By Kriegel H. P.

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I stepped into the tube and clenched my teeth against the quick, stomach-lurching descent. “We had an argument about Tobias,” he said as we dropped. Dishonest bastard, I thought. “Well, if you and Jenny are assigned together, that’s where you’ll be. Unless you want to make other arrangements with Greville. ” I stepped off at the third deck. “I’ll see you in half an hour on the bridge. Usual pre-sailing pep talk from Greville. ” 48 Marta Randall—Islands [e-reads] Paul, looking unhappy, dropped out of sight.

And that much, at least, was true. She tugged at her amber-colored hair, the corners of her mouth tightened in concentration. “Dr. ” I nodded. “He couldn’t get into it. ” “Perhaps,” I suggested maliciously, “the Treatments make it impossible. ” “Nonsense,” she said. She stood, shook a wrinkle from her sleek tunic, told me I could leave in another hour, and departed the room, having asked her usual question and obtained the same answer. How it must have galled her to be faced with a problem she couldn’t solve; a depth, corner, piece of me that she couldn’t probe and analyze with her machines, her tapes, her knowledge.

Wandering under the programmed 44 Marta Randall—Islands [e-reads] stars one night, I found an anomaly in the dense city, an acre or so of dwellings completely uninhabited, illuminated by the dim glow of the fake sky. The walls were hacked from lunar rock — undisguised, naked, raw. No veneers here, just the stark simplicity of stone, although the empty apartments each boasted force-furniture and -walls, complete kitchen units, self-programming holosculptures, everything. I asked my encyclopedic landlady about it the next day and she was surprised by my surprise.

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