“Not yet. Why? Did you want to come along?”

“I’m going to try to talk to Matt and see if I can borrow the Mac. If I can get it, I’ll need a pilot.” The Mac was the Karen McCollum, one of two Institute interstellars currently at Greenway.

“Why do you need a starship? Where do you want to go?”

“I think it’s time to bite the bullet.”

“You’re getting dramatic. What does that mean?”

“Find out whether a meeting between the Hunter and a celestial really happened.”

“How do you propose to do that?”

“Go out and look at the neighborhood.”

“Kim—” He was studying her, trying to make sense of the proposal. “We’re talking about something that happened almost three decades ago—”

“If they found a civilization, it won’t have gone anywhere.”

“But we seem to be talking about a ship. We don’t think they’d still be hanging around after all these years, do we?”

“Maybe not. But it doesn’t matter.”

“Why’s that?”

“Their traces would still be out there.”

She got off the train at Blanchet Preserve and took a cab to Tempest, home of Orlin University. It was the first time she’d been back since graduation, and she was struck by the degree to which the town had changed. The MacFarlane Recreational Complex looked abandoned, much of East Campus had become a public park, and all of the buildings, with one or two exceptions, appeared weather-beaten.

It was nevertheless good to see it all again, maybe because the old scenes were mundane, laid out against the midafternoon sun, part of a solid, predictable world. No specters need apply. She took comfort from it, from the Thompson Astronomical Center, which received a steady stream of images from observational facilities throughout the Orion Arm; from the Picacci Building, which housed the student center and cafeteria; from Palfrey Park, where she’d often done her reading assignments when the weather was good. Off to the north in a cluster of trees she could almost see her old apartment.

And there, at the end of a quiet lane, stood the house in which Sheyel Tolliver had occasionally gathered groups of graduate students and other faculty members for lunches and wide-ranging discussions. Never look for complexity in diplomatic decisions. With very few exceptions, actions always devolve—and that’s the exact term—from someone’s self-interest. Not the national self-interest, by the way. We are talking here about individual careers.

She hadn’t believed that at the time, had assigned it to the natural growth of cynicism in an aging instructor. Kim had been an idealist then. Now, although she retained a strong belief in the essential decency of the average person, she was convinced that those whose tastes run to personal power could never be trusted to act save in the pursuit of their own ambition.

The last meeting of Sheyel’s informal discussion group had occurred two days before graduation. It had been a farewell, and the students had brought the goodies for a change, and had given Sheyel a plaque, which had read FOR UNRELENTING ADEQUACY. The reference was to his assertion that the standards in their group were so high that adequacy constituted a singular achievement.

The house was stone and glass, in the Sylvan style, with a rooftop garden and a large bay window overlooking a country lane. A portico dominated the eastern side, and a pool occupied the rear. A postlight had been turned on to welcome her.

She recalled standing by the pool at that last meeting, sipping a lime drink—how odd that that detail would stay with her—in a group with Sheyel and another instructor and two or three students, and the subject had turned to the sorry state of human history: its long catalog of blood, desperation, corruption, missed opportunities, oppression, and often suicidal policies. And Sheyel had commented on what he perceived as a root cause:

There is, he’d said, an inverse correlation between the amount of power a person has and the level at which his or her mind functions. A person of ordinary intelligence who acquires power, of whatever kind, tends to develop an exaggerated view of his own capabilities. Sycophants gather. There is little or no criticism of decisions. As his ability to disrupt the lives of others advances, these tendencies become stronger. Eventually you end with Louis the Fourteenth, who thinks he’s done a good job for France, although the country he left behind was ruined.

The front door opened and Sheyel stepped outside. He looked up and waved at the descending cab. She waved back. The taxi eased down onto the pad and he came over to help her out.

“It’s good to see you, Kim,” he said. “I can’t tell you how indebted I am to you.”

“I’m glad I’ve been able to help.”

They stood in the bright afternoon sunlight, studying each other. He wore a dark blue loose-fitting shirt with long sleeves, and light gray slacks. She detected a pallor that hadn’t been apparent in the virtuals.

The cab lifted off. “What are your plans for the balance of the day?” he asked. “Can I entice you to stay for dinner?”

“That’s very kind of you, Sheyel,” she said. “I wish I could, but I’m on a tight schedule.”

“Pity,” he said, making way for her to go inside. Kim couldn’t remember the details of the furniture, but the book-lined walls were still there and the glass doors leading out onto the patio. And the framed copy of the Magister Folio, whose principles had formed the basis of the Articles.

“I was reminiscing about the times you had us over,” she said.

He seemed puzzled at the remark, and she wondered if he’d forgotten that he used to open his home to his students. “Yes,” he said finally. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” she said. “It was a good experience.”

“They have rules now that prevent off-campus gatherings.” He shrugged it away. “What can I get you to drink?”

She settled for a dark wine and they retreated to his study. “I’m sorry we don’t have more answers about Yoshi,” she said. “The police say they’re looking into it, but as I told you, I’m not confident.”

She wasn’t certain what he’d mixed for himself. It was lemon colored but it smelled of mint. “I understand, Kim. Did you learn anything about your sister?”

She hesitated, not sure what she’d learned. Something, certainly. “No,” she said. “Still no trace.”

“Are you feeling all right?” he asked. “I read the accounts. You almost lost your life.”

“It was a wild ride,” she admitted.

He sipped his drink. “We always wondered whether Yoshi had been injured in some way, wandered off, who knew?”

There were two framed pictures of her in the room: one as a child of about four standing outside in the patio, holding Sheyel’s hand; and a graduation photo, displaying all her elegance.

“For whatever consolation it may be,” Kim said, “it appears she died quickly.” The preliminary police report had not yet been officially released, and Kim really didn’t know whether Yoshi had suffered. Nevertheless it seemed like the right thing to say.

Sheyel gazed at her through watery eyes. “It’s a terrible thing to be cut down so young.”

Kim said nothing.

He gazed steadily at her. “I take it you didn’t just come to see how I was getting on. What have you to tell me?”

She looked steadily at him. “I have a question first.”

He leaned forward.

“When you originally came to me with this, you told me there was something loose in the Severin woods. That if I doubted you I should just go up and spend a few hours in the area.”

“Yes. I probably said something like that.”

“After dark, I think you said.”

“I don’t recall the conversation in detail.”

“‘I’ve felt it… Go look for yourself. But don’t go alone.’ That’s what you said.”