Both were tall and rangy, long lean legs and arms, slim athletic bodies. Pancho’s skin was little darker than a well-tanned Caucasian’s; Susan’s a shade richer. Pancho kept her hair trimmed down to a skullcap of tightly-curled fuzz that was flecked with spots of fashionable gray. Susan had taken treatments to make her dark-brown hair long and luxurious; she wore it in the latest pageboy fashion, spilling down to her shoulders. Her clothing was latest mod, too: a floor-length faux silk gown with weights in its hem to keep the skirt hanging right in the low lunar gravity. Pancho was in a no-nonsense business suit of powder gray: a tailored cardigan jacket and flared slacks over her comfortable lunar softboots. She wore sensible accents of jewelry at her earlobes and wrists. Susan was unadorned, except for the decal across her forehead: a miniature of Saturn, the ringed planet.

Susan broke the lengthening silence. “Panch, you can’t stop me. I’m going.”

“But… all the way out to Saturn? With a flock of political exiles?”

“They’re not exiles!”

“C’m on, Soose, half the governments back Earthside are cleaning out their detention camps.”

Susan’s back stiffened. “Those fundamentalist regimes you’re always complaining about are encouraging their nonbelievers and dissidents to sign on for the Saturn expedition. Encouraging, not deporting.”

“They’re getting rid of their troublemakers,” Pancho said.

“Not troublemakers! Free thinkers. Idealists. Men and women who’re ticked with the way things are on Earth and willing to warp off, zip out, and start new lives.”

“Misfits and malcontents,” Pancho muttered. “Square pegs in round holes.”

“The habitat will be populated by the best and brightest people of Earth,” Susan retorted.

“Yeah, you wish.”

“I know. And I’m going to be one of them.”