“There are no permits or licenses to leave the Dome,” Chen said coldly, “except express assignment from me.” The young officer said nothing. The Director considered the words that might best express his scorn and contempt for the so-called Guard who had permitted Maria Harounian to leave the Dome. Having considered them and relished them, he filed them in his mind, and said to the dutiful Lieutenant, whose fault it was _not_: “I want Harounian found and returned to Dome immediately.” He did not stress the words. He spoke almost softly. But his meaning was deadly clear. “Organize a search,” he said. “A full search. I will review your search plan in fifteen minutes. Excused.” The lieutenant saluted again. Dr. Chen acknowledged with the faintest possible nod. PART TWELVE _Wednesday, October 19, 1977_ _Messenger--7:45_ A.M. (_C.S.T._) He came awake to vicious clarity. The long dreamless pill-induced sleep had left him over-rested, too fresh, too thinking, conscious, and aware. But this was Wednesday: the last day. He’d be in the Dome that night. He was not absolutely sure he could make it. For the first Goddam time in his life, he was not certain he would be able to come through. Something strangely like exultation surged through him. _And what in hell was that for?_ What was so special about not being good enough? He knew, but damned if he’d tell himself. One thing he told himself, all right, at the beginning, and that was still good. He got through Sunday and Monday and Tuesday; he could make it through ten more hours and stick with it. Maybe he’d crack up and go tell Chris off or open an air lock or any damn thing. But he wasn’t drinking this trip. Not _this_ trip. Whatever happened _after_ he got there, he’d _get_ there cold sober. Then it was up to her.... Monday night was the worst. Monday night and Tuesday. He got through that all right, he could make ten lousy hours. But he hadn’t had a goddam drink yet, and he wasn’t going to. Not _this_ trip.... _Ten hours?_ The bastard was jeering at him. _So okay, laugh. Ten hours is pretty damn long. Yeah._ He got up, and planned his time. _Breakfast._ That was as far as he could get. _Lunch, later._ And all the time in between. Sunday, and Monday morning he had seen the control rooms and comm rooms and cargo shuttles and climbed around the massive ion engine. The heat exchangers were old stuff; so was most of the rest. But he had looked at everything, examined, inspected. He could handle this job himself if he had to now. He didn’t have to. Basil would. Basil ... he’d trained with Laughlin and Wendt, but wasn’t tapped for the _Colombo_ trip. So now he was a Space ferry jockey.... _Good boy, Basil, he made the grade. Didn’t go too far out like we did._...