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“It’s okay. I’m just a little bit rattled right now.”

“There’s no need for you to be, love. You’re a hero. Despite what those nitwits say.”

 * * *

HER FAMILY THREW a welcome-home party for her that evening. It was supposed to be a surprise, but Mom warned her in advance when Priscilla started talking about going to see a couple of her girlfriends. “Uncle Phil set it up,” she said. “Everybody’s so anxious to see you.”

They all showed up, uncles and aunts and cousins, some of whom she hadn’t seen in years. Mark Hutchins had been six years old at their last meeting, a curly-haired kid chasing a puppy around. Now he was taller than she was, and he’d become a heartbreaker. Uncle Phil looked very much like her father. And his prospective bride, Miriam, was everything Mom had said. Her aunt Chris Parroff, who had filled Priscilla’s early years with the world’s finest chocolate cakes, provided another one.

Her relatives had come from all over New Jersey and Pennsylvania. They had seen what Aunt Chris called Priscilla’s news conference. Everybody took offense. Cousin Gregory said he would write a letter. “I was glad that one woman spoke up,” said Miriam with a note of satisfaction in her voice. “Somebody needed to put those ding-dongs in their place.”

“I wish I’d been there,” said Uncle Phil. “Those guys will do anything to come up with a story. They don’t give a damn about what really happened.”

Mark delivered a snort. “Well, whatever. I was glad somebody there defended Priscilla.”

“Priscilla didn’t need defending,” Mom said, visibly annoyed. “She did fine.”

Priscilla was relieved when the subject, finally, got dropped.

 * * *

THERE WERE A few surprises during the course of the evening. Old friends stopped by. Girls with whom she’d hung out during her high-school and college years. Guys she’d dated. Even Harmon Baxter, who’d walked away from her for a blond cheerleader. Harmon was careful about approaching her. But she had no hard feelings. Wouldn’t have given him the satisfaction of being annoyed. He didn’t bring up the cheerleader, and, of course, neither did she.

It was during the conversation with Harmon that her link activated. She excused herself, grateful to get clear. The call was from Kosmik. “Hello,” she said.

“Priscilla, this is Howard. I wanted to let you know that we need you back on the Wheel. We have a problem.”

“I’ll try to get a shuttle out tomorrow.”

“We’ve already taken care of it. You’ll be on the morning flight out of Philadelphia. And by the way, I know this isn’t the way we planned things, but we’ll reimburse you for your trouble.”

When she heard, Mom was upset. “Is this the way it’s going to be?”

“I don’t think so. They just need somebody on short notice.”

“Where will you be going?”

“I didn’t think to ask.”

 * * *

SO THE WELCOME-HOME party became a farewell party. They sang and danced and told jokes and reminisced about the old days. About how Grandpop used to say he didn’t mind flying as long as he could drag one foot on the ground. And Cousin Aggie whose behavior suggested she’d come from Mars. They asked Priscilla what it felt like to slip into that other kind of world, Barber space. And where did they get that name from anyhow? Was it because somebody had had a close shave in there once?

Jackie Tensler, a friend since the seventh grade, asked whether there were “any available guys on the Wheel?” And another cousin wanted to know if Priscilla could arrange to take her along on one of the missions.

Uncle Phil wondered how long it would take to get to Alpha Centauri in his car. And Priscilla’s seven-year-old niece Teri told her she was going to pilot starships when she grew up. “Just like you, Aunt Priscilla.” Everybody told Priscilla how it was a pity her father hadn’t lived to see this day.

She was dancing with Arlen Hoxley when the link activated again. She liked Arlen. Always had. He claimed to have fallen in love with her when they were both in kindergarten. They’d done occasional dates through the years, but he’d never really made a play for her. And she had never really invited his attention. Born to be friends, she thought. Nothing more. But it was enough.

Ordinarily, she’d have shut the link down during a social occasion, but she’d given it instructions on that night to block everything except calls from Kosmik and Jake. And Wally, just in case.

It was Wally. “Priscilla,” he said. “About tomorrow evening—”

She thought he’d watched the press take her on and was going to back off. “Yes, Wally?”

“We talked about dinner. But I can get tickets for Family Affair at the Corel tomorrow night. How about we eat early and go to the show? Would that be okay?”

The Corel was live theater. “Wish I could,” she said. “But they’ve called me back to work.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes, Wally. I just got the word. Sorry.”

“Okay, I’m sorry, too.”

“I wish we could have gotten the evening together.”

“Priscilla, you are the loveliest woman in Princeton. But I suspect you know that.”

Wally did know how to get through to her.

 * * *

AT AROUND MIDNIGHT, the party got suddenly quiet. People were whispering and turning to look at her. “What?” she said. “What’s going on?”

Uncle Phil was staring at his link. “He’s dead!” he said.

“Who’s dead?”

“Carlson.”

Mom looked at him and shook her head. Please don’t bring that up in here.

“No,” said Priscilla. “Let’s hear what it’s about.”

“George,” said Mom, “turn on the HV. Newsworld.”

Marilyn Jakovik, the anchor, materialized in the middle of the room. “—Early this evening,” she was saying. “He was living in an apartment under a false name. He is, of course, the man authorities were looking for in connection with the interstellar-bombing incident last week that nearly killed a ship full of high-school girls from the Middle East. The cause of death has not yet been released. But Carlson posted a statement earlier today on the Internet. The statement revealed where he was, his remorse over the incident, and his intention to take his own life.

“We are going to run the statement as soon as we come back from commercial. In the meantime, we want to warn you that it may be painful to watch and that parents may wish to exercise discretion with children.” Despite the nature of the tragedy, Marilyn managed a smile.

“I have no sympathy for him,” said Priscilla. She wasn’t sure she meant it. “I’m glad he’s gone.”

Mom nodded.

“Maybe,” said Uncle Phil, “you should wait to see what he has to say.”

“I can’t imagine anything that could possibly justify what he did.”

Her mother paused the commercial, which was pushing a law firm. “Did you not want to watch it?”

“No. I’m just glad it’s over.”

 * * *

IN THE END, she changed her mind, or more likely realized she had not meant what she’d said, and they watched.

“There is no rationale for what I’ve done,” said Carlson. He had a deer-in-the-headlights look. “I’m responsible for the death of my friend Joshua Miller. And, because I couldn’t keep track of schedule changes, I endangered the lives of ten innocent students and their teacher. And two more people in the Copperhead. Both also friends.” He was wearing a black pullover shirt. “I’ve no excuse, and I’m not able to live with what I’ve done. So I’m going to end it tonight. But before I do that, there’s something everyone needs to know.