It was me.

Oh, shit, I thought, and reached out to touch the parrot again.

"Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit…"

Except I hadn't said anything this time. I just thought it.

"Thought it, thought it, thought…"

Parrots.

"Parrots, parrots, parrots…"

I lifted my finger and the sound stopped instantly. I touched the little animal lightly and the sound kicked in again…but I knew it wasn't a sound, not a real one.

I tried to think things through; and as I did, every chance thought, every tiny notion echoed back to me a fraction of a second after passing through my mind…disorienting at first, but I was used to singing in concert halls with a tiny delay between hitting a note and hearing it over your headphones. I could handle the telepathic equivalent.

First question: did the parrot only echo the thoughts of the person touching it? Or did the parrot echo every thought nearby?

I remembered how Jerith had responded to my thoughts all evening, like touching me when I was annoyed that he hadn't tried anything yet. His hand had been in his pocket most of the night, the pocket that held the parrot.

The parrot must echo everyone's thoughts. And not just the unspoken words; I could sense it broadcasting my emotions too, the outrage growing in me as I realized how Jerith had eavesdropped on my mind. I felt violated. He'd seen me more naked than naked. Hell, who cared about being naked anymore? I'd bared my all three times on Trash and Thrash; by now, half the galaxy had had the chance to count my freckles.

But this…I tried to remember all the thoughts I'd had in Jerith's company. I tried to recall what shameful things might have passed through my mind…

Jerith had said, "That Kilgoorlie is a spooky guy."

I wondered what thoughts the Singer had. About me.

I wondered what thoughts Alex had. About me.

And Roland. And Helena. And the roadies and everyone.

But of course it was wrong to eavesdrop on them.

The parrot didn't resist as I picked it up and stroked its nose. The little animal seemed perfectly content to be held. It nestled into my palm and gave a tiny yawn.

I told myself I would take it back to camp, to prove to the others what the animals could do. Telepathic parrots that echoed people's thoughts—no one would believe that without proof. Well, Alex probably would; but that was a mean thing to say. The parrot repeated the thought over and over, "Alex would believe it" …and under that phrase other thoughts chorused like backup singers, copies of my own voice whispering things I hadn't put into words: Alex is gullible, Alex is a child, I want to know what he thinks, I want to know what he thinks of me.

I barely recognized I'd had those thoughts, but they echoed back clearly.

"I won't use the parrot," I said aloud. "I'm just taking it to camp as proof."

The backup singers in my brain said, I'm lying to myself, I'll probably eavesdrop, I don't know what I'll do.

I stuffed the parrot into the pocket of my dungarees and hastily pulled out my hand. The voices cut off instantly and the silence of the night flooded in. I breathed a sigh of relief and began walking back to the camp, trying to fill my heart with good intentions.

I touched the parrot several times as I walked, just to see that it was still working. The parrot didn't react. It seemed to be asleep, but it still broadcast my thoughts loud and clear. Some creatures give off body temperatures; others give off mental echoes.

What did I hear from the parrot? Excitement mostly, the feeling of power. Qualms too—using the parrot to spy on others was wrong, but could I resist? And a memory of facing a similar conflict when I discovered masturbation at the age of thirteen: an exciting power, an irresistible compulsion, yet an act I'd been told was dirty. Secret vice. Is that a parrot in your pocket or are you just glad to see me? "How far do I have to dig this damned hole?"

I jerked my head around. That last thought wasn't mine.

There was no one in sight…but I stood on barren ground between two flat-topped hills. Someone could be on one of the hills, within range of the parrot's hearing, whatever that range was. I took a few steps toward the hill on my left, then stopped and touched the parrot: nothing but my own thoughts, racing, trying to figure out whose voice it had been. Male. Alex? Roland? I hadn't paid enough attention.

I wanted it to be Alex. The thought of eavesdropping on Alex was so tantalizing…

As quietly as I could, I moved back toward the other hill, stopped, and listened again. "Damned stone. Why are there so many damned stones?"

Alex.

Taking a deep breath, I pulled my hand from my pocket. I would resist. I would be good.

One last touch. The echoes of my thoughts told me I was only delaying the moment of eavesdropping on Alex. I was intent on doing it, and simply holding off a few seconds to excite myself more, the way you sometimes hold off on a kiss: you know it's going to happen, but you wait an extra second to make it sweeter.

The hill was too steep to climb with my hand in my pocket.

Alex stood a short distance away, stabbing a shovel into the ground and wrestling up a load of dirt. His body was soft with starlight. He still wore the billowing white shirt and tight leather pants from the recording session, but his shirt was buttoned to the throat. With each thrust of the shovel, he grunted. At his feet lay a knapsack and a growing pile of dirt.

I walked quickly up to him before I could be tempted to reach for the parrot. When he heard my footsteps and turned around, I asked, "Digging a grave? Or just robbing one?"

Alex laughed. "I'm excavating an archaeological site," he said. "We're an archaeological expedition, you know."

"And this excavation couldn't wait till morning?"

"I'm not in Jerith's good books right now," Alex said. "I broke something—something glass, I don't know what it was. It could have happened to anyone, but Jerith told me I wasn't careful enough to be an archaeologist." Alex plunged the shovel into the hole with all his strength. "So I decided to head out when no one was looking and find something so important Jerith would have to let me help again."

"Why here?" I asked, looking around. The top of the hill showed almost no signs of the war, except for a rain-filled bomb crater twenty meters away. The area had none of the markers Jerith usually set up at sites he planned to excavate. "Is there some reason to dig here, or did you just pick a place at random?"

Alex looked sly. "Can you keep a secret?" He picked up the knapsack that lay on the ground beside him. When he lifted the flap, I saw some kind of electronic apparatus topped by a cylindrical holo-tank. "Metal detector," Alex said in a stage whisper. "Absolute state of the art. I can afford it, Jerith can't." Immediately, he looked guilty. "I'm going to give it to Jerith before we go. As a token of appreciation for how he's helped us. But first, I'm going to find something important."

"Down this hole?"

"If I'm lucky. There's something big down here; and deep enough that Jerith's cheap detectors don't pick it up."

"Do you want help digging?" I asked.

"I only have the one shovel. But if you stick around, I may need a hand lifting out whatever I find."

I stuck around—found a stone that wasn't quite as damp as the ground and sat on it. Now and then, I offered to dig for a while to let Alex rest. He turned me down each time, and speared his shovel in harder to prove he wasn't tired. I just sat there and inhaled the damp smell of freshly turned soil.

Rather than mope in silence we told each other stories, the kind of stories that people in the industry share when they get together: disastrous concerts, botched bookings, fans from hell. Many, many stories. We laughed, we talked, I put my hand in my pocket.