And now?

Mondrian, who made a god of accurate information, did not know. The apartment was no longer a place of peace and sanctuary. He stared around again, seeking the changes. Tatty was far more independent, he knew that. She had broken the Paradox habit, as far as anyone ever did. The scars of those barbs would still be within her, but no longer did the arrays of little purple ampoules decorate every room. And no longer was Mondrian’s every wish her command.

She had lived through Chan’s transformation in the Tolkov Stimulator. Was it that searing experience, affecting everything about her, that had made the difference? She refused to talk about it then. But would she change her mind, and talk about it now?

Mondrian did not know. That was the worst thing of all, Tatty had become unpredictable. He was no longer sure how she would react to his words, what she would say or do.

He knew the right solution. What cannot be controlled or destroyed must be banished. He had to make a complete break with Tatty. But he was not able to do it.

Mondrian stood at the threshold, thought of weakness, and felt an emotion he could not name. “I have them.” Tatty approached to lock the door behind him. “Are you ready to begin?”

Mondrian nodded. “Any time you want to.” It was there again, the change in her. No word of affection, or even of greeting. No tenderness, no loving touch. He pushed his own feeling of disappointment into the background. What had to be done was too important.

“It won’t all be bad, Esro.” She had sensed but misunderstood his black mood. “Just think of it as Earth sightseeing.”

“Most of it will be. But if Skrynol is right, one of those scenes is likely to jump out and murder me.”

“How will it affect you?”

“Skrynol cannot say. And if a Fropper doesn’t know, I wont even try to guess.” Mondrian gestured to the phial of anesthetic spray that Tatty had tucked into the waistband of her black trousered suit. “Keep that close to you, but don’t let me get my hands on it. I hope I won’t even try, but Skrynol says what we are after goes so deep that I may try murder or suicide before I’ll let it come up to the surface.” He sat down on the long reclining chair and leaned back in it. “No point in waiting. Go ahead as soon as you like.”

Tatty taped his wrists tight to the chair’s arm-rests. She attached electrodes to palms, fingertips, and temples, and microphones to his throat and chest. Finally she sat down where she could see the camera displays and Mondrian’s face.

Tatty turned on the recordings. Since he had given her no preferred order for the list of sites, she had made her own. The scenes of his early childhood were covered systematically, linking around the planet in a cross-cross pattern that spanned Earth from pole to pole. As the fancy struck her, at each location she had made her own voiceover on the three-D recordings, and added characteristic local sounds and smells.

She began with an area that sat firmly at the center of her own personal nightmares. Maybe Mondrian would share her horror of it. The Virgin lay in what had once been the American West. It formed a dumbbell of total devastation, a thousand miles long and three hundred wide. The Virgin’s Breasts were located at Twin Strikes, in the north. Matching ten-mile craters at the two points of ground zero defined the nipples. The broad hips to the south were formed by the fused circular plain of Malcolm’s Mistake. Tatty had flown over both areas, then set the car down midway between the two. “The Virgin’s Navel,” said her calm commentary. That was all. The place spoke for itself. The Navel was the most scarred and desolate spot on Earth’s surface.

In the first few years, before the fusion glows began to fade, the experts made their measurements and their predictions: Earth life-forms would not return to the Virgin’s Navel for more than a millennium.

They had been wrong, outrageously wrong. The first seeds had germinated in less than a decade. Within a generation, crocuses were blooming along the Navel’s steep banks and within the deep, damp floor.

And yet in some ways the experts had been vindicated. Today the Virgin teemed with its own plants and animals.

But no birds sang, no bees buzzed, no coyotes howled. The purple-veined crocuses, their blossoms reaching taller than a tall man, were all carnivorous. Life at the Virgin’s Navel was abundant; but it was silent and fierce, and it felt alien to Earth.

The camera scanned steadily across the rugged landscape. Mondrian looked on silently, while Tatty shuddered again at the scene that she had recorded, at plants stunted or grossly overblown; at misshapen animals that parodied Nature.

At last Mondrian spoke. “Did you know that you can see the outline of The Virgin from the Moon? I don’t think it’s the color of the ground. It must be the altered vegetation.”

His voice was calm. Tatty cut short the presentation. Much more of that scene, and Mondrian would have to use the anesthetic on her.

She moved to another one of her private hates. Mondrian had recalled being taken to the Antarctic when he was little more than a baby. He had unpleasant memories of it. So had Tatty, but hers were recent. The travel guides spoke only of the bursting polar summer, with the new hybrid grains running their full course from germination to harvest in less than thirty days of twenty-four-hour light. Tatty had come away with different visions. Of savage winds, age-old ice, and cruel black water lapping at the edge of the ice cap. Beyond the surf the killer whales waited, until the current crop of frozen corpses whose storage payments had not been made were brought from the frigid Antarctic catacombs and dropped into the dark water. To the orcas, humans were nothing more than a frozen, or occasionally clumsy and noisy, form of seal.

Her images did not catch that. The corpse drops were made when no observers were present. But she knew that they happened, and her recordings did catch to perfection the desperate haste of the short summer, as Nature raced to fill a complete cycle of seasons in a few short weeks of continuous sun. The rate of plant growth was so fast, it created an illusion of time-lapse photography.

Mondrian watched, as the field of view scanned across a great flock of emperor penguins standing at the water’s edge. Still he seemed fully relaxed. “If you don’t like it there now,” — he had seen the expression of Tatty’s face — “you ought to go there in winter. Can you imagine the life of one of those birds? They mate when it s a hundred below. Then they stand right there through the blizzards, balancing the egg on their feet.”

Tatty gave him an angry glare as the display left Antarctica. Mondrian seemed to be enjoying himself.

She moved on to Patagonia. To her surprise, that far-off tip of South America had proved to be fascinating, her second favorite of the dozen places she had visited. When Mondrian first told her what he needed it sounded like an impossible job, hundreds of millions of square kilometers to be surveyed.

He had — as usual — persuaded her that she was wrong. For although the centuries-long exodus from Earth had provided a safety valve against population growth, it had never been quite enough. Those left behind could always breed faster than people could leave. As most of the planet gradually became more densely peopled, it also became more homogeneous. There was no need for Tatty to make recordings of BigSyd or Ree-o-dee, because in all essentials they were identical to Bosny or to Delmarva Town. Mondrian’s wilderness memories could not be hiding there.

The only remaining candidates were the equatorial and polar reservations, plus a few other areas of Earth that were still sparsely populated for other reasons. The Kingdom of the Winds, which Tatty was showing now, was a good example. People could live there, in the bleak Patagonian shadow of the Andes; but few would choose to. The west winds that blew with incessant gale force from the cold mountain peaks created a psychological vacuum. Every generation the area was settled; every generation the settlements were abandoned after a few years.”