So far, Antonio Vincenzi’s mission had been frustrating as hell. They’d given him very little information to work with, and even less about the mission’s genesis. To top it off, Phobos itself was a frustrating place. Mars loomed over the horizon as a constant presence, a great, baleful dome haunting every canyon and crater on this side of the big rock. The red orb was enough to make anyone nervous. But on Phobos, a nervous person could not pace. The least movement brought both feet off the floor. Had he wanted to go outside, he could jump a thousand times as high as he could on Earth. Imagine the hang time! Half an hour? He didn’t want to go outside. The magboots helped, but they made anything like pacing completely artificial and unfulfilling. So he leaned against the bulkhead next to the panoramic window, letting his body settle against wall and floor, looking out at the coal-black wall of Roche Crater with the arc of Mars eating away at the black sky from behind, watching the skies for this energy guru he was supposed to spend the next half year with. What would she be like? From Venus, yes, but Gwen Baré had American roots, and Americans could be abrasive. He hoped she would at least be civil.