Dark as Day

8

Five more minutes, and Alex must leave. He had to go, but he was so excited that he didn’t know if he could bear to. His feet, in their clumsy formal shoes, felt rooted to the floor of his office. He had been standing, fully dressed and motionless, for over two hours.

At last! At last his programs were able to employ the full power of the Seine, and the difference between this and all pre-Seine runs was awesome. If only he could stay until the end of the first run…

The racing clock already showed 2136 — three decades beyond the point where all earlier efforts had degenerated to meaningless overflow and massive exponents. On the displays he could now watch the outward wave, as humanity expanded faster and faster through the solar system. Total population had climbed steadily to almost ten billion. Outward Bound was busy with the major satellites of Uranus and had a firm toehold on Triton, Neptune’s giant moon. A manned expedition was on the way to the inner edge of the Oort Cloud. The seventh unmanned interstellar ship was on its way. A manned interstellar ship was on the drawing boards.

Alex could also zoom the model in to examine in more detail the prediction for any chosen location; detail enough, if he so chose, to examine the actions of an individual program element. That element was a person, or at least the Fax of a person. And the Fax could be selected as anything from a crude Level One to the most complex of the Level Fives.

The last digits of the clock were changing too fast to be more than a blur. Already the prediction had advanced to 2140. All parameters showed only orderly change, with no wild swings or uncontrolled growth. He had set the run for a full century ahead. Another hour — even another half-hour…

He became aware of Kate standing by his side. She had certainly not been there thirty seconds ago. He felt like turning, reaching his arms wide, and embracing her. Kate was the one who had coaxed and argued and finessed and finagled, until the complete Seine resources were made available to Alex’s computer models. This was her moment as much as his, it should be a shared pleasure and excitement.

Alex was smart enough not to offer Kate even his little finger. She’d probably bite it off. She was his boss, so they had no choice but to continue to work together ever since he told her that he had agreed to meet with Lucy-Maria Mobarak. It was necessary, he had explained, because of “family pressure.” Kate had nodded, but from that moment everything between them had been on a cool and strictly professional basis. He did not recall that their hands had touched once. As for the idea of sleeping together…

He could see from the corner of his eye that she was looking him up and down with disapproval. He agreed with her completely. It was not from choice that he wore clothing so outmoded and uncomfortable.

Prosper and Karolus Ligon had laid down the rules. “It is nowhere a written requirement, Alex, but it will be expected of you. We realize that there is no commitment at this moment, on our side or Mobarak’s. However, your meeting with Lucy-Maria Mobarak is the first encounter between potential heirs of two of the System’s wealthiest families. You must dress in accordance with tradition. We refer, of course, to Ligon tradition.”

Ligon tradition stretched back more than two centuries. Which was why Alex, who normally worked in a sloppy jumpsuit and more often than not went barefoot, now stood attired in a stiff and starchy suit of gleaming white, a canary-yellow shirt fronted with jeweled ruby studs that had taken half an hour to fasten, and ancient two-toned shoes of yellow and white. They were a size too small and cramped his toes. Forcing those objects onto his feet, he had wondered about Mobarak tradition. Since Cyrus Mobarak was by Ligon standards an “upstart” and a “charlatan,” was there any such thing? What would Lucy-Maria be wearing?

Kate’s disgusted glance at Alex’s clothing said everything. Her only comment, however, was, “Your mother is outside. I don’t think you should keep her waiting.”

The model’s internal clock had reached 2143. Soon they would be at the half-century projection mark. “Will you keep an eye on this run?”

“I’ve been watching it closely since the moment it started. Don’t worry, Alex. It will not lack my attention.”

No enthusiasm in Kate’s tone, no suggestion that this could be an historic event in the field of predictive modeling. Alex nodded, swiveled on his heel, and squeaked out.

Lena Ligon was indeed waiting, with an expression more of curiosity than impatience. “So you actually work here. In an office.”

“Yes, Mother. Is there anything wrong with that?”

“Oh, no. If that is what amuses you.” Her glance took in and rejected the metal walls, harsh lighting, and worn floor tiles. “And that was the famous Kate Lonaker. She is taller and better-looking in person than her video would suggest. Interesting, if it is all-natural and without modifications.”

It was not an actual question. Alex remained silent. He allowed his mother to lead the way, through the labyrinthine inner tunnels of Ganymede, then onto an elevator that ascended rapidly more than four hundred kilometers. By the time they reached their destination level, the effective gravity had increased appreciably.

Alex assumed that his mother had dropped the subject of Kate, as beneath consideration. But Lena said suddenly, “She does not talk about you in a typical supervisor-employee way.”

“Oh?”

“No. I sensed that she was angry with you about something. She has airs above her station.”

“I had to leave for this meeting, right when I was in the middle of making computer runs of my prediction models.”

“This meeting is important. Anyway, not that sort of anger. Something more personal.” His mother flashed a glance at Alex from clear gray eyes, their whites almost luminous with health. “Are you two doing what these days is known as co-orbiting, but in my simpler youth was known as fucking each other?”

“No.” That was currently a true statement. Fortunately Lena did not go on to more detailed questioning.

“Good,” she said. “Keep it that way. One of your problems, Alex, is that you do not appreciate the vast gulf between you and the Kate Lonakers of the world. Ever since the time of your late great-uncle Sanford, we Ligons have followed a strict selection procedure for child-bearing. The genetic material brought into the mating from outside the family comes not from a single individual, but is a carefully-chosen chromosomal synthesis from several donors. Kate Lonaker is, I feel sure, the product of some indiscriminate, one-Y, single-father breeding. To her and to women like her — females with no family, pedigree, property, or prospects — you represent a catch of almost unimaginable value. It would not be necessary for her to extort promises from you. She could merely beguile you into ignoring all precautions, allowing her to become pregnant with your child with or without your knowledge… I assume that you remain on long-term prophylaxis? There is, after all, such a thing as loyalty to family tradition.”

Alex felt a brief uneasiness. He had asked Kate at the outset if she was fertile, and she had replied that at the moment she preferred not to be. He had believed her implicitly, and still did; but he had not asked her recently.

His stronger emotion, however, was disgust at his mother’s hypocrisy. How dare she lecture him about family tradition, when her own decision to become a Commensal, like that of Great-aunt Agatha and Cousin Juliana, had been made without regard to family needs? Commensality conferred, along with health and protection from almost every disease, an irreversible sterility. Alex, walking a pace behind his mother, surveyed her slender form. She had made the choice and now had the appearance and energy of a twenty year old, combined with a formidable libido. Her features and figure were perfection.

Lena Ligon was also, in specific ways that made Alex nervous but apparently worried Lena not a bit, no longer quite human.

It made Alex’s own skin crawl to think what lay underneath his mother’s epidermis. A hundred tailored organisms shared space in the interior of a Commensal. The one that Alex found most disgusting was the giant schistosome, a mature and genetically-enhanced worm that lay alongside and within Lena Ligon’s liver. The original parasite had been the source of weakness and debility for hundreds of millions of people. This one now guarded its terrain, the lower intestines, against all infestations. A lung fluke did the same for the chest and upper body cavity, a third genemod parasite inhabited one of the larger sulci of the brain and warded off tumor growth, Parkinson’s, and Alzheimer’s. These were just the three big ones, many centimeters long. Scores of other body-dwellers in a Commensal ranged in size from a millimeter or two down to a handful of specialized cells. Put them all together, with their own needs and priorities, and it was no longer clear who or what controlled the agenda of Lena Ligon’s life.

It was not even clear that the changes to Lena were safe. The technology in its present form had been applied for less than three years. If the methods had been developed in a Ganymede or Mars medical research center, that would have been some reassurance; but the Commensals were leftover Great War technology, discovered in the drifting remains of a Belt weapons shop. Reputable rejuvenators hesitated to use it. Who knew the original objectives? Who knew the undocumented long-term side effects? But Lena Ligon’s feelings were fairly typical. “My dear, long-term effects are who-cares effects. We want to look good and feel good now.”

The worst thing of all, from Alex’s point of view, was Lena’s new smell. It was not exactly unpleasant, rather the opposite. His mother’s body and breath exuded a subtle, musky perfume of modified pheromones. But the odor was different. A kiss on the cheek from Lena Ligon was now a creepy experience for Alex, to be avoided whenever possible.

“Remember,” his mother said, as though reading Alex’s thoughts, “even if you find the sight, sound, and smell of this young woman rather strange, you must behave properly. If she smiles at you, smile back. If she offers you her hand, kiss it. If a subject seems distasteful to her, drop it at once. We can discuss any problems later, within the family. During the meeting, take your cues from me.”

Was his mother suggesting that Lucy-Maria Mobarak might also have become a Commensal?

It was a bit late to discuss the point. They were there. They had risen and risen, to a level of Ganymede higher than Alex had ever been except on obligatory school trips to see the stars at first-hand. This was the very highest level, with the actual surface no more than twenty meters above their heads. Alex’s first thought, that Cyrus Mobarak must have odd tastes to live in such a place, changed after a moment’s thought. The principal business of Mobarak Enterprises was fusion plants, and in the Outer System the fastest-growing use of fusion plants lay in transportation. While the number of colonized worlds grew linearly, transportation needs grew quadratically. The production of the Mobies had to be at the surface, or out in space itself.

As they stepped out onto the final level, the light changed. Alex instinctively looked up. Above his head, no more than ten meters away, stood a window with a glittering starscape beyond. His first thought — this is dangerous! — lasted only a split second. He realized that whatever the material of that window, it would be designed to withstand anything that hit it. The new Mobarak synthetics could supposedly tolerate a direct whack from a meteorite traveling at thirty kilometers a second. They could also dissipate impact energy so fast that only the top few centimeters of material were vaporized, while at the same time they photo-darkened so rapidly that the flash of light was no more than startling even from as close as ten meters.

The double doors in front of Lena and Alex were a fair copy of the ones that fronted the corporate offices of Ligon Industries. The metal plate with the sign, MOBARAK ENTERPRISES, was just as discreet. Imitation is one of the more reliable forms of flattery. Alex had secretly questioned Prosper Ligon’s assertion that Cyrus Mobarak yearned to join the Inner Circle of old money and influence. Now he was not so sure.

He was also beginning to wonder what he would find on the other side of those great double doors. Somehow, his agreement to have a simple meeting with Mobarak’s daughter had escalated. He had imagined maybe a drink together, or a quiet meal in an informal setting. Instead it had become an official family affair, with parents as chaperons. Alex was not sure he liked the idea of Cyrus Mobarak as a chaperon. The man’s reputation made anything said about Uncle Karolus or Great-aunt Agatha seem tame by comparison.

Meanwhile, the Fax who served as automatic doorkeeper had apparently satisfied itself as to their identity. The doors quietly swung open. Alex followed his mother into a huge room whose whole ceiling was a continuous window, with the naked heavens beyond. Again, Lena took no notice. Alex wondered if she knew what Nature was doing, less than twenty meters above their heads. He did, and didn’t like the thought.

It was not the mixture of rock and water-ice that made up most of Ganymede’s surface, that was no danger. The problem lay a little higher. Jupiter loomed in the sky, a million kilometers away. It gathered from the solar wind an endless supply of high-energy protons, accelerated them with its monstrous magnetic field, and delivered them as a murderous hail onto Ganymede’s frozen surface. A human in an ordinary spacesuit would cook and die within hours. The only safe way to wander the surface was in suits bearing in-woven threads of high-temperature superconductors. Charged particles followed the magnetic field lines, harmlessly around and past the suit’s surface. The human inside remained safe and snug.

Alex felt sure that his mother neither knew nor cared. Certainly, she seemed at ease as she advanced steadily toward the man standing on the richly-decorated carpet that covered the central fifteen meters of the room. The whole chamber was a recreation of some ancient Earth style, with pillars shaped as carved odalisques, red-lipped, full-bodied, and diaphanously clad, set at intervals around the walls. The furniture was all armchairs, dark and massive, with a low rectangular glass-topped table set in front of each.

The man in the middle of the ornately-furnished room was Cyrus Mobarak, known to Alex in appearance and reputation from media descriptions. Mobarak was in his fifties, shorter and more strongly-built than the video images would suggest, with a thick neck that bulged against a blue-and-white wing collar half a size too small. If Mobarak Enterprises had a “traditional” uniform for meetings like this, you would never discover it by looking at Mobarak himself. His suit was plain gray, lacking medals, decorations, or jewelry. His nose was prominent, he wore a thick shock of hair that he had allowed to gray naturally, and his brow ridges overhung pale, unreadable eyes.

Was this the famous “Sun King,” the powerhouse whose inventions had transformed energy generation and transportation systems from Mercury to the Oort Cloud? It hardly seemed possible.

And then Mobarak spoke. His voice was deep, his words quiet and conventional; no more than, “Hello, I am Cyrus Mobarak. Welcome to Mobarak Enterprises. I hope that before you leave you will have an opportunity to tour my home and workplace, and see what we do here.”

The man seemed to expand and glow as he spoke, investing simple words with warmth and pleasure and just a hint of humor.

Alex felt his own positive response as he said a polite greeting and shook Mobarak’s hand. His mother, so far as he could see, melted, crashed, and burned on first contact. When it was her turn to take Mobarak’s hand she seemed ready to have an orgasm on the spot.

“This is such a thrill. Of course, I’ve heard about the Sun King for years and years, and longed to meet you. Unless you have other plans, you and I and Alex and Lucy-Maria could go off together and have a meal. I thought, maybe a quiet place where we could begin to get to know each other.”

“That’s a splendid idea, and I wish it were possible. But I just can’t.” No one, listening to Mobarak, could doubt for a moment that his regret was genuine. “It’s my own stupid fault, arranging too many meetings in too short a time. I have to leave very soon. But there’s nothing to prevent the three of you from going off together — I know a perfect place, exclusive and quiet. Why don’t the three of you go? Unless, of course, you feel that the youngsters would be better left to themselves, just the two of them. I suspect that they might enjoy that.”

In half a dozen sentences, Cyrus Mobarak convinced Alex of three things. First, Mobarak was a master at dealing with people. He had implied that Lena Ligon would be about as necessary to the forthcoming meeting as breasts on a spaceship, but he had done it in such a way that Lena was nodding agreement at the notion that the younger generation should be left alone. Second, Mobarak had decided to take a look at Alex before he introduced Lucy-Maria. Apparently Alex had passed that test. And third, Mobarak was as interested in a union of the two families as Prosper Ligon or anyone else in Ligon Industries. Suddenly, Alex wondered what he was about to meet. He had seen pictures of Lucy-Maria, but you could fix a picture to look like almost anything. A king of ancient England had agreed to marry on the strength of an inaccurate picture (and had later executed the man who arranged the whole thing).

Mobarak led the way to a half-open door. Alex, prepared for the worst, followed.

The room beyond was furnished and decorated in the same lush style of a departed era. By contrast, the young woman seated on a two-person love seat defined personal rebellion and a clash of times and cultures. Her dark hair was cut in the absolute latest style, straight across her low forehead with framing curves around her cheeks and shaped to touch below her chin. Her arms, shoulders, and bosom were bare, her breasts exposed almost to the nipples. Every square inch of that glowing, dusky skin was covered with the iridescent glitter points that Alex had never seen before except on entertainment stars. She sat cross-legged, so that a split skirt showed bare leg and more star glitter all the way to her upper thigh. The overall effect was stunning. What had Hector said? That she looked terrific? For once in his life, Hector was right.

Mobarak said, “Lucy, I would like to introduce you to Alex Ligon, and to his mother, Lena.”

The young woman nodded at Mobarak’s words but made no attempt to stand or speak. Which left it up to Alex. Running on shocked autopilot, he followed his mother’s earlier suggestion. He stepped forward, lifted Lucy-Maria’s hand to his lips, and kissed it.

That produced a frown, followed by an unreadable little smile.

“Sit down, Alex,” Mobarak said. And then, as Alex did so, on a chair facing Lucy-Maria, Mobarak turned to Lena. “I wonder if you might like to see a little more of Mobarak Enterprises. If so, I would be delighted to give you a guided tour.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, but turned at once toward a smaller door set between two marble statues of winged lions. Lena didn’t even glance toward Alex as she followed.

So much for support and guidance, or any idea that Alex might receive helpful cues from his mother. He placed his hands on his knees and wondered how his computer run was going, back in the plain surroundings of the government offices. He wished he were there.

As an innocuous opening remark, he said, “Your father seems like a most impressive man.”

There was a long and empty silence. The great antiquated room lacked even the normal hiss of an air supply system. Alex wondered if Lucy-Maria had some kind of hearing problem that no one had bothered to mention. Looking into her eyes, big and dark, was like looking into space. There seemed to be nothing behind them.

At last she said, “Impressive? Not if you talk to my mother.”

“She’s here?”

“Good God, no. She’s back on Earth in Punta Arenas. He pays to keep her there. I visit a couple of times a year. She tells me he’s a real shit.”

As a line of conversation this one didn’t seem promising. Alex, after a few dead seconds, said, “I didn’t have a father in the usual sense. My mother preferred an in vitro development. The genetic material on the paternal side came from a combination of nine different males that she selected, providing a variety of different potentials.”

Lucy-Maria raised iridescent eyebrows and stared at him. He finally read an expression — “What went wrong, if you’re the result?” — in her dark eyes. She finally said, “You mother looks real good. Is she a Commensal?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Afraid? Afraid of what? I’d be one, too, if they’d let me. But it’s supposed to make you sterile, and I’m the Mobarak prize cow. Breed if you want to feed. You, too?”

“I suppose so.”

She examined him from head to toe. Finally she said, “Do you usually dress like that?”

“No. I never dress like this. My family put pressure on me to wear these clothes, because they’re supposed to show our family tradition.”

“You look like a Husvik whore-master.” She leaned forward confidentially. “I had to meet with you, or get chopped. But I didn’t want to. I’ll bet you were the same.”

“I was.” It might not be polite, but it was the truth.

“So we’re supposed to sit here and imitate armchairs, and bore each other to death. But we don’t have to. They said get to know each other. They didn’t say we have to stay here.”

“I’m not sure that my mother—”

“I saw the way my father looked at her, and she looked at him. They’re probably climbing all over each other. Talk about a family merger. I’ll bet there’s one going on right now.”

“Well, I don’t know—”

“I do.” She stood up, in a fluid swirl of movement and a flash of long leg. She was taller than he had realized, eye to eye with him. “Come on. You just follow me, there’s a way out of here that the security Faxes monitor but don’t record.”

She was off, toward a wall panel that swiveled as they approached. Alex — had he gone crazy? — followed Lucy-Maria through into a darkening corridor. Twenty paces. He counted them. He was ready to stop and ask her where they were going when his next step found nothing and he fell face-forward.

It was a drop chute. They riddled Ganymede’s interior, and Alex was used to them. The difference was that this one had no trace of lighting and he was falling through blackness and accelerating at a steady sixth of a gee. That was fine — until you reached the bottom.

“Lucy-Maria?”

He heard her laugh from below him. “Relax, I’ve done this a hundred times and I’m navigating for both of us. We have to pass through seventeen branch points. Ten minutes free-fall, then we reach the arrest phase. Lie back and enjoy. And call me Lucy. I’m only Lucy-Maria for official family business.”

But this teas family business — or supposed to be. And enjoying was one thing that Alex couldn’t do. What would his mother do and say when she found that he and Lucy had disappeared together?

The descent chute went on forever. Ten minutes! That would take them down hundreds of kilometers, far below all residential levels, far below the government office levels, below the agricultural levels, closing in on the deep interior where the blue-green prokaryotes produced the oxygen for all of Ganymede.

Where could she be taking him?

They had long ago reached terminal velocity. The wind whistled past Alex’s ears and tousled his hair. His hat, that silly conical family-tradition white hat with its stiff peak, had vanished long since into the darkness. And now, finally, Alex felt the arrest field. He was no longer falling at constant speed. A gentle hand, the same one that had held him clear of the walls of the chute, turned him upright. Now he was falling feet-first, and far below him he saw a small circle of light.

As he slowed, his surroundings became steadily brighter. The walls of the tunnel carried a faint green luminescence. By that light he caught his first sight of Lucy since they had left Mobarak headquarters. She was maybe thirty meters below him. On the way down she had somehow transformed her long green skirt into a rainbow version that ended at mid-thigh.

She landed lightly, and was waiting for him barefoot when he arrived. She held her shoes and skirt in one hand, but dropped them to the floor as she came close to Alex.

“All right, let’s take another look at you. Stand up straighter.”

Alex stood up straight and stared around him, wondering where his hat had landed. He was on a level he did not recognize and had surely never been before. The lower end of the chute formed a chamber with walls so luridly painted that he suspected that the finishing Von Neumanns had never been brought in. Three openings big enough to admit a human stood equally spaced around the walls, each one shimmering with the Moire patterns that indicated the presence of metal detectors and sonic inhibitors.

“These have to go.” Lucy was stooped at his feet, loosening the buckles on his two-toned yellow-and-white shoes.

“Because they contain metal?”

“Because they’re extremely hideous.” As Alex stepped out of his shoes to reveal canary-yellow socks, she felt the fabric of his jacket. “This, too. It feels like it’s made of hardboard and the style is pure geeker. It has to go. I have a reputation to protect.”

“What is this place?”

“Holy Rollers. The place to be. I knew you’d led a sheltered life, just from one look at you. What do you do when you’re not taking orders from Mummy?”

“I build predictive computer models for solar system simulation. I don’t take orders from my mother.” But he did. Alex glanced at the despised jacket, which had joined the crumpled mess of clothes on the floor. “I should be running my predictive model now.”

“Computer models. Boring. Boring beyond death.” Lucy rubbed at the ruby studs on his shirt. “These, on the other hand, are pretty damned fine. Rubies are right in this season, and bright yellow is daring.” She surveyed him again. “You’ll do, especially those socks. When we get inside and meet my friends, tell them that you’re Alex Ligon, of Ligon Industries. Nothing about models, and for God’s sake nothing about computers. I don’t want to have to disown you. Let’s see, where shall we go?”

She glanced at the three shimmering openings. “Not Hispano-Suizas, because apparently it’s doing virtuals tonight. And it’s a bit early for Bugattis, they do a slow first few laps. So it has to be Lagondas. You’re not certified, are you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Of course you’re not. Hold tight to my hand, or it won’t pass you.”

She grabbed Alex’s hand in her own — it was warm and surprisingly strong — and pulled him toward one of the openings. There was a tingle over his whole body, then he stepped through into a roar of sound and a flicker of colored lights.

“You wait right here,” Lucy shouted in his ear. “If someone asks you to dance, don’t accept. Don’t speak. Just shake your head.”

She eeled away to the left. Alex stood rigid, wondering how he had ever been so stupid as to come with her in the first place. Lagondas — if that was the right name — was packed with people, some slowly moving together in couples and trios and quartets, some leaning against counters along the sides of the big octagonal room, others sitting on isolated round objects like giant mushrooms. In four of the corners stood square columns about two meters high, from which long hoses protruded ending in some kind of shiny guns. The columns were labeled: 87, 89, 91, 93. A dozen people clustered around each one. Judging from the elaborate dress and jewelry, everyone was rich. The wall paintings showed ancient forms of personal transportation that had dominated Earth in previous centuries.

The level of noise was astonishing. Everyone seemed to be talking against a background of recorded sound, rhythmic dance music overlain with the whine and roar of high-revving engines and the scream of over-stressed tires. Alex smelled fumes, like incompletely-burned hydrocarbons. He wondered why Lucy Mobarak had worried about someone asking him to dance. Unless they screamed right into his ear, he would never hear the invitation.

And then someone was at his side, and shouting at him. It was a short blonde girl. He felt a touch on his foot, and looked down. She was wearing a scanty halter top, long pants of faded blue, and what seemed to be heavy boots. But those boots had to be fake, because the touch on the top of his own stockinged foot was soft and light.

“Hot socks!” She had to stand on tiptoe to get her mouth close to his ear. “I saw you arrive at the same time as Lucy Mondeo. Does she have your starting handle?”

Don’t speak. Just shake your head. Alex could have used more guidance.

He leaned down and shouted, “I came here with Lucy Mobarak.”

“Lucky Lucy.” She took his hand in both of hers and put her mouth so close to his left ear that her lips brushed it as she spoke. “What’s your name?”

“Alex Ligon.”

“Ligon?” She frowned. “I don’t know that one. Are you one of the custom-builts?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but went on, “I’m Suky Studebaker, except outside when I’m Suky Sylva. Wait and see how the Mondeo works out. If it doesn’t, look me up.”

She plunged into a knot of people in front of Alex, but he didn’t have much time to ponder what that had been all about, because Lucy was at his side again.

“Didn’t I tell you not to talk to anyone while I was gone? Especially Suky Stu. She’s Lagondas’ hottest tailpipe, and she claims she’s done more laps than anyone. What did she say to you?”

“She asked me my name, and I said Alex Ligon.”

“That’s all right, but you’ll need another one. Let me think. You can be Alex Lotus, I don’t think that’s in use. And here, take this.”

Lucy was holding two tall glasses shaped like vertical trumpet horns with round balls at the lower end. She thrust one into Alex’s hand. It was filled with a pale pink liquid. Alex sniffed at it suspiciously. Bubbles rose lazily through the drink in response to Ganymede’s low gravity and burst to tickle his nose.

She laughed at him. “You don’t need to worry, I wouldn’t start us on high octane. Perfectly safe. Here’s to Ligons and Mobaraks.”

She raised her glass and took a long drink. Alex, more cautiously, did the same. The flavor was pleasant and he tasted no intoxicants or fizzes.

“What’s in this?”

Lucy shrugged. “Who bothers to ask? It’s called a Sebring Special, and it tastes right. That’s all I need to know. Like it?”

“It’s very good.” Alex took a second gulp, and bubbles tickled his mouth and throat. “Really good.”

“One of these, and maybe a Daytona Swizzle, then I’ll introduce you to a couple of friends. Do you dance?”

“I can.” One of the miseries of Alex’s youth had been dance lessons. For formal occasions, Alex, any Ligon must be able to give an adequate account of himself on a dance floor. “I’m not very good.”

“Nor am I. You don’t have to be.” Lucy gestured to the swaying groups of people. “You can do that, can’t you?”

“I guess I can.” Alex wouldn’t have called it dancing. There was everything from close body contact to couples gesturing to each other from two or three meters apart.

He followed Lucy’s lead and tilted his glass up again. This time the level was low enough for liquid to flow from the round ball at the lower end. He felt a tingle start on his tongue and follow the drink all the way down to his stomach. And suddenly the glass was empty.

Lucy was laughing at him. “Afterburner.” She drained her own glass. “Time to fill the tank. That’s Deirdre de Soto and her brother over by the ninety-one octane. We’ll go there, I’ll show you how to work a pump, then if you like we can all dance.”

Alex followed her around the perimeter of the octagonal room. He was becoming used to the noise, but the lurid colors of clothes and walls seemed to be brightening. He stood beside Lucy, waiting their turn at the pump. The shouted introductions to Deirdre and Dafyd de Soto were unintelligible, but Deirdre touched his foot with hers, which seemed to be some sort of custom in this place, and Lucy shouted at her, “Go easy. This is his first circuit, and he’s not ready for the pole position,” which made even less sense.

Deirdre, like Lucy, was barefoot. It seemed to Alex that she was close to bare-everything. She wore a thin halter and a miniskirt, and had a ruby set in her navel. She touched that stone, put her finger on one of the studs of Alex’s shirt, and said, “Snap!” Everyone around the pump except Alex burst out laughing.

The front of the square column contained a complex menu of options. Dafyd de Soto pressed a series of commands that charged his glass with fluid that changed color as the ball was filled, then showed Alex how to do the same thing. Apparently Alex did not get the combination exactly right, because the other three laughed again and Deirdre called out, “Hi-test already! Lucy, are you sure it’s his first circuit?”

Alex tasted what he had produced. It was different from the Sebring Special, slightly less sweet and with a subtle, bitter aftertaste. He preferred it. He moved along the room with the other three, listening but not saying anything. If they noticed that he was quiet, no one commented on it.

They came to the edge of the dance area. No one mentioned dancing, but Deirdre de Soto stood in front of Alex and began to sway in time to the music. He looked, fascinated, because no matter how she moved her body the level of the drink in her glass remained exactly level. He tried to match her movements, and slopped liquid onto his own hand. Before he could do anything Deirdre had dipped her head forward and licked it off.

Lucy said, “You did that on purpose!” But whether she was accusing him or Deirdre, he could not tell. Now Lucy and Dafyd were also moving, following the pulse of the background music. He felt an increasing urge to do the same, but that would spill the drink that he was holding.

There was an obvious solution to that problem. Alex drained the remaining three-quarters of the drink in one long gulp, then walked across to one of the counters to set down the glass. He stared up at the mural beyond the counter. Four brightly-colored race cars hurtled along a straight track toward a tight corner. He heard the whine of engines as the drivers changed down to lower gears and accelerated into the banked curve. He could actually see the cars moving, jockeying for position. In the foreground, a car that had spun out of control on the curve was facing the wrong way and lying on its side. Black smoke rose from its engine. Alex could see that it was about to burst into flames. The driver was already out of his cramped seat and rolling clear on the grass.

Hands took Alex and turned him. Lucy was on his right, Deirdre de Soto on his left. “A couple of dances here, then over to Bugattis where we can sit down,” one of them said. Which one? Alex was not sure. He was back on the dance floor, and either he was dancing or doing some close enough equivalent. He looked around, but everything more than three meters away was a blur. Lucy, two meters away, was dancing with Dafyd de Soto and so close to him that she might as well be surgically attached.

Deirdre moved to stand and sway right in front of Alex, blocking his view of Lucy and Dafyd. As he watched, Deirdre magically grew taller and taller, until the ruby in her navel glimmered hypnotically at eye-level. After a few moments Alex realized that he was somehow on his knees, his hands grasping Deirdre’s bare thighs.

She reached down and helped him to stand up. Alex wanted to apologize, but before he could do it she draped his arms around her neck and then grabbed him at the waist. “Makes it easier to stand up.” She was nuzzling his neck. “Are you going to be all right?”

It sounded to Alex like a rhetorical question, and he decided not to answer. He danced with Deirdre, and then he danced with Lucy, and when someone put another drink into his hand, he drank it. When Deirdre tugged at Lucy, and said, “Bugattis?” he drifted along with them, out through one shimmering door and into another. It was cooler here, quiet and darkness and private rooms instead of bright lights, public drinks, and a crowded dance floor.

Was this Bugattis? It must be. Alex found himself sitting on a long, wide couch. He was chewing on a square of something sweet and tangy. A soft thigh pressed against his. He liked Bugattis. He liked it even better than Lagondas.

Alex closed his eyes. He felt great.

Alex opened his eyes. He felt great, but instead of sitting on a couch he was lying in bed. Judging from the ceiling and the piece of the wall that he could see, it was his own bed.

A voice from a few feet away said, “Good evening, Alex. Welcome to the real world.”

It was Kate. She was sitting on a chair by the far wall of his cramped bedroom, staring at him intently.

He sat up. “What happened?”

“I was rather hoping you might tell me that.” Her voice would freeze methane. “I’ll take it from where I became involved. At three o’clock this morning I was called by Wholeworld Services to take delivery of a package. They tried the office, using an ID in the pocket of your pants, and fortunately for you I was still there. The package was you. You were unconscious. When I saw you, I became worried. I ran a medical scan, and found that you had imbibed at least twenty units of tanadril.”

“That’s a lot.” Alex by this time had noticed his bare chest. “Are you sure? That much tanadril ought to make me feel terrible, and I don’t.”

“Because we put you under and flushed your whole system, then kept you under.”

“What time is it now?”

“After six.”

“You let me sleep all day?”

“I did. And I won’t tell you how much self-control that took. You told me you were going to a family meeting.”

“That’s where I went.”

“Right. A family meeting way down on Level two-twenty, at the Holy Rollers Club. That’s where Wholeworld Services picked you up. A family meeting where you have sex with people.”

“I don’t think I did.” But Alex had a hazy memory of fumblings and the intimate touch of warm, bare bodies.

“You’d better hope you did. There was semen on the front of your pants, and it was either yours or that of a dear friend of yours.”

Alex looked under the cover. He was naked.

“That’s right,” Kate went on. “I took them off and I sent them for analysis. Pathogen analysis. I don’t want you diseased and sick.”

“Thanks, Kate.”

“Not for the reason you’re thinking, you self-centered imbecile. If you imagine that I care what specimens, sexes, or even species you choose to screw, or how many of them, there’re other organs of yours that need inspection worse than your genitals. Why do you think I was still at the office at three o’clock this morning? What do you think I was doing while you were using your dipstick at the Holy Rollers Club? — yes, I found out all about that place while you were asleep. And I still haven’t slept. I’ve been working all day, right until I came here ten minutes ago to see if you were awake yet.”

Alex examined Kate more closely. He had noticed that she was pale, and assumed that it was anger. Now he could see the tight mouth and dark-smudged eyes of exhaustion.

“You’ve been working right through, from yesterday morning until tonight?”

“I have. And guess what I’ve been working on? Your damned model.”

“Has it been failing?”

“No. It’s been working. That’s the trouble. I must have made over a hundred runs. Nothing blew up, nothing went out of range.”

The model was working! Alex started to climb out of bed, then paused when he realized that he was naked.

“Oh, don’t be a fool.” Kate’s laugh emerged as a bitter and humorless snort. “Do you think you’ve got something there that I haven’t seen and touched — along with plenty of other people, I guess. The models didn’t fail, not in the way that they had been failing. They work. We have just one problem.”

Alex, one leg into his pants, paused and glanced up at Kate’s change of tone.

Kate went on, “You and I have to brief Mischa Glaub and the review committee on our status, later today. I suppose that slipped your mind, you were having so much fun.”

It had. “I don’t mind briefing them, or anyone else. I know the model cold.”

“Maybe.” She was sitting, blonde head bowed. “What you don’t know are the results. I tried every variation I could think of, and each time human civilization expanded steadily through the solar system for about fifty years. It was beautiful. But then, no matter what I did, things started to fall apart. According to your model, long before the year 2200 the population of every world in the System will fall to zero.

“What are you going to tell Mischa, Alex? That humans are going to become extinct? Or that your precious infallible model is all screwed up.”