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hand stroking my belly. Fourteen years old. But she didn’t look fourteen, or feel fourteen, or smell fourteen-she’d been into Lurvy’s quarter of an ounce of remaining Chanel. What saved me was Vera; good thing, everything considered, because I was losing interest in saving myself. The holo froze while Janine was adding an extra strut to one of the thrusters, and Vera said, ‘Action message coming in. Shall I read it out for you. . . Paul?”
    “Go ahead.” Janine withdrew her hand slightly as the holo winked away, and the screen produced the message:
    We’ve been requested to ask you for a favor. The next outbreak of the 130-day syndrome is estimated to occur within the next two months. HEW thinks that a full-coverage visual of all of you describing the Food Factory and emphasizing how well things are going and how important it is will significantly reduce tensions and consequent damage. Please follow the accompanying script. Request compliance soonest possible so that we may tape and schedule broadcast for maximum effect.
    “Shall I give you the script?” Vera asked.
    “Go ahead-hard copy,” I added.
    “Very well. . . Paul.” The screen turned pale and empty, and she began to squirt out typed sheets of paper. I picked them up to read while I sent Janine off to wake up her sister and father. She didn’t object. She loved doing television for the folks back home, it always meant fan letters from famous people for the brave young astronette.
    The script was what you would expect. I programmed Vera to roll it for us line by line, and we could have read it in ten minutes. That was not to be. Janine insisted her sister had to do her hair, and even Lurvy decided she had to make up and Payter wanted his beard trimmed. By me. So, all in all, counting four rehearsals, we blew six hours, not counting a month’s power, on the TV broadcast. We all gathered before the camera, looking domestic and dedicated, and explained what we were going to be doing to an audience that wouldn’t be seeing it for a month, by which time we would already be there. But if it would do them any good, it was worth it. We had been through eight or nine attacks of the 130-day fever since we took off from Earth. Each time it had its own syndrome, satyriasis or depression, lethargy or light-hearted joy. I had been outside when one of them hit-that was how the big telescope got broken-and it had been about an even bet whether I would ever make it back inside the ship. I simply didn’t care. I was hallucinating loneliness and anger, being chased by apelike creatures and wishing I were dead. And back on Earth, with billions of people, nearly all of them affected to one degree or another, in one or another way, each time it hit it was pure bell. It had been building up for ten years-eight since it was first identified as a recurring scourge- and no one knew what caused it.
    But everybody wanted it stopped.
    Day iz88. Docking day! Payter was at the controls, wouldn’t trust Vera on a thing like that, while Lurvy was strapped in over his head to call off course corrections. We came to relative rest just outside the thin cloud of particles and gas, no more than a kilometer from the Food Factory itself.
    From where Janine and I were sitting in our life-support gear it was hard to see what was going on outside. Past Payter’s head and Lurvy’s gesticulating arms we could catch glimpses of the enormous old machine, but only glimpses. No more than a glimmer of blue-lit metal and now and then a docking pit or the shape of one of the old ships-
    “Hellfire! I’m drifting away!”
    “No, you aren’t, Payter. The goddam thing’s got a little acceleration!”
    and maybe a star. We didn’t really need the life-support; Payter was nudging us gently as he would a jellyfish in a tank. I wanted to ask where the acceleration came from, or why; but the two pilots were busy, and besides I did not suppose they knew the answer.
    “That’s got it. Now bring her