When asked his opinion on the future of the system which now bears his name, Captain Byers shrugged and said: "That's not my problem anymore. We found it. Now it's up to the Survey boys."

Willard Fahran, attorney for the University Consortium had little to say beyond this: "We don't see much point in pursuing this any further. The moon isn't much more than a rock, but the more time we waste on litigation, the less time the Survey groups have to find some shred of value in it."

Mr. Fahran would not comment on a statement by Allan Wu, Science Officer of the Ranger, that "ownership of an entire planetary body for personal exploitation allows very little chance of bankruptcy."

One Year Later . . .

"Geez, this place doesn't look too good." Frank Owens, the Navigator, grunted as he hunched over his screen in a posture that would bring misery to his back in years to come.

"What it looks like is borderline quality dog food," Brian Connolly, the First Officer, concurred. His voice had that fruity uppah-crust British drawl, and even in the gloom of the bridge, you could tell from its modulation that his posture was correct; his spine would never dare be otherwise.

"Cold dog food," Owens continued. He sat up and turned toward Captain Emmett Potter. "Christ, Captain; people are gonna try to live here?"

"Most likely." Potter was the end product of ten generations of Narragansett Bay fisherfolk. Though unusually loquacious for a Wet Yankee, he had to be in the mood, and right now, that mood was not on him. There was too much work to do. He finished tweaking a circuit board and plugged it back into the sensor module. The ship's master, Farrow, had very little money to spend, and in the months since leaving Wayforth Station Potter had become something of an expert in making do.

"Well, then, they're for sure gonna die here, I can tell you that right now." Owens grabbed his floating keypad and began making notes.