down. She answered his clasp by soaring up to settle against him.

Briefly, hoofs rang, then the horse leaped aloft and galloped the ways of air. Wind lulled. Stars gleamed soft, everywhere around, in violet heaven. Aliyat’s loosened hair blew backward to make a tent for her and Barikai. She was drunk with the odor of him, the strength that held her, the seeking lips. “Where are we bound?” she asked.

“Home.” His laugh pealed. “But not at once!”

They hastened onward, around the curve of the world into morning. His castle gleamed on its mountaintop. The horse came to rest in a courtyard of mosaics and flowers where a fountain danced. Aliyat gave them scant heed. Later she noticed that she had been unaware whether the servants who met their lord and lady had bodies.

They did provide feast, music, spectacle, when such was wanted. Otherwise Aliyat and Barikai kept to themselves, tireless until they fell embraced into a half-sleep from which they roused joyous.

That happiness grew calmer, love lingered more and more, so that at last it was a new bliss when he said, “Now let us go home.”

Their horse brought them there at dawn. The household was just coming awake and nobody saw the arrival. Indeed, it was as if nothing had happened and they had never been away. Manu received her hug with some surprise, then much boyish dignity. Little Hairan took it for granted.

She savored ordinariness for the rest of the day and evening, minute by minute, each presence and place, task and talk, question and decision, everything that she owned and that owned her. When the final lamp guided her and Barikai to bed, she was ready for his words: “I think best you sleep, truly sleep, this night and beyond.”

“Hold me until I do,” she asked of him. He did, with kisses. “Come not back too soon,” he said once, against her cheek. “That would be unwise.”

“I know—“ She drifted from him. j Opening her eyes after a time outside of time, she found she was crying. Maybe this had been a bad idea. Maybe she should not go back ever. Come on, old girl, she thought. Stop this. You promised Corinne you’d help her with that tapestry she wants to make. Uncoupling, she left the booth where she had lain but stood for a space more in the dream chamber, busy. Good habit, carrying a makeup kit in a purse. Sessions here did sometimes touch pretty near the bone. Well, she learned long ago how to cover the traces.

Svoboda was passing by in the corridor. “Hello,” said Aliyat. She was about to move on when the other woman plucked her sleeve.

“A moment, if you please,” Svoboda requested.

“Uh, sure.” Aliyat glanced away.

Svoboda didn’t take the hint. “Don’t resent this. I must try it. You should go in there less often.”

Anger quivered. “Everybody else says it. Why not you? I know what I’m doing.”

“Well, I can’t prescribe for you, but—”

“But you’re afraid I’m curling up in a ball and someday I won’t be able to uncurl.” Aliyat inhaled. Suddenly she felt like speaking. “Listen, dear. You’ve been in situations in the past where you had to go away from yourself.”

Svoboda paled a bit. “Yes.”

“I have a lot more than you. I know them pretty thoroughly, believe me. The dream box is a better escape than booze or dope or—“ Aliyat grinned—“closing my eyes and flunking of England.”

“But this isn’t that kind of thing!”

“No, not exactly. Still— Listen. What happened today pros that I got so furious that if I couldn’t go conjure a private world, I’d’ve had to scream and smash things and generally throw a fit. What would that have done for crew morale?”

“What was the matter?”

“Hanno. What else? We met by chance and he buttonholed me and, oh, you can imagine. He repeated the same tired noises you just did, about me and the dream box. He tried to say, very roundabout— Never mind.”

Svoboda bared a brief smile. “Let me guess. He implied you are a menace to relationships aboard ship.”

“Yeah. He’d like to pair off with me. Of course he would. Hasn’t gotten laid for months now, has he? I suggested what he could do instead, and walked off. But I was volcano angry.”

“You were overreacting; you, of all people. Stress—”

“I s’pose.” Faintly surprised at how rage and loss alike had eased within her, Aliyat said, “Look, I’m not addicted to dreams. Really I’m not. Everybody uses them once in a while. Why don’t you share with me sometime? I’d like that. An interactive dream has more possibilities than letting the computer put into your head what it thinks you’ve demanded.”

Svoboda nodded. “True. But—“ She stopped.

“But you’re afraid I might learn things about you you’d rather I didn’t. That’s it, nght?” Aliyat shrugged. “I’m not offended. Only, don’t preach at me, okay?”

“Why did you resent Hanno’s attempt?” Svoboda asked quickly. “It was quite natural. You need not have cursed him for it.”

“After what he’s done to us?” Counterattack: “Do you still have a soft spot for him?”

Svoboda looked elsewhere. “I shouldn’t, I know. On se veut—”

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing. A stray memory.”

“About him.”

Svoboda met the challenge. Probably, Aliyat thought, she wants to be friendly toward me; feels she has to. “Yes. Of no importance. Some lines we saw once. It was ... the late twentieth century, a few years after we—we seven had gone under cover, while Patulcius was still keeping his own camouflage. Hanno and I were traveling about incognito in France. We stayed one night at an old inn, yes, old already then, and in the guest book we found what somebody had written, long before. I was reminded now, that’s all.”

“What was it?” Aliyat asked.

Again Svoboda looked past her. The wry words whis-jjjered forth as if of themselves.

“On se veut On s’enlace Ons’enlasse On s’en veut.”

Before Aliyat could respond, she nodded adieu and hurried on down the corridor.

23

Once more Yukiko was redecorating her room. Until she finished, it would be an uninhabitable clutter. Thus she spent most of her private hours in Tu Shan’s, as well as deeping there. In due course they would share hers while Idle worked on his. It was her proposal. He had assented without seeming to care. The brushstroke landscape and calligraphy she earlier put on his walls had over the years been ween until they were all but invisible. However, she had a feeling that he would never especially have noticed their disappearance.

Entering, she found him cross-legged on the bed, left hand supporting a picture screen, right hand busy with a light pencil. He drew something, considered it, made an aikation, studied it further. His big body seemed relaxed and the features bore no mark of a scowl.

“Why, what are you doing?” she asked.

He glanced up. “I have an idea,” he said almost eagerly. “It isn’t clear to me yet, but sketching helps me think.”

She went around behind him and leaned over to see. His drawings were always delicate, a contrast to much of his work in stone or wood. This showed a man in traditional peasant garb, holding a spade. On a large rock beside him jiquatted a-monkey, while a tiger stood below. Through the foreground flowed a stream wherein swam a carp.

“So you are finally going to try pictures?” she guessed.

He shook his head. “No, no. You are far better at them than I will ever be. These are just thoughts about figures I mean to sculpture.” He gazed up at her. “I think pictures may not help us much when we get to Tritos. Even on Earth, in old days, you remember how differently people in different times and countries would draw the

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