Grant.

Grant—being here, in Ari's keeping. That's what they're offering me— Grant's sanity—or my father's.

He looked up into Grant's face—far calmer, he thought, than his own, Grant's un-fluxed logic probably understanding there was no choice in his own situation.

I have faith in my makers.

"Grant comes with me," he said to Florian.

"No, ser," Florian said. "I have definite instructions. Please, pack just the essentials. Everything will be inspected. Grant will be safe here, with sera Amy. There will be Security: Quentin AQ is very competent, and sera Amy will have her friends for help here. No way will any general Security come onto this floor or interfere with the systems. No way will sera Amy do anything to harm Grant."

A gifted eighteen-year-old, with a thin, earnest face and a tendency to go at problems head-on: an eighteen-year-old who, he had always thought, liked him and Grant. Honest. And sensible as an eighteen-year-old had any likelihood of being.

God, they allwere. "It's a damn Children's Crusade," he said, and caught Grant's arm. "Do what they say. It'll be all right."

"No," he said in front of the cameras, in the lounge at Reseune airport. "No, I haven't been in contact with my father. I hope to get a call through—when we get to Novgorod. It's the middle of their night. They—" He tried, desperately, not to look nervous: Don't look guilty,Ari had said, before they left the bus. Don't look like you're hiding anything. You can be very frank with them, but for God's sake think about the political ramifications when you do it. Be very careful about making charges of your own, they can only muddy things up, and we have to rely on uncle Denys—we can't offend him, hear me?

"My father—is in Detention at the moment," he said, finding the pace of things too much, the dark areas too extensive. The truth seemed easier to sort out than lies were, if one kept it to a minimum. "All I can tell you—" No. Canmeant dangerous things. "All I know how to tell you—is that there's an inquiry. My father told me—at the time it happened—exactly what he told the Council. But there were things going on at the time—that might have been a reason. That's why I'm going to Novgorod. I don't know—Ari herself doesn't know—who's telling the truth now. I want to find out. Reseune Administration wants to find out."

"I can assure you," Ari said, beside him, "I have a very strong motive for wanting to know the truth in this case."

"Question for Dr. Warrick. Are you presently under any coercion?"

"No," Justin said firmly.

"You are a PR. Are you—in any way—more than that?"

He shook his head. "Standard PR. Nothing extraordinary."

"Have you ever been subject to intervention?" He had not expected that question. He froze on it, then said: "Psychprobe is an intervention. I was part of the investigation. There were a lot of them." They would question his sanity for that reason; and his reliability. He knew that. It would cast doubt on his license for clinical practice and cast a shadow on his research. He knew that too. The whole thing took on a nightmarish quality, the lights, the half-ring of reporters. He became quite placid, quite cold. "There was an illicit intervention when I was a minor. I've been treated for that. I'm not presently under drugs; I'm not operating under anyone's intervention. I'm concerned about my father and I'm anxious to get to Novgorod and answer whatever questions Council may have: I'm most concerned about my father's welfare—"

"Is he threatened in any way?"

"Ser, I don't know as much as you do. I'm anxious to talk with him. For one thing, I want to be sure what he did say—"

"You're casting doubt on his statement through Councillor Corain, as valid, or as coming from him."

"I want to be sure that he did send that message. I want to hear it from him. There are a lot of unanswered questions. I can't tell you what you want to know. I don't know."

"Sera Emory. Do you know?"

"I have ideas," Ari said, "but I'm being very careful of them. They involve people's reputations—"

"Living people?"

"Living and dead. Please understand: we're in the middle of a funeral. We've had charges launched and questions asked that depend on records deep in Archive, about things that are personal to me and personal to Justin—" She reached and laid her hand on his, clenched it. "We had come to our own peace with what happened. Justin's my friend and my teacher, and now we wonder what did happen all those years ago, and why Justin's father wouldn't have told himthe truth, if there was more to it. We don't understand, either one of us. That's why we're going outside Reseune. We're going to handle this at the Bureau level—at Council level, since they're the ones who did the first investigation, if we have to go that far. But it's not appropriate for us to investigate this on a strictly internal level. Dr. Warrick has made charges; they need to be heard in the Bureau. That's where we're going—and I think we ought to get underway, seri, thank you. Please. We'll have more statements later."

"Dr. Warrick," a journalist shouted. "Do you have any statement?" Justin looked at the man, blank for a fraction of a second until he realized that Dr. Warrick was the way the world knew him. "Not at the moment. I've told you everything I know."

Florian touched him as he got up, showed him a route through to the boarding area, for the plane that waited for them. RESEUNE ONE.

A solid phalanx of regular Security made a passage for them, an abundance of Security that clearly said: This is official; Administration is involved.

It answered to Ari. Giraud was a wisp of ash and a group of cells trying to achieve humanity; and meanwhile Ariane Emory was in charge, with all the panoply of Reseune's authority around her.

He went quickly through the doors, and down the corridor into the safeway and into the plane, where he stopped in confusion, until Florian took him by the arm and guided him to one of a group of leather seats, and settled him in.

"Would you like a drink, ser?"

"Soft drink," he said, while Ari was settling in opposite him, while the plane was starting engines and more Security was boarding.

"Vodka-and-orange," Ari said. "Thank you, Florian." And looking straight at him: "Thank you,"she said. "You handled that very well."

He gazed back at her in a virtual state of shock, thoughts darting in panic to the Security around him, the fear that one of them could simply pull a gun and spray the cabin; fear for Grant back in the apartment, that, no matter what Florian said about general Security not having admittance to that level, an eighteen-year-old girl was in charge, along with a Security guard no older than she was, and anything could happen; fear that something might be happening with Jordan; or that Paxer lunatics might somehow have rigged a missile that could take the plane out of the sky—

There was not a damned thing he could do, except say what he was supposed to say, trust. . . God, that was the hard part. Let go all the defenses, do whatever Ari told him, and hope that another eighteen-year-old knew better than he did how to handle the situation.

"I was seventeen," he said to Ari, quietly, while the engines were warming up, "when I thought I knew what I was doing well enough to send Grant to Krugers. You knowwhat that came to."