Panille's slitted eyes showed him the LTA gondola interior - a squashed sphere about ten meters in diameter. It was nearly all plaz, with a canopy of gray above the orange hydrogen bag. He found himself both excited and fearful, filled with confusion at this fierce activity. He heard the hatch seal behind him and Nakano's unruffled voice.

"We made it. You can relax, Panille. Everybody in here is secure."

Panille's straps were loosed and he sat up.

"Tether release in two minutes," the pilot reported.

Panille looked up at the orange canopy - the bag was a taper of pleats, its long folds hung down against the cabin's plaz. Once they were up and clear of the tube, more hydrogen would flow into the bag and fill it out. He glanced right and left, saw the two hydrogen jets that would propel them once they were topside.

The whine of a cable winch filled the gondola then. The pilot said, "Strap down, everyone. A bit rough up there today."

Panille found himself dragged backward into a seat beside Nakano. A strap was fitted around his waist. He kept his attention on the pilot. No one spoke. Switches clicked like the hard-shelled chatter of mollusks.

"Topside hatch open," the pilot said, speaking into a microphone at his throat.

A halo of white light filtered around the bag above them.

The cabin lurched and Panille glanced out to his left, momentarily dizzy with the sensation that the gondola had stayed stationary and the launch tube was moving downward past him at increasing speed.

The winch sound silenced abruptly and he heard the hiss of the bag against the tube's walls. The bag cleared the tube then and light washed the cabin. Panille heard a gasp behind him, then they were clear of the water, into a cloudy gray day, swaying beneath the expanding hydrogen bag. The jets swung out with a low whine and were ignited. The swaying motion of the gondola steadied. Almost immediately, they entered a rain squall.

"Sorry, we won't be able to see the rocket launch because of this weather," the pilot said. He flicked a switch beside him and a small screen on the panel in front of him came alight. "We can watch the official coverage, though."

Panille couldn't see from where he sat and the pilot had the sound turned down. The gondola emerged from the rainstorm, still pelted by the runoff from the bag overhead. They began swaying wildly and the pilot fought to control the motion. His flurried movement had little effect. Panille noted with some satisfaction that the Merman guards had green expressions that had nothing to do with their camouflage.

"What's going on?" This was a woman's voice from behind Panille. A voice he could not mistake. He froze, then slowly turned and stared past his captors. Kareen. She sat beside the entry hatch where she had been hidden from him as he entered. Her face was very pale, her eyes dark shadows above her cheeks, and she did not meet his gaze.

Panille felt a hard emptiness in his stomach.

"Kareen," he said.

She did not respond.

The gondola continued to lurch and sway.

Nakano looked worried. "What's going on, pilot?"

The pilot pointed to a display on the board to his right. Panille tore his gaze away from Kareen Ale's ashen face. He could not see all that was indicated on the control panel, only the last two numbers of a digital display and those were changing so rapidly they were a blur.

"Our homing frequency," the pilot explained. "It won't stay on target."

"We can't find the outpost without locking on the right frequency," Nakano said. There was fear in his voice.

The pilot withdrew his hand and this revealed once more the display for the launch broadcast. The picture was gone, replaced by wavelike lines and pulsing colored ribbons.

"Try your radio," Nakano ordered. "Maybe they can talk us in."

"I am trying it!" the pilot said. He flipped a switch and cranked up the volume control. A keening, rhythmic sound filled the gondola.

"That's all I'm getting!" the pilot said. "Some kind of interference. Weird music."

"Tones," Panille murmured. "Sounds like computer music."

"What's that?"

Panille repeated it. He glanced back at Kareen. Why wouldn't she meet his eyes? She was very pale. Had they drugged her?

"Our altimeter just went out," the pilot called. "We're adrift. I'm taking us up above this weather."

He punched buttons and moved his controls. There was no apparent response from the LTA.

"Damn!" the pilot swore.

Panille stared once more at the screen on the pilot's board. The pattern was familiar, though he wouldn't tell Nakano. It was a pattern Panille knew he had seen on his own screens in Current Control - a kelp response. It was what they saw when the kelp complied with an instruction to shift the great currents in Pandora's sea.

17 Alki, 468. In captivity at Outpost 22.

Jealousy is a great teacher if you allow it. Even the Chief Justice can learn much from his jealousy of Mermen. Compared to Mermen, we Islanders live squalid lives. We are poor. There are no secrets among the poor. The squalor and close sweat of our lives oozes information and rumor. Even the most clandestine arrangements become public. But Mermen thrive on secrecy. It is one of their many luxuries.

Secrecy begins with privacy.

As Chief Justice of the Committee on Vital Forms I enjoy private quarters. No more stacked cubbies pressed head to foot along some rimside bulkhead. No more feet stepping on hands in the night or grunting lovers bumping against your back.

Privilege and privacy, two words that share the same root. But down under, privacy is the norm.

My imprisonment represents a special kind of privacy. These Green Dashers do not understand that. My captors appear exhausted and a little bored. Boredom opens paths into secrecy, thus I anticipate learning something of their lives because their lives are now my life. How little they understand of true secrecy. They do not suspect the chanting in my head that records these things that I may share with others if I wish ... and if I survive that long. These fanatics give no quarter. Guemes is proof that they can commit murder skillfully and easily ... perhaps even cheerfully. I have few illusions about my chances here.

Little can survive me except my record on the Committee. I admit to a little pride about that record. And some regrets about my other choices. The child that Carolyn and I should have had ... she would have been a daughter, I think. By now there would be grandchildren. Did I have the right to prevent that generation out of fear? They would have been beautiful! And wise, yes, like Carolyn.

Gallow wonders why I sit here with my eyelids opened only to slits. Sometimes, he laughs at what he sees. Gallow dreams of dominating our world. In that, he is no different from Scudi's father. Ryan Wang fed people to control them. GeLaar Gallow kills. Their other differences are just as profound. I suppose death is a form of absolute control. There are many kinds of death. I see this because I have no grandchildren. I have only those whose lives have passed through my hands, those who have survived because of my word.

I wonder where Gallow sent that big assistant, Nakano? What a monster ... on the outside. The very vision of a terrorist. But Nakano's goals are not on the surface. No one could call him transparent. His hands are gentle when there is no need for his great strength.

They have suspended this foil beneath the surface. More secrecy. More privacy. Such stillness can be frightening. I am beginning to find it captivating - I see that my mind jokes with me in its choice of words. Privacy, too, is captivating. Islanders do not know this reality of life down under. They imagine only the privacy. They envy the privacy. They do not imagine the stillness. Will my people ever encounter this immense quiet? I find it difficult to believe that the C/P will order all Islanders to move down under. How could she do this? Where could the Mermen put us and not lose their precious privacy? But even more than fear of Ship, our envy would cause us to obey. I cannot believe that Ship enters into such a scheme except by innuendo. And the innuendo of Ship suffers a sea of change in human interpretation. A moment's reflection back through the histories, especially upon the writings of that maverick C/P, Raja Thomas, makes this as clear as plaz. Ah, Thomas, what a brilliant survivor you were! I thank Ship that your thoughts have come down to me. For I, too, know what it is to be caged. I know what it is to be repressed. And I know myself better because of Thomas. Like him, I can turn to my memory for company, and he is there, too. Now, with kelp to record us, no lock seals the hatchway to memory ... ever.