The video news had a real taste for that sort of thing. Quaid didn’t bother to look. He imagined the people beyond the window as part of that scene, gassed and dying, struggling to rise and get to their jobs, but falling and clogging the foot runnels. The hovercars veering out of control as the gas caught their drivers, crashing to the lower levels in flames. No, not in flames; today flying craft had safeguards, and, unlike the groundcars, were guaranteed nonexplosive. But they might make pretty wreckages anyway. This city as the site of a war raid: it had its devious appeal.

“Astronomers say they are at a loss to account for six novas,” the newsman continued with an indulgent smile. Everyone knew what characters scientists were! “It seems that these stars do not fit the pattern of the type. Some stars go nova, and some go supernova, and the mechanisms for these effects are fairly well understood. But in recent years more detailed analysis has revealed that six of the novas simply should not have happened—according to the astronomers.” He smiled again. “Well, back to the drawing board, boys!”

Yeah, every time the facts didn’t fit theory, they just drew up a new theory. Eventually they’d come up with a theory that stuck. Stars didn’t go nova for no reason.

“And more violence last night on Mars, where…”

Quaid perked up and turned to the video. It was a multi-screen television, the best they could afford, which meant color but no three-dee. It constituted an entire wall of the cooking-living-dining area of their conapt, and made the tiny apartment seem larger than it was. The screen was divided into many segments, simultaneously displaying several kinds of text and programming: weather, stock market, security monitors for their front door and lobby, a “baby-sitter” program for any children who might be bothersome, a continuous erotica nook for dirty old men, a shopping bulletin for busy housewives, and an old videotape channel.