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she was no employee. He had spent two days in Records
already. She was the first person he had encountered, excepting the
ratty old nurse who had explained the system, and who stole through
now and then to make sure he did not leave obscene graffiti or drop
a grenade down the toilet.
    While he was keeping the cover, Mouse was alley-prowling,
searching for the key that would open the operation. Prepared sound
tapes made it seem he was hard at work in their suite.
    “No. I came in to do some research. How about
you?”
    “Research. A project for Ubichi Corporation. Oh. Gundaker
Niven. Doctor. Social Psychology, not Medicine.”
    “Really?” She smiled. It made her that much more
desirable. “I guess you’ve heard it before. You
don’t look it.”
    “Yeah.” He did not have to force much sour into his
reply. He was a born homeworlder. That much of the cover was easy
to keep. “You’re from Old Earth, everyone
thinks . . . ”
    The social handicap of an Old Earth birth, properly exploited,
could be converted to a powerful asset. For no logical reason
Outworlders felt guilty about what had become of the motherworld.
Yet Earth’s natives had made it the hell it was.
    Escape was available to the willing. The willing were few.
People with adventure in their genes had gotten out in the first
centuries of space travel, around World Commonweal’s Fail
Point, during First Expansion, and other early migrations. Modern
departures came primarily through the Colonial Draft, as
Earth’s planetary government sold huge blocks of conscripted
labor in return for forgiveness of indebtedness. Those few natives
who wanted out usually chose military service.
    Niven did not suspect that she might be Sangaree. He thought he
had scored the Old Earth point.
    “You must be an exceptional
man . . . Excuse me. That’s
rude.”
    “That’s prejudice.”
    She handed him his notes, huffed, “I said I was
sorry.”
    “Forgiven. I don’t expect an outsider to understand
Old Earth. I don’t understand it myself. Won’t you
introduce yourself?”
    "Oh. Yes. Marya Strehltsweiter. I’m a chemopsychiatrist.
I’m doing my internship here. I’m originally from The
Big Rock Candy Mountain.” For an instant she fell back inside
herself. “I have one more year to go.”
    “I’ve been there,” Niven said.
“It’s magnificent.”
Oops
, he thought.
That was a
screw-up
. Dr. Gundaker Niven had never visited The Big Rock Candy
Mountain.
    “I miss it. I thought The Broken Wings would be exotic and
romantic. Because of the name. You know what I mean? And I thought
I’d get a chance to know myself. I never had time at
home.”
    Niven frowned his response. He wanted to keep her talking, to
hold her, but did not know what to say.
    “The old story. I got pregnant young, got married, dropped
out of school. Had to find work when he took
off . . . Did that and went back to school
both . . . ” She smiled conspiratorially,
winked, “It didn’t do any good to get away. The pain
came with me.”
    “Friend of mine told me you can’t run away. Because
the things you want to get away from are always inside
you.”
    “An Old Earther said that?”
    “We’re not Neanderthals.”
    “Sorry.”
    “Don’t be. You’re right. It’s down the
chute. If it weren’t for Luna Command and Corporation Center
it would be back in the Dark Ages. I’ve had it. Want to duck
out for lunch?” He surprised himself. He was seldom that
bold.
    “Why not? Sure. It’s a chance to talk to somebody
who hasn’t spent their whole life in this sewage plant. You
know what I mean?”
    “I can guess.”
    “You on expense account? Don’t get me wrong.
I’m not trying to be mercenary. But it seems like forever
since I ate in a decent place.”
    “We’ll find one.”
Anything, lady. Just
don’t fade away before I get organized and start talking my
talk.
     
    “Where the hell have you been?” Mouse demanded.
Niven had wandered in after midnight. “I was