From a distance he appeared elegant and commanding, even though his face and scalp had been burned purple-red by hard radiation. Close up, Rebka could see that his lips and eyebrows jerked and twitched uncontrollably.

“Did you know he’d be here?” Rebka jerked a thumb below the window level of the car, so that the newcomer could not see it.

He did not need to mention the stranger’s identity. Members of the Alliance councils were seldom seen, but the uniform was familiar to every clade on every world in the spiral arm.

“No. But I’m not surprised.” Max Perry held the car door so that Rebka could step down. “We’ve been gone for six days, and his schedule fitted that time slot.”

The man did not move as Perry and Rebka stepped out of the car and hurried to shelter under the broad eaves. He folded his umbrella and stood for half a minute, ignoring the raindrops that spattered his bald head. Finally he turned to meet them.

“Good day. But not good weather. And I gather that it is getting worse.” The voice matched the man, big and hollow, with an edge of roughness overlaid on the sophisticated accent of a native of Miranda. He held out his left wrist, where identification was permanently imprinted. “I am Julius Graves. I assume that you received notice of our arrival.”

“We did,” Perry said.

He sounded ill at ease. The presence of a Council member from any clade was enough to make most people ponder their past sins, or realize the limits of their authority. Rebka wondered if Graves might have a second agenda for his visit to Opal. One thing he did know: Council members were kept desperately busy, and they did not like to waste time on incidentals.

“The information sheets did not provide details as to the reason for your visit,” he said, and held out his hand. “I am Captain Rebka, at your service, and this is Commander Perry. Why are you visiting the Dobelle system?”

Graves did not move. He stood silent and motionless for another five seconds. At last he inclined his bulging head to the two men, nodded, and sneezed violently. “Perhaps your question is better answered inside. I am chilled. I have been waiting here since sunrise, expecting the return of the others.”

Perry and Rebka exchanged glances. The others? And a return from where?

“They left eight hours ago,” Graves continued, “at the time of my own arrival. Your weather prediction indicates that a—” The deep-set eyes clouded, and there was a moment’s silence. “That a Level Five storm is heading for Starside Port. For strangers to Circle environments, such storms must be dangerous. I am worried, and I wish to talk to them.”

Rebka nodded. One question was answered. Darya Lang had been joined on Opal by more visitors from outside the Phemus Circle. But who were they?

“Better check the arrival manifests,” he said softly to Perry. “See what we’ve got.”

“Do that if you wish.” Graves stared at him; the pale blue eyes seemed to see right into Rebka’s head. The councilor flopped onto a chair of yellow cane and plaited reeds, sniffed, and went on. “But you do not need to check. I can assure you that Darya Lang of the Fourth Alliance has been joined on Opal by Atvar H’sial and J’merlia of the Cecropia Federation. After I met them I examined the backgrounds of all three. They are what they claim to be.”

Rebka did the calculation and started to open his mouth, but Perry was well ahead of him.

“That’s impossible!”

Graves stared, and the busy eyebrows twitched.

“One day, you said, since your arrival here,” Perry said. “If you sent an inquiry through the nearest Bose Network point as soon as you got here, and it was forwarded through the Nodes and answered instantly, the total turnaround time can’t be less than a full standard day — three Opal days. I know, I’ve tried it often enough.”

Perry’s quite right, Rebka thought. And he’s quicker than I realized. But he’s making a tactical error. Council members don’t lie, and it’s asking for trouble to accuse them of it.

But Graves was smiling for the first time since they had met. “Commander Perry, I am grateful to you. You have simplified my next task.” He pulled a spotless white cloth from his pocket, wiped the damp top of his hairless head with it, and tapped his massive and bulging brow.

“How can I know that, you ask. I am Julius Graves, as I said. But in a sense I am also Steven Graves.” He leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes for a few seconds, blinked, and went on. “When I was invited to join the Council, it was explained to me that I would need to know the history, biology, and psychology of every intelligent and potentially intelligent species in the whole spiral arm. That data volume exceeds the capacity of any human memory.

“I was offered a choice: I could accept an inorganic high-density memory implant — cumbersome and heavy enough that my head and neck would need a permanent brace. That is preferred by Council members from the Zardalu Communion. Or I could develop an interior mnemonic twin, a second pair of cerebral hemispheres grown from my own brain tissue and used solely for memory storage and recall. That would fit inside my own skull, posterior to my cerebral cortex, with minimal cranial expansion.

“I chose the second solution. I was warned that because the new hemispheres were an integral part of me, their efficiency for storage and recall would be affected by my own physical condition — how tired I was, or whether I had been taking stimulants of any kind. I tell you this so that you will not think I am antisocial if I refuse a drink, or that I am a valetudinarian, excessively concerned with my own health. I have to be careful about rest and recreational stimulants, or the mnemonic interface is impaired. And Steven does not like that.”

He smiled, and conflicting expressions chased themselves across his face, just as a sudden howl of wind hit the low building from outside. The fiber walls shivered. “For what I was not told, you see,” he went on, “was that my interior mnemonic twin might develop consciousness — self-awareness. It happened. As I said, I am Julius Graves, but I am also Steven Graves. He is the source of my information on Darya Lang and on the Cecropian, Atvar H’sial. Now. Can we proceed to other business?”

“Can Steven talk?” Rebka asked. Max Perry seemed to be in shock. One member of the Council poking around in one’s affairs was bad enough — now they had two of them. And was Julius Graves always in charge? From the changing expressions on his face, a continuous battle could be going on inside.

Graves shook his head. “Steven cannot talk. He also cannot feel, see, touch, or hear, except as I send my own sensory inputs to mnemonic storage through an added corpus callosum.

But Steven can think — better, he insists, than I can. As he tells me, he has more time for it. And he sends signals back to me, his own thoughts in the form of returning memories. I can translate those, well enough so that most people would believe Steven to be speaking directly. For instance.” He was silent for a few moments. When he spoke his voice was noticeably younger and more lively. “Hi. Glad to be here on Opal. No one said that the weather here would be so lousy, but one nice thing about being where I am, you don’t get wet when it rains.” The voice returned to its hollow, gravelly tone. “My apologies. Steven has a fondness for weak jokes and an appalling sense of humor. I fail to control both, but I do try to screen them. And I confess that I also allow myself to become too dependent on Steven’s knowledge. For instance, he holds most of our local information about conditions on this planet, while my own learning is sadly deficient. I deplore my own laziness.

“But now, may we continue with business? I am here on Dobelle regarding a matter for which humor is not at all appropriate.”