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And an hour later Faith offered to show him a shortcut home to his quarters. They linked arms and wandered off. through the gray-walled corridors. "Here's an area you've never seen," she caroled. "See that? Point Nexus. That's the Message Center."

"Lovely Message Center," said Ryeland comfortably. Funny. Even the iron collar didn't seem as hard or as cold. She was a sweet kind of girl, he thought dreamily. Of course, the Togetherness girls were coached, reared—all but bred for that. But she reminded him of the Fair Lost One, Angela—about whom the Planner's daughter had known more than she should. But of course it could have come from his personnel folder, and—

"Point Crescent Green," sang the girl, pointing to another stenciled emblem on the wall.

"Lovely," said Ryeland automatically, and then took a closer look. "But what's going on?"

The girl hesitated.

She stopped in the middle of a word and frowned at Ryeland. "I tell you," she said after a moment, suddenly gay, "maybe this short-cut isn't such a good idea. Back the other way there's—"

"No, but look," Ryeland insisted planting his feet as she tugged at him. It was quite late now, but there were a couple of guards in Team scarlet, and one of them was turning a key to slide back a massive, lead-shielded door. Beyond was the floor of an enormous pit, lit by a bright single light, high up.

Ryeland recognized it for what it was: A rocket landing pit. There were the great spreading girder arms of the gantry, the enormous ducts for the jet-baffles yawned black in the floor. A piece of his mind catalogued the information that rocket landings commonly took place here; dim in the gloom behind the brilliant light were the enormous doors that would open to the sky.

But there was no rocket in the pit.

There was something else, something in a heavy metal cage.

"What is that thing?" Ryeland demanded. It looked a little like the seals that Ryeland had seen sunning themselves on the rocks off the maximum-security camp; but it was golden—metallic gold, the gold of the setting sun on bright metal, as it lay bathed in the wash of harsh light from above.

The thing was alive. It was, however, no animal that Ryeland had ever seen.

It lay on the floor of the great metal cage as though exhausted by efforts to escape. The golden fur was bloodied and torn about its head. Some of the bars were bent and bloodstained.

Whatever it was, it had fought to get free!

The Togetherness girl said worriedly: "Come away, Steve. Please! Major Chatterji doesn't want anyone to see the spaceling until—" She gasped, confused. She begged: "Forget I said that! I shouldn't have taken you this way at all, but—Oh, please, Steve, come away."

Reluctantly he let her lead him away. The guard had hurried inside and the enormous metal doors were closed; there was nothing more to see in any case.

But what was it that he had seen?

4

At 0700 hours the next morning the teletype rang him out of a deep sleep. Hardly stopping to open his eyes he leaped to answer. It clattered:

Query. Is Steven Ryeland, Risk, AWC-38440, present?

Ryeland blanched and instantly tapped out his acknowledgment. All human instincts ordered him to add an apology, but the Machine was not interested in apologies, only in compliance with its rules. It rapped back at him without pause:

Information. Steady-state hypothesis rests on theory of Fred Hoyle English astronomer physicist 20th century stating that clouds hydrogen gas are continually formed between stars thus replenishing matter converted into energy in stellar power processes. Action. Produce necessary mathematical statements showing when under what conditions process can occur. Action. Make statement as to feasibility additional mathematical statement providing basis for neutralizing or reversing hydrogen formation process.

Ryeland stared. There was a brief tap at the door and the Togetherness girl danced in, carrying a tray with tea and toast and a glass of pinkish fruit juice. "Good morning, Steven! Rise and shine. I—oh!" He impatiently motioned her to be silent; the teletype, as though that were not enough for him to worry about in a single transmission, emitted the whir of marking impulses for a moment and then clattered out a new message:

Information. Experimental evidence available indicating existence of drive mechanism not subject to Newton Third Law Motion. Information. Said mechanism referred to as Jetless Drive. Action. Produce necessary mathematical statements providing basis for reproducing Jetless Drive in Plan space vehicles. Action. Review work of Colonel Gottling unified force field as necessary first step.

Ryeland pulled the tape out of the machine as soon as it was finished and sat staring at it. Somebody, he reflected, had been transferring information from his forbidden books into the Machine!

Gently Faith removed it from his fingers. "Breakfast," she scolded. "A bath. You'll think better when you're more awake!" Groggily Steve allowed himself to be propelled toward the bath, his mind a whirl of hydrogen clouds and non-Newtonian force fields.

The steaming shower woke him. By the time he was dressed and sitting down to breakfast with the Togetherness girl he was alert. "Jetless drive!" he said. "But there can't be such a thing. Newton's law!"

"Drink your tea, Steven," she said soothingly. "Would the Machine ask you to do it if it were impossible?"

"But I can't—well, what experimental evidence? I haven't seen any."

The Togetherness girl looked inconspicuously at the watch on her wrist. "Colonel Lescure will be waiting, Steve. Drink your tea."

The colonel was very crisp in his uniform and white smock. He said: "You're jittery, Ryeland. Relax."

Steve touched his iron collar significantly. The colonel smiled. "Oh, sure," he said, "but you want to get it off, don't you? And the best way is to relax, because your first job is to listen. I have to tell you about the reefs of space."

The reefs of space! Ryeland gulped and tried to relax. A numbing fog of bewilderment and pain swirled up around him, across the lost years at the maximum-security camp. He was lying stretched on the couch in the therapy room, with the cold electrodes clamped to his wrists, and the blinding light blazing into his face. Dr. Thrale was standing over him, fat and gentle and apologetic, wheezing out the words spaceling and pyropod and jetless drive and reefs of space, and methodically charting his reactions.

"Relax, Ryeland." The colonel's voice buzzed out of a great gulf of distance. "We must take this problem one step at a time. The first step is the information which I am to give you now."

"Sure," Ryeland gasped. "I understand."

He was trying desperately to relax. Perhaps this information would answer the riddle of those three lost days.

"Let's have a drink," the colonel was suggesting. "Talking's thirsty work."

Ryeland hesitated. Alcohol had always been forbidden, at the academy and at the isolation camp.

"Come on," said the colonel, twinkling. "A transfusion won't hurt the story."

He opened a cabinet and took out glasses and a little box. While he poured drinks, Ryeland urged: "Reefs of space? Meteor clouds, perhaps?"

Pascal Lescure laughed. "More like coral reefs. Here." He touched glasses. "That's better," he said comfortably, tasting his drink, and he opened the little box.

A collection of fantastic little animals modeled in plastic spilled out. Ryeland glanced at them only abstractedly; his mind was on what Lescure had said. "Butcoralis built by living organisms."

The colonel nodded. "The reefs of space are built by living organisms, too—working over vastly longer stretches of time."