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tomorrow.”
    “Actually,” she said. “I’d be happy to discuss it right now.”
    “I couldn’t ask that,” Marcus replied. “You’ve obviously put in your overtime for the day. Tomorrow will be fine.” He turned to go, but she stopped him.
    “Well, I thought, heck, I haven’t eaten yet, and I was betting you hadn’t had the chance to get anything yet, so I thought we could discuss it over dinner, you know, get it out of the way. In the last shipment we got from Earth, my mother sent me a stasis package with a fully cooked traditional West African beef stew, with all the trimmings – I mean the mangoes, broiled bananas, chutney, the works. She’s the best cook in all of Lesotho City. Her restaurant is the place to eat. Anyway, I thought I could share it with you – and we could get some work done at the same time.”
    For a moment, Marcus considered it. And it wasn’t just because of the offer of real food instead of another commissary meal. He genuinely liked Hasina – she was intelligent, capable, warm, attractive.
    “No,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s very kind of you to offer, but I can’t. I’ve got this fiscal report to finish, all the department reports ...” It sounded lame to his own ears, but damn it, it was true. He couldn’t take the time. Shouldn’t take the time. Couldn’t afford personal entanglements right now. It wouldn’t be fair.
    “That’s all right,” she said. “I understand. But listen, I haven’t opened it yet. Maybe a little later. It’ll keep almost indefinitely.”
    “Sure,” he said. “Maybe later. Thanks.”
    He watched her retreat down the hall until he could no longer see her in the dim light, and then turned to go the other way, toward the commissary where his dinner, as always, would be waiting for him.
    The commissary was on the other side of the rec room and bar. The smell of alcohol and the sounds of loud talk, laughter, music, and the electronic cacophony of a variety of 3-D games assaulted him as he approached.
    He didn’t like to go in there, wasn’t comfortable around his employees and coworkers when they were drinking. The intake of alcohol was strictly regulated on the colony. It had to be in a work situation like theirs where one mistake could prove lethal. But his workers were employed in a dangerous profession and living in a drab environment, and many wanted that outlet on their days off.
    Above the general din, Marcus heard one inebriated patron singing, very off-key, a moronic song that had been inexplicably popular on Earth a couple of years back.
    “Oh, be a fine girl and kiss me right now! Smack! Smack! Smack!”, he sang, making appropriately annoying kissing sounds. “Oh, be a fine girl and kiss me right now! Smack! Smack! Smack! Oh, be a–“
    “I’ll smack you all right if you don’t shut up!” somebody else suddenly roared.
    By the time Marcus reached the two men at the far side of the bar, they were rolling on the floor, throwing punches, while the others in the bar scampered out of the way.
    “That’s it!” Marcus shouted. He motioned for some of the other men to help him separate the two combatants. Neither man would look Marcus in the eye.
    “Your drinking day is over, both of you. Now get back to your quarters and stay there until you can pass the blood-alcohol test. Do I make myself clear?”
    They nodded wordlessly, appropriately chastened, and Marcus turned them over to the custody of their friends.
    His appetite was gone now, but he went to the commissary and picked up his meal anyway, then returned, at last, to his quarters.
    The incoming message light was blinking on his computer console. He put everything down and called up the list. Just one recorded message, originating from Earth, dated a month ago, which was typical as getting mail to the outer colonies wasn’t a high priority with StellarCom. What wasn’t typical was that the recording was from his only brother William. They hadn’t seen each