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The mixed melancholy and optimism of the music would help him think.
    As the d-cube played, Brahms used his thumbprint to unseal one of the compartments in the restricted file recessed into the wall. He found the duplicate memory cube containing the confidential results of his Efficiency Study.
    Brahms held the hologram memory cube in his hand. It was cold and had sharp corners. He felt as if his insides had turned to metal—bright chrome. He stared at the cube, still reluctant to consider the possibility at hand.
    He moved to Ombalal and turned the cube right before the station director’s eyes. Brahms said, “Do you know what this is?”
    Ombalal blinked. “A data cube, of course.”
    “Ah, but what’s on it?” Brahms squatted down and searched Ombalal’s eyes. He whispered, “We can’t all survive. But some of our people are more likely than others to come up with a solution—they’ve shown it by their track record. We might have a chance.”
    Standing, he pushed the cube into a slot in his desktop, and listened to the quiet whirring as the internal computer read the information into Brahms’s private directory.
    He pulled the keypad toward him, saved Allen Terachyk’s analysis, then called up the results of his Efficiency Study. As he scrolled down through the names and scores on the holoscreen, he looked at the rankings, forcing himself not to think of faces, of people—only numbers and names.
    We can’t all survive.
    He turned to Ombalal. The director’s eyes were wide with horror.
    Brahms hesitated a long time before choosing the first name, the one with the lowest score. His eyes felt dry and gummy, yet he couldn’t seem to find the energy to blink.
    But once he had chosen the first name, the rest came easier.
    ***

Chapter 6
    En Route to the Moon—Day 3
    The Moon’s blasted landscape swelled below them—craters, mountains, canyons, and black lava flows. The jagged peaks reached up as the Miranda swooped in its orbit, homing in on Clavius Base .
    Stephanie Garland kept her eyes on the instruments. “‘How to get the whole universe to despise you in three easy steps.’ We’re good at that, aren’t we, McLaris?” Bitterness edged her voice, but McLaris did not rise to the bait.
    “Knock it off. It’s too late to have second thoughts. You did what you did, and so did I.”
    He could see Garland growing edgier, uneasy, as they neared the Moon. McLaris stared at the landscape beneath them until his eyes ached. “Shouldn’t we be close enough to see it by now?”
    “You wouldn’t notice it unless you knew exactly where to look. Most of the huts are covered with a few yards of lunar soil for shielding. Everything else is underground. You’ll see towers sticking up, maybe a few access doors.”
    Garland reached for the radio and flicked the switch. “ Clavius Base , this is shuttle-tug Miranda. We will be landing in a few minutes. Request assistance.”
    A voice broke in over the speakers. “We do not condone your actions, Miranda. You are not welcome here.”
    Over the past two days they had listened in as Brahms and the intercolony community expressed outrage, condemnation. McLaris had chosen to maintain silence.
    “I’m not asking you for the Welcome Wagon—I’m asking for guidance!” Garland snapped.
    McLaris gripped the pilot’s shoulder to silence her. He spoke into the microphone himself. “Please give our regards to Chief Administrator”—he paused for just a moment as he searched his mind for the right name—“Tomkins. We will explain ourselves to him after we have landed safely. Unfortunately, we are not in a position to turn back, whether you welcome us or not. We are going to be forced to land.”
    The Miranda had carried only enough fuel to take Garland back to Earth orbit, and landing in the lunar gravity field required much more than just maneuvering and braking thrust. McLaris had watched the pilot grow more and more insecure as they neared their