"What?"

"That's right," the guard said. "Emergency Provision 104b has been put into operation. The Space-Station is temporarily quarantined."

"Can you tell me why?" Conroy asked.

"Something to do with an inspection sir. That's all I can say."

Putting a tone of easy conspiracy in his voice, Conroy whispered, "I hear some convicts down below staged a rebellion a little while ago. This wouldn't have anything to do with it, would it?"

The guard shook, his head in immediate denial. "Oh, no, sir. That was strictly a brief flare-up; it's all been smoothed over now."

"Oh. Thanks," Conroy said. "Thanks very much." He smiled to the guard and walked past him into the lounge.

So the "brief flare-up" was all over with, eh? Obviously they were keeping it quiet as far as the passengers were concerned. Probably that guard was wondering how Conroy had heard of it in the first place.

But one thing seemed good: he hadn't been recognized. He just looked too respectable with all the dirt laundered out of his clothes and with his face shaven, to be one of the missing jetmen from below. That gave him a certain amount of freedom.

Only—whatever this quarantine thing was about, that increased the tension. He had hoped to grab the first liner back to Earth; now he'd have to wait until the quarantine ended and that gave the satellite guards a chance to track him down. He couldn't pose as a tourist forever, even aboard such a huge station as this one.

They'd find him sooner or later. Meanwhile, he needed a drink. He peered through the swirling dim lights at the bar, trying to see the bartender's face. Conroy was pretty good at guessing whether or not he could cadge a drink.

But there was a girl sitting at the bar, sleek and slim in a dress that had probably been sprayed on. Her legs were crossed, baring long, lovely calves. Her face—

Conroy gasped.

It was Janet.

Feeling a thunderous pounding in his ears, he crossed the floor and slid into the chair next to hers.

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