They were standing far enough from the campfire so that none of Russo’s men was in earshot.

“What do you mean?” Alec asked.

“I don’t want to be an impolite guest,” Jameson replied softly, hitching his thumbs in the ammo belt he had buckled across his hips, “but—well, why should these people be so helpful to us? Especially if they’re the same guys who stole the fissionables. Why did they stick their necks out to help us drive the barbarians away, and why are they offering to share their camp and their food with us? It doesn’t add up.”

Alec was forced to agree. “At least it’s better than sitting down there in the open, alone. We don’t have enough rations for more than another day or two.”

Jameson’s hawk-eyed faced scanned the men sitting around the campfire. “Suppose what they’re really interested in is getting these nice, shiny new trucks for themselves? It wouldn’t be too difficult for them to slit our throats while we sleep.”

Somehow the picture of Will Russo murdering men in their sleep did not match in Alec’s mind with what he had already seen of the man. Still...

“All right. Tell the men to sleep in the cabs of the trucks. Button them up and open them for no one except a recognized member of our group.”

Jameson was silent for a moment. In the flickering light cast by the distant campfire it was impossible to read the expression on his face. At last he said, “Okay... but I still don’t like this.”

“Things could be a lot better,” Alec admitted. “But they could be a lot worse, too.”

“I suppose.”

“Keep somebody on the radio. The satellite ought to be in range sometime tonight.”

“Right.”

Alec walked slowly toward the campfire. Angela was sitting there. He saw her long hair gleaming like hammered gold in the firelight.

The fire itself was strangely fascinating. Twisting, dancing, flickering hypnotically, the flames formed shapes and memories before his eyes. He stared at it, then realized that he was staring into the fire, deep inside the dancing flames, watching the logs glowing bright red and the flames licking up from them, orange and yellow and bluish and...

“Hello. Had any dinner yet?”

Alec pulled himself away from the hypnotic flames.

“What?” He saw that Angela was looking up at him. “Dinner? No, not yet.”

“What’s the matter? Are you okay?”

“I’m all right.” He hunkered down on the ground beside her. “It’s just... I’ve never seen an open fire before. It’s fascinating.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess so.”

Alec saw that there was a blackened metal container rigged on a set of poles, hanging over the flames. Angela called it a pot, but it looked to Alec as if it had started life as a gasoline tank. Now it was cut down, its corner battered and dented.

“Grab some stew and make yourself to home,” she invited.

Alec got up and bent over the pot. Hot fragrant steam bathed his face; the smell was enticing. A simmering liquid bubbled in there, lumpy dark shapes poking out of the seething surface. Thinking of all the injections and pills he had taken before leaving the satellite station, Alec stirred the concoction with his knife, then jabbed at one of the shapes. He held it at arm’s length, dripping and smoking, as he squatted awkwardly on the ground beside Angela once more.

“It won’t hurt you,” she laughed at him. “It was only a rabbit even when it was alive.”

“A rabbit?” It was the first time he had seen her laughing.

With a nod, Angela asked, “Don’t you have anything you can use for a plate? The stew’s got plenty of good things in it: carrots and leeks and all sorts of herbs.”

“Um... this is fine. I’ve got a messkit back at the truck, but just let me taste...” He bit into the rabbit. Pain! Alec had never felt anything so hot inside his mouth. Coughing, gagging, burning, he finally swallowed the chunk whole.

Angela was pounding him on the back, looking worried and shouting at him, “You want water? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he croaked, eyes tearing. “My mouth is a mass of second-degree burns and there’s a lump of dead rabbit stuck sideways in my guts, but otherwise I’m fine.”

The dozen people—mostly men—around the campfire were staring at him. But they quickly looked away and went back to their own conversations. Alec managed to down a few bites of the meat without further trouble, once Angela showed him how to blow on the chunks to cool them. He found that it was good. Good enough to make him want more.

“I’ll go find my messkit.” He started to get to his feet.

“Don’t bother,” Angela said. “Here, use my plate. I’ll wash it off, okay? Then you won’t have to go all the way back to the trucks.”

She leaned forward to reach a small canteen of water that was resting on the ground near the fire. As she washed off the metal plate and spoon, Alec wondered, Why does she want to keep me away from the trucks?

He ate in wary silence, thinking vaguely about how long the immunizations shots they had given him on the satellite would protect him from local microbes. The stew was hot and strong, spicier than anything he had ever tasted in his life. Angela offered him water in a metal cup.

When he finished the meal he washed off the utensils himself and handed them back to her.

“Is your mouth okay?” she asked, grinning.

“I’ll survive.” In fact, with the hot meal inside him, Alec felt fine and strong. Except for the sunburn glowering on the back of his neck. And then, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he remembered everything else: the stolen fissionables, the attack, the loss of the shuttle, the fact that he and his remaining men were stranded a quarter-million miles from home.

He closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’d better be getting back to my men,” he said to Angela, while a voice inside his head taunted, Failure! Failure!

She got up with him and walked alongside. Alec realized that the only weapon he was carrying was his knife. Angela was completely unarmed.

“Look.” She pointed. The Moon was rising above the tree-fringed horizon. It was nearly full, bright and serene and glorious.

Alec stared at it. The lights of the settlement’s surface domes could not be seen against its whiteness.

“What’s it like?” Angela asked.

“What?”

“Living there... on the Moon.”

“We don’t live on it,” he said. “We live in it, underground. You can’t walk around in the open like this, you need a pressure suit and a helmet.”

“Why?”

“There’s no air.”

Her eyes widened for a split-second, then went crafty. “Now wait... if there’s no air, how can you live there?”

So they sat on a convenient rock, watching the Moon climb higher into the night sky, playing tag with occasional drifting silvered clouds, and Alec explained about lunar life to her. She really doesn’t know, he realized as he told her what a dazzling sight the Earth is. Before long he found himself watching her, instead of the Moon. In the soft light from his home her face seemed to float pale and beautiful against the darkness. Lord, she’s beautiful!

“This is the first time anyone’s told me about these things,” she said, her voice excited. “Dad—I mean, your father, never wants to talk about living there.”