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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