory and allowed the Corporeal in. He expected the rebel's
distress to fade, but instead the man's struggling increased.
     What's wrong? Apollo asked. I've given you all the information you
need.
     Get out of my mind, you damn Reek! Adred's mental voice came back.
Stop treating me like a Colonial puppet, dammit!
     Apollo dropped back in shock. A Colonial puppet?
     For Sagan's sake, let me fight my own battles---the words tumblied
in Apollo's mind, emotional, irrational--get out of my mind---get
out---get out---!
     For a moment, Apollo debated doing exactly that, and then decided
against it. There was too much at stake. He watned to hurt the Colonies
and hurt them badly. Adred had to win, and Apollo would see to it that he
did---for Apollo would be in control.
     From that instant on, Adred's body began to crumble.

*****************************

     The legs were the first to go. Apollo felt the knees buckling as he
tried to drive Adred into two warriors who'd arrived through an entrance
at the rear of the lobby. Gravity seemed to jerk the Corporeal downward;
it required all of Apollo's will simply to force Adred to remain
standing, and he had barely enough strength left to bring the rebel's
hand up in a sweep that intersected the warrior's throat----with little
effect. The warrior stumbled back, coughing, and his companion slipped
past him, grabbing Adred and heaving the rebel backward. Something caught
Adred's heel, his legs collapsed and the large man went down.
     "C'mon, Apollo, we gotta get outta here."
     "Shut up, Qual."
     "If you won't come, then I'm going alone."
     "All right then----GO!!!
     The small man's hand fell from Apollo's shoulder. Distantly the Cork
heard Qual's breathing become harsher as the Corporeal struggled with
himself. Finally there were footsteps that faded, and Apoll knew he was
alone in the plaza behind the pillar support.
     The struggle in the lobby was almost finished. Rom had been borne
down by three warriors, two holding her arms and a third clinging
desperately to her legs. She was screaming and cursing in languages
unfamiliar to Apollo. The sounds of scuffling in the staifwell Gint and
Divendris had used were more sporadic now, and one or two of the
uniformed Colonial warriors were making noises about helping their
comrades finish with the last of the intruders. None of the warriors were
aware, apparently, that Adred and his fellow rebels had accomplished
their mission. The warriors though they'd stopped the saboteurs as they
were entering the building, and had no idea of the power packs planted in
the sections below. Apollo tried once more to gain control of Adred's
brain; the packs, he knew, were only a mili-centon away from detonation.
     And you can't stop them, Apollo. There's nothing you can do.
     Apollo was as startled by the fact of Adred's speech as he was by
what the rebel said.
     Why would I want to stop it?
     You're a Receptive, aren't you? A Colonial man.
     They're not necessarily one in the same, Apollo told him.
     Aren't they?
     Apollo dismissed Adred's presence. He drove more deeply inot the
man's brain and found the motor controls, seized them with more energy
than he'd ever expended before.
     The warrior holding Adred was taken by surprise when the seemingly
unconscious man came suddenly awake. Adred's shoulder caught the warrior
under the jaw and the Colonial man fell back, stunned. Adred's body was
on its feet and moving toward Rom when the building around the two of
them abruptly ceased to exist.
     A solonite implosion is unlike any reaction known to man. In the
moment of meeting, when the subatomic particles of solonite come into
contact with the atomic structure of their intended target, mutual
annihilation occurs---instantly. So complete is the destruction that even
the energy produced by the reaction is consumed, in direct contradictionj
of physical law. Just where the target atomic structure vanishes to is a
subject of intense speculation among researchers, but of little practical
importance.
     What is important is the effect of such consumption. Upon the moment
of solonite/matter destruction, the gravimetric forces intersecting the
implosion are warped and twisted out of shape, a vaccum is formed that
requires filling, and much of the immediate vicinity collapses under the
combined pressure of all that occurs. The amount of Solonite Adred used
in the power packs could only have been measured molecularly, but the
effect it produced was equivalent to the explosion of several thousand
pounds of conventional nitroglycerin.
     In a matter of microns the processing plant was reduced to rubble
and Apollo was flung against a solid stone wall---part of the pillar he'd
been standing near the instant before. Quite probably it saved his life.
     But there was nothing to save Adred.

*****************************

     Gold was the most prominent color in the morning sky. It streaked
the eastern clouds just as it'd glided the western horizon the evening
before. Apollo didn't noticed the sky, however; he walked in a daze,
drained of all emotion. He'd had revenge, a part of it at any rate, but
it seemed to make no difference to the way he felt. He was empty.
     Above him the sound of the Colonial cloudriders streaking toward the
ruined processing plant was already growing dimmer. He wondered if the
spacedrome authorities would think the explosion an accident, or if
they'd fix blame where blame was due, thus giving reason to the rebel's
sacrifice. He hoped they would. Perhaps it would help him live with the
sickness inside him.
     Ahead, the Galactica's lights glowed, signalling that lift-off was
to be in one centon. Apollo hurried. He wanted very much to be on board
when the Galactica left Ogocao.

*****************************

     He expected to find her in the rejuvenation center, and when she
wasn't there, he tried the Mess. The Cook was the only person in the
Mess, however; he was sleeping with his head resting on his arms, an
overturned mug of ambrosa lying near his elbow on the filthy table.
Apollo jogged the gray man's shoulder twice before the Cook stirred,
mumbled something incoherent, and finally pulled himself erect, eying the
Cork standing over him.
     "We'd lost all hope of you ever coming back."
     "Where's Serina?" Apollo asked him.
     The Cook came awake. "What do you want her for, eh? You've done
enough to her, to everyone."
     "I know that," Apollo said. "That's why I want to tell her I'm
sorry."
     Peering at him with hard gray eyes, the Cook shook his head slowly.
"You're not sorry, Apollo. You think you're sorry, but you're not. Full
of ideas, but nothing for her. Why don't you look around you, Apollo? Why
don't you look inside yourself?"
     "Tell me where she is, Cook."
     The small man sighed. He made a decision, and his features grew
hard. "Her room," he said. "The door's open, or at least it was when we
left."
     "You and Jolly?"
     "We were all upset. You can understand, after what happened to
Jakar? We didn't like you very much then, Apollo. Serina liked you the
least."
     "Then I've got to see here, tell her---"
     "What're you going to tell her, Apollo?" The Cook turned away. "Go
ahead and talk to her. Go ahead."
     For a moment, as Apollo headed out of the door, the Cook turned
toward him, his face softening, and he called after the receding figure
of the Cork, "I'll be here, Apollo. You can come back here."

*****************************

     After going to Serina's room and seeing her sleeping, entwined, with
the duty officer from the hydroponics garden, and seeing the cubits lying
in payment on the desk beside her bed, Apollo did go back to the Mess. He
said nothing and neither did the Cook.
     A drink was already waiting.
 
**************************************************************
 
Chapter Ten
Tenth Sectar, Fifth Day,
Colonial Yahren: 7364

     Sagitara was ten days' voyage ahead of them, a sectan if they
strained the crew. The Commander seemed intent on doing just that, Apollo
learned soon after the Galactica left Ogocao. Apparently the Colonies
required the ship's presence on their main operations base, for they'd
ordered the mentalstar's speedy return. Apollo felt that pressuring the
crew was a mistake, and told the Commander as much, reminding the older
man of what had occured in the Crew's Mess little over a sectan before.
"Our orders are clear, Apollo," the Commander replied. "This is, after
all, a Colonial vessel. Our first allegiance as ship officers is to the
Twelve Colonies of Mankind, not to the crew of this ship." To this Apollo
said nothing.
     As a footnote to his experience on Ogocao, Apollo learned a few days
later after the Galactica passed out of the planet's system that the
government sponsored by the Colonies on the Frontier planet was on the
verge of collapse, following the political uproar attendant on the
processing plant's destruction. Apollo greeted the news with a disturbed
satisfaction. He was not so much pleased as relieved that the rebels had
achieved their purpose. This neutral reaction was a continuation of the
emptiness he'd felt since leaving the ruins and returning to the
Galactica, and he dismissed it as simple depression. He didn't care to
delve into its cause.
     He didn't think about Serina at all.
 
*****************************

     During the early days into the run into Sagitara, Apollo kept to his
room and worked on his wooden figurines. The statuettes were coming along
nicely and he hoped they would be finished by the time the mentalstar
reached port. He wanted to sell them at one of the bazaars that crowded
the central Sagitarian city of Stall. He had no clear idea of how to
accomplish this, since in the past he'd always given the statues away to
friends, but he knew he'd think of something when the time came.
     As the days passed, however, he grew more and more aware of the
tension in the Corporeal end of the ship, and this awareness began to
distract him from his work. Always before he'd managed to maintain a
separation between the work his mind performed and the operations that
occupied his hands; now, however, he found himself making slips that
couldn't be excused by simple clumsiness. His psychic world was beginning
to intrude upon his real one. It was the first symptom of his Receptive
breaking.
     In an attempt to reinforce the separation he knew had to exist
between himself and the crew, Apollo stopped going to the Mess, taking
advantage of his position as Cork to have his meals brought to his
quarters. The second day of the new arrangement, the Cook arrived with
Apollo's dinner. There were two servings on the tray, and the Cook stood
against one wall and ate his serving with Apollo. When the two men
finished eating, the Cook asked the Cork what was wrong.
     "Nothing," Apollo answered. "Just needed to get away, that's all."
     "Why? Too much pressure?"
     "More than usual, but not too much."
     "I've felt it too, Apollo. You sensed it the first day you stepped
aboard. This is a hate ship, and the hate is building."
     "I'm aware of that, Cook."
     "The Frontier. All this talk of revolution. It's set the men on
edge."
     "I know," Apollo said.
     "Listen, despite everything, I don't want you to commit suicide,
Apollo. Tell the Commander you can't handle this alone. Tell him to
assign one of the other Receptives to help you. It's been done before,
when a Cork wasn't foolish enough to think he could valve this kind of
mandness alone."
     "I can do it myself," Apollo said. "I don't need the Commander's
help."
     "The Commander? Is it still him, Apollo?"
     "Cook, when the Galactica reaches Sagitara the Council's going to
break up the crew and send us off to other ships. That's what usually
happens when a mentalstar gets as sick as this. If I ever want to find
out why the Commander killed my brother, I'll have to find out now. In
the next few days. That's why I can't start sharing my mind."
     "Apollo, you're too damned independent...don't let it destroy you.
YOu've let it go too far already."
     "Thanks for the coffee, Cook."
     The Cook left, taking the tray, and Apollo returned to his
figurines. He cut his hand once. It took him several minutes to get the
blood off the wound.
 
*****************************

     On the fourth day out from Ogocao Apollo applied for permission to
take up a post on the Bridge. The Commander agreed; Apollo found that the
decision left him oddly suspended---in a way, he was no longer sure he
wanted to probe the Commander's mind. He doubted his ability to survive
the probe, on top of the regular pressures he encountered as Cork. Yet he
knew it was something he had to do because the new urgency demanded it.
     Alos on the fourth day a man committed suicide in the Central Life
Support Plant. Apollo had been aware of the Corporeal's depression but
had neglected to soothe it, and so the boy----it was unfair to call him a
man; he was hardly over eighteen---had become more and more despondent,
until finally he'd taken his life. Apollo recalled something about a
woman the youth had met on Ogocao, some ship follower who'd given the boy
a discount because of his age. More than this the Cork couldn't remember.
The suicide was found in the Plant itself; somehow he'd contrived to shut
off all LS controls for that section of the chamber, and it wasn't until
late in the afternoon that a maintenance engineer had discovered the
malfunction and reported it to the Commander. Apollo was present when
they finally managed to unfreeze the lock mechanism on the Plant section.
Inside the subzero chamber the boy's body was completely decompressed,
blood crusted on his face and under his fingernails, stains marking his
suit leggings where his body had completed the indignity he'd begun.
Apollo wondered at his inability to feel remorse and decided that it was
better he couldn't; he wouldn't have know what to do with grief. There
was very little of him left to deal with it.
 
*****************************
 
     He saw Jolly once in the hallway. The Cork was returning to his
cabin from the Bridge and he passed him in the corridor outside the Mess.
     Almost, the Corporeal stopped. His eyes met Apollo's and a question
seemed to spark there for an instant. It must've been his imagination,
though, Apollo decided, for the spark died in the moment of visual
contact between the two men. Just as well, since Apollo had little to
say.
 
*****************************
 
     "Apollo, do you see this?"
     The Cork studied the abstraction portrayed on the screen near the
Commander's Set. Rainbow lines radiated from a central boiling core of
black. Though each of the men would see it in different terms when they
stepped beyond the ship during mind-drive, here both the Commander and
the Cork were provided with a common frame of reference for discussion.
     "It's a Magnetic Void, sir," Apollo said. The Commander nodded,
rubbing his fingers over his chin absently as he leaned forward, peering
at the screen.
     "We're headed on a course that will take us within several thousand
parsecs," he said. "It's the only way we can reach Sagitara within the
next forty-eight centons. Going around would add a sectan or more to our
ETA."
     "Do you think it's wise to go that close, Commander?"
     "We can use her magnetic pull for a boost, which would mean even
more time saved."
     "Are we sure we can use that trick in Ur space?"
     "Theoretically, Apollo, spacial conditions have equivalents in Ur
space. We already know that Magnetic Voids extend their outer fringes
into Ur space, that they exist as singularities both in normal space-time
and in the distorted space-time in which mentalstars travel. My own
experience with Magnetic Voids had provent they present no insurmountable
obstacles. A little caution is all that's necessary, and on this occasion
we have ample time to prepare. We can use this Magnetic Void, Apollo."
     "As you say, Commander."
     It was near a Magnetic Void that Zac had died. The Cork thought this
Void would serve his purpose perfectly. There could be no further delays.
 
*****************************
 
     He was in the Mess picking up a bottle of ambrosa when the ship
slipped once more into Ur space. The Cook caught his hand as he turned
away, stopping him.
     "Be careful, Apollo," the Cook said. "Don't kill yourself."
     Disengaging his hand, Apollo moved away, walking unsteadily--almost
as though against his will---toward the corridor. A Corporeal sitting on
a bench not far from the food console glared at the passing Cork,
spitting at him as Apollo left the room. The Cook's hand tightened around
the neck of a bottle on the counter, and he brought it up, about to swing
at the spitting Corporeal when something touched the Cook's mind,
soothing the anger. He put the bottle down and poured himself a drink.
The rage was almost gone.
     The Cork was back at work.
 
*****************************
 
Mind-drive:
     Apollo rises from the ship, tensely extending his mind in a number
of directions and encompassing the sphere of mental energy that powers
the Galactica. Colors swim within the sphere, jagged arrows of yellow and
green, blue and fiery red, each an interpretation of his mind of the
emotions expressed by the crew. Here, a man is filled with anger. There,
a man is overcome with fear. Both emotions are removed by the Cork and
fed into the stream of energy powering the Galactica's flight. Love goes
also, as do envy, lust, greed, pride, charity, and all the rest of the
human emotions Apollo has come to know so intimately. All are fed to the
Engineer, and all resume existence as power---nothing more.
     Apollo searches and at last finds the Commander, who is only now
drawing on the full strength of his Set, only now slipping into control.
     Apollo decides that the final moment has come, that it's time to
force himself into the Commander's brain. It's an invasion he's avoided
for as long as possible. Now there's no more time----no more room for
avoidance.
     His mind lunges forward.
     He strikes the Commander's shell, pierces, bounces back. There's no
opening. None, none at all.
     As he draws within the security of his personality, Apollo feels a
turmoil in the ship below. Within the mental sphere the colors are
becoming agitated---yellows blend with reds, blues with greens, softer
colors losing their strength as brighter, more antagonistic tones are
produced. It's his fault, Apollo knows. His preoccupation with the
Commander has caused him to turn from his duties as Cork. Quickly he
moves among the souls represented in the sphere, touching, removing,
soothing---easing the pain that causes the antagonism. Yet as he moves
among the minds, helping some, others break into rage. He turns to those,
and the ones he has healed return to madness.
     Suddenly, Apollo finds himself turning from one man to another,
spinning in his efforts to reach them all. Madness erupts around him: in
one of the lifeboat pods, a man stabs a Receptive with a vanalithminium
sliver ripped from a wall casing; in the Mess, two Corporeals fall to the
floor screaming, tearing at their faces and clothes; and in the corridor
leading amidships a woman is raped by three Receptives---and she herself
is a Corporeal. Everywhere there is chaos. And abruptly, as he strains to
his capacity in an effort to ease the insanity, Apollo sees.
     Coming into view, a festering sore in the flesh of space, the
Magnetic Void.
     "Apollo, are you all right?" the Commander's voice echoed in the
Cork's ears and in his mind.
     Fine, Commander. Just give me a mili-centon.
     "We don't have a mili-centon, Apollo. The ship is pulling apart
now!"
     I'm trying, Commander. You have to understand, the pressures---
     "Damn the pressures, Apollo." (On the Bridge, a hand grasped his arm
and drew him to his feet. Vaguely, he was aware of the Commander bending
over him, though his awareness was blurred, for his mind was beyond the
mentalstar walls.) "Let me give you a shot."
     No! (Apollo shoved the Commander's hands away and shook his head
like a drunken man.) I can handle this alone. You won't kill me like you
killed my brother!
     "Oh, so that's it." (The Commander's physical voice was cold.) His
mental voice carried no emotion. "Take hold of yourself, then, Cork.
We're about to pass the Void and I don't want you cracking up and taking
this ship with you. Understand?"
     (Apollo settled into a cross-legged position at the foot of the
Commander's Set, his eyes staring blankly ahead. The Commander snapped
the plugs back into his body and returned to his trance. Outside the
Bridge there were the sounds of a scuffle, blows, someone crying out.
Inside the room there was silence.)
 
*****************************
ROBERT
It is only four kilo-metrons in diameter but the gravimentric forces are
so great that not even subspace radio waves can escape from the outer
fringes, the speed of light not sufficient to break the magnetic pull of
the great Void. The magnetic "tides" surrounding the circular entrance
are on the order of a nightmare----in an instant the pressure of those
forces could reach the infinite. Any object passing straight into the
Void's horizon would simply be smashed flat by gravimetric forces. In Ur
space, the Magnetic Void appears as a shapeless puncture in space,
surrounded by fragements of color whirlpooling toward its central maw.
The Galactica among them.
Apollo feels his mind begin to scream. The madness in the psi vessel is
reaching the breaking point. He knows he will not survive the dive past
the Magnetic Void, and if the Cork does not survive, neither will the
ship.
Images fly through his mind: Serina, lying in the arms of a stranger, not
once before Apollo, but twice---aboard the Galactica, and also three
years earlier, on Virgon. She'd made two images become one, a scene of
betrayal. She'd made herself part of him, and then she'd torn that part
free, leaving him wounded---leaving him on Virgon, forcing him to return
to the Atlantia.
More images: each of them an aspect of minds he touched each day as he
Corked aboard the Atlantia. These too fade into the madness.
Women: the women in his brothel, unthreatening in their expressed lack of
need for anything but his cubits. No dependence, only simple financial
reward. Somehow, this is the most painful image of all.
He pushes the memories away and finds himself floundering in the insanity
around him. Each sould demands his attention, each begs for his
understanding---each needs him. Slavering insanity, eating him alive.
He screams.
Ahead of him, the Magnetic Void screams also.
In blind fear Apollo gropes for support, sensing himself swirling into a
darkness from which he would never truly return. He gropes and finds
support beside him. In the Commander's mind. A mind open and ready to
recieve him.
Breaking, he enters and this is what he learns: the Commander is a
Receptive.
The ship buckles underneath them, but now Apollo has the strength to
resist the tid of emotion surging below. For several microns he floats in
a sea of confusion, stunned by what he's just learned. Then he moves
among the men and women of the mentalstar Galactica, releasing their
tension and hatred, their fear and their despair. Strangely lightheaded,
he finds his energy doubled; the energy of a second mind added to his
own. For the moment he accepts the aid without question. There'll be time
for probing once the ship is free.
The Void looms closer. Flares of power lunge past the ship, strike it,
guide it downward. The mentalstar resists. One side of the ship seethes
in agony: two hundred minds shrieking in torment.
For an instant it seems as though they are lost.
Then the Galactica slips away, passes the Void, and slids out into normal
space.
 
*****************************
 
Apollo woke to the sounds of heavy machinery, cranes and loading devices
at work nearby. At first he was disoriented, but after a moment the harsh
light grew softer to his eyes, and the sounds less raucous, and he begn
to remember where he was. He sat up on the narrow cot, blinking in the
diffused glow cast by Sagitara's morning sun, and focused on the two men
sitting on a bench opposite him. Both men were haggard, dark smudges
under their eyes indicating that neither man had slept in recent centons.
Apollo started to speak, but the Cook waved him into silence. "Plenty of
time for you to talk, Apollo. Just relax."
"The Commander...where...?"
Jolly spoke up. "He's gone to Stall, Apollo. He left right after the crew
broke up. Whatever happened between the two of you seems to have upset
him quite a bit."
"Let him rest," the Cook said. "We can talk, but don't push him for any
answers. All right?" He waited for Jolly's nod before continuing. "The
Galactica's finished, Apollo. You should know that. After you and the
Commander managed to get us into Sagitara, most of the crew deserted.
There was some trouble at the spacedrome gates; some of the guards were
killled. From what the port master tells me, the Council of Twelve has
voted to decommission the Galactica altogether, possibly turn her into a
troop transport."
"They're going to need as many of those as they can find," Jolly said.
"The Frontier planets are in open rebellion. Looks like they're going to
make it this time."
"Don't excite him with that kind of talk," the Cook said harshly. He
smiled at Apollo. "You've been out for thirty-six centons straight,
Apollo. Jolly and I have been with you most of that time. Med-tech says
you're lucky you didn't break; he doesn't know what held you together.
One thing's certain, though, Sire...no more Corking if you want to stay
alive."
Apollo nodded. He noticed that Jolly kept glancing at him and then away
again. The Cook caught Apollo's look. "I guess you'd better tell him why
you're here," the small man said to Jolly. The youth frowned.
"During the last few mili-centons, when you and the Commander were
pulling us past the Void..." He broke off and ran a hand uneasily over
the bristle darkening his jaw. "...there was some sort of feedback. Some
of us, those who knew you...we could see things in your mind...just
glimpses, but enough to make us realize what you've been going through,
even if you don't. I still think you've done some pretty nasty things,
Apollo, but I suppose I can't blame you for them as much as I could
before." He paused, finishing with his jaw, and dropped his hand into his
lap, sighing. "That's all I wanted to say."
"Serina?" Apollo asked.
"It's over for the two of you," Jolly told him. "She's sorry for what
she's done, but as she says, you didn't help her be what you wanted her
to be. You simply expected it. For now, she's agreed to go with me to
Caprica; we don't have any plans for anything serious, we're just
companions for now...but I've a feeling it might work into something. I
won't ask as much of her as you did."
Again, Apollo nodded. He knew what Jolly had said was true, and felt no
anger because the younger man had said it. "I was afraid of her," Apollo
said. "Don't you be."
Jolly grinned. "I promise you I won't."
"Did you find out what you wanted to know, Apollo?" the Cook asked. He
leaned forward eagerly, apparently ready to accept the Receptive's
returning health now that he had a question of his own. "About the
Commander?"
"And about myself," Apollo said. "About us both."
"You must've frightened him," Jolly said. "You should've seen the
expression on his face when he left the Galactica---like someone who's
seen his own ghost."
"He has seen his own ghost," Apollo said.
Getting to his feet, Apollo braced himself on the Cook's shoulder and
glanced around the small port office where he'd been recovering. His
clothes were draped on the single chair, folded neatly. He wondered if
Serina had been there after all, and decided not to talk. "Would you get
my clothes?" he asked Jolly, pointing. "I've got an appointment in the
city."
When he was dressed, he thanked them for staying with him. The Cook asked
when he'd be back. "I'm not sure," Apollo told him. "I've got to find out
what someone wants of me, first."
"Who's that?" Jolly asked.
"Myself," Apollo replied.
**************************************************************
 
Epilogue: "Receptive"
It was several centons before he discovered the tavern where the
Commander was drinking. A small outdoor pub, it was in the Receptive
District of Stall, an area slightly older than the rest of the city, not
as well kept as some part of the metropolis, but not as badly kept as
others. The pub was named Second Sun---after Birta Septimus, Apollo
supposed----and was in a court beside a large apartment building. The
attendant at the gate probed Apollo for identity, realized he was a
Receptive, and allowed him through. Past the grillwork gate that
separated the lobby from the central part of the tavern, Apollo saw a
famliar figure hunched on a stool, sipping from a large mug filled with
green liquid. Apollo recognized the Commander immediately, though the man
was no longer dressed in official Colonial tans. The Commander's clothes
were loose-fitting spacedrome tunic and trousers, the inexpensive
disposables sold in most spacedrome terminals. Apollo guessed that the
older man had changed clothes moments after debarking.
"I'm sorry sir," he said.
The Commander showed no surprise at Apollo's approach. Instead, he
indicated the stool next to his with a motion of his chin. "Don't be,
Apollo. You only opened up my mind. I was the one who'd blocked it from
my thoughts."
"I should've left it that way."
"How? By killing yourself? By ignoring what I did to your brother, just
as I did? You couldn't have lived with yourself that way, Apollo."
"You did, Commander."
"I had a psiblock. I pushed everything out of my mind, my Receptivity,
what it did to my brother, what I did to yours...I shut it all away. But
that's no way to live. Sooner or later it all comes crashing in. If it
hadn't been you, it would've been someone else." He lifted his head,
caught the bartender's eye, and ordered two more mugs. When Apollo began
to protest, the Commander waived his objections away. "Take it. Consider
it a privilege. You'll be the last man to drink with me. The last man
I'll ever toast."
"What, Commander---?"
"I'm finished, Apollo. I'm a dead man. I'm just getting my energy
together to do the deed, but it's only a matter of time. Effectively. I
died when you broke through my psiblock."
"Sir, you really aren't being fair to yourself."
"Really? Apollo, let me tell you what happened to me back there. Perhaps
you don't understand. When I was a child, I was a Receptive, a
prepubertal freak...and the only Receptive on my home planet. I was
persecuted by my peers, but that wasn't why I threw up the block. You
see, when I was four yahrens old our entire settlement was wiped out by a
plague, and everyone died except for me and a few others scattered over
the planet...me, my brother, and another man were alone in the city,
though. A desert city on a desert world. You know that man, Tyger, that
Receptive your friend killed? You know how he constantly recieved every
emotion around him? I was the opposite, Apollo. Everything I felt, I
broadcast. Everything I saw, I broadcast again and again.
"Even the death of my parents.
"For two weeks while we waited for the rescue ships to reach us, I
tortured my brother and that other poor survivor of our city with my
memories of the plague. They couldn't sleep, but for waking with my
dreams in their minds, my nightmares in their brains. I drove them
insane, Apollo, like a child ceaselessly crying for its mother----and
finally my brother killed himself and that othe rman, thinking the man
was me. I wish it had been me.
"Can you imagine the pain of that, Apollo? To drive your own flesh to
madness and death? Even at four, I knew what I'd done. I couldn't accept
it, so I shut it out. I shut it out so efficiently no psychic probe ever
revealed any trace of latent Receptivity. The power was tied to pain,
Apollo, and by bringing the power back, you've brought back my nightmare
as well."
"You were the one who brought your power back, Commander. To save the
ship. Maybe to save me. You did it before, to an extent--that time we
were hunting with Nephicroran."
"That was subconscious; it never threatened the block, Apollo. Your
presence was the catalyst. I could sense your desire to know why I'd
brought your brother to his death, and it sparked a similar curiosity in
me. I know now---we both know---I let your brother die because he was a
substitute for my younger self, for the innocent boy I'd been when I---"
The Commander broke off. "We've been through that. There's no point in
letting this conversation continue."
He finished off the rest of his ambrosa, set the mug down, and rose
unsteadily to his feet. He started toward the gate, and Apollo stopped
him before the older man had taken three paces.
"Commander, you're not seeing this properly at all," Apollo said. "Let
me---"
"Get away from me, Apollo," The Commander said, jerking free of the
ex-Cork's grip. He continued toward the door.
A moment passed while Apollo debated with himself. Then he made his
decision and plunged into the Commander's mind. He found the core of the
man's anger and self-loathing, the hatred consuming his soul. Deftly,
Apollo's psychic fingers plucked the pain away. He located the despair
he'd seen reflected in the Commander's eyes, and he dissolved it with a
touch of compassion. He moved through the older man's mind, shifting and
rearranging perceptions and memories, putting them in order and
perspective. Gradually, the Commander's fires of self-hate dimmed, shrank
and finally died out. With an almost audible mental sigh, the Commander
stumbled and fell to the patio floor.
Apollo waved away the Receptives who came to the Commander's aid, and
bending over the elder man, he helped the Commander to his feet and
guided him to a nearby table, where they could sit and talk in private.
*****************************
"Most men have Receptives to relieve them all their lives," Apollo said.
"You had your guilt come on you all at once. You couldn't stand it. No
man could." He watched the Commander from within and without, maintaining
the mindlink he'd established with his former superior officer for the
older man's safety."
"You should despise me," the Commander said.
"If you were better trained in your Receptivity, you could look into my
mind and see that I never could. Not anymore. Something changed inside me
the same instant your block was dissolved. I realized something about
myself, perhaps about the whole mentalstar system. I can't hate you for
helping me see that."
"See what?" the older man asked. He watched as Apollo ordered them more
drinks.
"I used people," Apollo said. "Part of it was because of the kind of
planet I came from, a Colony world, a hard world where people have to be
independent--or they die. A man on Caprica was considered weak if he
needed people. I'm afraid I've suffered from that all my life. Whenever I
began to think I needed someone, I'd break away from them and try to hurt
them in some way. But it went deeper than that. This way of life,
mentalstarring...it trains you to think of people as objects, things to
use for your own ends, just as we use them as fuel to power our ships."
"And I showed you this?" The Commander was clearly incredulous. His face,
still pale and withdrawn from the shock of what he'd learned about
himself, was creased with lines of confusion. Apollo smiled and pressed
his hand on the other man's.
"Not directly. You just released me from the ship's pressures so that I
could see it. For the past few weeks I've been coming closer and closer
to understanding what's been wrong with my life. Did you know I used to
own a brothel? What better way to use someone, how can you better show
your disrespect for someone as a person---than by using her body to earn
cubits? And the way I tried to use Tyger and Jolly to learn about you, or
the way I used Serina---or even those revolutionaries, I used them to get
revenge on the Colonies---"
Apollo stopped speaking and shook his head. "That's all over," he said.
"I'm finished as a Cork. I'm going to have to learn to live as a human
being."
"We both are," the Commander said thoughtfully.
As the bartender brought them their mugs, Apollo remembered the
revolution, and another thought crossed his mind. "We all are," he said.
Something occured between the Commander and the Cork at that moment.
Their common realization brought them suddenly together, and their minds
completed the link Apollo had begun. With a start, Apollo realized that
he was dependent on this man now, who knew him better than any other
human had; and the Commander in turn was dependent on him. Each of them
had a great deal to learn from the other. Each of them had something to
give. And for the first time in his life Apollo found he could completely
trust the other mind linked to his own.
Teach me, each man said, I have to grow.
Apollo raised his mug as the Commander raised his. The motions of each
man were in counterpoint to the motions of the other. The psilock was
complete: total symbiosis.
Smiling, they drank.
 
THE END