This story was written in the early 80’s when I was working at Graduate Hospital in Philadelphia, and frequently writing stories for Analog Science Fiction and Fact magazine

The home health aide had not turned the faucet all the way off when she had finished the dinner dishes. Damn her! Funny that he had not noticed earlier. Of course he had had the stereo on. He had been playing a new CD of the Shchedrin-Bizet Carmen Ballet Suite -- a rousing strings and percussion protest of the end of the week. He now only had one work-day left before the weekend.

He wished it was Monday, and that he would have a whole new week up in orbit to look forward to.

Of course it might all be academic soon. If the postings he had read online were true, he might not have a job on the satellites much longer.

Looking over at the power wheelchair recharging next to the bed, he balanced the monumental effort of getting out of bed against the increasing rhythmic torture from the other room. But no: after a difficult, unassisted transfer, he would have to find some way of forcing the faucet lever with his baby-weak arms, and then get back into bed. Even the thought of it drained him. He turned on to his side and exhausted himself by putting his second pillow over his head instead, trying to muffle the sound. Slowly, he drifted back to sleep...

The next morning, anxious to get to work, he rushed the home-health aide through her week-day morning routine of helping him get up, washed and dressed -- he passed on breakfast because he wasn't hungry. She only had his dinner to worry about now. Lunch he could handle, and he was able to get himself ready for bed. Getting undressed and into bed without help was just possible if he worked at it hard with his lift harness.

It was worth the effort for some measure of independence.

Finally she was gone, and he glanced at the clock. It was 8:45 am. Almost time to log in. Wheeling in under his Link-helmet, he locked the chair in place, and then slipped his hands into the sensor-gloves. Then he triggered the virtual reality Link to Denver Control.

The helmet and torso-harness dropped down over him, sealing him into darkness. He felt the probes slide into place to connect with the sockets in his skull that led to his brain implants, and suddenly he was whole and could flex his body and stretch.

The fact that his 'body' up in space was made of metal, only forty centimeters long, and shaped distressingly like a cockroach packed with miniaturized electronic components and sensors didn't bother him any more. It was irrelevant. When he was in his alternate body, he could 'feel' all around himself, all parts of himself. For forty hours a week, less lunch and breaks, he was alive!

He triggered the warm-up diagnostics and ran through his check-list to make sure all his sensors were active... all green... all systems optimal.

Next to him he saw other the Minibots on the shuttle with him twitch and come to life as they were activated by their 'occupants'. He triggered his com-link -- after all, he wasn't on the clock for thirteen more minutes -- and called Cecilia.

"Hey, 'Seela, how 'ya doin'?"

"Fine, sugar." The metallic insect shape next to him swiveled in a graceful zero-gravity ballet of silvery limbs, raising its 'head' proudly. "My boy just got accepted to Yale on a full academic scholarship and I'm ridin' high!"

"Congratulations! How 'bout Bob?"

A deep-throated chuckle rolled back. "What do you think? We've been cutting to the bone to try to get tuition money together, just in case, and now we don't have to worry. We're taking a cruise -- two cruises! We found a couple of new liners perfectly set up with disability-designed accommodations and services, and we're booked on one cruise around the islands in December, and then another up to Alaska come June. We're goin' all out!"

"You're lucky!"

"Don't I know it! At least we're both working... you heard, didn't you…"

Cecilia sounded suddenly uneasy as she changed the subject, and he visualized her sitting there in her own wheelchair, her fluffy retro-Afro hairdo crushed by the Link-helmet as a worried frown twisted her pretty face.

"Yeah, I heard." He tried to sound relaxed. "It was on the news this morning. Social Security Disability is totally bankrupt and unlike the last time, this time there's no bailout."

"Well, we'll just have to be sure to keep working."

"As long as we can." His unease from the night before returned.

"What do you mean?"

"Rumors in the disability areas online." He suddenly wished they had a private channel. "They might not need workers like us anymore. Cheaper to have the Minibots automated, now that the artificial intelligence systems are getting so good."

Cecilia reared defiantly. "Never happen, chile’! They need human judgement. Besides, we're with a growing company. Between satellite maintenance and all the additional work that'll be needed on the new space station, we've got nothing to worry about. Relax, honey! Business is booming."

A penetrating tone sounded in his 'ears', and he said a quick goodbye to Cecilia before opening his downlink channel to Denver control. Looking around the mini-shuttle their alternate bodies were on, he saw the access door open to reveal naked space. The shuttle wasn't pressurized, so no airlock was necessary. One by one, he saw the night shift Minibots troop in from where they had been working. Their shift was over, and it was time to recharge -- and for their operators to rest. The open hatch revealed a glorious sight, and he kicked in magnification to get a better look.

Sometime since yesterday they had been shifted into a different orbit and linked up with a new satellite. Floating above... below... whatever -- it got confusing -- was the looming blue-green Earth and he stared raptly out at the slice he could see. The elegantly swirling cloud-cover was heavy, but he thought he could make out the north-east coast of South America. Idly, he wondered what type of satellite they were docked with. Not that it mattered. They weren't trained for electronics. They were there for structural inspection and repairs, if necessary. Systems Analysis and Repair was a different contract and used its own, far more sophisticated Minibots. And highly trained operators.

"Dayshift, engage," came Denver's voice.

Mitch! Barry recognized his former class-mate immediately. The "Pahk the cah" Boston accent was unmistakable. Six years of school in Philadelphia and five years of working in Denver had done nothing to change it.

"Today you're on a specialized communications satellite," Mitch went on. "So watch yourself when moving around. This is home-turf, too, so be extra careful. Thomas Industries owns this satellite, just like we own your bodies." He chuckled. "It's one of three special communications satellites we've got in orbit. Don't mess with any of the antenna systems, but concentrate on the area around the solar collectors and attitude thrusters. We had a report of some power fluctuations. The satellite needed an orbit adjustment due to drift, and between thermal expansion and contraction, and some slight shocks during the shift, we may have some loose connections. So, Alpha team, focus on the collectors, and Beta team, as long as you're here, check out the area around the thrusters."

Barry triggered his comlink since he was Alpha Team Leader.

"Alpha One responding. Let's go, team." He activated his legs and headed for the open hatch, seeing Cecilia follow him out of the shuttle and onto the body of the satellite.

"Alpha Two, right behind you, Barry." She moved with practiced care so that at least two of her Sticky Stuff-covered 'feet' were always in contact with the satellite to keep her from drifting loose.

Behind her, Jack in Alpha Three, and Connie in Alpha Four, checked in and then moved out after him. Barry triggered his displays to get his map of the satellite, checking the path Mitch had sent up. This was a big unit, with wing collectors, and he decided to split his forces.

"Jack, Connie, why don't you take the right wing, and Seela and I will check out the left."

Jack laughed. "Gee, vote Republican a few times and you're labeled for life!"

"Speak for yourself!" Connie countered. "I'll have you know I haven't voted anything but Democrat since... well, never you mind. For quite a while."

"Okay, grandma, don't get defensive." Barry chuckled, picturing the white-haired Connie sitting at home, her Golden Labrador dog guide curled up at her feet -- probably using them as a pillow. "And Jack, don't feel bad. I'm a registered Republican, too, even if I don't always vote that way."

The teasing and friendly banter was like a warm blanket on a cold night. Barry felt closer to his team members than to anyone else, even though he had never actually met any of them. They were family.

Because of a drunken driver, Barry was quadriplegic, though he had some use of his arms. As Mitch's friend, he had been fortunate to get squeezed into the training program for the satellite job. Jack, on the other hand, was an amputee who had lost his right leg in another car accident. His situation was made worse by the fact that he weighed well over three hundred pounds, and his weight restricted his mobility, even with a high quality Sense-Of-Feel-equipped artificial leg.

As for Cecilia, she was paralyzed from the waist down due to multiple sclerosis, and thanks to her husband's job with Thomas, had been added to the class when staying at home had begun to bore her. Connie was part of the group because she had been blinded by a gunshot to the head during a hold-up. But in one way she was lucky: the probes and visual-input system that connected to her visual cortex were still too bulky to be used as a portable unit, but at least while working, she could 'see' again.

Jack and Connie had wound up on Alpha team together because they had both been working as designers on the Minibots project from the beginning. After their injuries, they had decided to try their hand as operators since their design jobs were completed, and no other positions had been open at Thomas after they had been discharged from their respective hospitalizations.

For all four Alpha Team members, this job was a liberating force.

For now.

As they split up outside the door, Barry saw Connie and Jack scuttle up over the curve of the enormous barrel-shaped body of the satellite to head for the right set of collectors, while he led the way down to the closer one. In his mind he tried to picture Jack moving anywhere as gracefully, and failed miserably. The New York engineer's bulk just wasn't designed for it.

The next several hours were busy as they found several loose connections that required careful micro-welding to repair. It was lunch-time before they knew it, and as the signal came, Barry disengaged from the satellite link and stretched stiffly as he withdrew from the helmet-harness and gloves.

Now he was hungry, and he pulled out a microwave dinner from the low-level freezer. Opening it was a struggle, but he finally managed and nuked it while he got into another container fight with a carton of juice from the refrigerator. He hated the way that little things, like getting into packages designed for easy opening, were major and strength-draining struggles. The food and juice revived him, though. He hurried up and ate so he could get back under his Link-helmet. At least up in orbit, he was as mobile and able to explore and work as anyone else. There was such an overwhelming joy and sense of power in being up there and doing what he did.

But as he got ready to Link up again, he saw the message light blinking on his answering machine, and he stopped to trigger the playback.

"Barry, Oleg Uralski here," a heavily accented voice announced.

His machine didn't record video, but with Oleg, identification was unnecessary. The unusually tense tone was a shock, though.

"I need a help with something," Oleg explained. "I was just sent a notice of termination. They are closing our entire office. No more vocational rehabilitation funds -- state or federal. It is so stupid... Does Thomas Industries have any openings?" He laughed thickly. "Me, the vocational counselor asking a former client for a job! Is that not ironic? I know you are Linked right now, but please call me tomorrow morning at home. I will be visiting my parents tonight."

Barry couldn't get over his ex-counselor's distress; until he thought about Oleg's case load. The quadriplegic Russian immigrant took his responsibilities very seriously and lived to get as many people with disabilities working as possible. Now who would do it?

The answer was alarmingly clear as his Link-helmet dropped down again: no one.

Unless?

He thought about the past week's shock news that still drove everything else to the back pages and last few minutes of broadcasts. Maybe...?

He let that thought comfort him as he Linked...

"Alpha One reporting in again. 1:30 pm. Lunch over, and I'm back in the saddle, so to speak." He had a flash image of himself straddling an enormous version of the Minibot, bucking away as if in a rodeo. He chuckled as he moved on with his inspection, working almost on auto-pilot. This was a familiar routine by now.

Mitch's nasal voice broke into his amused imagery.

"What's so funny, Barry? Private channel, by the way. No company monitoring here."

He explained, and heard Mitch's responding laugh.

"Ouch, pa'dner! Speaking as a rider, that's a hell of an image to keep in mind the next time I mount up."

The mix of Boston and Western set Barry off again, but after a moment he managed to ask, "You? A rodeo rider?"

"Hey, I'm good; English and Western, I'll have you know. I've been here five years now, and I've really gotten into it. There's something about the outdoors here that... well, I can't describe it. It's a whole different thing than the genteel equestrian excursions I grew up with." Mitch's sudden exaggerated snob accent paused a moment, and Barry could almost hear him think.

"It's more alive!" Mitch decided finally. "And fun."

"I rode a couple of times after the accident," Barry remembered wistfully. "In physical therapy. They would wheel me up on a ramp next to the horse, and then lift me on and strap me down."

"How was it?"

"Wonderful! Great trunk strength and balance exercise." Barry sighed. "I love horses. I used to ride a lot. My uncle had horses and we'd go out riding in Valley Forge Park. It felt so good to be back up on one and to feel that mare under me... but it didn't last... Funding cuts took care of that."

"Yeah, and it's not getting any better."

"You're telling me." He explained about Oleg's call. Then he forced himself to lighten up. "It'll get better once the aliens get here, I'll bet!"

It had been almost a week since the brief, compressed transmissions had been decoded, and the world was still going crazy. Just thinking about it made him giddy. The stilted and static-filled audio-visual signal had been played and replayed continuously on every news channel on the air.

"I can't wait." Barry shook his head. "I've been waiting for this all my life... well, at least since I was old enough to read and watch movies. It'll get better."

"I hope so." Mitch sounded strangely reserved. "We've got serious problems. We can't count on some omnipotent aliens to take care of all our problems. I saw the CNN report last night on the Federal Inner City Commission, and the L.A. and New York riots are nothing compared to what we'll be seeing soon."

"Oh, come on, Mitch! With the aliens coming, the government's got to do something." The cynic in him woke up. "Even if only to make us look better."

Mitch didn't sound convinced. "Maybe. But it's a good thing the signal said we have fifty years till they get here!"

"I'm sorry, guys," Cecilia interrupted on the priority channel. "But I found something else. A meteorite strike. It's ripped a hole in part of the panel here."

"Go to it, then." Mitch put a detailed display of the solar panel wing on their screens, and Barry looked over it as Cecilia marked the problem area.

"I'll be right there," he promised and made his way along one of the support rods.

The damage was fairly extensive, and they had to make several trips to get parts from the mini-shuttle that took them around from satellite to satellite, but by the time the shift was over, they had managed to complete the repairs.

It was time to move on.

Clinging to the underside of the now-repaired solar array, Barry surveyed the glistening satellite with admiration. It was so strange to be looking at it from such a small perspective. Like an ant checking out a futuristic picnic basket. A large, foil-covered picnic basket with wings. Ironically, their docked mini-shuttle was stamped with the letters R.A.I.D. for Repair and Analytical Investigations Department. Barry had sworn more than once that the acronym had been intentional.

So, like a good and dutiful mechanical roach, he scuttled back home to the can. But as he did, he couldn't help noticing a complex, sophisticated-looking antenna array at the bottom of the satellite. It had been invisible from above and looked like an afterthought... like it didn't belong there. Or as if it was hidden.

And it was aimed straight down.

Weekend.

Saturday morning, after the weekend aide finished, Barry called Oleg. Or tried to. Ironically, he reached Oleg's machine.

Smiling at the usual game of telephone tag, he left a message that he didn't know of any openings at Thomas, but that he'd keep his ears tuned. Mitch had also offered to help. Then he settled down in front of his computer's microphone to log in on World Net. The community had become a way for him to reach out to others who had no idea of his disabilities. It was the only other place he could feel 'normal'. But this time he logged on to try to find out more about the satellite they had been working on. He knew a number of people online he could pump for information.

He ignored the pile of waiting postings in the various conferences he was logged into and, scanning who was online at the moment, sent out several E-Mail notes. Then he settled back to read postings while he waited for an answer. It took a while, but after about an hour, answers came popping back. Unexpected answers. He logged off -- confused.

Supposedly the satellite was just a standard relay unit to handle encrypted voice and data transmission between Thomas Industry's North and South American offices, and with extra channels leased out to other companies needing a secure link.

But if so, what was that extra array there for? It sure wasn't a relay system. That was for a narrowly beamed transmission.

He decided to call in a few markers. He reached for the phone and auto-dialed a number, but instead of Mitch, he got another machine! A high-resolution reproduction of Seurat's painting "Sunday Afternoon on the Grand Jatte" hung on the phone's video screen. A celebration of the Denver museum's acquisition from Chicago. The calm, precise order of the warm colors had always appealed to Mitch, Barry remembered, thinking back to the art classes they had shared seven years earlier. Before a car accident had derailed his own art-studies; and before Mitch had been forced to submit to his father's plans to bring him into the family business. Hiding in an out-of-state school hadn't worked.

Barry waited for the tone, and then left his brief message.

"Mitch, this is Barry. I need to talk, privately. Save a suburban toll call and meet me for a private 'chat' online tonight please. I'll log on at nine o'clock. E-Mail me."

He sat staring at the blank phone-screen for several minutes after hanging up, wondering how much of a 'company man' Mitch was. How much loyalty did he feel for his father, David Thomas, President, CEO and majority shareholder of Thomas Industries? Would Mitch give him a straight answer? Did Mitch even know?

The doorbell rang, and glancing at his watch he realized it was almost dinner-time and his aide was waiting.

"Barry? What's up?" Mitch's terse question hung on the screen as Barry logged into the online conference area.

"What do you know about that satellite we were working on?" Barry asked, speaking into his microphone and watching the words materialize on the screen. He leaned back and waited.

Nothing.

He tried again. "Come on Mitch. You're making it worse." They were in a private chat and he wasn't worried about anyone 'listening' in. "What's with that satellite? I saw the antenna array on the bottom. That's no relay. It's aimed straight down, not at Denver. I checked the satellite's geosynchronous position with a couple of people I know. It's not even in a good position for the type of relay it's supposed to be. What's it aimed at?"

It took almost a minute, but finally a partial answer popped onto the screen.

"Goiania, Brazil. And don't ask any questions. I just found out myself. Don't push it. I've got to go."

Barry did a quick /status and saw that he was suddenly alone. Mitch had logged off!

Goiania, Brazil? Why did that sound familiar?

The phone startled him.

It was Cecilia and she looked devastated.

"Barry, did you get a letter from Thomas Industries today?"

He shook his head. "No, just a couple of bills, and the usual junk mail and junk-faxes to add to the recycling bin. What kind of letter did you get?" As if he couldn't guess.

"I'm being phased out! They were terribly considerate, but I'm starting to think it might be a good idea to cancel those cruises." The words seemed to taste bad. "Only team leaders are being retained at the moment, until beta-testing on the computer-controlled repair drones can be completed."

Barry swallowed. "Which won't take long, I'll bet, and then I'll join you in the ranks of the unemployed." He felt like throwing up. He didn't have a working spouse to help cushion the blow. "Did you call Connie and Jack?"

Cecilia nodded. "They got the same message. Certified mail. A tape, in Connie's case." She sneered. "How considerate." Then she chewed on her lower lip for a moment. "But what are you going to do? Bob's got a damn good job, Connie's got her pension and regular social security, and Jack was just doing it for kicks since he got a hell of a settlement from the trucking company whose truck hit him."

"I guess I'll just have to get another job." His mouth was dry. "Door-stop. Paper-weight? Not a hell of a lot of stuff I'm qualified for if virtual reality positions are out the door. There were a lot of those, but if A.I. is making us obsolete, I can forget about assembly-line work." He fought a twisting in his gut as he realized that other than his now-useless art training, and his satellite repair experience, he had no real marketable skills.

"I don't know, Seela," he admitted. "I'd better do some serious planning, I guess."

Cecilia turned briefly to wave off-screen, and then looked back at him.

"Look, sugar, Bob just got home. Let me break the news to him and then I'll call you tomorrow. We'll figure something out. Connie, Jack and me: we're not going to let you down. I'll call you," she promised and blew him a quick kiss.

"Okay." He stared at her picture as it dwindled to a dot and disappeared. As if she was disappearing in the distance, like he was rising above... looking down...

Like a mysterious antenna looking down on Earth.

He spun and drove over to the computer and logged on, searching until he found confirmation. He had just remembered why Goiania had sounded familiar. Between Goiania and Brazilia was the SETI installation that had first picked up the aliens' transmissions and decoded them. California and Puerto Rico had been striking out, so several new arrays had been added in the southern hemisphere.

He leaned back, remembering Mitch's warning to leave things alone, and his friend's obvious lack of excitement over the aliens. He also started thinking about Thomas Industries' business. Most of it had involved maintenance on the aging Space Shuttle fleet and the half-assed space station that had been built. That, and repairs on satellites. Hardly growth industries. But with the aliens coming, there had been a tremendous resurgence of interest in space, including new shuttles and a real space station construction project. Coincidentally, Thomas Industries had been almost the only company left that was able to handle a space-based contract of that magnitude. NASA had been so emasculated that it had been unable to even consider coordinating it.

How very convenient that the aliens were coming at sublight speed and wouldn't get here for another fifty years. They were traveling at approximately half light-speed. Time enough to try to clean the world up a bit. And to get lots of business for a faltering company specializing in a field that no one had money for, or interest in, anymore.

What if there were no aliens coming?

What if the 'alien' signal was merely a clever special effects show scripted by Thomas and beamed down from that satellite right at the SETI installation?

But, no. That wasn't possible. Part of the confirmation of the fact that it was an alien signal, had been that two other radio-astronomical observatories had picked up the same signal. And the triangulation had confirmed a point of origin somewhere about twenty-five light-years away. Which would be just right for the aliens' reported speed and estimated arrival time.

But his suspicion lingered. Then he remembered Mitch's comment at work that the satellite was one of three. Coincidence?

After doing some more research and downloading online, he logged off and booted his Living Solar System program. Merging it with a geography program and drafting tools, he picked up his light-pointer awkwardly and pointed it at the screen after selecting a half-globe view of the Earth. Entering the downloaded coordinates for Thomas One Comsat, he placed a small cylinder in orbit, plotting a line straight down to the Goiania SETI site. He then placed the other two Thomas satellites in their reported positions and plotted lines down from them to the other two SETI sites that had intercepted the 'alien' signal.

He stared at the screen wide-eyed.

That was how they had done it!

It wasn't exact, because he did not have the precise coordinates of the other two antennas, but if he extended the lines from the SET sites through the satellites, and beyond, the lines intersected twenty-five light-years away. The satellite signals would have had to have been very tightly focused, but as all three Thomas satellites were in very close proximity to each other, their signals were virtually parallel.

He kept staring at the screen, his heart racing as he realized what he had just proved.

So what could he do with it?

If he went public, the newly revitalized space program was dead. To make it worse, the sudden efforts to clean up the inner cities in order to look good, would be history. And a world that had finally reconciled itself to not being alone, and had decided that this was a good thing, would suddenly be faced with being potentially alone again.

He also wondered how people would react if SETI projects were to encounter a real alien signal.

He saved his work and exited, overwhelmed by a draining weakness. A little shocked, he realized it was four in the morning. He looked at the bathroom and bed, and just didn't have the energy to go through his normal night-time regimen. So, after draining his leg-bag in the bathroom, he rolled up to his dining table and leaned forward, cradling his head in his arms... to get just a little rest...

He was asleep almost instantly.

He didn't know what had awakened him, but a sudden rush of adrenalin startled him and he looked around anxiously, blinking at the morning sun streaming in. But there was nothing there. Then a fleeting scrap of dream-memory teased him, and he nodded.

He knew what to do.

It took several hours to plant his seeds with phone calls, FAX transmissions and E-Mail, but finally he was done and placed a last call to Mitch. After Barry had identified himself, Mitch turned on his phone screen and looked out blearily.

"What's up?" Mitch glanced at his watch. "Do you know how early it is? I went out after I talked to you last night."

Barry didn't mince words. "I've got a question for you, and I want a straight answer. How much longer will my job be secure? Cecilia told me about the teams being laid off."

Mitch wouldn't answer right away, but finally faced him reluctantly. "I don't know, buddy. I was going to call you. I just found out last night. It wasn't my decision. But, from what I hear, if the new systems work well online during actual maintenance, team leaders will stay online maybe six months. Until the tech people are sure that the judgement factor isn't needed anymore." He shifted uncomfortably. "I'd work on getting you on one of the tech-support Minibot teams, but they're going to be automated the same way within a year. Your best bet is going back to school and trying to train for another job. I'm sorry."

"Right!" Barry laughed. "Like someone's going to hire me when there are half a dozen people without disabilities lined up for every job! And I told you what's happened with vocational rehab. I'm up shit's creek, friend. I'll be on welfare! No way I can keep this apartment, the home health agency and pay for all the supplies and stuff I use. I'll be stuck in some nursing home!" He could hear his voice rising in anger, and felt bad about it, but he didn't care. He had seen the conditions in welfare homes.

Mitch had a hunted look in his eyes, and Barry forced himself to calm down. He wasn't done yet.

"Sorry, Mitch. I lost it for a moment, there. It's not your fault. But it brings up another point. Something else I found out. Remember what I asked you last night? Well, I know the answer."

A look of panic crossed Mitch's face. "Encrypt the line! Now! The protocol we used in school."

Barry set the number combination on the base of the phone and the sudden static on the screen cleared to show Mitch sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in his blanket.

"All right, Barry, now just what do you think you know?"

He explained, and how he had figured it out. Then he leaned forward intently as he saw Mitch slump.

"Okay, Mitch. Now I need a little favor. I need you to call your dear dad and tell him we need to talk. Explain just what I know, and also that I have made plenty of arrangements that if anything happens to me, I won't be the only one to find out--"

"Come on!" Mitch straightened angrily. "No one's going to hurt you!"

"Hey, buddy! I know you, and I trust you, but I don't know shit about your dad except, and these are your words, that 'he's a cold-blooded son-of-a-bitch who gets his own way, or else'. Your words, not mine. I noticed that he does, too. I don't see any of your art work in the galleries. And you were good! Better than me. Have him call me with a time and place."

He cut the call and stared at the blank screen, heart racing and mouth dry.

What was he doing?

The only thing he could.

David Thomas.

Not what Barry had expected. Mitch's father looked more than capable of doubling for Santa Claus in a pinch. He was a large man all around, with a substantial belly that strained his immaculately tailored, grey, pin-striped wool-worsted suit. A snow-white shock of hair, with matching full beard and mustache, completed the image. But it was one that was anything but jolly as flint-grey eyes speared Barry when he was ushered into the large office.

He was amazed that he had made it on time. His shift on satellite duty was being covered by the Beta Team supervisor and he had been given directions to Thomas' office by an icily proper male aide who had called back in the afternoon on Sunday to tell him where to go, and to be there at nine, Monday morning.

A rushed call to the home-health agency's answering service had yielded an early arrival from his aide on Monday, and he had made his preparations before leaving in his converted van that he hardly ever drove.

And now it was the moment of truth.

"Here, Mr. Thomas." He pulled out the optical disk he had brought with him and dropped it on Thomas' desk. "Just so you see exactly what I have."

Thomas took the disk and slipped it into the drive of the computer hiding on a small shelf behind him. The liquid crystal panel next to the desk lit up with a brilliant color display of the satellites and their transmission paths that Barry had worked up on Sunday while waiting for Thomas to contact him. It had taken another downloaded program and several hours, but the display was now a precise rendition of the angles of transmission, showing how the Thomas satellites were perfectly positioned to send all three tightly beamed transmissions.

All the numbers and angles added up, and from the nervous twitching in the corner of Thomas' right eye -- the only perceptible reaction -- Barry knew he had the industrialist right where he wanted him.

Thomas turned back to him.

"So, Mr. Hodnicki, what is it you want? Money, I presume?" The mouth twisted with distaste. "How much?"

Barry shook his head.

"No. You think I'm stupid?" He shifted in the chair. "How do I explain sudden riches to the I.R.S.? I prefer not to draw any attention to myself. I just want job security. For myself, and the rest of the virtual reality teams you employ. And further similar jobs as warranted when the new space station gets built. Just don't bring the A.I. systems online for the maintenance Minibots. That's all I want. I do admit, I wouldn't be averse to a raise, but I'm not greedy. I make a comfortable amount now, for my needs. Some luxuries and a chance to take a nice trip on my vacation wouldn't hurt, but again, I don't want to make too much of a fuss. After all, it doesn't do to bite the hand that feeds you."

Thomas leaned back, looking wary. "That's it? Just don't automate the Minibots? And bring more online later?" Barry nodded.

"That's it. I figure that as far as the world goes, the clean-up going on now will help, and it might get to be a habit."

Thomas lunged forward sharply to glare at him.

"And what if I don't like being black-mailed? Besides, you have to be bluffing. I know all about you. Mitch has told me plenty. You're real gung-ho on the space program, and you and Mitch both care about what's happening in the cities. Do you know what will happen if you leak this? All of that gets trashed! And then you won't have a job anyway. And a lot of people will hate your guts! People want there to be aliens. I'm just giving them what they want. Hell, the SETI people could easily have figured out that my signal was phony, a long time ago -- if they had really wanted to. But they didn't."

Barry swallowed. He had worried about just that response. But no. In this game, he held the winning hand. He had to remember that.

"It's no bluff," he pressed. "This is the only way for me to survive, and you can't afford not to give me what I want. You have too much to lose. What I'm asking for won't cost you anything. You just won't get the savings you expected with A.I. control. And you'll look like a hero to everyone! Make it public that you had the option to automate, but chose not to because you felt a responsibility to human dignity of the many workers with disabilities that you employ. Hell, it might even spread to other companies using virtual reality employees in hazardous work-places. Think of the publicity you can get!"

He felt ill. The latter had just occurred to him. Thomas could milk that to death. Obviously it had just occurred to Thomas, as well, because the dawning gleam in the industrialist's eyes was unmistakable. He was going to come off like a hero, and he knew it. One of the biggest crooks in history, and he would be a damn hero!

Thomas turned off the computer display and sat there for a moment. A consummate showman, he wasn't going to give in easily. But Barry could see that he had won.

Thomas removed the optical disk from his computer and tapped it on his desk top deliberately. "I take it you have copies of this scattered around for safe-keeping?" He frowned. "Of course even if you didn't, the positions of my satellites are hardly secret. It wouldn't take much to prove this -- if someone else thought of it." A few more discrete taps of the disk and then he held it out for Barry.

"Fine. The A.I. project is scrapped. All the terminations that were sent out are revoked, and you have a raise. A modest one. But," his voice was a low warning, "don't think you can milk it any further. There comes a point when I don't roll over!"

Barry took the disk gingerly. He believed it.

"No, sir. You won't hear anymore from me. I'm just doing my best to survive."

- end -