For nearly three years Griffith moved from city to city on the AT, regularly landing jobs and just as regularly losing them, thanks to his violent and unpredictable temper. In 2512, the same year that Sloane’s parents abandoned her in Kitt, Griffith stole an old woman’s purse, knocking her down and breaking her hip in the process. When he was caught, seven hours later, it was discovered the old woman had had only four dollars in change, half of which Griffith had already spent on gum. Griffith was sent up to Garden City, a prison on the outskirts of Aethon, and served four years.
Upon his release, Griffith returned home, borrowed $300 from his family, and took a transport to the IT in violation of his parole. Within four hours of his arrival in Helios, Griffith had stolen a car and driven out into the Lakshmi Planum. It was on one of those long, empty roads, about a week after he’d first landed on the IT, that he picked up a fourteen–year–old girl who was looking for a ride to Helios.
Sloane and Griffith were immediately attracted to one another. Sloane, who’d never been more than twenty kilometers from Kitt, was enchanted by the handsome older man’s descriptions of the bright lights of the AT: the glittering casino–cities, the tropical island–resorts situated off the coast of the AT’s artificial sea, the endless excitement. For his part, Griffith was delighted by the pretty girl’s instantaneous adoration. The two became lovers within days of meeting, and spent no more than two years apart for the rest of their lives.
Hartmann on Thursday, November 8, 2519, dawned clear, cold and bright. Venus’ terraformers had made every effort to mimic the Earth’s abiotic environment, so fall in Hartmann is as fall on a planet 261 million kilometers away. November is the last gasp of a dying year; the days are short and dry and the light is pure, cold white. The few leaves left on the trees rattle in the light breeze and the world feels used up and empty. Shelly Keck stood on a low hill looking out over her lands, watching the birds flutter among the plowed and broken grain fields. The wildlife of the IT were introduced by the terraformers to maintain the illusion of Earth for the first colonists, and had adapted more successfully than anyone could have hoped; on that cold day, Keck might have seen up to fifty-seven distinct species of bird alone.
That morning Keck stood, calculating the profit the year’s harvest would bring her. Her daughter had received her early acceptance to UIT the week before, and Hershel had already expressed interest in attending the more expensive private University of Helios. In the unlikely event that neither child received any scholarships, Keck wanted to be certain that she had saved enough to send both to whichever college they chose to attend. She had been speaking of the cost of college education to other Hartmann parents nearly non–stop since Jen’s acceptance letter arrived. She planned a trip into town that day, to go over her finances with her accountant and discuss whether a new thresher was a practicable investment, or whether she ought to wait another year.
But this early morning stroll was a daily habit; up before dawn no matter what the season, Keck would spend the first hour of the day walking her property. “It makes me feel that I’ll catch any problem, anything not right, first thing,” she would explain. “And,” she would chuckle, “it lets everyone else get up without having me harangue them.” And so the day began as such days always did: Keck took her constitutional, her husband woke and retreated to his study, and her children got ready for school. They carpooled to Riccioli with one of Hershel’s schoolmates, a young woman named Alia Goya, whose mother was the band teacher and could be depended upon to get the children there on time. Jen and Hershel, the latter of whom had cherished a secret crush on Alia for at least a year, were, as usual, waiting outside at 6.50 when the Goyas pulled up.
At the same time, on the other side of the planum, Sloane and Griffith were sitting in a diner on the outskirts of Helios, eating pancakes and discussing the day’s plans. Sloane, who had never left the IT and wished desperately to do so, had instigated an argument with Griffith two months before. Despite three years spent roaming the Lakshmi Planum, engaging in both casual work and casual crime, the two were once again down to their last dollars. This, Sloane had noted, made even taking a transport to the AT impossible, much less would it allow for the life of sun–bathing on the resort islands off the AT coast she had dreamed of since first meeting Griffith. Following their argument the two had drifted apart for a few days, until Griffith tracked her down and promised her a big score, a sure–fire half–million in cash. A cell–mate up at Garden City had told him about the rural towns on the outskirts of the planum, in the west, about as far from Helios as you could get without leaving the IT. “All those farmers, they don’t trust banks,” he had said, leaning forward and dropping his voice. Sloane hung on to his every word. The itinerant prospectors she’d known had hoarded what little cash they had, afraid that putting it in a bank would result in taxes, in fines, in who knew what else. “So they just keep all their cash in their houses,” Griffith continued. “And I know one where it’s just a rich old man living by himself. Richest old man in the area, apparently. So we get ourselves an alibi◦– I already got one cooked up◦– and we zip over. Grab the cash, get back to Helios, and take the very next transport out.”
That morning, over their pancakes, the two went over the plan for the last time.
“New Tahiti by tomorrow?” Sloane asked.
“New Tahiti by tomorrow,” he said. “Only, baby, no witnesses.”
Sloane shrugged.
Jen and Hershel made their separate ways home that night. Jen spent the afternoon studying for a calculus final with a friend in the school library, and Hershel hitched a ride home with a teammate on the school’s varsity baseball team. Jen finished late, and her friend tried to talk her into staying in Riccioli for the evening, but Jen’s father had called earlier to say a promisingly large envelope had come for her from another college, and Jen wanted to get home and open it. Her friend, who had known Jen since the fifth grade, would never forgive herself for not insisting that Jen spend the night. But Jen insisted, and took the bus back to Hartmann where she was given a lift home by Mychael Ticoe, a family acquaintance who happened to be passing by when Jen stepped off the bus. He drove them slowly along the darkened avenue of plane trees, wary of hitting rabbits or deer, and dropped Jen off in front of the house◦– waiting until she opened the door and waved at him before putting his car into reverse and driving away. He recalled nothing unusual about the house. It was ten thirty.
At about 2.30 am, the small hours of Friday, November ninth, Alvin Go got up to use the bathroom. Go lived in a cabin approximately two kilometers to the east from Blackacre, down a long, tree–lined drive. He remembered well that the dark living room of his cabin was lit with a soft greenish light, that he looked out the window at the pale glow coming from the west and wondered at it. “There were no clouds in the sky,” he said later. “But I didn’t think too hard about that. I was glad I was awake to see it. I just thought it was the ashen light.”