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  There was a long moment of silence. Then Rossetti spoke up quietly. "He and Telemann are both in intensive care, Doc. Severe radiation burns. They're not sure either will make it."

  Carter stared at him, a cold fist squeezing his heart. "Oh, God. I never even thought of that."

  "They knew the risk," Rurik said. "They also knew it had to be done."

  "A high price to pay, but it bought the lives of Earths billions," Senator Chou added.

  Carter turned to face him, anguish turning to unreasoning fury. "And I guess that's what matters to you, isn't it? That and closing down the Firefly Project. Well, you've got plenty of new ammunition now, don't you? So go ahead—tell the Council, hold your news conference, and get everyone screaming for the Project to be shut down. Then what are you going to do, demand we put as much mass as we can into Firefly and try to push it out of the system before it blows?—never mind that that's more dangerous than keeping it here."

  He stopped, out of breath. In a quiet voice the Senator said, "The Council must be told, certainly. But there will be no news conference. The people of Earth must never know what almost happened."

  The anger and frustration rising within Carter vanished at the unexpected answer. He stared hard at Chou, a dozen questions swarming through his mind. Only one got out: "Why?"

  "Because you were right, Doctor. I've spent some time in the last few hours studying the figures. Without Firefly Earth would spend nearly eight percent of its resources over the next four decades in building new energy supplies, and we just can't afford that. There are too many problems that will take our full attention to solve. Like it or not, we need Firefly." He waved toward the control board. "Oh, I will push strongly for more safety precautions—running Firefly at a lower temperature, for example. But you have proved that the black hole can be handled, with the right man in charge." He must have seen something in Carters face, for his eyes narrowed slightly. "You do want to stay, don't you?"

  Carter turned toward the port, looking through it as if he could see through the shielding and collectors at the impossibly brilliant pinprick in space that was Firefly. Once he had seen it as a servant, even a friend. But it had turned on him once, and he would never again be able to look upon it without knowing the acrid taste of fear.

  He took a deep breath. "I'll have to think about it," he said. Afterword

  This one grew out of a series of five lectures on black holes given at the University of Illinois by a visiting astrophysicist in the spring of 1979. After filling a notebook with more facts, figures, numbers, and equations on black holes than any sane layman could possibly want or need, I figured the least I could do was to get a story out of it. Maybe more than one—I'll have to check those notes one of these days and see what else is lurking in there.

  As a matter of historical interest, the black hole Firefly was originally named Shiva. Elinor Mavor, then editor of Amazing, asked me to change it to avoid comparisons (or confusion) with the Gregory Benford/William Rotsler novel Shiva Descending. I've never felt Firefly was as aesthetically pleasing a name as Shiva, but it was the best of the twenty-odd alternatives I came up with. Writing, like politics, is often the art of compromise.

  Return to the Fold

  The tiny spaceship was very definitely in trouble. Six enemy defiants were bearing down on it in a loose net pattern that Tomo knew was far more effective than it looked. Choosing one of the defiants at random, he kept his eye on it, control rod gripped tightly in his palm... and as the blue globe zigged he twisted the rod hard over, sending his spaceship into a zag maneuver that ran it neatly up against the defiants side. Up against it at the required zero delta vee, in fact, and Tomo smiled briefly as the defiant vanished and his own ship grew another size. One down, five to go, with his craft now a bigger and slower target.

  "Tomo?"

  "What is it, Max?" Tomo answered, his eyes still on the images darting around above his lounge chair.

  "I've located a fault in my number-five close-approach antenna," the computer told him. "Nothing serious; just a bearing shell that needs replacing."

  "And you want it done now, I suppose?" He sighed, the gesture more theatrical than serious. Max always waited until they were only days out from a spaceport before checking the Goldenrod's docking equipment, and the ship's six mainters were well used to it by now. In theory, it could result in a mad rush if something major went bad, but in practice the odds against that were low enough to ignore. "All right. Freeze the game and give me a schematic. Flat will do."

  The holographic game images froze in midair and then vanished as Tomo levered himself easily out of his chair. The Goldenrod was decelerating at about two-tenths gee, half of what he was used to. Setting his game stick down beside the main control ball, he watched as Max put a complex schematic onto the nearby viewer. The affected bearing flashed in red; tracing a curve on the control ball with his finger, Tomo had the view enlarge and rotate. He debated changing his mind and asking for a complete hologram, decided the bearing's orientation was clear enough from the flat. The data box beneath the schematic directed him to Level Four, access panel four-twenty-six. Stepping to the circular staircase, he picked up his tool belt from its holder and started down.

  Level Four was an equipment deck, with the sort of floor plan that could only be approved by someone who'd never have to work there. It took Tomo three minutes to work his way back to panel twenty-six, two more to get the plate off, and two more after that to find a comfortable position to work in. "Has Maigre Port sent you our manifest and next destination yet?" he asked Max, prodding a bolt experimentally with his wrench.

  "Yes," the computer answered. "The main items are bioelectronics and exotic foodstuffs; we'll be taking them to Canaan Under Vega."

  "Tricky stuff, bioelectronics. Should be good for, what, a seven-day layover?"

  "The port has scheduled us for eight point five. Is the number significant?"

  "Well..." Tomo paused, wondering whether he ought to bring this up. It seemed like such a crazy idea, sometimes, even to him. Still, he was going to have to talk to someone about it, and Max at least wouldn't laugh at him. "Tell me about Maigre. What's it like?"

  "The design is a common one: a rotating disk in equipoint orbit, with docking facilities—"

  "No, not the spaceport," Tomo interrupted. "I mean Maigre the planet."

  "I'm not sure I understand the question. Do you want physical or sociopolitical data or something else entirely?"

  "Oh, never mind." Tomo picked up another tool and got back to work. "I just... Actually, I've been thinking about maybe—well, maybe going dirtside this layover. Just to see what life on a planet is really like."

  There was a short pause. "I see," Max said in a surprisingly neutral tone. "Actually, I don't believe you'd like it. Conditions are vastly different than they are on the Goldenrod. There are large, open areas without walls or ceilings—"

  "I know, I know—I've seen all the tapes. I just thought it might be... interesting... to see it for real."

  "I see. How long have you been thinking about this?"

  Tomo had the computer's tone pegged now. "Oh, no you don't," he shook his head, grinning. "That 'I see' opener is a dead giveaway you've tied in your psych program. You're not starting me on that silly motivation questionnaire just because I've been thinking about planets and people lately." With a gentle tug he removed the top half of the damaged bearing shell, the bottom half dropping neatly onto the grab-cloth he'd spread out beneath it.

  "Lately?" Max persisted.

  Tomo twisted his head to send a mock glare at the computer monitor. "Max—"

  A beep from the pod-to-pod interrupted him. "Tomo?" a voice asked. "What's the word on that antenna?"

  "No problem, Andra," Tomo assured him. "Just a fatigued bearing shell. Take me a couple of hours to replace it."

  "Good. I don't like dockings even when Max has all six close-approach

  systems to work with. I'd hate to try it with one missing.
"

  "Aw, come on—you'll have Max thinking you don't trust him."

  "Max I trust. It's those rinks who're supposed to hold the port steady for us.

  They're all dirtsiders at heart, you know. Lunatics, every last one of them." "Yeah." Tomo grinned, then sobered. "You've never actually been dirtside

  yourself, have you?"

  Andra snorted. "What kind of crazy question is that? Of course not."

  "Right. Stupid question," Tomo backtracked quickly, mentally eliminating

  Andra as a possible confidant on this. "Everything else checking out?"

  "Far as I know. Max?"

  "Everything is functioning properly except for the antenna Tomo is

  repairing," the computer replied.

  "Good," Andra said. "I'll let you work in peace, Tomo. Signing off." A second beep signaled his departure from the voicelink.

  "Doesn't sound like I should invite Andra to come down to Maigre with me,

  does it?" Tomo remarked, striving to keep his manner light.

  "Tomo—" Max began, in neutral tone again.

  "No, let's just drop it for now, okay?" Tomo interrupted. "It's just a random

  idea—it hasn't got any deep psychological significance or anything." "As you wish." "Good. Though I'd appreciate it if you'd keep all of this secret. Andra will be riding me all the way to Canaan Under Vega if he gets hold of it."

  "I understand." There was just the barest of pauses. "I'll keep the conversation private."

  "Thanks." Climbing to his feet, Tomo squinted at the inside of his bearing sphere half. "Now, how about looking up which locker we keep spare FST-938 bearings in?"

  —

  Dr. Alexei Ross was already in a foul mood when the station computer told him Director Halian wanted to see him in his office. "In his office?" Ross asked, not sure whether to be angry or astonished at the request. "Is something wrong with the intercom system?"

  "The intercom is functioning normally," Iris replied. "Director Halian said to tell you that the sensitivity of the topic required a face-to-face meeting."

  "Probably his exact words, too," Ross grunted. For a moment he considered refusing on the truthful grounds that he was too busy to go running all over Maigre Space Station just because Halian felt like being melodramatic. Parallax Industries might own most of the station, but as chief physician Ross was explicitly out of Halian's direct control. But even as he mentally considered sending back a borderline-nasty message, logic prevailed. If Halian wanted to discuss something without the risk of being overheard, he probably had a damn good reason for it. Possibly something new on the G- and H-deck thorascrine leaks that had put forty- five people in Ross's ward in the past twenty hours. "All right," he sighed. "Inform the director I'll be down as soon as I can."

  "Yes, Doctor. Also, the bioscan data is in on Marc DeSabia now; my analysis indicates thorascrine concentrations in liver, kidneys, and thyroid gland."

  "Okay." Ross spent a few minutes logging orders that weren't part of Iris's standard medical procedure programming and leaving contingency instructions for his staff. Then, still fuming a bit, he stalked to the elevator and rode down to W- deck and Parallax Industries' executive offices.

  Director Jer Halian was staring out the oval porthole when Ross stomped in. "This better be important, Jer," the doctor said, stepping over to Halian's desk and sitting down in the plush guest chair. "I've got a wardful of people upstairs who still need all my attention."

  Halian turned to face him, and Ross saw for the first time the other's expression. It wasn't an encouraging one. "Anyone died yet?" the director asked, his mind clearly on something else entirely.

  "No, and I'd like to keep it that way." Ross rubbed at his forehead, grimaced at the perspiration oils there. "Another ten hours and this last batch should be out of danger."

  "Good." Halian took a deep breath. "Because in about ninety-five hours we're going to have an even worse mess on our hands. One of the Goldenrod's mainters apparently wants to visit Maigre during his layover."

  Ross felt something prickly dock between his shoulder blades. "Holy drine. You sure?"

  Halian picked up a cassette and rolled the slender cylinder across the desk. "The Goldenrod's MX computer sent me this private report a half hour ago. The mainter refused to discuss it in depth, so all the MX could give us was his last general psych profile." He leaned forward a bit. "This is a problem, now, isn't it? I mean, this Tomo character won't be able to stand it for long down there, will he?"

  Ross snorted. "It's even worse than that. He shouldn't even want to try mixing with other people, any more than you'd seriously consider spending your life in a starship pod. The very fact he's talking this way means he's already in serious trouble."

  "Great," Halian said heavily. "Just what we needed."

  A sudden, horrible thought occurred to Ross. "He's not flying the ship, is he?" Visions of the freighter ramming full-tilt into the station—

  "Oh, no—no way he can take control away from the computer, either," Halian assured him. "We're not in any immediate danger."

  "I'm sure that's a great comfort to the rest of the Goldenrod's crew," Ross said dryly.

  "They're not in danger, either, at least not at the moment. In fact, they don't even know anything's wrong."

  "Handy. Sounds like one of your ideas."

  Halian didn't seem to notice the barb. "It was the computer's, actually. But never mind that. I want you to start getting your people and programs ready right away."

  Ross shook his head. "I'm afraid we're not equipped to handle anything like this. We're going to have to bring a psychoses expert up from Maigre. I'll go check the medical directory." He started to get up.

  "Hold it—hold it," Halian snapped. "We can't let outsiders in on this—the company'll have our heads if bad publicity gets out. What about that therapy session you put Randoff through when he went all flutey last month?"

  Ross sank wearily back into his chair. "Jer, we're talking about a starship mainter here—the most carefully circumscribed personality type that's ever existed. As far as I know, no mainter has ever gone out the sunward lock like this, and I'm not going to trust him to a computer that hasn't even got a decent data base to draw on."

  Halian turned back to his porthole, and Ross saw the lines around his mouth tightening. "And there's no one on your staff who can handle it?"

  "No." Ross shook his head. "Anyone who developed a problem this severe would be immediately shipped to a dirtside facility."

  Halian grunted, and for a long moment the room was silent. Ross found himself staring at the model of a star freighter sitting on the corner of Halian's desk. Six long cylindrical pods, arranged hexagonally about the central drive cylinder, the whole thing tied together by a network of bracing struts... and each of those cargo pods someone's home for years at a time. The very thought of it made Ross's skin crawl.

  "All right," Halian said, breaking Ross out of his uncomfortable reverie. "But get someone who can keep his mouth shut. And don't give him any more information than absolutely necessary. That goes for your staff, too."

  "I'll do my best," Ross said, annoyed at the other's peremptory tone. Standing up, he snared the cassette with Tomo's psych profile and slid it into his pocket. "And in the meantime, you get your people on top of those thorascrine leaks. I can only handle one crisis at a time, and I want my ward empty when Tomo gets here."

  Halian looked up at him with tired eyes. "Believe me, Doctor, no one wants those leaks stopped more than I do."

  Ross felt his irritation with the other melting away. Halian was a solid company executive, but in spite of that he really wasn't a bad sort. "I know," he told the director. "I'll talk to you later."

  —

  A starship's natural environment, Tomo had always felt, was out in interstellar space, hundreds or thousands of kilometers from anything larger than an ice cube. Docking—actually bringing the ship into physical contact with a giant spinning disc—was thoroughl
y unnatural and therefore the most nerve-racking part of every trip. But Max performed flawlessly as usual, matching motions and gliding smoothly into the docking berth like an off-center axle. The port's spin gave the Goldenrod an effective gravity similar in magnitude but different in direction to what Tomo was used to, and he grimaced slightly as his floating crash chair came to rest against what he usually considered a wall.

  "The access tunnel is connected now, Tomo," Max informed him as he unstrapped and climbed a bit gingerly from the chair. "Whenever you're ready..."

  The tunnel led from the pod to a short corridor in the port proper, and a door at the far end opened to a spacious five-room suite. Tomo gave himself a quick tour, and then returned to the living room area. "Not bad," he said aloud. "Better than that cubist's nightmare at Burnish, anyway—remember that horrible holosculp?"

  There was no response, and Tomo snorted at his forgetfulness. Of course Max had no direct voicelink pickups here. Stepping to the desk, he located the "communications" section of the control ball there and traced the proper curve among the many alternatives. "Max? You there?"

  "Of course," the computer's voice answered. "What is it?"

  "Oh, nothing—I just wanted you around." He paused, eyes still studying the unfamiliar control ball. "Wait a second—can you tell me how I call up the port's computer on this thing?"

  "I believe you'll need to interface through me for all computer functions."

  "Oh?" A corner of Tomo's mind noted that such an arrangement seemed unnecessarily awkward; but these were port people, after all. "All right. Uh... would you call up a sky-to-ground shuttle schedule for me?"

  "Very well."

  The screen beside the control ball lit up with lines of numbers and words. Sitting down, Tomo leaned forward to study them... but he'd barely begun to decipher their meaning when the screen abruptly blanked and the face of a middle- aged man appeared. Startled, Tomo leaned back again.

  "Welcome to Maigre Space Station, Tomo," the man said, smiling. "I'm Director Jer Halian, in charge of Parallax Industries' operations here. I hope you had a good voyage?"