into the shining new and perfect.

There was a thirty-minute interval. I was afraid people from META, or robots, would gather round me and compel me to the bar or the ladies’ room. But no one arrived. I went up myself and drank a vodka out on a crowded terrace. They were all talking about him. None of them seemed afraid, not even offended. All of them knew what he was, wasn’t. That he was only there for them.

When everyone went back, I wasn’t going to. Then I simply did. (No one had accepted payment for my drink. They gave me the glass on a little white mat that said META.) So I thought, If I don’t go back, presumably they will make me. Maybe not.

The second half was like the first, but you didn’t get tired of it. It didn’t become monotonous. It was ever- changing, though the same. Like Jane’s bloody sea.

I think of him at those parties in the Book, on the streets with her. Think of him singing, like a young man. Wonderful and clever. Passing as human. I think of it. Like stars seen far off, which if ever seen close, are great and terrible, burning, burning bright.

I don’t want to write about his concert anymore. Forgive me if you think I should. But as I said, I’m not a writer. And I don’t care. I can’t. And anyhow, maybe you were there. Or maybe you can picture it all even better if I shut up. Either way, now we come to afterwards.

When the hall had emptied of its hordes, I was still sitting in the plush seat. I thought there was no point in trying to abscond, for someone really would come now, and they did.

Of course it was Sharffe, in a repulsively exquisite one-piece.

Lawrr-nn,” he drawled, “how entirely fabulous you look, ma belle chere. And I’m not amazed at all. And patiently waiting, how sensible.” He indicated the steps, and when I got up, guided me down the two or three tiers to the edge of the stage. A little bridge-thing slunk out to connect the proscenium to the auditorium—he must have winked. “It’s easier just to go straight backstage, avoid the trampling herds.”

We crossed the vacant stage, where Silver Verlis had sung and played his orchestra, and went out stage right.

A dim corridor, then stairs. The concert hall had been made old-fashioned inside as well as out. Ironic he should play here. Or cunning.

“A little party,” said Sharffe, predictably.

Parties. They haunt these books, hers, mine. Mockingly.

We emerged suddenly into a more modern interior, with a wide glass cup of roof overhead—presumably under the dome. You could see the Asteroid adrift there in the black, like a strange fish.

The room had people in it, but not so many. They were all well dressed up, sleek as brushed otters. Jewelry flashed and glasses clinked and delicate cigarine vapors unraveled.

“Champagne, mais naturellement,” said Sharffe, pressing a goblet into my hand.

All eight robots were in the room.

Silver, asterion, copper, gold. Unlike my dream, none of them glanced at me. They were mingling artlessly with the guests. He, too—Verlis—still in his dark red outfit, was doing that.

“We have a little surprise for him,” said Sharffe. “Although, he has been told to expect… something.”

The glass nearly fell out of my hand. Not quite. I knew what the expected surprise must be, and in that moment, it was there.

A door opened and a woman walked into the room. She had a male escort, but I didn’t notice him at first. She was taller than I’d anticipated. But she’d probably grown a couple of inches; after all, she’d only been sixteen back then. Her hair was ice-blond, the kind that gets silvery lights on it. (Silver.) She wore a very plain, long, dark dress on her slender body, and no jewelry. She didn’t look rich, or pleased. She hesitated a couple of feet into the room, with META people swooping round her, and her head lifted and her green eyes turned towards the spot where Verlis stood, talking and laughing with a group of men and women.

If she wore makeup, it didn’t disguise her paleness.

Sharffe was muttering at my ear, as if we needed to be discreet. “Now, I don’t know if you know who that is, but I’m taking a tiny bet you might.”

I could have fenced. Didn’t.

“Jane,” I said.

“Yes, Jane. L’h?eroine extraordinaire. The famous Jane who wrote the Book about the famous Silver who is now the even more famous Verlis. Ah,” said Sharffe, “excuse me a moment. They’re taking her across.”

I’m shivering as I write this. Then, I couldn’t move. I must have grunted something, or maybe not, for it wouldn’t matter, Sharffe didn’t need my permission.

Standing with my hand locked on that glass I mustn’t let fall, I watched the cloud of META reps gust the blond girl in the dark dress across the room, mildly clearing the way for her, so in the end she was there in front of him, and he in front of her, surrounded only by a distant moat of people. I saw a man, not Sharffe, introduce them to each other. Christ, how did he phrase that? “Say hallo again, Jane, to your dead lover. Verlis, this is the lady who once loved and bought and nearly died for you.”

Verlis was looking down at her, down into her eyes. That intent look of his, compassionate and engaged. Her face was expressionless. No doubt, she, too, had seen him this evening, playing his concert gig. Did that lessen the shock now, or make it worse?

She said something to him. She was the first of the two of them to speak. I thought she only said, “Hallo.”

Verlis put out his hand and took up hers. He stayed still, holding her hand in his. (Yes, I remembered his hand holding mine.)

If I was frozen, then so it seemed were they. They just stood there, holding hands, staring at each other. Then Verlis spoke to her. I can’t lip-read, but I read it: You’ll have to give me time. That was what he said. And she shook her head, not saying “No,” simply denying all of it—the past, the present, the future? Or so it seemed to me. And then Verlis was leading her away across the room, towards one of the doors that led to somewhere else. She didn’t resist. They went out, and no one in that watching crowd followed them. I heard some cretin unctuously murmur, “He knew her before, you know. Isn’t it sentimentally charming? However must she feel?”

I managed to work the hinges of my arm and jaw and bolted my drink. I put the glass down very carefully.

Sharffe was there again. “Loren—did you see? What an astonishing moment.” He seemed oblivious of anything I might feel or think, but I suspected he was actually keeping a note for the firm. “Oh, shit, look at the guy she came in with. Is he going to kick up a stink? Didn’t he know?”

Because Sharffe pointed him out to me, I noticed Jane’s human companion then. He was slim and good- looking, not badly dressed in casuals. His hair was long and fair and tied back from his face. A lot of META people were suddenly talking to him, and he had the look of a rather dangerous scared animal in a trap. But he took the glass of champagne they presented and downed it, as I had.

“There’s a reserved sitting room,” said Sharffe. “That’s where they’ve gone. Give them ten minutes or so of privacy.”

“Only ten?” I asked, like an idiot.

“Sure. To start with. Un petit peu. And they’re being monitored, of course.” He awarded me his hideous smile. “We’re not really heartless, Loren, as you seem to think. But we do need to know.”

I thought, Verlis has told me he can block your surveillance out. Is that what he’s doing, blocking you and feeding you some irrelevant ordinariness. And in fact, are they making love—making——, that act he and I achieved together on the turquoise sheet? Is that what they’re doing? Or are they crying (Can he cry? Seem to?) in each other’s arms?

How can he not love her again? She was the reason his soul woke up. And she’s beautiful, rare.

Why do they want me here to see all this, too?

Sharffe said, “I tell you what, Loren. Let’s go for a drive, shall we? They don’t need me till later. Let’s get

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