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waived. Even private messages to DOS Center were never that private, because when you lived in each other's pockets for a few years, the number of secrets dwindled away to nothing. And David's messages in particular were never shielded from Camille.
    But now he was nodding.
    "If you would. Leave, I mean. For a few minutes. I'd like to read it here."
    That left her with no choice. Camille was desperate to learn how the images from the full DOS—the result of five years of effort out here in the middle of nowhere—were being received around the system. But she would have to wait. Personal messages always took priority.
    She went outside the chamber and hovered at the door. All of her plans for observations, not to mention the future of SuperDOS, depended on the reactions she received in the next day or two. And David was just as involved, just as dependent. How could his personal message be more important than the future of their work? Hell, he didn't even know what the message was about when he said he wanted to take it; all he knew was its point of origin. That information meant something to him, but it told Camille nothing. The last time she had seen a census, over two million people were living in Husvik, and the population of South Georgia Island was still growing as Earth's climate warmed.
    She itched to sneak back in and take a look, but she couldn't quite bring herself to do it. David had been too upset, too obviously worried. Instead, she waited impatiently at the door.
    He was occupied for maybe ten minutes, which felt like hours to Camille. When he emerged, any annoyance with him evaporated. All of his cheerful assertiveness was gone, replaced by a painful hesitancy. He stared at Camille as though he had never seen her before.
    "Er . . . mmm. You said you'd like to have my observing time. Didn't you? Well, I guess—now I suppose—" Even his speech was affected. The know-it-all, super-confident David had been transformed to a tongue-tied, awkward klutz. "I guess that it's all yours then. For now."
    "David, what's wrong? Can I help?"
    "Uh-uh." He shook his blond mop and did not look at her. "I have to . . . to go to Earth. Soon as possible. Got to get on the first ship. Soon as I can."
    "But why ? You shouldn't leave. The next few days here at DOS are going to be critical."
    She didn't want to say that. She wanted to say, "David, sweetheart, tell me. I have a right to know, whatever it is." But before she could speak again, he nodded, turned, and headed back for the hub. Camille started to follow, then changed her mind. She went into the communications chamber and across to the outgoing-message screen.
    Reading someone else's personal message without permission was even worse than standing around while that person read it. But surely this was a real emergency. David had been asked—ordered—to do something that he certainly didn't want to do. And maybe he had sent a message back that was not marked "Personal."
    She scanned the outgoing messages. There was nothing from David, personal or otherwise. So he was not even putting up an argument.
    And what about the cost ? A minimum-time trip to Earth was expensive. David had never seemed to have much money. So who would be paying for his transportation?
    Yielding to temptation, Camille went across to the incoming screen. It showed the recent arrival of dozens of messages, but no personal ones. She sat down at the console and queried the data bank for information on all personal messages received at DOS Center within the past twelve hours.
    There was just one. It had been of the Read-and-Erase type, which scrolled once across the screen and was obliterated from the computer record as soon as the recipient signed off.
    Camille gave up. She began to review the incoming, congratulatory messages about the DOS results, and the eager requests for scheduling by guest observers. It took every scrap of concentration for her to register even their general content. At what