JADELO GILDERN LIKED to tell himself that his job was to guess-and to guess correctly. The job of an intelligence chief was not to know everything. That was impossible. But a good intelligence chief was capable of seeing the whole puzzle when many of the pieces were lost, or hidden, or even disguised. A good intel chief could see the underlying pattern, take what he knew of the facts, what he knew of the personalities involved and figure out how they would interact. He could calculate what a person's words and actions-or absence of words and actions-actually meant.

And as he sat in his office in the Ironhead Building, and thought over the situation, he was close to reaching an interesting conclusion. He was almost tempted to go the whole distance now. He knew it had to be the Settlers behind the Government Tower chaos, and it took no excess of brainpower to guess that they had been after Lentrall. And Gildern knew exactly what other steps he himself would have taken to suppress the information Lentrall had. Presumably the Settler leaders, Tonya Welton and Cinta Melloy, had as much sense as he did.

That much was all speculative, of course. However, one thing he did know to something like a certainty. He had already divined where Kresh had vanished to. Gildern had been able to use the Ironhead taps into the air traffic control system, and spot three long-range aircar flights, two starting at the governor's private residence, and one terminating there. One, the first, had been untraceable in the storm. The return flight of the same vehicle had come in from precisely one hundred and eighty degrees away from the direction of Purgatory. That was exactly the sort of thing a robot would do if told to take evasive action. And then, a third flight, with a flight plan filed, showing a destination of First Circle, a small and far-off suburb of Hades. First Circle's air traffic control had no record of the aircar arriving. Either it had crashed, or it had gone somewhere else. Gildern could guess where.

Three flights. One to carry Kresh, one to ferry back the aircar, and one to transport others to his side-perhaps his wife. But even without the return flight pointing in precisely the opposite direction, Gildern would have guessed Purgatory. One had to consider where the man would want to go at such a time. It was almost inevitable that he had gone off to consult the experts at the Terraforming Center on Purgatory. No, finding the man would be no problem. He would either be at the Center, or at the Winter Residence. He, Gildern, could get in an aircar and be face to face with the man in four hours' time.

But would it be worth the trip? Had he worked out the rest of it properly?

There was, happily enough, a way to find out. Simcor Beddle had been good enough to inform Gildern what he was about to say in the speech he had decided to make. Gildern had felt a certain degree of surprise that Beddle was ready to take such daring steps. But he was not beneath using his master, when his master's actions suited his purposes. Gildern was always prepared to manipulate Beddle in order to achieve some private agenda of his own.

But this time Beddle had needed no prodding, no buttering up, no encouragement. For once, Gildern had not had to feed an idea to Beddle, and then convince Beddle the idea was his. For once, Beddle was acting on his own.

If Beddle's speech did not provoke a particular and immediate reaction from Alvar Kresh, then Gildern would know the governor was in trouble, and know it to such a high probability that it would be more accurate to call it a certainty. Gildern smiled. That would be most pleasant.

For then Gildern would be in a position to do the governor a little favor, while serving his own master at the same time.

And there were worse things in the universe than a planetary governor owing one a favor.

GAMBLE, SIMCOR BEDDLE told himself. A wise man knows when it is time to gamble, and now is the time. He drew himself up to his full height behind the lectern-aided not a little bit by the tall step discreetly hidden place behind it for that purpose-and looked squarely into the camera.

"I am here," he said, "in order to make two announcements that I think you will find surprising. " An excited murmur filled the room-or at least it seemed to do so. There was no one in the room, other than Beddle and the robots operating the cameras and the sound system, but there was no need for the world to know that. Nor was "here" any place in particular, other than the broadcast studio in the basement of the Ironhead Building. He had not said where he was, but he had certainly made it sound like an important place, an important event, and that was all that mattered.

He had help, of course. The robot operating the sound system knew his business, and knew just how to create a spurious murmur of surprise, the shifting of seats that were not there and even the subdued and subtle hum of imaginary datapads as nonexistent reporters took their notional notes.

All of it worked on the subconscious, but it worked all the same. Simcor Beddle knew how the media operated on Inferno. He was feeding his speech direct to the news nets, but hardly anyone would see the speech now, live. It would be edited down, with a snippet presented as if it were the whole thing.

People would see perhaps ninety seconds of his speech on one or the other of the news services, a short enough slice of time that they would not expect a description of where and why the speech was made. They would hear the background sounds under his voice, see the opulent red curtains behind his head, catch the implication in his words that he was speaking to some very important group at some very important event. Subtle stuff. Subtle enough that the viewers would not quite know why they thought it was important, but the impression would be placed in their minds all the same. Simcor Beddle, the leader of the Ironheads himself, had addressed some group one didn't quite catch the name of, and there had dropped his bombshells on a waiting world. When one had sufficient control over fantasy, one had no need of reality.

Beddle looked alertly out over the audience that wasn't there. "First, I would like to confirm the story that has been circulating since last night." He paused dramatically. "There is indeed a government plan to drop a comet onto this planet, on the Utopia region to be precise. The impact will assist in the formation of a Polar Sea, which will, in turn, enhance Inferno's planetary climate." The sound effects robots brought up the appropriate murmur of astonishment and surprise. "The project is very much in its planning stages, and the government is not yet definitely committed to it. However, the government is making its preparations just the same, as well they should be. Time is short. The comet in question was discovered only recently, and preparations must be made in advance of the final decision to proceed if there is to be time to make it happen."

Simcor paused once more, and looked directly into the camera. "This brings me to my second announcement. There are those among you who will find it even more startling than the first. I fully support the government plan. I have seen certain planning documents and results projections and risk assessments. There are, beyond question, serious dangers involved. Nor will the task be easy. There is a tremendous amount of work that must be done in a very short time. But I have also seen the estimates of the probable fate of our planet, what will happen here if we don't seize this chance. Suffice it to say those projections are grim. Grim enough that I have concluded we must seize this chance, risks and all." Simcor paused once again, and looked about the room with a meaningful expression. "While I support the comet-impact plan, I must take the government to task most severely for the manner in which it has concealed its plans from you, the people of Inferno. Surely no one can question that this project will affect every man and woman on this planet. The decision should not have been made in secret."

Beddle paused, and smiled warmly. "But that is now behind us. It is now up to each and every one of us to support this bold plan, this plan which, if all goes well, will bring us all forward into a brighter and more prosperous future. However, even as we make this bold step forward, it is important that we understand that some among us will be forced to sacrifice all they have for the sake of the greater good. Those who live and work where the comet is to strike will lose everything-unless we help.

"The government is of course working on evacuation plans and procedures for transporting goods and equipment out of the impact zone. However, there is only so much government can do-or at least only so much that it is willing to do. For that reason, I make one final announcement. The Ironhead Party will throw its full resources behind the effort to assist those dislocated by this massive undertaking. We will take care of our neighbors, our brothers and our sisters of the utopia region, in this, their hour of need. I myself will oversee our assistance program, and I will shortly depart the city of Hades for an inspection tour of the Utopia region. The impact of this comet on our planet represents danger at worst and dislocation at best for many people, but, at the end of the day, it represents hope-perhaps the last and best hope-for the future of our world. Let us prepare well to receive this gift from the heavens."

Simcor Beddle looked once more about the empty room as the sound of simulated spontaneous applause filled the air. He nodded appreciatively, and then looked straight into the camera. "Thank you all," he said, and as the camera zoomed in on his face before fading out, he managed to look as if he meant it.

"WELL," SAID ALVAR Kresh, "that could have been worse."

"Considering it's Simcor Beddle, I'd say you got off pretty lightly," said Fredda. She yawned and stretched and stood up from the couch. If she stayed sitting down much longer, she was going to doze right off.

Fredda had just arrived on Purgatory an hour or so before, and it had been a hell of a day before she had even started her trip. The after-hours news interview and the midmorning shambles at Davlo Lentrall's place had been capped off with Oberon's arrival. He had delivered his message from Alvar, asking Fredda to join him. She and Donald had flown to Purgatory by as fast an evasive route as Donald could manage. Even so, it had been close to dusk before they had met up with Alvar here at the governor's Winter Residence.

Now, here she and Donald were, with the evening closing in-and their problems closing in just as fast. Fredda looked around herself and shivered. Governor Chanto Grieg had been murdered in this house, shot to death in his bed. Of course that had happened in a completely different part of the house than the wing they were occupying, but even so, the Winter Residence was never going to be a comfortable place for Fredda.

Or, more than likely, for her husband. Alvar had not offered much resistance when Fredda had insisted that he use some other suite of rooms for his private quarters. Maybe some future governor, in some time when the story of Grieg's death was just a bit of history would be able to put his or her bed in the room where Grieg had died. But Alvar had found the body, and she, herself, had seen the corpse in the bed. No. They would sleep elsewhere. It was bad enough being in the same house. Those future governors could sleep where they liked. Assuming the planet survived that long.

"We got off so lightly I almost wonder if that was Beddle," said Alvar, still sitting back on the couch facing the viewscreen. "He had every chance to tear into us, but he didn't. I must say it's a little disconcerting to have the man on our side."

"Well, he did get in one set of digs," said Fredda. "The secrecy angle is going to hurt us. We have to announce something."

"What?" asked Alvar. "That we haven't quite decided about the whole plan, and by the way, we seem to have misplaced the comet?" Alvar stopped and thought for a minute. "Hmmm. That would do Beddle a world of good. Suppose he knew we didn't have a lock on the comet? Then he could come out all in favor of the bold government program for the comet impact project for the specific purpose of forcing us to admit that we had lost the thing, and couldn't deliver. We'd look as bad as-as-"

"As we do right now," Fredda said with a sad little smile. "And there's no way we can find that damned thing again?"

"Let's check again," he said. He turned to Donald, who was standing by the comm center controls. "Donald, activate a direct audio link to Units Dum and Dee."

"Yes, sir." Donald pressed a series of control studs and spoke again. "The link is open, sir."

"Howww may wweee be of assistance, Governorrr?" Two disembodied voices, speaking in unison, suddenly spoke out of the middle of the air.

Fredda jumped half a meter straight up in the air. "That is the weirdest-"

"Shhh," said Alvar, waving for her to be quiet. "Later. Units Dum and Dee. Based on your current refined estimates of the work required once the comet is located, calculate the most likely length of time left between now and when the work must commence."

"Therrree are mannny vvarrriables," the doubled voice replied. "Weee willll attemmmpt a usseful appproximaation." There was a brief pause and then one of the two voices, the higher-pitched, feminine-sounding one, spoke by itself. "Twelve standard days, four standard hours, and fifty-two standard minutes. I should note that estimate is based on having the complete comet task force in order and on standby for immediate launch."

"Very good," said Kresh. "Based on the best current data and the current search schedule, what are the odds of relocating Comet Grieg within twelve standard days?"

"Theee oddss arrre approximatellly onnne inn elllevennn, or approximately nine percent," the double voice replied.

"Give us a range of representative values," Kresh said.

The deeper-pitched, mechanical voice spoke by itself. "In percentile terms, odds are point five percent for relocation in one day. One point two percent in three days. Four percent in six days. Six point one percent in eight days. Nine percent in twelve days. Twenty percent in fifteen-"

"When do the odds reach, oh, ninety-five percent?"

The feminine voice took over. "The odds improve rapidly as possibilities are rejected and the search area is reduced. At the same time, the comet is growing closer, and beginning to increase in brightness as it is heated by the sun. This also helps. The odds for relocation pass the ninety-five percent point in about twenty-six days."

"Too little, too late," said Fredda.

"Yes," said Alvar, his tone of voice saying far more than that single word. He sighed. "Deep space all around, but I'm tired," he said. "All right, Units Dum and Dee. That will be all." He signaled for Donald to cut the connection.

Fredda watched her husband as he stared straight ahead at the blank wall in front of him, a deep frown on his face. "One chance in eleven," he said. "Is that what it comes down to? The planet has a nine percent chance, if we do everything exactly right?"

"It could be," Fredda said, returning to the couch and sitting next to him. "Are we doing everything, and are we doing it right?"

Alvar Kresh rubbed his eyes. "I think so," he said, and yawned hugely. "I can't remember the last time I really slept." He shook his head and blinked a time or two. "I've got a spaceside team working around the clock, getting the equipment together to make the intercept. We haven't started on the actual evacuation of the Utopia region yet-and I hope to the devil that Beddle hasn't just started a panic out there with that little speech. But we're getting the evac plan ready to go. The area's pretty thinly populated, and Donald tells me the people who know these things feel it would be better to take a bit more time planning, even if it means starting a bit later."

"One thing I can tell you your evacuation experts might not have told you," said Fredda. "Make sure it's a total evacuation, and that you can prove it's total. Leave one person there-or even leave open the possibility that one person is out there-and you're going to be knee-deep in overstressed Three-Law robots trying to pull off a rescue."

"I'm not going to worry about losing a few robots in comparison to saving the whole planet."

"No, of course not," Fredda said. But she thought of Kaelor's death a few hours before, and could not help but wonder if she would be quite as careless about the lives of robots in the future. "But those robots could cause a great deal of trouble. Even if you can prove there's no one left in all of Utopia, a lot of robots are going to feel strong First Law pressure to stop the comet impact, any way they can. After all, the comet sure as hell represents danger to humans. More than likely, someone is going to die in a building collapse or an aircar caught by the shockwave, or whatever."

"Maybe so, but how could the robots stop it?" Kresh asked.

"For starters, is that an all-human crew on the spaceside team? You have to assume that any robots on that job will do their best to sabotage the job. Even a low-function fetch-and-carry robot will have enough capacity to realize that an incoming comet represents danger."

"Burning devils," said Kresh. "I hadn't thought of that. I hope someone else has, but we've got to damn well make sure the crews on those ships are all human. Donald, pass that order and explain-" Alvar stopped and looked at Donald. "No, wait a minute," he said. "I can't use you to pass the order for the same reason. Your First Law means you won't cooperate either."

"On the contrary, sir. I am able to pass the message."

Fredda looked at Donald in surprise. "But don't you feel any First Law conflict?" she asked.

"A certain amount of it, Dr. Leving, but as you well know, a properly designed Three Law robot feels some First Law stress most of the time. Virtually every circumstance includes some danger, if only low-probability-danger, for a human. A human could drown swallowing a glass of water, or catch a deadly plague by shaking hands with an off-planet visitor. Such dangers are not enough to force a robot to action, but are enough to make the First Law felt. There is some potential danger here, yes, but you designed me as a police robot, and I am equipped to deal with more risk than most robots."

"I see," said Kresh, keeping his voice very steady. Fredda had the very strong impression that she was going to have to ask him about all this in the very near future. "But, meaning no offense," said Kresh, "I think it might be best if I took care of that order myself. I'll call the spaceside planning group, banning all robots from the operation, and explaining why."

"No offense taken, sir. You must take into account the possibility that I am deceiving you. I can imagine a scenario where I would disobey that order, and see to it that as many robots as possible went into the spaceside operation in order to sabotage it."

Kresh gave Donald a quizzical look. "My imagination works a lot like yours," he said. He turned to Fredda. "Donald's good example to the contrary," he said, "I don't think I've ever been in a situation where robots have done so much to make my job difficult. To make everyone's job difficult."

"That's what you get when you try and take risks, even necessary risks, around robots," Fredda said. "I think the real story is that none of us have ever really tried to take risks before."

"And robots don't like risks," said Kresh. "They're going to keep us all so safe they're going to get us all killed. Sooner or later we're going to have to-"

"Excuse me, Governor," said Donald. "The Residence security system has alerted me via hyperwave that an aircar is landing in the visitor's parking area."

"Who the devil has found me here?" Kresh muttered.

"It could just be some tourist who wants to get a look at the Winter Residence," Fredda said.

"Not with our luck," he said, getting up. He crossed the room and sat down at the comm center. He punched in the proper commands, and brought up the view from the main entrance security cameras. There was the car, all right. And someone getting out. Kresh zoomed in on the figure, pulled in to a tight head-and-shoulders shot, and set the system to track the shot automatically. It was a man, his back to the camera as he climbed out of his armored long-range aircar. He turned around, and looked straight toward the concealed surveillance camera, as if he knew exactly where it was. He smiled and waved...

"What the devil is he doing here?" Kresh muttered to himself.

"Who is it?" Fredda asked, coming up to stand behind her husband.

"Gildern," said Kresh. "Jadelo Gildern. The Ironhead chief of security." He frowned at the image on the screen. "He's no tourist come to get a look at the place. He knows we're here. I think you'd better go let him in, Donald. Bring him to the library. We'll wait for him there."

"Yes sir," said Donald.

"What does he want?" Fredda asked. "Why is he here?"

Kresh shut off the comm system and stood up. "From what I know of Gildern, there's only one thing he ever wants," he said. "What he wants is a better deal for Jadelo Gildern."

"GOOD EVENING. MASTER Gildern," said the short blue robot who met him at the door. "The Governor has ordered me to escort you to him."

Gildern nodded curtly. Others might waste their time in courtesy to robots, but Ironheads did not. Besides, he had other things on his mind. It would be best for all concerned if this interview went very quickly indeed. There were unquestionably risks in the game he was playing, and he saw no benefit at all in making those risks greater. The blue robot. Donald 111. That was its name. Built by Leving herself, and Kresh's personal assistant since he was sheriff. Deliberately designed to seem unthreatening. Frequently underestimated. Gildern smiled to himself. He often found it calming to remember just how much he had in his dossiers.

The robot led them through a large central court and down a corridor leading off to the right, then stopped at the fourth of a series of identical doors. Gildern had memorized the layout of the Residence on the flight down. This was the library.

The robot opened the door and Gildern stepped inside behind him. And there were Kresh and Leving themselves. Both here, precisely as he had guessed. Kresh seated behind a desk, Leving sitting in one of the two chair facing the desk.

"Jadelo Gildern of the Ironheads," the robot announced, and backed away into a robot niche.

"Governor, Dr. Leving," said Gildern. "Thank you so much for allowing me to arrive so-informally. I think you will find it to our mutual benefit if this visit is kept as quiet as possible."

"What do you want, Mr. Gildern?" the governor asked, his voice calm and imperturbable.

Gildern walked up to the desk, made the slightest of bows to Dr. Leving, and smiled at Kresh. "I'm here to give you a present, Governor. Something you've wanted for quite some time."

"And in return?" Kresh asked, his voice and face still hard and expressionless.

"And in return, I simply ask that you do not ask, now or in the future, how I got it. No investigation, no inquiry, no official legal proceedings or private researching."

"You got it illegally," Kresh said.

"My condition is that you do not ask such questions."

"Just now I made a statement," said Kresh. "I asked no question. And I'm not accepting any conditions. I'm sworn to uphold the law, as you may recall. And I might add that it is generally unwise to request an illegal service of a government official in front of witnesses. " He nodded toward Leving and the robot in its niche.

Gildern hesitated. It wasn't supposed to have played this way. He had planned on being able to bully Kresh, get what he wanted. But the man had called his bluff. Gildern needed Kresh to have the material, as much as Kresh needed to have it. All of the Ironhead plans, all of Gildern's plans, would otherwise crumble. Gildern realized that he had made a serious miscalculation. He was too used to working in a world of people who could be coerced, manipulated, led, and blackmailed. He had assumed Kresh would be equally pliable. But Kresh was an ex-police chief who handled cases personally when he saw fit. What reason would he have to be cowed by Gildern? "I don't want any questions asked," he said again, in a tone of voice that even he found less than commanding.

"Then I suggest you take your business elsewhere," said Kresh. "I have had a hard enough couple of days without being threatened and blackmailed by the likes of you. Get out."

A flash of anger played over Gildern. He opened his mouth to protest, and, then thought better of it. He could play this with his pride, his ego, and lose everything. Or he could play it with his common sense and win it all. And then, later, once he had won, won it all, he would be in a position to indulge his pride. "Very well," he said. "No conditions." He pulled a small blue cube out of the pocket of his blouse and set it on the table. "Take it with my compliments."

He bowed once more to Dr. Leving, turned and headed toward the door.

"Wait!" Dr. Leving called out. "What is it? What's in that datacube?"

Gildern looked back toward her with genuine surprise. "You haven't figured that out? I expect your husband has."

"It took me a minute, but I have," said Kresh. "Lentrall told me there were two break-ins at his lab. One to steal copies of his data, and the other to destroy the originals. I should have figured it out long ago. Lucky for you I didn't."

"Will one of you tell me?" Fredda demanded. "What's in that thing?"

Gildern smiled unpleasantly at her. "Why, Comet Grieg, of course. All of Dr. Lentrall's calculations and data regarding its location, trajectory, mass, and so on. It's all there." He looked from Leving to Kresh and nodded his head at the governor. "Now, then, if you'll excuse me, I must leave at once. I'm expected at some little town called Depot in the middle of the Utopia region. There's no suborbital service from here. I'm going to have to fly in a long-range aircar, and it is going to be a very long flight indeed."

Kresh picked up the cube and smiled coldly at Gildern. "See our friend out, Donald," he said. "I have a speech to prepare."

"I look forward to hearing it, Governor," Gildern said. And with that, he followed the small blue robot out of the room.

LANCON-03 PLACED THE call to Anshaw as soon as Governor Alvar Kresh had completed his speech, in which Kresh had just confirmed that the government was working on the comet project, and that the Utopia region was the target. Lacon-03 knew perfectly well that there was little Gubber Anshaw could do, but on the other hand, the New Law robots had precious few friends, and now was the moment when they would need all the help they could get.

Lacon-03 was still using the city leader's office in Prospero's absence. It had one of the few fully shielded and untraceable hyperwave sets in the city. Of course, if Valhalla were about to be destroyed, how much difference could it make if someone managed to tap the call and zero in on their location?

Gubber Anshaw's image appeared on the screen. "I was expecting your call, friend Lacon," he said without preamble. "I take it you heard the governor's speech?"

"I did," Lacon replied. "I still have trouble believing they truly intend to drop a comet on us."

"Denial is a human trait," said Anshaw. "I would not advise you to indulge in it. The governor has confirmed the stories regarding the comet, and that is all there is to it. Now you must-we all must-deal with available reality. What is Prospero's opinion of the situation?"

"Prospero continues to be unreachable. My expectation is that he was alarmed by the Government Tower incident, or perhaps learned something of a worrying nature. If that were the case, he would elect to travel as discreetly as possible, and would not risk needless communication. At least that is what I hope has happened. Otherwise it might well be that he is dead."

"Let's hope not," Gubber said.

"Dr. Anshaw, what are we supposed to do?" Lacon-03 asked. "How can we stop this thing from happening?"

"You cannot," said Gubber. "Now, no one can. Too much has been committed to it, too much has been promised, too much energy has been expended. You have told me many times how much New Law robots want to survive. Now they must survive this, as well."

"But how are we to do that?" Lancon-03 asked.

Glibber Anshaw shook his head sadly. "I don't know," he said. "If I think of anything, I'll let you know."

GUBBER SAID HIS goodbyes to Lancon-03, wondering just how permanent they were, and returned to his wife's office. Any hope that Tonya might have calmed down while he was out of the room were dispelled as soon as he set foot in the room. He glanced toward the far end of the room, where Cinta Melloy was sitting. Cinta caught his eye, and shrugged helplessly. Clearly Cinta had decided there was nothing for it but to wait out the storm.

"The fools," said Tonya Welton through clenched teeth as she paced the floor. "The bloody, stupid fools." Two commentators were on the comm screen, in the midst of animated debate on the subject of Comet Grieg. But Tonya slapped at the comm control panel and the image died, cutting them off in midword.

"I can't listen to any more of this," she said, still fuming. "Damn that Kresh! Not only did he publicly commit to the plan, he went and broadcast the precise orbital data for Comet Grieg. It was hard enough erasing one man's computer files, and we didn't even manage the kidnapping. Now what the hell do we do? Erase the coordinates from every comm center on the planet?"

It took a moment for Glibber to realize the implications of what Tonya was saying. "You mean-you mean you were the ones who tried to kidnap Lentrall?" he asked.

"Of course we were," Tonya said. "To prevent exactly this from happening. No one else seemed interested in stopping the comet crash."

Gubber nodded blankly. Of course it was Tonya. He should have known it in the first place. Why was he always so startled to discover her ruthless streak? When it came to politics, Tonya Welton took no prisoners. "Won't the CIP find out?" he asked. The question sounded foolish, even to him, but somehow he could think of nothing else to say.

"Probably," said Tonya, her tone brisk and distracted. "Sooner or later. If we all live that long." She turned toward Cinta Melloy. "How the devil did they do it?" she demanded. "How did they reconstruct the comet data?"

"Does it matter?" Cinta asked. "We always knew there was a chance that there would be a backup copy we missed. " Cinta Melloy sat on the couch and watched her boss stalking back and forth across the floor. "It's not important how they did it. The point is that they did."

But Tonya was barely listening. Instead she kept pacing, her face a study in furious concentration. "Beddle," she said at last. "We've been pretty sure for a while that informant of ours was working both sides of the street. And then, all of a sudden Beddle's all for the government, all for the comet plan, before Kresh makes a public statement. Suppose our informant fed the data to Beddle and Beddle fed it back to Kresh before Kresh went to ground?"

Cinta shrugged. "It's possible. We tracked Gildern's long-range aircar headed toward Purgatory. We know from the broadcast just now that Kresh is working at the Terraforming Center there. But what does it matter?"

"It means that Beddle and Gildern bear watching, that's what," said Tonya. "It means they may behind this whole suicidal operation. Why else would they support the government? When was the last time they did that?"

Gubber Anshaw crossed the room and sat down next to Cinta Melloy. He looked from Tonya to Cinta, and had a feeling that he knew what the security officer was thinking. Even with his thoughts in a whirl, he was thinking the same thing. Tonya was obsessing on this crisis. He had known the truth about Government Tower Plaza for only a few minutes, but he knew Tonya well. If she were frantic enough, desperate enough, to have ordered that fiasco, Dark Space alone knew what else she would be capable of.

"So what do we do about it all?" Cinta asked, her voice a study in neutrality.

"Why ask her to choose now?" Gubber asked. "There's no need for rushed decisions. Better to take time, to study things calmly first."

Tonya wheeled about and glared at both of them. "You're handling me," she said. "Humoring me. Don't. I'm still in command of the Settlers on this planet, and don't you forget it."

"I'm not forgetting it for one minute," Cinta said. "And that's what scares the living daylights out of me. You're in charge, and I'll follow your orders. But your orders have not had good results in recent days."

The look on Tonya's face was indescribable, a tangle of fear, anger, mad fury, hatred, and shame. Gubber saw Tonya raise her hand, as if to strike Cinta in the face.

"No!" he cried out. "No."

Tonya looked at him in shock, as if she not were surprised to see him there.

"No," he said again, surprised by the firmness in his own voice. When had he even spoken to Tonya, or anyone else, for that matter, in this tone of voice? "Foolishness will accomplish nothing," he went on. "Now is the time to pause and consider. You are the leader here. Our leader. No one disputes that. So lead us. But do not lead us with fear, or anger, or frustration, or because you do not approve of the available situation. Lead us with reason and care."

Tonya looked at him in shock. "How dare you!" she said. "How dare you speak to me that way?"

"I-I dare because no one else can, and someone must," Gubber said, his voice unsteadier than he would have liked. "Cinta just tried, and you wanted to strike her for telling the truth. Well, strike me as well, if that is the way of things. I won't stop you."

His heart was pounding, but he forced himself to look up at her steadily. She lowered her hand, than raised it again, but then, at last, let it drop to her side. She turned and walked to the other side of the room, and dropped heavily into a chair. "You're right," she said. "But I sure as hell wish you weren't."

The silence in the room was a near-palpable thing for a time. Tonya sat in her chair, staring at nothing at all. Cinta sat stone-still, her gaze moving back and forth between Gubber and Tonya.

Gubber knew Tonya. He knew she only needed another push, another nudge in the proper direction. And it was plainly up to him to provide that nudge. This was up to him. He cleared his throat and began, speaking in a calm, casual tone that no doubt fooled no one at all. "I've just finished speaking with a New Law robot by the name of Lancon-03. Prospero seems to have dropped out of sight, and left her in charge. She had heard the governor's speech as well, and she called me, asking for advice as to what the New Law Robots should do. That comet is going to drop right on top of them. I couldn't think of anything to suggest. Can-can you think of anything?"

Tonya laughed wearily and shook her head. "Oh, Gubber. Dear, dear Gubber. The only thing to tell them is to accept the available universe and the bad situation they are in, and make the best of it. And, of course, their situation is much worse than ours. I think you have made your point."

"Very well, then," he said, pressing one last time, "what are we going to do?"

Tonya leaned back against the back of her chair, rubbed her eyes, and stared at the ceiling. "We are going to do two things. First off, I want as close a watch as possible put on Beddle and Gildern. There is more going on there than meets the eye. Jadelo Gildern never does anything for just one reason. I want to know what his hidden agendas are this time."

"We're already working on it," Cinta said, plainly relieved that Gubber had managed to get Tonya to behave sensibly. "What's the second thing?"

"The second thing is that we are going to admit defeat."

"Ma'am?" Cinta asked, shifting on her seat and looking at Tonya with a puzzled expression.

"Gubber's right. There's no stopping it now," said Tonya, gesturing toward the sky. "They know where the comet is, and they're going to go for it, and drop it right down on top of their own damn planet, and trust that every little thing will go right, so they don't get everyone killed. I still don't believe they can do it. They don't have the skill or the experience. And I've seen what happens to a world when an attempt like this goes wrong. Some old nightmares have come back to me since we found out about this. I think they're going to kill the planet. But short of shooting down their space fleet, there's no way to stop them."

Shooting down their fleet? Gubber thought he had talked her around. But maybe not. For a moment of heart-pounding terror, Gubber thought Tonya had gone far enough around the bend to order just such a thing. "You're not-"

"No," said Tonya wearily. "I'm not. Mostly because I don't think we have the firepower on hand to do it-and because I'm not sure anyone would obey any such orders. But absent that option, there is no way we can stop them. " Tonya stood up and went back to the comm station. She switched it back on, activated the full-wall flatscreen, and brought up a view of the night sky as seen from the cameras up on the surface. It was a scene of heart-stopping loveliness, the jet-black sky blanketed with a cloud of dimmer stars setting off the larger, brighter ones, white and yellow and blue and red points of color glowing in the night. "And therefore we might as well see to it that they do it right. I'm going to go back to my office and draft an announcement offering our complete cooperation, and access to all our expertise in this area. Maybe we can at least keep the damage to a minimum."

Tonya Welton bunched up her shoulders and then let them go limp, a gesture of humiliation and resignation and frustration, all in one. "And of course there is the little matter of their tracking down whoever was responsible for the Plaza attack. Maybe if we start helping out, that will muddy the trail, keep them from kicking us off the planet."

She was silent again for a moment, and when she spoke, she all but choked on the emotion she had been struggling to hold in. Anger, frustration, shame, fear, all of them and more welled up in her voice. It was plain that the words were pure gall to her. But it was also plain that words had to be spoken. "And if, or rather when, they do catch us," she said, "maybe it will count in our favor if we've already made amends."

THE AIRCAR CRUISED slowly along the silent, empty streets of Depot in the pre-morning darkness and came to a halt not far from the edge of the small town. Prospero operated the controls with the relaxed skill of a master pilot and set the craft down in a small hollow, well out of sight from any of the surrounding buildings.

"Here's where I get out," said Norlan Fiyle with undisguised relief. He stood up and opened the side passenger door of the aircar. He climbed down out of the vehicle and stretched his arms and legs gratefully. "No offense to either of you," he said through the open door, "but I'm very glad to get out of that damned car."

"And what about you, friend Caliban?" Prospero said. "This is your last chance. Are you sure you won't go with me?"

"No, friend Prospero," said Caliban. "Go to Valhalla. You are needed there far more than I. Besides, you might well need a friend on the scene here in Depot. It is better if I remain." Caliban's reasons were true enough as far as they went, but they were far from the whole truth. The core, basic, essential reason was that he no longer wished to be close to Prospero, either literally or ideologically. There had been time enough and more to think things over on the long and wearying trip. Prospero was a magnet for risk, for danger. Caliban had had enough of risking his life in the name of causes that were not his own. "I will remain here," said Caliban. "I will remain in Depot."

Fiyle smiled thoughtfully. "Somehow, that sounds very familiar", he said. "Prospero used almost exactly those words when he and I parted company on Purgatory, years ago."

"Let us hope that the journey that begins with this parting works out somewhat better than that one did," Prospero said.

"Well, at least this time you're the one doing the traveling, not me," said Fiyle. "This is the end of the line for me. At least until the comet hits."

"What will you do, Fiyle?" Caliban asked. "Where will you go?"

The human shook his head back and forth, shrugged, and smiled. "I haven't the faintest idea. Out. Away. Someplace they won't look for me. Someplace I can start over. But I'll stay in Depot for a while. No one knows me here."

Depot was the largest human settlement in the Utopia region, which was not saying a great deal. As its name implied, it was little more than a shipping point for the small and scattered settlements of that part of eastern Terra Grande.

"But why?" asked Caliban. "We have reasons for coming here, but why should you want to hide out in a town that's going to be destroyed?" said Caliban.

"Precisely because it's going to be destroyed," said Fiyle with a grin. "That right there ought to make it a great place to disappear from. I can cook myself up a new identity, based in Depot, and say whatever I want about the new me. How's anyone going to check the records, when Depot is a smoldering ruin? And maybe I'll have a chance to fiddle the town records before they archive them and ship them off. Maybe the records will wind up saying I'm a prosperous businessman with a large bank balance. Once the town is flattened and the population is dispersed, who'll be able to know for sure that I'm not?"

Caliban looked steadily at Fiyle for a full five seconds before he responded. "I must say you do think ahead," he said. "I suppose it is yet another insight into the criminal mind."

Fiyle grinned broadly and laughed. "Or perhaps," he said, "merely an insight into the human mind."

"That is a plausible suggestion," said Prospero, "and therefore a most disturbing one. Farewell, Caliban. Farewell, Norlan Fiyle."

"So long, Prospero," Fiyle replied, a big sidelong grin on his exhausted face.

And then there was no more to say. Caliban rose up from his seat and climbed down from the aircar. Fiyle closed the door from the outside, and the aircar lifted off, straight up, leaving Caliban and Fiyle behind.

"Well," said Fiyle, "if I'm going to try and disappear, might as well get started right away. So long, Caliban."

"Goodbye, Fiyle," Caliban said. "Take care."

Norlan smiled again. "You do the same," he said. He waved, turned around, and started walking down the still-darkened street.

Caliban looked back toward the aircar as it rose up and swing around to a southerly heading, a small dark smudge of deeper darkness against the slow-brightening dawn. Alone. That was the way he had wanted it. But even so, he could not rid himself of the sense that he had just parted from a vital part of himself. He had been, or at least almost been, one with the New Law robots for a long time.

And now. Now he was Caliban, Caliban the No Law robot. Caliban by himself, once again.

Somehow the thought did not bring him as much pleasure as he had expected.

NORLAN FIYLE FELT good as he strolled about the town. There was something about being out under an open sky, about knowing that the people looking for him were quite literally on the other side of the world. It felt good, very good, to walk along in the early morning through a town that was just beginning to wake up, knowing that he was out from under, that the game he had been playing was over and done with. It had not been easy playing the Settlers off against the Ironheads, all the while steering clear of the Inferno police in the middle. In the short term, a fellow could have a good run of luck at that sort of thing, bucking the odds, taking chances and getting away with it. But sooner or later, the odds would catch up. They had to. Law of nature. In the long run, there was only one way to win that sort of game-by getting out of it the first moment you could.

And he had. He was out.

He found a little caf�� that served a very passable breakfast. He ate a leisurely meal at the table by the front window, and spent an hour or two in that most enjoyable of pastimes-watching other people rushing off to work while being under no obligation to do any such thing himself.

He paid his bill in cash, exchanged a pleasantry or two with the handsome woman behind the counter who combined the functions of manager, waitress, cook, and cashier, and ambled out into the dusty main street of Depot.

The next step was to find a place to stay, and then to pick up a few of the basic necessities. He had, after all, fled Hades with nothing but the clothes he was in, and a certain amount of cash. But Fiyle had lost everything he had a time or two before, and would quite likely do so again. The prospect did not bother him overmuch. There ought to be plenty of work in this town, seeing how the whole damn place was going to have to be packed up and shipped

A hand came down on his shoulder. A man's hand, small and thin-fingered, but wiry and strong.

"Dr. Ardosa," a cool, unpleasant voice said in his ear. "Dr. Barnsell Ardosa. What a remarkable surprise to see you here, of all places. Except I suppose you're not using that name anymore. Have you gone back to Norlan Fiyle for the time being? Or haven't you picked out a new one yet?"

Fiyle turned around, and looked down just a trifle, straight into the eyes of Jadelo Gildern, the Ironhead chief of security. "Hello, Gildern," he said slowly. "I suppose I might just as well stick with Norlan Fiyle, at least with you."

Gildern smiled unpleasantly. "That makes sense to me," he said. "But don't you worry," he said. "No one else needs to know who you really are-the Inferno police, for example, or the Settlers-as long as you keep me happy. Does that sound fair?"

"Yeah, sure," said Fiyle, his voice a monotone.

"Good," said Gildern. "Very good. Because until this very moment I was worrying about how I was going to staff things around here. It's hard to find people with the right aptitude for intelligence work-especially among people who also have a strong motivation for keeping their employers happy."

"Employers?" asked Fiyle, a cold, hard, knot forming in his stomach.

"That's right," said Gildern. "It's your lucky day, Norlan. A very nice job opportunity has just fallen into your lap. Just between you and me, I don't see how you can turn it down."

Gildern stepped alongside Fiyle and put his hand on Fiyle's forearm. It looked like a gentle, even friendly, gesture, but the fingers on his arm clamped down as tightly as any vise.

Jadelo Gildern led Norlan Fiyle away. And it was abundantly and unpleasantly clear to Norlan that he was nowhere near getting out of the game.

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