But for once they had seen things the same way, had the same goal, fought the same fight on the same side. The greenhouse cliff meant war, a war pitting humankind’s global civilization against the blind forces of nature. Jane understood that as well as Dan did. They were going to fight this war together. And it killed her.

Should I go on? Dan asked himself. What’s the use of it? What’s the sense of it?

He wanted to cry, but the tears would not come.

Dan Randolph had always seemed larger than his actual physical size. He was a solidly-built welterweight, still in trim physical shape, although now, in his sixties, it took grueling hours in the gym to maintain his condition. His once-sandy hair was almost completely gray now; his staff people called him “the Silver Fox” behind his back. He had a fighter’s face, with a strong stubborn jaw and a nose that had been flattened years ago by a fist, when he’d been a construction worker in space. Despite all the wealth he’d amassed since those early days, he’d never had his nose fixed. Some said it was a perverse sense of machismo. His light gray eyes, which had often glinted in amusement at the foolishness of men, were bleak and saddened now.

A chime sounded, and the sleek display screen of his computer rose lowly, silently out of the desktop surface.

Dan swiveled his chair to see the screen. His administrative assistant’s young, somber face looked out at him. Teresa was a native of Caracas, tall, leggy, cocoacream complexion, deep brown almond eyes and thick lustrous midnight dark hair. Years earlier Dan would have tried to bed her and probably succeeded. Now he was simply annoyed at her intrusion into his memories. “It’s almost dinnertime,” she said.