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His grin was wry, but Bill was vaguely glad that he wasn’t trying any bedside manner. There wasn’t much use in thanking the man for volunteering—Ames had known what he was up against, and he might be scared, but his courage was above thanks.

“What about the maps?” Bill asked. “They tell you?”

“They’ve left cutters outside. I started to bring them. Then the pumice got me—I couldn’t stand upright in it. They’ll pick up the maps later, but they’re important. The competing ships will claim our territory if we don’t file first.”

He knocked the dust off his instrument, and wiped his hands. Bill looked down at the bed to see a fine film of Moon silt there. They’d been bringing in too much on the suits—it was too fine, and the traps weren’t getting it fast enough.

He got up shakily, moving toward the dust trap that had been running steadily. But now it was out of order, obviously, with the fur brushes worn down until they could generate almost no static against the rod. He groped into the supplies, hoping there would be replacements.