A sharp stab of pain. A cramp behind the knee. Harlin grimaced as the knots began to form in his legs, tiny little tremors like insects under his skin. He twisted in his restraining suit and drummed his fingers on the control keyboard at his side. Overtime again, and no one to blame but himself.

He’d almost had his rock cradled when a stray had come on the radar—almost home green with the goods. Navicomp had indicated a collision course, so he’d had to break. No sense risking his neck for one lousy space rock. Chalk another one up to the fractional probability, the impossible coincidence of random mechanics. The stray had just grazed his target, knocking it into a new corkscrew trajectory. Harlin had chased it anyway, had synched and snagged it with some fancy maneuvering and a good deal more luck than he was accustomed to—now he had to pay the price.

The biomeds and nurses considered it a psycho-physical irregularity. The official title was free-fall stress syndrome, the result of fatigue and the waning hypersensitivity drugs, but the asteroid miners on the belt knew it simply as space cramps and accepted it as another of many occupational hazards. Harlin had seen some bad cases down on the docks—convulsing spider miners with contorted faces, blood crusted on their lips. But he had nothing to worry about, he reminded himself again. He was only a couple hours over the limit, his rock was secure, his screen was green. Just a quick flight to Base and he could log in his shift. A good burn bath awaited him, and an ultrasonic massage to clear the Hyperstim out of his system, then a chance to relax in his bunk and watch the assay results on his overhead monitor. Good magnetics on this one. Some spots glittered like polished platinum when the sun hit them just right. Cobalt, chromium, titanium—any one of these treasures would make the difference.

If he could just stretch out a bit, maybe brush the sweaty brown curls off his forehead. If he could just scratch that infernal itch behind his left knee. Overtime again, with cramps on the way. Trapped in a bullet. A stripped-down, computerized tin can.

More like a coffin, Harlin mused.

He flipped on his com unit and winced as the Base chatter flooded his tiny crypt.

“Spider Seven to Strategic Metals Control,” he signaled.

The reply was immediate: “Harlin, you vac-head, where in space are you? I’ve had you on Overdue since I got up this morning.”

“Okay, Control, don’t panic. I’m right here on your radar screen. I should be visual in a minute or two. That you, Eddi?”

“I was just getting ready to shoot you down for a stray, you cowboy. You know you’re supposed to keep com open. I’ll have to log a memo now. My guns are already mobilized. I told you last time.”

“C’mon, Eddi. I’m way outside the sphere. You know the background noise drives me crazy. I can’t concentrate with the com on. Give me a private beam and I’ll keep you company all day.”

“Don’t make me quote regs, Spider Seven. Just don’t cut it so close on your approach.”

“Sorry,” Harlin muttered wearily.

Eddi’s voice came softer now, with a note of concern: “You sound a bit shaky. You sick?”

“Not bad. A bit tight. No memo this time?”

A sigh. “No memo, Harlin. You holding?”

“Yeah, just under max—good magnetics.”

“That makes the cramps worthwhile, eh?”

“I hope so.”

“Have you checked your chrono lately?”

“No.”

“Does it help?”

“Not really.”

Harlin’s left leg began to tremble in its close‑fitting plastifoam sheath. He tried pressing upward and bending the knee a fraction, which seemed to ease some discomfort. His other leg had gone completely numb.

“You’re clear on the Main, Spider Seven. I have visual confirmation now. You’re glistening like a palladium pendant. Some guys have all the luck.” Eddi laughed, a nasal guffaw that sounded like static over the com. The sparkle could be ice, he knew, but Eddi had been on Control long enough to know how to treat a shaky miner on his way in. Besides, it could be platinum or its more valuable cousin, rhodium. Everybody on the shift got a bonus when a lucky rock came in.

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