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  "Are there any questions?" The query came from the bear of a man seated on O'Niel's right, who had finally bestirred himself. Sheppard never whispered and his question echoed around the room. He was never afraid of being the one to break the ice. If he so desired he could break much more than that.

  A number of backsides shifted awkwardly in their seats. For all the talent and ability packed into the Ward Room, its occupants were acting like a bunch of schoolchildren waiting for someone else to tackle the teacher's question.

  Finally an older woman raised her hand. "Marshal . . . Flo Spector, Accounting Services." She looked around, as if seeking support from her silent companions. "I'm sure I speak for all of us here in extending our welcome to you and your family. If there is anything Ms. O'Niel or your son should need, please let them know they can call on me. If I don't know the answers to their question, I'll know someone who will."

  O'Niel gave her a grateful smile, glad that at least someone retained a semblance of neighborliness. Of course, by the very nature of his job he could hardly expect an outpouring of affection. But he never got used to the coldness, despite having gone through similar introductory gatherings many times.

  "Thank you very much, Ms. Spector. I will be sure and tell Ms. O'Niel . . . and Paul."

  He glanced around the room, searching for signs of additional questions but there were none. The boredom was plain on everyone's face. They were ready to get back to work, to relaxing, anything that would take them out of the Ward Room and the unwelcome confrontation.

  Sheppard took over again. "Well, I see there are no more questions." He looked over at O'Niel, smiled. At least, it seemed like a smile.

  "I would just like to add my welcome to Marshal O'Niel. I'm sure you'll all agree he will find this a pleasant and uneventful tour. I know he's just started here. Io takes some getting used to, even for those of us who've put in time at other Con-Am projects, but pretty soon he'll find that this is just like every other mining town. There's never much trouble."

  "Glad to hear it," O'Niel admitted. "I don't like trouble."

  Montone shifted in his seat, looking the other way as Sheppard continued. "Just remember, these men and women work hard. Very hard. I'm proud of that dedication and I do my best to see that it's encouraged.

  "Since I've been General Manager here this mine has broken all productivity records. We're on our way to becoming Con-Amalgamate's leading deep-system operation, and everyone in this room has received the bonus checks to prove it. There isn't another mine or manufacturing facility outside Mars that can boast our profit margin. I expect it to continue that way.

  "Good work only comes from contented people." This time the smile seemed less forced. "I work them hard and I let them play hard."

  O'Niel didn't respond to the subsequent pause, simply continued watching Sheppard. The manager gave a mental shrug and continued.

  "So when the time comes to let off a little steam, you have to allow them some room. Considering how hard they push themselves out there,"— he jerked a thumb toward a port that showed the yellow orange surface of Io— "they're entitled to that." He leaned forward toward O'Niel.

  "Just give them a little room." He was still smiling. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Marshal?"

  There was an uncomfortable moment of total silence in the room. Montone wished fervently he was somewhere else.

  He needn't have worried. O'Niel's response was noncommital but satisfactory. "Thank you for the advice, Mr. Sheppard."

  "We're all professionals here," the General Manager added, relaxing in his chair.

  "I'm sure we are."

  "You drop around to my office." Sheppard was feeling quite content now. "We'll talk some more."

  "I'll do that." O'Niel stood. "I'd better be getting back to the office." People were already filing out of the room. No one came forward to shake O'Niel's hand or wish him well. It didn't surprise O'Niel. He was used to that. "We professionals have our work to do."

  "Right." Sheppard didn't rise along with him, signaled to a younger man to bring him some more coffee.

  Once safely outside and halfway down a corridor, O'Niel let his anger out. Not by punching one of the prefab metal walls, or kicking at the unscuffable floor, or spewing a stream of curses. His face tightened a little, but most of the anger came out in his stride, which increased in length and force until his boots were hitting the floor with far more energy than was necessary just to carry a man forward.

  They entered the vacuum-hose accessway which swayed under his march as Montone struggled to keep pace with his boss

  "Now don't go getting your nose all out of joint," the sergeant urged him.

  O'Niel didn't reply, didn't slacken his pace. His eyes stared straight ahead, ignoring the dim light that flashed occasionally from read-outs on the ceiling.

  "What the hell was that all about?" he finally asked. His voice changed as he mimicked Sheppard's. " 'Do you understand what I'm saying, Marshal?' "

  "That's just his way." Montone's voice was soothing. "A little ceremony for the good folk, that's all. I'm told he goes through that with every Marshal who comes here. He wasn't singling you out or anything like that. It's just his way. You know how some of these General Managers are."

  "I don't like his way," said O'Niel softly.

  Montone turned serious. "Not many people do. Only those who count, like the members of the Con-Am General Board. He gets results, Sheppard does. That's all they want to know. Don't mess with him."

  "He's an asshole."

  "He's a very powerful asshole. Don't mess with him! Save it for the rowdies in the Club. Take it out on them and stay away from Sheppard."

  They walked the rest of the way in silence.

  Eventually the corridor ended in a hatch seal. O'Niel thumbed the switch and the hatchway admitted them to Building C. The mine complex was full of hatches, double and triple checks to contain any accidental air leaks.

  The combination switch on this particular hatch was unusual. Most such portals had only a single stud to press to gain the supplicant admission. But Building C was tighter: it housed, among other important sections, the security area.

  There was a jail uniquely suited to its environment. Also separate artificial gravity controls, a small squad-meeting room, a data center far more sophisticated than the simple double terminal in O'Niel's or anyone else's living quarters, an interrogation room, and a couple of small individual offices with, glass walls that overlooked the squad area.

  On a door leading into one of these offices was the legend:

  FEDERAL DISTRICT MARSHAL

  W.T. O'NIEL.

  The two men entered the security complex, Montone still trailing his superior.

  "He's just trying to sniff you out." Montone was more willing to chat in the privacy of the jail chambers. "The last Marshal before you kept things running pretty smoothly. That's all he wants—all they want.

  "If things run smooth, they make their money and everybody's happy. Nobody's here for their health or the scenery. Don't worry about the ship's heading is what I'm trying to say. Just see that she doesn't turn over and you'll find everyone here warming to you real fast. Not Sheppard; he doesn't warm up to anybody. But the stone faces in the Ward Room, they'll melt. They're just not sure of you yet."

  They entered the squad room where several younger deputies were seated. They stood when O'Niel entered. He ignored them, marching on past.

  Possibly he just didn't notice them. His thoughts were elsewhere as he entered his office, closing the door quietly behind him. There were reports to check, information to peruse, duty rosters to okay and a number of other things he badly wanted to go over to better familiarize himself with the physical layout of the mine. He wanted to study them in private, so he could simmer unobserved.

  One of the younger deputies glanced through the transparent wall at the silently working O'Niel and spoke to Montone.

  "What's your opinion of this one, sergeant?"

&nb
sp; "O'Niel?" Montone joined the deputy in regarding the new Marshal. "Too early to tell. Quiet, private. Not the sort you'd invite over for a game of cards. Not antisocial or anything like that. Just . . . quiet." He turned away from examining his new boss, looking down at the deputy's computer readout.

  "That's about enough psychoanalyzing. What've we got that's new on that Purser Office business?"

  The miner's name was Cane. He was a thin blond man decorated with an equally slim beard that gave him the look of a newly annointed bishop. His eyes were a pale, faded blue. Hair, eyes, and physiognomy marked his ancestry as Scandinavian, but that meant nothing to anyone on polyglot Io. It never mattered where you were from, who your people were, what you used, to be. It only mattered how you did your job.

  At the moment Cane's face shone with an expression of serenity that bordered on the beatific: his mouth was curved round in a little boyish half-smile that gave him the appearance of having just spent a week in the harem of a Turkish pasha and he wasn't about to tell anyone about it.

  It was still light Outside. The, locker room was nearly deserted, the day shift having concluded their work and the night shift already out on the job, save for a few stragglers. No one confronted Cane as he strolled smilingly clown the aisles.

  At the far end of the locker room was the spacious assembly area with curving steel tubes, like the, horns of a dozen ferrous longhorns, that projected outward from a wall. Suits and helmets had been placed on these supports and awaited their owners. At the far side was a sealed, double-thick hatchway door lined with controls and admonitions.

  On the door itself a legend proclaimed boldly: CAUTION—ZERO ATMOSPHERE BEYOND—PRESSURE SUITS AND OXYGEN REQUIRED

  Cane leaned forward, his hands held easily behind his back as he peered through the single port into the airlock. It was empty, brightly lit. At his practised command the hatch opened softly and he stepped inside. After a casual survey of the walls he directed the hatch to seal.

  It required several switches to insure that the hatch produced an airtight seal. The delicate nature of living on Io demanded that anything involving air be controlled by several backups. Cane was very thorough. When he was positive he'd carried out the prescribed procedure properly he turned his attention to another row of buttons, pressed one.

  There was a soft whine behind the door on his right, signalling that the mine elevator was starting upward toward his position.

  A small group of men and women had finished topping off and checking out their air supplies. They'd donned the suits hanging in wait for them and were moving toward the hatchway, helmets in hand.

  The usual joking and complaining ceased when one of them happened to glance curiously through the hatchway port to see Cane standing inside the sealed lock. It wasn't Cane's presence inside that cancelled the laughter: it was the fact that he wasn't wearing a suit.

  They started pounding on the door and shouting.

  From inside, Cane noticed the movements and smiled placidly back at them. He'd turned the airlock speaker off, preventing their frantic yells from reaching him. Not that anything they could have said would have made a difference. He might have listened, but he wouldn't have heard.

  The other miners continued to beat on the door and port. The muffled shouts and pounding penetrated the lock to the point where Cane decided it might be nice if he responded. So he grinned at them and waved.

  A buzzer sounded, heralding the arrival of the elevator. The thick door slid open and Cane stepped leisurely inside. He bestowed a final smile on the distorted faces gesticulating at him from behind the port. The smile was temporarily interrupted while the lift door slid shut, became visible once more through the elevator's port.

  Inside, Cane studied the panel a moment before finally selecting a button and pushing it in. Nice button, he thought. Nice elevator, too.

  From the other side of the airlock hatch the miners watched helplessly as Cane's face sank out of view. The elevator was on its way down. There wasn't a damn thing they could do about it, since the call controls were inside the airlock and that had been sealed from the inside.

  One of them had the bright idea of calling Energy Central in the hope of having the elevator's power cut off. A friend reluctantly reminded him that the lifts were independently powered to provide service in case of emergency. The irony of that passed all of them.

  "Damn, I'm beat," the tall driller declared, his voice echoing through his buddies' suit speakers. His hand came up and brushed lightly over his helmet faceplate. "Wish they'd figure out a way to let you wipe your nose in these things."

  "That'll be the day," another tired worker snorted. "It'd mean they'd have to add another servo arm inside. Be glad they designed 'em to give you food and water."

  "Food?" Another worker let out a derisive guffaw. "You call the mush they let you suck through these face tubes food?"

  They shuffled about, impatient to be on their way upward. Their shifts had ended some ten minutes ago. Each moment spent in their suits was a moment lost, another minute of real life wasted. A minute when they could be eating real food, relaxing in the real air of the rec room or Club instead of standing around smelling their own recycled sweat.

  So they waited resentfully while the elevator dropped patiently down to pick them up. The counter light set in the wall next to the elevator door marked its progress. Lights flashed on as the lift passed through ATMOSPHERE, travelled past GROUND LEVEL, DECOMPRESSION, NO ATMOSPHERE and thence to FIRST LEVEL, SUB ONE, SUB TWO, SUB THREE. It slowed and at last the SUB FOUR light winked beckoningly at them.

  The elevator came to a halt. Red paint or something had been smeared across the port. Somebody's idea of a gag. The door slid aside

  When what was inside became visible, the waiting cluster of workers forgot their initial impatience and made time to be sick . . .

  O'Niel was tired. It was amazing how exhausting ensuring the security of a small isolated community like the mine could make one.

  Keeping a place like Io running smoothly was like riding a rollercoaster carrying a thermos full of nitro. You had to be able to anticipate the bumps and dips and react to them before you reached them. If you didn't they could swing you the wrong way and blow you right off the track.

  So he apologized to no one including himself for feeling tired. He expected that. But at last the day's work was done and he could go off shift.

  The door to the apartment slid aside, admitting him. He glanced around in the subdued light—everything appeared undisturbed. It was quiet, peaceful in the apartment. His haven. He welcomed it.

  As he strode in and the door shut obediently behind him his brow furrowed. It was very quiet.

  "Paul?" There was no joyful, high-pitched response, no glad cry of "daddy!" The only sound in the apartment came from the almost imperceptible whisper of the air cycler.

  "Hey, Paulie?" He hesitated, called, "Carol?"

  He waited for a long moment, now hoping for rather than expecting a response. A quick check showed that there was no one hiding in the bedroom, either. Well, hell, maybe they'd gone off to visit someone. He remembered the invitation extended by the older woman during his formal introduction to the mine hierarchy . . . Spector, Ms. Spector it'd been. Perhaps she'd given Carol a call and she and Paul had gone off to make some friends. No children, though. Outpost colonies like lo didn't favor children.

  That thought started him worrying.

  They could be anywhere. Maybe Carol had simply taken Paul shopping. There were very few concessionaires on Io, like the private bakery, but they always offered a welcome diversion to miners and administrators alike. Sure, they'd gone shopping, he decided. He could hardly blame them.

  Meanwhile, he might as well check in case something had come in while he'd been out He returned to the living room area, gave it one final look to make sure they weren't hiding in wait to surprise him, then approached the video monitor and activated the computer board. He stood and punched in his code.


  PROCEED

  He typed without looking at the keyboard.

  O'NIEL, W.T. MESSAGES?

  O'NIEL, W.T. AFFIRMATIVE, the machine declared.

  He flicked the transmit switch and the screen came to life. The first face to appear was Carol's, which he'd hoped for. He knew she wouldn't go off before he came home without letting him know what she was up to.

  Her expression threw him, however. She seemed on the brink of crying, sniffling, constantly looking away from the pickup, fighting back something struggling to get out.

  "I . . . I'm trying to keep my composure," she told him, "and like everything else I do . . . I think I'm messing this up." She took a deep breath and the half on her face twisted even further.

  "I despise these message things. They make this kind of thing too easy. It's just that . . . I'm just such a coward. You know that. I couldn't stand there in person face to face with you and say what I'm about to say. What I've got to say. I just couldn't.

  "If you were in front of me right now, I would change my mind and I don't want to change my mind." There was another pause while she sniffled into a tissue.

  O'Niel felt behind him for the chair, pulled it in under and sat down slowly. His eyes never left the screen. What was it Montone had told him? Something he'd hardly paid any attention to, wasn't it?

  "You'll get used to it . . . we all do." Yeah, that's what the sergeant had said. He'd ignored it. Those things happened to somebody else, not to him.

  "I love you," Carol's distant voice was saying. "Please know that." Another uncomfortable pause while she dabbed at her eyes with the tissue. "I hadn't planned this. I really hadn't." She leaned toward him.

  "Look at me. I'm asking for approval. My analysis tapes say I constantly crave approval, and look at me." She blew her nose, looked around, skyward, down at her feet, not really seeing anything, hardly daring to face him even via the mask provided by the video lens.

  "Oh God . . . I just can't take it anymore. That's really what it comes down to. We've gone over this so many times before. We've had the same crying from me and the same assurances from you that the next place will be different. Well, this is the next place and it isn't different, Bill. It's never different. It can't be, except to be worse." Her eyes turned back to ward the pickup and she was staring hard at him once again.