Iris

John nodded slowly. 'That's a thing about long trips I first realized when I was about twelve. When a journey ends, it's like a confirmation your life will end too. I tried to deal with that a little bit in Rose.' Jana seemed not to be listening. 'The parameters for the satellites are scary,' she said. 'Despite what theory predicts, bodies this volatile-rich are something new.'

'We've been through this all before.'

'I'm just trying to tell you,' she said, 'I can't certify that we'll be safe.' Cornwell wanted to reach out and make contact, but something held him back. The subject was raised and the conversation had to be finished. 'We've discussed the problems of trying to build on highly volatile material. We're going to need an area of water-ice, and Ocypete's huge mare—'

'Ocellus.'

'Ocellus, bull's-eye, basin, whatever you want to call it. Even though it's buried under a thin regolith of neon ice, I've seen your analysis of how it was produced. It looks like a good place to me.'

'The ocellus is an anomaly, John. It shouldn't be there. I can explain it, sure enough; but I have to make up an extremely unlikely scenario to do so.' She pulled herself down into his reference vertical.

'We've got the equipment to handle a large uncertainty. You know that.' Jana shook her head and reached out, caressing John's neck. 'I know it ... but I've been running this garbage through my head over and over, ever since we passed by Triton for this . . . adventure. It's an oddness in the pit of my stomach.'

Cornwell laughed and released himself from the em-field. He gave the woman a push and then launched himself after her. She sailed past his sleeping module and lodged in a corner, catching hold of the resilient, almost mushy wall surface. Ducking under his embrace, she leaped away, and they caromed about until he had her cornered. He grabbed her by both arms and was, as always, surprised to find that she wasn't joking, she was fighting for real.

A small fist, half balled, caught him on the cheek, spinning them slowly in opposite directions. 'Stop it!' he said, helplessly hanging near her, unable to reach a wall. 'What's the matter with you?' Jana's face, half wild, slowly moderated, softened. She reached out for a handhold, then for him, steadying, a delicate touch. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I don't know. I guess I do need you.' She pulled on his hand, drawing them together.

He looked into her face, trying to fathom whatever it was that he saw there. What to say? Nothing. John felt a little pang of self-dread. Whatever came out next, it would lack the tone, timbre, and meaning that should be there. He tried. 'Isn't this what we left Earth for—uncertainty? Maybe it's an adventure, maybe not. No matter what you and the others think, we are doing something. Triton would have been one thing—a fairly new colony at the edge of terrestrial influence —but we'll be the first at Iris. . . .' The little line editor in his head was agonizing over this. Their interaction was following its own course, beyond his understanding. He began to feel aroused. 'In a way we'll be the first people to reach another star, if you want to call it that. Doesn't that make you want to stop and say, 'Gee whiz,' or something?' He wanted to cringe, to laugh at himself and give up the ghost of effort. Talk was only a pleasant noise, after all, and he was already working his way downward, touching her, brushing at the nearly invisible hairs on her back and buttocks. The attention, the touching were communication, very likely what she really wanted. Things were hard to see in the absence of real closeness. The thought snagged at him, briefly. Downlink Rapport was available, but these people shied away, always pulled back from the brink. It was too personal. Too close.

Cornwell sighed. This relationship had fallen into a pattern that mirrored what had developed among the ten passengers aboard Deepstar. He pleasured her, yes, as she wished, and got very little in return, save for her presence in his life as a confidante. She acted the part of his friend, but he doubted whether she was capable of such a thing. In the void that had formed after he and Beth broke up, he had wanted Jana, and had gotten her. . . .

She controlled the sex and had aversions to many things, penetration perhaps not the least of them. His enjoyment would be limited. Sometimes, in the midst of her strange, hoarse cries, he would have an idea for a data-motif.

Suddenly the feelings that Rose had brought came again, more strongly. He remembered the last time he and Beth had made love. Her response to him, though much diminishedfrom the early days back in CFE, was still almost magical. He missed her. Guiltily, he called up an image of her, all the while caressing Hu.

Elizabeth Toussaint's dark, oval face hung before him in a kind of timeless space, framed by small black ringlets, barely showing the diagonal cheek lines that, from certain angles, gave her a rare beauty. She had a broad, pixy-like nose and her eyes, dark with cosmetic mystery, were large and happy. Looking at this image, he couldn't help but notice that her chin was weak and her pouting lips over-large. The tenderness gave way to cold anger. It was her fault. The image winked out. Enjoying the feel of the sheet of warm rubber that was her skin, he kissed Jana's stomach, stroked her hips, her thighs, and went on.

In his compartment, Harmon Prynne lay meshed in the em-field of his bed, like a fly trapped on the surface scum of a butterscotch pudding. He was a delicate-seeming man, though robust; Irish-looking, with reddish-orange hair and freckles. His pale blue eyes were shiny and bloodshot. He was a mere technician, universally regarded as the stupidest person on the ship, and everyone liked him. Through his Shipnet connection, he watched what transpired in a sparsely appointed room. It was eavesdropping, easy to do, hard to resist.

Two people were locked together, tumbling end over end in the absence of gravity. The circumstances made their nudity all the more interesting. One was Vana Berenguer, a short, thick-waisted woman with swarthy skin and long clouds of coarse dark hair. The other, Temujin Krzakwa, was tall, fat, and hairy, with an immense curly beard the color of brown sand that flowed luxuriantly around the woman's thighs. Their mismatched heights and