"There's a lot more islands down there than I remember from fifty years ago," said Ashly Hanson, the spaceplane's pilot. "The locals must keep on planting them, I suppose. They're still pretty keen on bitek here."

"So I hear." Tropicana wasn't Eason's ideal destination. But that was where the Lord Fitzroy was heading, the only starship departing Quissico asteroid for thirty hours. Time had been a critical factor. He'd been running out of it fast.

Eason paused to consider what the pilot said. "What do you mean, fifty years ago?" Ashly Hanson was a short man with a wiry build, a lax cap of brown hair flopping down over his ears, and a near-permanent smile of admiration on his lips. The universe had apparently been created with the sole purpose of entertaining Ashly Hanson. However, the pilot couldn't have been more than forty-five years old, not even if he'd been geneered.

"I time hop," he said, with the grin of someone relating his favourite unbelievable story. "I spend fifty years in zero-tau stasis, then come out for five to look around and see how things are progressing. Signing on with a starship is a good way to play tourist."

"No. I started way back in good old 2284, and now I'm on a one-way ride to eternity. There's been some changes, I can tell you. You know, I'm actually older than the Confederation itself."

"Jesus wept!" It was an incredible notion to take in.

Ashly's soft sense-of-wonder smile returned. Beyond the little spaceplane's windscreen, the planet's horizon curvature was flattening out as they lost altitude. Up ahead was the single stretch of habitable land on Tropicana. A narrow line of green and brown etched across the turquoise ocean, it straddled the equator at an acute angle, eight hundred kilometres long, though never more than fifty wide. A geological oddity on a tectonically abnormal planet. There was only one continent sharing the world, an arctic wilderness devoid of any aboriginal life more complex than moss; the rest of the globe was an ocean never deeper than a hundred and fifty metres.

Once Eason had accessed the Lord Fitzroy's almanac file, his initial worry about his destination slowly dissipated. Tropicana was surrounded by thousands of small islands, its government notoriously liberal. The one Adamist planet in the Confederation which didn't prohibit bitek.

It wasn't perfect, but it was better than most.

Ashly Hanson was increasing the spaceplane's pitch sharply to shed speed as they approached the land. Eason craned forwards to see the coastline. There was a big city below, a sprawl of low buildings oozing along the beach. They were trapped between the water and the mountains whose foothills began a few kilometres inland.

"That's Kariwak, the capital," Ashly said. "Used to be run by a man called Laurus last time I was here; one bad mother. They say his daughter's taken over now. Whatever else you do while you're here, don't cross her. If she's only half as bad as her old man you'll regret it."

"Thanks, I'll remember." He actually couldn't care less about some parochial urban gangster. His immediate concern was customs. Three innocuous dull-silver globes the size of tennis balls were sitting in a small case among his luggage. He'd agonized for hours if he should keep them with him. Getting them on board the Lord Fitzroy was no problem, the Party had plenty of supporters in Quissico's civil service. The spheres were disguised to look like super-density magnetic bearings used by the astronautics industry, he even had authentic documentation files confirming he was a rep for the company which made them. But if Tropicana customs had sensors capable of probing through the magnetic casing . . .

Kariwak spaceport was situated ten kilometres outside the city. It gave Eason his first taste of Tropicana's architectural aesthetics. All the buildings were designed to be as naturalistic as possible, subtle rather than ostentatious, even the maintenance hangars were easy on the eye. But it was a surprisingly big field given the size of the population. Tropicana received a lot of rich visitors, taking advantage of the relaxed bitek laws to visit specialist clinics offering rejuvenation techniques. As with the surroundings, customs were discreet and efficient, but not intrusive.

Forty minutes after landing, Eason was on an underground tube train carrying him into the city. Lord Fitzroy was scheduled to depart in two days' time, after that it would be extremely difficult for anyone to trace him. But not impossible, and those that would come looking were fanatical. It was that fanaticism which originally made him question the Party's aims, the doubt which started him along this road.

He left the train at a station right in the heart of the city, its escalator depositing him on a broad boulevard lined with geneered sequoias. The trees were only seventy years old but they were already towering above the department shops, restaurants, whitewashed cafés, and Mediterranean-style office blocks. He slipped easily into the crush of pedestrians that thronged its length, case held firmly in one hand, flight bag on a strap over the other shoulder.

The boulevard led directly down to the main harbour, a circular two-kilometre-wide basin, with glistening white coral walls. Half of it extended out into the shallow turquoise ocean, while the other half ate back into the city, where it had been surrounded by a chaotic mix of warehouses, taverns, marine supply shops, sportsboat hire stalls, agents' offices, and a giant fish market. Quays stabbed out into the transparent water like spokes from a wheel rim. Right at the centre a sad cone of weather-dulled titanium rose out of the soft swell, the empty shell of a cargo lander that had swung off course two and a half centuries earlier as it brought equipment down to the newly founded colony. Ships of all shapes and sizes sailed around it, bright sails drooping in the calm air.

He stared at them intently. Ranged along the horizon were the first islands of the archipelago. Out there, he could lose himself for ever among the sleeping atolls and their quiet inhabitants. The boats which docked at this harbour left no records in bureaucratic memory cores, didn't file destinations, owed no allegiances. This was a freedom barely one step from anarchy.

He started along the harbour's western wall, towards the smaller boats: the fishing ketches, coastal sampans, and traders which cruised between the mainland cities and the islands. He was sure he could find one casting off soon, although a few brief enquiries among the sailors revealed that such craft rarely took on deck hands; they were nearly all family-run concerns. Eason didn't have much money left in his bank disk, possibly enough for one more starflight if he didn't spend more than a couple of hundred fuseodollars.

He saw the girl before he'd walked halfway along the wall. She was in her mid-teens, tall bordering on gawky, wearing a loose topaz-coloured cotton shirt and turquoise shorts. Thick gold-auburn hair fell halfway down her back, styled with an Egyptian wave; but the humidity had drawn out its lustre, leaving it hanging limply.

She was staggering under the weight of a near-paralytic old man in a sweat-stained vest. He looked as though he weighed twice as much as she did.

"Please, Ross," she implored. "Mother'll sail without us."

His only answer was an inebriated burble.

Eason trotted over. "Can I give you a hand?"

She shot him a look which was half-guilt, half-gratitude. He'd guessed her face would be narrow, and he was right: a small flat nose, full lips, and worried blue eyes were all cocooned by her dishevelled hair.

"Are you sure?" she asked hopefully.

"No trouble." Eason put his flight bag down, and relieved her of the old man. He slung the old man's arm around his own shoulders, and pushed up. It was quite a weight to carry, the girl must be stronger than she looked.

"This way," she said, squirming with agitation.

"Take my flight bag, would you. And the name's Eason," he told her as they started off down the wall.

"Althaea." She blushed as she picked up his bag. "Shall I take your case for you as well?"

"No," he grunted. "I'll manage."

"I'm really grateful. I should have been back at the Orphée a quarter of an hour ago."

"Is it a tight schedule?"

"Oh no, but Mother likes to get home before dark. Visiting Kariwak takes a whole day for us."

"Should he be sailing in this condition?"

"He'll just have to," she said with a sudden flash of pique. "He does it every time we bring him. And it's always me who has to go looking in the taverns for him. I hate those places."

"Is this your father?"

She let out a guffaw, then clamped her mouth over her mouth. "I'm sorry. No, he's not my father. This is Rousseau. Ross. He lives with us, helps around the house and garden, things like that. When he's sober," she added tartly.

"Where do you live?"

"Mother and I live on Charmaine; it's an island out in the archipelago."

He hid a smile. Perfect. "Must be a tough life, all by yourselves."

"We manage. It won't be for ever, though." Her angular shoulders jerked in what he thought was supposed to be an apologetic shrug; it was more like a convulsion. Eason couldn't recall meeting someone this shy for a long while. It made her appealing, after an odd sort of fashion.

The Orphée was tied up to a quay near the gap in the harbour wall. Eason whistled in appreciation when he saw her. She was a trim little craft, six metres long, with a flat-bottomed wooden hull and a compact cabin at the prow. The two outriggers were smaller versions of the main hull, with room for cargo; all archipelago craft had them, a lot of the channels between islands were too shallow for keel fins.

Bitek units were dovetailed neatly into the wooden superstructure: nutrient-fluid sacs with ancillary organs in the stern compartment, a powerful-looking three metre long silver-grey serpent tail instead of a rudder, and a membrane sail whorled round the tall mast.

Althaea's mother was sitting cross-legged on the cabin roof, wearing a faded blue denim shirt and white shorts. Eason had no doubt she was Althaea's mother: her hair was much shorter, but the same colour, and though she lacked the girl's half-starved appearance her delicate features were identical. Their closeness was uncanny.

She was holding up an odd-looking pendulum, a slim gold chain that was fastened to the centre of a wooden disc, five centimetres in diameter. The disk must have been perfectly balanced, because it remained horizontal.

When Eason reached the quayside directly above the Orphée he saw the rim of the disc was carved with spidery hieroglyphics. It was turning slowly. Or he thought it was. When he steadied Ross and looked down properly, it was stationary.

The woman seemed absorbed by it.

"Mother?" Althaea said uncertainly.

Her gaze lifted from the disk, and met Eason's eyes. She didn't seem at all put out by his appearance.

He found it hard to break her stare; it was almost triumphant.

Rousseau vomited on the quay.

Althaea let out a despairing groan. "Oh, Ross!" She was close to tears.

"Bring him on board," her mother said wearily. She slipped the disc and chain into her shirt pocket.

With Althaea's help, Eason manhandled Ross onto a bunk in the cabin. The old man groaned as he was laid on the grey blankets, then closed his eyes, asleep at once.

Althaea put a plastic bucket on the floor beside the bunk, and shook her head sadly.

"What's the pendulum for?" Eason asked quietly. He could hear her mother moving round on the deck outside.

"Mother uses it for divining."

She pressed her lips together. "You can use divining to find whatever you wish, not just water—stones, wood, buried treasure, stuff like that. It can even guide you home in the fog, just like a compass. The disc is only a focus for your thoughts, that's all. Your mind does the actual work."

"I think I'll stick with an inertial guido."

Althaea's humour evaporated. She hung her head as if she'd been scolded.

"I'm Tiarella Rosa, Althaea's mother," the woman said after Eason stepped out of the cabin. She stuck her hand out. "Thank you for helping with Ross."

"No trouble," Eason said affably. Tiarella Rosa had a firm grip, her hand calloused from deckwork.

"I was wondering," he said. "Do you have any work available on Charmaine? I'm not fussy, or proud. I can dig ditches, pick fruit, rig nets, whatever."

Tiarella's eyes swept over him, taking in the ship's jumpsuit he wore, the thin-soled shoes, his compact but hardly bulky frame, albino-pale skin. "Why would you be interested, asteroid man?"

"I'm a drifter. I'm tired of asteroid biosphere chambers. I want the real thing, the real outdoors. And I'm just about broke."

"Yeah." Out of the corner of his eye he saw Althaea emerge from the cabin, her already anxious expression even more apprehensive.

"I can only offer room and board," Tiarella said. "In case you haven't noticed, we're not rich, either." There was the intimation of amusement in her voice.

Eason prevented his glance from slipping round the Orphée; she must have cost ten thousand fuseodollars at least.

"And the Orphée has been in the family for thirty years," Tiarella said briskly. "She's a working boat, the only link we have with the outside world."

"Right. Room and board would be fine."

Tiarella ruffled Althaea's hair. "No need to ask your opinion, is there, darling. A new face at Charmaine, Christmas come in April."

Althaea blushed crimson, hunching in on herself.

"OK, drifter, we'll give it a try."

Orphée's tail kicked up a spume of foam as she manoeuvred away from the quay. Tiarella's eyes were tight shut as she steered the boat via her affinity bond with the bitek's governing processors. Once they were clear, the sail membrane began to spread itself, a brilliant emerald sheet woven through with a hexagonal mesh of rubbery cords.

Outside the harbour walls they picked up a respectable speed. Tiarella headed straight away from the land for five kilometres, then slowly let the boat come round until they were pointing east. Eason went into the cabin to stow his flight bag. Rousseau was snoring fitfully, turning the air toxic with whisky and bad breath.

He unlocked the case to check on the spheres it contained. His synaptic web established a datalink with them, and ran a diagnostic. All three superconductor confinement systems were functioning perfectly, the drop of frozen anti-hydrogen suspended at the centre of each one was completely stable. The resulting explosion should one of them ever rupture would be seen from a million miles away in space. It was a destructive potential he considered too great.

The Quissico Independence Party had other ideas. It was the blackmail weapon they were going to use against the development company administration to gain full political and economic freedom for the asteroid. They had spent three years establishing contact with one of the black syndicates which manufactured antimatter. Three years of a gradually escalating campaign of propaganda and harassment against the development company.

Eason had joined the cause when he was still in his teens. Quissico was a highly successful settlement, with dozens of industrial stations and rich resources of minerals and organic chemicals. Its people worked hard and manufactured excellent astronautics equipment and specialist microgee compounds. That they were not allowed a greater say in how the wealth they created was spent was a deliberate provocation. They had made the founding consortium rich, paying off investment loans ahead of schedule. Now they should be permitted to benefit as the money cartels had.

It was a just cause. One he was proud to help. He was there giving beatings to company supervisors, taking an axe to finance division processor networks, fighting the company police. At twenty he killed his first enemy oppressor, an assistant secretary to the Vice-Governor. After that, there was no turning back. He worked his way through the Party ranks until he wound up as quartermaster for the movement's entire military wing. Over ten years of blood and violence.

He was already tiring of it, the useless pain and suffering he inflicted on people and their families. Gritting his teeth as the authorities launched their retaliations, erasing his friends and comrades. Then came the grand scheme, the Party's master plan for a single blow that would break the chains of slavery for good. Planned not by the military wing, those who knew what it was to inflict death; but by the political wing, who knew only of gestures and theoretical ideology. Who knew nothing.

A threat would never be enough for them. They would detonate some of the antimatter. To show their determination, their strength and power. In a distant star system, thousands would die without ever knowing why. He, the killer, could not allow such slaughter. It was insanity. He had joined to fight for people; to struggle and agitate. Not for this, remote-controlled murder.

So he stopped them in the simplest way he could think of.

Eason came back up on deck, and leant on the taffrail, allowing himself to relax for the first time in a fortnight. He was safe out here. Safe to think what to do next.

He'd never thought much past the theft itself; a few vague notions. That was almost as crazy as the Party's decision to acquire the stuff in the first place. Far too many people were acting on impulse these days.

Tropicana's ocean looked as if it had been polished smooth. The only disturbance came from Orphée's wake, quiet ripples which were quickly absorbed by the mass of water. He could see the bottom five metres below the boat, a carpet of gold-white sand. Long ribbons of scarlet weed and mushroomlike bulbs of seafruit rose up out of it, swaying in the languid currents. Schools of small fish fled from the boat like neon sparks. Out here, tranquillity was endemic.

Althaea sat on Orphée's prow, letting the breeze of their passage stream her hair back, a sensual living figurehead. Tiarella was standing amidships, staring at the islands ahead, straight-backed and resolute. Totally the ship's mistress.

Eason settled down in the stern, looking from one to the other, admiring them both, and speculating idly on which would be best in bed. It was going to be enjoyable finding out.

For three hours they moved deeper into the archipelago. Families had been planting the coral kernels around the mainland coast for over two centuries, producing their little island fiefdoms. They numbered in the tens of thousands now.

The larger, inhabited, islands were spaced two or three kilometres apart, leaving a broad network of channels to navigate through. Tiarella navigated Orphée around innumerable spits and reefs without even reducing speed.

Eason gripped the gunwale tightly as vicious jags of coral flashed past the outriggers. Most of the islands he could see had tall palm trees growing above the beaches. Some had just a few grand houses half-concealed through the lush vegetation, while others hosted small villages of wooden bungalows, whitewashed planks glowing copper in the sinking sun.

"There it is," Althaea called excitedly from the prow. She was on her feet, pointing ahead in excitement. "Charmaine." She gave Eason a shy smile.

The island was a large one, with a lot more foliage than the others; its trees formed a veritable jungle. Their trunks were woven together with a dense web of vines; grape-cluster cascades of vividly coloured flowers, fluoresced by the low sun, bobbed about like Chinese lanterns.

Eason couldn't see any beaches on this side. Several low shingle shelves were choked by straggly bushes which extended right down to the water's edge. Other than that, the barricade of pink-tinged coral was a couple of metres high.

Orphée was heading for a wooden jetty sticking out of the coral wall.

"What do you do here?" he asked Tiarella.

"Scrape by," she said, then relented. "Those trees you can see are all geneered citrus varieties, some of them are actually xenoc. We used to supply all the nearby islands with fruit, and some coffee beans, too; it gave the community a sense of independence from the mainland. Fishing is the mainstay in this section of the archipelago. Trees have a lot of trouble finding the right minerals to fruit successfully out here, even with geneering. There's never enough soil, you see. But my grandfather started dredging up seaweed almost as soon as the island's original kernel grew out above the water. It took him thirty years to establish a decent layer of loam. Then Dad improved it, he designed some kind of bug which helped break the aboriginal seaweed down even faster. But I'm afraid I've allowed the groves to run wild since my husband died."

She shrugged, uncoiling a mooring rope. "I didn't have the heart to carry on. Basically, I'm just hanging on until Althaea finds herself someone. It's her island really. When she has a family of her own, they can put it back on its feet."

The house was set in a dishevelled clearing about a hundred metres from the jetty. It was a two-storey stone building with climbing roses scrambling around the ground-floor windows and a wooden balcony running along its front. Big precipitator leaves hung under the eaves, emerald valentines sucking drinking water out of the muggy air. When he got close, Eason could see the white paint was flaking from the doors and window frames, moss and weeds clogged the guttering, and the balcony was steadily rotting away. Several first-floor windows were boarded up.

His situation was looking better by the minute. Two women, a drunk, and an isolated, rundown island. He could stay here for a century and no one would ever find him.

As soon as they walked into the clearing, birds exploded from the trees, filling the air with beating wings and a strident screeching. The flock was split between parrots and some weird blunt-headed thing which made him think of pterodactyls. Whatever they were, they were big, about thirty centimetres long, with broad wings and whiplike tails; their colours were incredible—scarlet, gold, azure, jade.

Rousseau clamped his hands over his ears, belching wetly.

"What the hell are those?" Eason shouted above the din.

Althaea laughed. "They're firedrakes. Aren't they beautiful?"

"I thought Tropicana didn't have any aboriginal animals; there isn't enough dry land for them to evolve."

"Firedrakes didn't evolve. They're a sort of cross between a bat, a lizard, and a parrot."

He gawped, using his retinal amps to get a better look at one; and damn it, the thing did look like a terrestrial lizard, with membranous wings where the forepaws should be.

"My father spliced the original ones together about forty years ago," Tiarella said. "He was a geneticist, a very good one."

"You could make a fortune selling them," Eason said.

"Not really. They can't fly very far, they only live for about three years, only a third of the eggs ever hatch, they're prone to disease, and they're not very sociable. Dad was going to improve them, but he never got round to it."

"But they're ours," Althaea said proudly. "Nobody else has them. They help make Charmaine special."

Eason walked into the ground-floor study the next morning. He was still kneading kinks out of his back; the bed in the fusty little back room they'd given him was incredibly hard. It was only for one night; Tiarella had told him he would be living in one of the grove workers' chalets.

The study, like the rest of the house, had dull-red clay floor tiles and whitewashed plaster walls. Several black and white prints of various sizes were hanging up. A big brass fan was spinning slowly on the ceiling.

Tiarella was sitting behind a broad teak desk. The only objects on the polished wood surface in front of her were a century-old computer slate, and a pack of cards with a fanciful design printed on the back—from what he could see it looked like a star map.

He sat in an austere high-backed chair facing her.

"About your duties," she said. "You can start by repairing the grove worker chalets. We have a carpentry shop with a full set of tools. Ross doesn't use them much these days. Are you any good with tools?"

He checked the files stored in his synaptic web. "I couldn't build you an ornamental cabinet, but cutting roofing timbers to length is no trouble."

"Good. After that I'd like you to start on the garden."

Tiarella picked up the pack of cards and started to shuffle them absently. She had the dexterity of a professional croupier. "We are getting a little bit too overgrown here. Charmaine might look charmingly rustic when you sail by, but the vines are becoming a nuisance."

He nodded at one of the big prints on the wall. It was of three people, a formal family pose: Tiarella when she was younger, looking even more like Althaea, a bearded man in his late twenties, and a young boy about ten years old. "Is that your husband?"

The cards were merged with a sharp burring sound. "Yes, that's Vanstone, and Krelange, our son. They died eighteen years ago. It was a boating accident. They were outside the archipelago when a hurricane blew up. They weren't found until two days later. There wasn't much left. The razorsquids . . ."

"It must have been tough for you."

"Yes. It was. I loved him like nobody else. Ours was a genuine till death do us part marriage. If it hadn't been for Althaea I would probably have killed myself."

He glanced up sharply, meeting a hard-set smile.

"Oh yes, it is possible to love someone that much. Enough so their absence is pure torture. Have you ever experienced that kind of love, Eason?"

"I don't know whether to envy you or pity you for that lack. What I felt for Vanstone was like a tidal force. It ruled my life, intangible and unbreakable. Even now it hasn't let go. It never will. But I have my hopes for Charmaine and Althaea."

"She's a nice girl. She should do well with this island, there's a lot of potential here. It's a wonderful inheritance."

"Yes, she has a beautiful future ahead of her. I read it in the cards."

"Are you a believer in tarot, Eason?"

"I like to think I can choose my own destiny."

"We all do at first. It's a fallacy. Our lives are lived all at once, consciousness is simply a window into time. That's how the cards work, or the tea leaves, or palmistry, or crystals for that matter. Whatever branch of the art you use, it simply helps to focus the mind."

"Yes, I think I've heard that already on this planet."

"The art allows me to see into the future. And, thank God, Althaea isn't going to suffer like I have done."

He stirred uncomfortably, for once feeling slightly out of his depth. Bereavement and isolation could pry at a mind, especially over eighteen years.

"Would you like to know what your future has in store?" she asked. The pack of cards was offered to him. "Cut them."

"Maybe some other time."

Rousseau walked him over to the chalet, following a path worn through an avenue of gloomy trees at the back of the house. The old man seemed delighted at the prospect of male company on the island. Not least because his share of the work would be considerably lessened. Probably to around about zero if he had his way, Eason guessed.

"I've lived here nearly all my life," Rousseau said. "Even longer than Tiarella. Her father, Nyewood, he took me on as a picker in the groves when I was younger than you. About fifteen, I was, I think." He looked up at the tangle of interlocking branches overhead with a desultory expression pulling at his flabby lips. "Old Nyewood would hate to see what's happened to the island. Charmaine's success was all down to him, you know, building on his father's vision. Half of these trees are varieties he spliced together, improvements on commercial breeds. Why, I planted most of them myself."

Eason grunted at the old man's rambling reminiscences. But at the same time he did have a point. There was a lot of fruit forming on the boughs in this part of the jungle, oranges, lemons, and something that resembled a blue grapefruit, most of them inaccessible. The branches hadn't been pruned for a decade, they were far too tall, even on those trees that were supposedly self-shaping. And the snarl of grass and scrub plants which made up the undergrowth was waist-high. But that was all superficial growth. It wouldn't take too much work to make the groves productive again.

"Why stay on, then?" Eason asked.

"For little Althaea, of course. Where would she be without me to take care of things? I loved Vanstone when he was alive, such a fine man. He thought of me as his elder brother, you know. So I do what I can for his daughter in honour of his memory. I have been as a father to her."

"Right." No one else would take on the old soak.

There were twelve chalets forming a semicircle in their own clearing. Rousseau called it a clearing; the grass came up over Eason's knees.

"My old chalet, the best of them all," Rousseau said, slapping the front door of number three.

"Shack, not a chalet," Eason mumbled under his breath. Two rooms and a shower cubicle built out of bleached planking that had warped alarmingly, a roof of thick palm thatch which was moulting, and a veranda along the front. There was no glass in the windows, they had slatted shutters to hold back the elements.

"I fixed up the hinges and put in a new bed last week," Rousseau said, his smile showing three missing teeth. "Tiarella, she told me fix the roof as well. With my back! That woman expects miracles. Still, now you're here, I'll help you."

Eason paused on the threshold, a gelid tingling running down his spine. "What do you mean, last week?"

"Last Thursday, it was, she told me. Ross, she said, get a chalet fixed up ready for a man to live in. It was a mess, you know. I've done a lot of work here for you already."

"Ready for me to live in?"

"Yes." Rousseau shifted unhappily from foot to foot as Eason stared at him.

"Did she mention me by name?"

"No. How could she? Listen, I made sure the toilet works. You don't have to run back to the house every time."

Eason reached out and grasped the front of Rousseau's vest. "What did she say, exactly?"

Rousseau gave him a sickly grin, trying to prise his hand loose. Sweat broke out on his forehead when he found just how implacable that grip was.

"She said there would be a man coming. She said it was the time and we should get ready. That's all, I swear."

Eason let go of his vest. "The time? What did she mean?"

"I don't know." Rousseau stroked the front of his vest down. "Tiarella, she's not . . . you know. Since Vanstone's death I have to make allowances. Half of what she says is mad. I wouldn't worry about it."

After Eason finished sweeping the chalet's floor and washing fungal colonies from the walls he sat on the cot-style bed and opened his case. The three confinement spheres were still functioning perfectly. Of course, there were only two modes, working and not working. If one of them ever did suffer a glitch, he'd never know about it. That still didn't stop him from checking. Their presence was heightening his sense of paranoia.

Tiarella worried him. How the hell could she know he would be coming out to Charmaine? Unless this was all some incredibly intricate trap. Which really was crazy. More than anyone he knew how the Party members operated. Sophistication was not part of the doctrine.

It was no good terrorizing Rousseau, that drunken fart didn't know anything.

"I brought you some cups and things," Althaea said. She was standing in the doorway, wearing a sleeveless mauve dress that had endured a lot of washes. A big box full of crockery was clutched to her chest. Her face crumpled into misery when he looked up, the heat of surprise in his eyes.

He closed the case calmly and loaded an access code into its lock. "It's all right, come in. I'm just putting my things away."

"I'm sorry, I didn't think. I always walk straight in to Mother's room."

"No trouble." He put the case into his flight bag and slipped the seal, then pushed the whole bundle under the bed.

"I knew Ross would never think to bring anything like this for you," she said as she began placing the dishes and cups on a shelf above the sink. "He doesn't even know how to wash up. I can bring some coffee beans over later. We still dry our own. They taste nice. Oh, you'll need a kettle, won't you. Is the electricity on here?"

He reached out and touched her long bare arm. "Leave that. Why don't you show me round the island?"

"Yes," she stammered. "All right."

Charmaine's central lagoon was a circle seven hundred metres across, with a broad beach of fine pink sand running the whole way round. Eason counted five tiny islands, each crowned with a clump of trees festooned in vines. The water was clear and warm, and firedrakes glided between the islands and the main jungle.

It was breathtaking, he had to admit, a secret paradise.

"The sand is dead coral," Althaea said as they walked along the beach. Her sandals dangled from her hand, she'd taken them off to paddle. "There's a grinder machine which turns it to powder. Mother says they used to process a whole batch of dead chunks every year when Father was alive. It took decades for the family to make this beach."

She gave him a cautious smile. "The lagoon's chock full of lobsters. It fills up through a vent hole, but there's a tidal turbine at the far end to give us all our power. They can't get past it so they just sit in there and breed. I dive to catch them, it's so easy."

"You must have been very young when your father died."

"It happened before I was born." Her lower lip curled anxiously under her teeth. "I'm seventeen."

"Yes, I'd worked that out. Seventeen and beautiful, you must knock the boys dead when you visit Kariwak."

Althaea turned scarlet.

"And you've lived here all your life?"

"Yes. Mother says the family used to have a plantation on Earth, somewhere in the Caribbean. We've always grown exotic crops." She skipped up on an outcrop of smooth yellow coral and gazed out across the lagoon. "I know Charmaine must look terribly ramshackle to you. But I'm going to wake it up. I'm going to have a husband, and ten children, and we'll have teams of pickers in the groves again, and boats will call every day to be loaded with fruit and coffee beans, and we'll have our own fishing smacks, and a new village to house everyone, and big dances under the stars." She stopped, drastically self-conscious again, hunching up her shoulders. "You must think I'm so stupid talking like that."

"No, not at all. I wish I had dreams like yours."

"What do you dream of?"

"I don't know. Somewhere small and quiet I can settle down. Definitely not an asteroid, though."

"But it could be an island?" She sounded hopeful.

Starship fusion drives twinkled brighter than stars in the night sky as Eason walked across the garden to the house. Only one of Tropicana's pair of small moons was visible, a yellow-orange globe low above the treetops and visibly sinking.

He went into the silent house, taking the stairs two at a time. When he reached Tiarella's bedroom door he turned the handle, ready to push until the lock tore out of the frame. It wasn't locked.

Moonlight shone in through the open window, turning the world to a drab monochrome. Tiarella was sitting cross-legged on the double bed, wearing a blue cotton nightshirt. The eccentric pendulum was held out at arm's length. She didn't show the slightest surprise at his presence.

Eason closed the door, aroused by the scene: woman waiting calmly on a bed. "You have something to tell me."

"How did you know I was coming? Nobody could know that. It was pure chance I bumped into Althaea back in the harbour."

"Chance is your word. Destiny is mine. I read it in the cards. Now is the time for a stranger to appear."

"You expect me to believe that crap?"

"How do you explain it, then?"

He crossed the room in three quick strides, and gripped her arms. The pendulum bounced away noisily as she dropped it.

"That hurts," she said tightly.

He increased the pressure until she gasped. "How did you know I was coming?" he demanded.

"I read it in the cards," she hissed back.

Eason studied her eyes, desperate for any sign of artfulness. Finding none. She was telling the truth, or thought she was. Cards! Crazy bitch.

He shoved her down on the bed, and glared down at her, angry at himself for the growing sense of vulnerability, the suspicion he was being manipulated. All this astrology shit was too far outside his experience.

The nightshirt had ridden up her legs. He let his eyes linger on the long provocative expanse of exposed thigh.

"Take it off," he said softly.

He knelt on the bed beside her, smiling. "You knew exactly what you were doing when you asked me out here, didn't you? Eighteen years is a long time." He stroked her chin, receiving another glimpse into that steely reserve, but this time there was a spark of guilt corroding the composure. "Yes," he said. "You knew what you were doing." His hand slipped down inside the nightshirt to cup her left breast. He enjoyed the fullness he found, the warmth.

"Don't push your luck," she said. "Remember, the only way off this island is the Orphée, and she's affinity-bonded to me. If you want to clear out ahead of whoever is hunting you, you do what you're told."

"What makes you think someone's after me?"

"Oh, please. Fresh off a starship, no money, desperate to get out of the city. I believe you're drifting."

"And you still let me on board."

"Because you were meant to be. It's your time."

"I've had enough of this crap. I think I'll go see Althaea. How do tall handsome strangers fit into her horoscope today?" He let go of her and stood up.

"Bastard. Don't you touch my daughter."

Eason laughed. "Give me a reason."

He waited until she started to unbutton the nightshirt, then tugged off his jeans and T-shirt.

Charmaine's daily routine was insidiously somnolent. Eason soon found himself lapsing into the same unhurried rhythm Rousseau used to approach any task. After all, there was nothing which actually needed doing urgently.

The old man showed him the outhouse which was fitted out as a carpentry shop. Its roof leaked, but the tools and bench jigs were in good condition, and there was plenty of power from the tidal turbine (Tropicana's moons were small, but they had a close orbit, producing a regular fluctuation in the ocean). It took him three days to fix up the chalet's frame properly, and repair the thatch roof. He had to junk a lot of the planking, cutting new wood from a stack of seasoned lengths. After that, he began to survey the remaining chalets. Two of them had rotted beyond repair, but the others were salvageable. He started to measure up, surprised to find himself enjoying the prospect of restoring them.

He decided it was because the work he was doing on Charmaine was practical. The first time in his life he had constructed rather than destroyed.

Althaea brought him an endless supply of fruit drinks when he was working on the chalets. She was eager to hear stories of life in the Confederation, gossip about the Kulu abdication, what asteroid settlements were like, details of a starship flight, the new colony worlds, wicked old Earth. The chilled fresh juice, the sweltering heat, Rousseau's continuing laziness, and her interest were good enough excuses to down tools.

He accompanied her when she went across to the lagoon, and watched her dive for lobsters. It was a ridiculous way to catch the things; a couple of pots would have brought an overnight bounty. But that wasn't the way of Charmaine. Besides, he enjoyed the sight of her stripping down to a bikini, almost unaware of her own sexuality. She was an excellent swimmer, long limbs propelling her sleekly through the water. Then she'd emerge glistening and smiling as she held up two new snapping trophies.

Tiarella took Orphée out sailing every two or three days, visiting the neighbouring islands. She and Ross would pick a couple of crates full of fruit from the accessible trees around the lagoon to trade, returning with fish, or cloth, or flour. She told him they only visited Kariwak every couple of weeks, carrying a cargo of lobsters to sell at the harbour's market, and buying essentials only available in the city.

She spent most of her days working on the Orphée. A lot of effort went into keeping the boat seaworthy.

Eason kept returning to her at night, though he was beginning to wonder why. After a week he was still no closer to understanding her. Island life had given her a great body, but she was lifeless in bed; appropriately, for she fantasized she was making love to a dead man. On the two occasions he had managed to rouse her, she called out Vanstone's name.

On the tenth day he turned down an invitation to sail with the three of them on a circuit of the nearby islands. Instead he spent the morning overhauling a mower tractor which he found in the cavernous shed used to garage Charmaine's neglected agricultural machinery. After he'd stripped down and reassembled the gearbox, and charged the power cell from the tidal turbine, he got to work on the lawn. Driving round and round the house, grass cuttings shooting out of the back like a green geyser.

When Althaea emerged from the trees late in the afternoon she gawped at the lawn in astonishment, then whooped and hugged him. "It looks wonderful," she laughed. "And you've found the lily pond!"

He'd nearly driven straight into the damn thing; it was just a patch of emerald swamp, with a statue of Venus in the centre, concealed by reeds. If it hadn't been for the frogs fleeing the tractor's blades he would never have guessed what it was in time.

"Will you get the fountain working again? Please, Eason!"

"I'll have a look at it," he said. Pressed against him, her lean body left an agreeable imprint through the thin fabric of her dress. Tisrella was giving him a stern frown, which he replied with a silent mocking smile.

Althaea took a step back, face radiant. "Thank you."

That night, Eason jerked awake as Tiarella's hand jabbed into his side.

"Get up," she hissed urgently.

It was gone midnight; a storm had risen to batter the archipelago. Huge raindrops pelted the windowpanes; lightning flares illuminated the garden and its palisade of trees in a stark chiaroscuro. Thunder formed an almost continuous grumble.

"They're here," she said. "They're docking at the jetty, right now."

"Who's here?" His thoughts were still sluggish from sleep.

"You tell me! You're the one they're after. No one with honest business would try to sail tonight."

"Then how do you know anyone's here?"

Tiarella had closed her eyes. "Orphée has a set of dolphin-derived echo receptors fitted under her hull. I can see their boat, it's small. Ah, they've hit the jetty. It's wobbling. They must be getting out. Yes . . . yes, they are."

The Party! It couldn't be anyone else, not creeping up in the middle of the night. Conceivably it was comrades he'd once fought with, although contract killers were more likely.

Eason's training took over: assess, plan, initiate. He cursed violently at being caught out so simply. Ten days was all it had taken for Charmaine's cosy existence to soften him. He should have moved on immediately, broken his trail into chaotic segments which no one could piece together.

"There's three of them," Tiarella said, her eyes still tight shut.

"How do you know that?"

"Three!" she insisted.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Stay here," he ordered. "You'll be safe. They only want me." He rolled out of bed and shoved the window open, climbing out on to the balcony, still naked. Retinal amps scanned the freshly cut garden. Nothing was moving.

At least the rain and wind would hinder them slightly. But it still didn't look good.

Eason scrambled down one of the balcony pillars, rust flakes scratching his palms and thighs. He raced across the lawn, desperate to reach the cover of the trees, slipping three times on the sodden grass. Thorns tore at his legs as he sprinted into the undergrowth. There was no sign of the intruders yet.

He forced his way through the mass of clawing vegetation until he was ten metres from the path to the jetty, then started to climb the gnarled trunk of an orange tree. The branches were dense, unyielding, but he twisted and wriggled his way through them, feeling them snap and bend against his ribs. He finally stopped when he'd manoeuvred himself above the path.

Thunder and lightning swamped his senses. He was totally dependent on his retinal amps now, praying they could compensate for the storm. The infra-red function rewarded him with a large hot-spot creeping along the sombre tunnel formed by the overgrown trees. It resolved into a human shape, a man. He held his breath. If he could see the man, then he was visible, too. It had been a stupid move; he'd gambled on the attackers being closer to the house by now.

But the man was only a couple of metres away, and showed no awareness of Eason. He was wearing dark oilskins and a broad-brimmed hat, cradling some kind of rifle. Hick-boy out hunting.

This wasn't any kind of professional operation. Which made even less sense.

Someone else was floundering through the undergrowth parallel to the path, making enough noise to be heard above the thunder and the rain. The man on the path walked directly under Eason, and kept on going. There was a commotion away towards the ocean. Someone screamed. It choked off rapidly, but not before Eason got an approximate fix.

"Whitley? Whitley, where the hell are you?"

That was the one Eason had heard blundering about, shouting at the top of his voice.

"Come on, let's get out of these bloody trees," the one on the path yelled in answer. "Now shut up, he'll hear us."

"I can't fucking hear us! And what happened to Whitley?"

"I don't bloody know. Tripped most likely. Now come on!"

The figure on the path started to advance again. Eason landed behind him as thunder shook the creaking trees. He focused, and punched. Powered by an augmented musculature, his fist slammed into the back of the man's neck, snapping the spinal cord instantly, shoving fractured vertebrae straight into his trachea, blocking even a reflex grunt from emerging.

The body pitched forward, squelching as it hit the muddy path. Eason snatched up the rifle, checking it in a glance. His synaptic web ran a comparison search through its files, identifying it as a Walther fluxpump. Basically, a magnetic shotgun which fired a burst of eighty steel pellets.

The breech was fully loaded with twenty-five cartridges. Satisfied, Eason plunged back into the undergrowth, crouching low as he closed the gap on the second intruder.

The man was leaning against a tree trunk at the edge of the lawn, peering through the branches at the house. Eason stood three metres behind him, pointed the fluxpump at his legs, and fired.

"Jesus God, you shot me! You fucking shot me. I can't feel my legs!"

It was another bovine islander, same as the first. Eason shook his head in wonder, and moved the fluxpump's barrel slightly. "In three seconds you won't feel your prick if you don't answer me. Now who are you?"

"Don't! God, I'm called Fermoy. Fermoy, OK?"

"Right. Well done, Fermoy. So what are you and where do you come from?"

"I'm a shipwright over on Boscobel."

"An island, nine kilometres away. God, my legs!"

"What are you doing here, Fermoy?"

"We came for the man. You."

"You're wanted. There must be money for you."

"And you thought you'd collect?"

"Who were you going to give me to, Fermoy?"

"You were running from Kariwak. We thought she must want you. You wouldn't be running, else."

"Who told you I was running?"

Eason stared down at him, teeth bared in rage. That drunken shithead. He'd been safe on Charmaine, home dry. He made an effort to calm down. "When did he tell you?"

"This morning. We were drinking. It came out. You know what he's like."

"How many of you came?"

"Three, just three."

So Tiarella had been right about that. "And how many people on Boscobel know I'm here?"

"Right. Well, thanks, I think that's covered everything."

The third bounty hunter, Whitley, was easy to find. He lay, strangely motionless, in the centre of a broad circle of mangled undergrowth. Eason took a couple of cautious steps towards him, fluxpump held ready.

A vivid lightning bolt sizzled overhead.

Whitley was wrapped from his neck downwards in what looked like a spiral of tubing, thirty centimetres thick, jet black, glistening slickly. He was gurgling weakly, drooling blood. Eason squinted forward, every nerve shrieking in protest, and switched his retinal amps to infra-red. The coil of tubing glowed pale crimson, a length of it meandered through the broken grass.

The snake's head reared up right in front of him. It was a demonic streamlined arrowhead seventy centimetres long, the jaw open to show fangs the size of fingers. A blood-red tongue as thick as his forearm shot out, vibrating eagerly.

Training or not, Eason lurched back in terror.

"Solange won't hurt you," Tiarella shouted above the storm. "He's affinity-bonded to me."

She was standing behind him, her rain-soaked nightshirt clinging like a layer of blue skin.

"That thing is yours?"

"Solange? Yes. He's another of my father's designs. But I'm not sure he was supposed to grow this big. He does eat rather a lot of firedrakes, you see."

The real horror was the lightness of her tone. So matter-of-fact. Crazy bitch!

Eason took another couple of steps back. The snake had been on the island the whole time. She could have set it on him whenever she wanted and he would never have known. Not until the very last instant when it came rustling out of the thick concealing undergrowth.

"Do you want to question this one?" Tiarella asked, gesturing at Whitley.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

Whitley started screaming again as the coils round him flexed sinuously. The sound was swallowed up by the crack of snapping bones, a sickeningly wet squelching. Eason looked away, jaw clenched.

"I'll take their boat out and scuttle it," Tiarella said. "Everyone will think the storm capsized them. You can bury the bodies. Somewhere where Althaea won't find them, please."

"She asked me how old I thought you were," Rousseau slurred, then burped. "I said thirty, thirty-five. Around there."

"Thanks a lot," Eason said. He was sitting with the old man, their backs against a fallen tree trunk on the lagoon's beach as the gloaming closed in. A bottle of Rousseau's dreadful home-brew spirits had been passed to and fro for over an hour. Eason wasn't drinking any more, though he made it look like he was.

"You're a good man. I see that. But Althaea, I love her. The two of you together, it's not right. Who knows how long you're gonna stay, eh? These people, your enemies, they could find you. Even here."

"She would cry if you left her. She would cry more if you were taken away from her. You understand? I couldn't stand to see her cry. Not my little Althaea."

"Of course. Don't worry. I like Tiarella."

"Ha!" He coughed heavily. "That's a mistake, too, my friend. She's a harsh, cold woman, that Tiarella. Cracked up completely after her Vanstone died. Never shown a single emotion since, not one. She won't be interested in you."

Eason grunted his interest and passed the bottle back. A sheet of low cloud hid the stars and moons. Balmy warmth and serenity were a profound contrast to the storm of the previous night. "She loves Althaea, that's an emotion."

Rousseau took a long swig, his eyelids drooping. "Crap. Loves nobody else, not even her own children." He took another swig, the liquid running down his stubble. "Gave one away. Said she couldn't afford to keep it here. I pleaded, but she wouldn't listen. Damn ice woman. Never thanks me for what I do, you know. Kept Charmaine going, I have. All for my little Althaea, not her." He started to slide over, the bottle slipping from his fingers.

Eason put out a hand to steady him. "Gave one what away?"

Rousseau only mumbled, saliva bubbling from his mouth. His eyes had closed.

"Gave what away?" Eason shook him.

"Twins. She had twins," Rousseau sighed. "Beautiful twins." Then every muscle went limp; he sprawled on the sand as Eason let go.

Eason looked at him for a long moment. Pathetic and utterly harmless. But he was a liability.

He scanned his retinal amps round the edge of the lagoon, searching for the tell-tale rosy glow that would reveal Solange watching him. All he could see was the black and grey of the tangled trees.

Rousseau was so drunk he didn't even react to having his head immersed in the water. Eason held him under for two minutes, then waded out and started to sweep away the incriminating tracks in the sand.

They held the funeral two days later. A dozen people attended from the neighbouring islands, staid men and women in sturdy clothes gathered round the grave. Althaea leant against her mother the whole time, sobbing softly. The ceremony was conducted by Lucius, a forty-year-old deacon from Tropicana's Orthodox Church, an archipelago-based sect which had split from the Unified Christian Church a century and a half earlier. He was a broad-shouldered, powerful man who captained the Anneka, one of the Church's traders.

Along with three men from the islands, Eason lowered the coffin he had built into the hole while Lucius led the singing of a hymn. The coffin came to rest on a bedrock of coral one and a half metres down.

After the mourners departed, Eason shovelled the rich loam back in, two of the men helping him. Nobody questioned his presence. He was the new labourer Tiarella had taken on, that was enough for them.

It started him thinking. He'd only possessed the most generalized notion for the future when he stole the Party's antimatter. Dump it harmlessly in interstellar space, start over somewhere else. No destination in mind, simply a place where he could live without ever having to watch his back.

Looking around, he didn't think he could find a more Arcadian location than the archipelago to live. It was just the lifestyle which was the problem, this vaguely sanctimonious poor-but-proud kick which the islanders shared. That and a snake which even hell would reject.

But changes could be made, or paid for, and snakes were not immortal.

The wake was a mawkish, stilted ordeal. Conversation between the islanders was limited to their fishing and the minutiae of large family genealogies. Althaea sat in a corner of the lounge, her mouth twitching in a kind of entreating helplessness if anyone offered their condolences. Even Tiarella allowed her relief to show when it limped to its desultory conclusion.

"I've arranged with Lucius for a picking team to visit us next month," Tiarella told Eason after they saw off the last of the boats. "They'll be coming from Oliviera, that's one of the Church's parish islands about twelve kilometres away. They usually come about twice a year to pick whatever fruit is ripe. Some of the crop is handed round to other parishes, the remainder is sold to a trader in Kariwak and we split the proceeds."

"Couldn't you find yourself a better partner than the Church?" he asked.

She cocked her head to one side, and gave him a derisive look. "It was the Church which looked after Vanstone when he was a boy, he grew up in their orphanage."

"Right." He gave up. Rousseau had been right, she was too odd.

"I don't accept their doctrine," she said. "But they make decent neighbours, and they're honest. Oliviera also has several parishioners who are Althaea's age. Their company will be good for her; she deserves something to cheer her up right now."

Both moons were in the sky that night, casting an icy light that tinted Charmaine's trees and foliage a dusky grey. Eason found Althaea arranging a garland of scarlet flowers on Rousseau's grave, a quiet zephyr twirling her loose mane of hair. The dark blouse and skirt she had worn for the funeral seemed to soak up what little light there was, partially occluding her with shadows.

She stood up slowly when he arrived, making no attempt to hide her dejection. "He wasn't a bad man," she said. Her voice was husky from crying.

"I suppose something like this was bound to happen."

"Don't dwell on it. He really loved you. The last thing he'd want was for you to be unhappy."

He kissed her brow, and began to undo the buttons on her blouse.

"Don't," she said. But even that was an effort for her.

"Shush." He soothed her with another kiss. "It's all right, I know what I'm doing."

She simply stood there with her shoulders slumped, as he knew she would. He finished unbuttoning her blouse, and pushed the fabric aside to admire her breasts. Althaea looked back at him, numb with grief.

"I can't make you forget," he said. "But this will show you your life has more to offer than grief."

He led her, unresisting, back through the unruly trees to his chalet.

The parishioners from Oliviera were a chirpy, energetic bunch. There were twenty of them, trooping down the jetty from Anneka's deck: teenagers and adolescents, loaded up with backpacks and wicker baskets. After Charmaine's usual solitude they were like an invading army.

Eason had prepared a section of the island ready for them, determined the harvesting arrangement would be a prosperous one for both sides. It'd been a hectic, happy time for him since the funeral.

After the sun fell, Althaea would slip away from the house, returning night after night to the darkness and heat of his chalet. She was a sublime conquest—youthful, lithe, obedient. Taking her as his lover was sweet revenge on Tiarella. Replaced by her own daughter. She must have known, lying alone in her own bed as Althaea was ruthlessly corrupted in his.

By day, the two of them set about righting Charmaine. Eason renovated a rotary-scythe unit which fitted on the front of the mower tractor. He and Althaea took it in turns to drive the vehicle through the grove of citrus trees which was fruiting, blades hacking at the thick tangle of vines and low bushes, terrorizing the parrots and firedrakes. The chips were cleared away and piled high, making bonfires which burned for days at a time. Now they were left with broad clear avenues of trunks to walk down. That one section of island, two hundred metres long, stretching right across the saddle of coral between the lagoon and the ocean, was almost back to being a proper grove instead of a wilderness. Crooked branches still knotted together overhead, but all the fruit was accessible. Pruning could wait until later; his synaptic web didn't have any files on that at all.

"We'll need another boat to cope with the load," Lucius said after they'd filled the Anneka's outrigger holds by the middle of the afternoon on the first day. "We normally only get three or four boatloads out of the whole week. I wish I'd brought a bigger team now, as well. You've done a good job improving things here, Eason."

Eason tipped back the straw hat which Althaea had woven for him, and smiled. "Thank you. Can you get hold of another boat?"

"I'll put in at the cathedral island this evening, ask the Bishop to assign us a second. It shouldn't be a problem."

At night the picking team gathered on the lawn. Tiarella had set up a long open-range charcoal grill. They ate lobsters and thick slices of pork, washed down with juice and wine. After the meal they sang as a moon arched sedately across the sky, and the fountain sent a foaming white jet seven metres up into the air.

Althaea was in her element as she moved between the groups with a tray, her face animated in a way Eason had never seen before. Still later, when they had stolen away to make love in the jungle beyond the restored grove, he lay back on his blanket and watched her undressing, skin stippled by moonlight filtering through the thick canopy of leaves, his resolve crystallized. Her body, a rewarding challenge, beautiful location, it didn't get any better. He was going to stay.

Eason didn't see them together until the third day. It was a lunch break, and he'd just walked back from the jetty to help himself to the sandwiches Tiarella had made in the kitchen. Through the window he could see most of the garden.

Althaea was sitting in the shade of a eucalyptus tree with one of the parishioners, a lad in his teens. They were talking avidly, passing a chillflask to and fro. Her easiness with the lad irritated Eason. But he made a conscious effort to keep his feelings in check. The last thing he wanted was a scene which would draw attention and comment.

When his retinal amp focused on the lad's face, Eason could see a disturbing amount of adoration written there. Fair enough, she was divine after all. But there was something about his features which was familiar: he had a broad face, strong jaw, longish blond hair, clear blue eyes—a real charmer. Faces were Eason's business, and he'd seen that face once before, recently. Yet offhand he couldn't even point in the direction Oliviera lay.

It was Althaea who introduced him to the lad. His name was Mullen, he was seventeen, polite and respectful, if slightly overeager. It was an engaging combination. Eason found himself warming to him.

The three of them sat together for the meal that night, biting into broad slices of pineapple coated in a tart sauce, drinking a sweet white wine. Tiarella sat on the other side of the grill, her outline wavering in the heat shimmer given off by the glowing charcoal. Her gaze was locked on them.

"So how many times have you come here to pick?" Eason asked.

Mullen tore his attention away from Althaea. "This is my first time. It's wonderful. I've never seen a firedrake before."

"Where were you living before Oliviera?"

"Nowhere. I've always lived there. This is the first time I've been anywhere except for other parish islands, and they're pretty much the same."

"You mean you've never been on the mainland?" he asked, surprised.

"Not yet, no. I'm probably going to go next year, when I'm eighteen."

"You've got a real treat in store," Althaea said. "Kariwak's a riot; but just make sure you count your fingers after you shake hands."

"Really?" Mullen switched his entire attention back to her.

Eason felt lonely, out of it. The truth was, their conversation had been incredibly boring all evening. They talked about nothing—the antics of the firedrakes, weather, which fish they liked best, how the picking was progressing. Every word was treated as though it had been spoken by some biblical prophet.

He was also very aware of the way Mullen's eyes roamed. Althaea was wearing just her turquoise shorts and a cotton halter top. It was distracting enough for him, so Heaven knew what it was doing to Mullen's hormones—the other boys from the parish, too, for that matter. He ought to have a word with her about it.

When he looked round the garden, Tiarella was still staring at him; her face sculpted, immobile. Maybe she was finally realizing her time was coming to an end. After eighteen years of stagnation and inertia it would be a jolt for any personality.

He allowed Mullen and Althaea to babble on for another ten minutes, then plucked at her halter strap. "Come on."

She glanced at him, frowning as he rose to his feet, slapping sand and grass from his jeans. "Oh . . . not just yet."

"Yes. We need to get some sleep afterwards." He let an impish grin play over his lips, and picked up their blanket.

Althaea blushed as she glanced at Mullen, lips twitching into an embarrassed smile.

"Come on." Eason clicked his fingers impatiently.

"I'll see you both tomorrow," the lad mumbled.

"Sure. Good night." He steered Althaea towards the black picket of trees. He liked Mullen, but the lad had to understand exactly who she belonged to.

"That was very rude," Althaea whispered.

His free arm went round her shoulder. "Not as rude as what I'm about to show you in a minute."

Althaea fought against a grin as he tickled her ribcage. Her finger poked him in retaliation. "Rude!"

He looked back as he reached the trees. The glowing charcoal was spilling a pool of tangerine radiance over the lawn. It showed him Mullen covering his face with his hands, shoulder muscles knotted. And Tiarella, who hadn't been staring at him after all, because her eyes had never moved when he and Althaea departed. She was watching Mullen.

When the lad's hands slipped back down to reveal a crestfallen expression, the corners of her mouth lifted into a serene smile.

Eason stood on the jetty, his arm around Althaea as they waved goodbye to the Anneka. The parishioners were leaning over the gunwale, waving back, shouting farewells which were scrambled by the wavelets lapping against the coral.

Tiarella started walking back to the house. Eason turned to follow, and gave Althaea a reassuring hug, noting a certain wistfulness in her eyes. "Don't worry, I'm sure your new boyfriend will be in touch. He's madly in love with you, after all." He grinned broadly to show he understood.

Althaea shot him a look of pure venom, then her face became the identical blank mask which defended Tiarella from the world.

"Hey, listen—" he began.

But she shook herself free and ran off down the jetty. He stared after her in consternation.

Tiarella arched her eyebrow. "It's not what you say, it's what you are."

"You make me out as some kind of ogre," he snapped, suddenly exasperated with her, the unending stream of oblique remarks.

"In medieval times that's exactly what you would be."

"Name one thing I've done to hurt her."

"You wouldn't dare. We both know that."

"With or without your threats, I wouldn't hurt her."

Her lips compressed as she studied him. "No, I don't suppose you would. I never really thought about how you would be affected by your time here. I should have done."

"My time? You make it sound finite."

"It is. I told you that the day you came."

"Your fucking cards again!" Crazy bitch!

Tiarella shrugged and sauntered off down the path to the house.

He slept alone that night, for the first time since the funeral. Guilt soaked his mind as he lay on the cot, yet he still didn't know what it was he'd done.

The next morning over breakfast she gave him a timid smile, and he glossed over any awkwardness with an enthusiastic account of how he intended to clear all the island's old service tracks with the mower tractor. Then they'd be able to start attending to the coffee bushes.

That night he welcomed her back to his bed. It wasn't the same; she had become reserved. Not physically, as always her body was defenceless against his skill and strength. But somewhere deep inside her thoughts she was holding herself back from him. No matter how exquisite their lovemaking was she no longer surrendered completely.

It took a certain amount of nerve to walk into the Kulu Embassy carrying three antimatter-confinement spheres. Eason was pleased to find himself perfectly calm as the glass doors of the reception area closed behind him. He asked the girl behind the desk for an interview with the military attaché, only to be told the Kingdom had no military ties with Tropicana.

"What about a police or security liaison officer?" he asked. "Surely you cooperate in tracking down criminals?"

She agreed they did, and asked for his name.

He handed over his passport, proving if nothing else that he was a bona fide citizen of Quissico. "And could you also say I'm a senior member of the Independence Party." He smiled warmly at her flustered expression.

Three minutes later he was in a plain second-floor office with a window wall overlooking Kariwak's eastern quarter. The man sitting on the other side of the marble desk introduced himself as Vaughan Tenvis, of indistinct age, but certainly under fifty. He wore a conservative green suit, but filled it out in a way that suggested he spent a lot of time away from the office performing more physical tasks than accessing files.

"I need to speak to a representative of the Kingdom's External Security Agency," Eason said. "And please, I don't want the bullshit stalling routine."

"Sounds reasonable," Vaughan Tenvis said with a dry smile. "If you're quite sure you want that much honesty. Suppose you tell me why I should allow a known terrorist organization's quartermaster to walk out of here alive?"

"Because I don't want to be the quartermaster any more. And I've done you a favour."

"Ah. And there I was thinking you were going to threaten me with whatever it is you have in your case. Our sensors couldn't quite get through the magnetic covering."

"No threats. I just want to do a deal."

"The Kulu Corporation is one of the major investors in the Quissico Development Company, that makes it a target for my Party. I came to you because the ESA is more than capable of neutering the Party if it has sufficient reason."

"Very flattering. But contrary to rumour, we don't go around terminating everyone who has a quarrel with the Kingdom. Bluntly, you're too small and petty to warrant any effort. We monitor you, that's all."

"Not very well. Our Party acquired some antimatter. The Kulu Corporation's administrative centre on StAlbans is the first intended target."

"Antimatter . . ." Vaughan Tenvis stared in shock at the case resting on Eason's lap, his hands gripping the side of his chair. "Holy shit!"

The risk of coming to the embassy was worth it, just to see the horror cracking the suave agent's face.

"As I said, I've done you a favour." Eason put the case on Vaughan Tenvis's desk. "That's all of it. I'm sure the Kingdom has the appropriate facilities to dispose of it."

"I would appreciate two things in return."

"One, your agency's gratitude."

Vaughan Tenvis let out a long breath, and swallowed hard. "Gratitude?"

"I expect to be left alone by you in future, Mr Tenvis."

"Sure. OK, I can swing that."

"I'd also like a reward. That antimatter cost the Party eight million fuseodollars. I'll settle for one million. You can pay me in Kulu pounds if you like; and I'll throw in the codes for the confinement systems. I'd hate you to have any accidents with them now we're friends."

Tenvis paid him in Kulu pounds. With the current conversion rate, he wound up with eight hundred thousand in his bank disk. Not bad for forty minutes' work. Forty minutes to erase his life.

Eason was back on board the Orphée an hour later, after a shopping expedition through the fancy shops of Kariwak's main boulevard. He picked Althaea up, and spun her around, kissing her exuberantly. Tiarella gave him a sour glance as she cast off. He even smiled at her.

The department store's big carrier bag was slapped down on the roof of the cabin with considerable panache. "I bought some essentials," he said as they were passing the ancient landing craft in the middle of the harbour. Althaea gasped in delight as he pulled out a couple of bottles of champagne, and three crystal glasses. Packs of honey-roast ham followed, then steaks, imported cheeses, exotic chocolates, ice-cream cartons cloaked in frost.

"You'll be sick if you eat all that lot," Tiarella grunted.

He pulled a face at Althaea, who bit back on her giggles.

"I got something for you, too," he said. "Actually, for us." He held out the flat red leather jewellery case.

Althaea opened it cautiously. There were two platinum lockets resting on the black velvet inside.

"It's for hair," he told her. "You snip off a few strands of your hair for mine, and I do the same for you. If you want."

She nodded eagerly. "I do."

"Good." Finally, he produced a square box, and gave Tiarella a pointedly dubious look before he eased the lid off a fraction to show Althaea what was inside. Her eyes flashed as she saw the tiny white-silk negligée. She hugged him tightly, and licked his ear mischievously. Closer than she had been for a week.

They sat together on the cabin roof, back to back, sipping champagne as Orphée cut through the water. He could feel the tension slipping away as the mainland fell behind.

It wouldn't be long, a month at most, before there was nothing left of the hardliners of the Quissico Independence Party. Vaughan Tenvis was right to say the ESA's main activity was collecting information; but if it ever found a threat to the Kingdom it acted with terrifying efficiency to eliminate it. Nobody would come for him now.

The just cause would go on, of course, led by whoever survived. Moderates and compromisers, those who lacked fire. And in another thirty-five years Quissico would be an independent state, just as the founding charter promised.

One chapter of his life had closed irrevocably. He was free to embrace the new. Tiarella was now nothing more than an annoying irrelevance, one he could ignore with impunity. She was deranged, reading portents in the sky. Althaea belonged to him, and through her Charmaine. Fait accompli. If Tiarella continued to object . . . well, there had already been one boating accident in the family.

It was for the best. He could do wonders with Charmaine; a smart tough new master with plenty of money to invest was exactly what it needed. In a few years the old place would be up and jumping.

"More champagne?" Althaea asked.

He grinned and kissed her. "I think so."

Tiarella sat behind the desk in her study, dealing from her pack of tarot cards. She was aligning them in the shape of a cross, each one pushed down firmly on the dark wooden surface with a distinct snick.

"I'm going to live here permanently," Eason told her.

Another card was dealt. "You wouldn't enjoy it, not full-time. Oh, granted you're riding a crest with all these improvements you're making right now. It's all new and thrilling for you. But forty years of hard labour. I don't think you're quite cut out for that, now are you?"

"I wasn't proposing to do it all myself. I'm offering to buy in. I've cashed in my starship ticket, and liquidated some other investments. There's enough money."

"A dowry. How quaint." The arms of the cross were laid down methodically, five cards on each side. "The man Althaea chooses won't have to buy his way in. I'll greet him with open arms. He will have Charmaine because she has Charmaine. It's that simple, Eason. Have you asked her if she wants to share it with you?"

"We're virtually engaged. She's mine, and you know it."

"Quite the opposite. She is not yours. She never will be. Her destiny is with another."

The sly attitude of superiority infuriated him. He leant over the desk and caught her wrist as the last card was slapped down.

Tiarella didn't flinch at the pressure he exerted.

"Maybe you're jealous," he said harshly.

"Of you two being lovers? Good God, no! You can never replace Vanstone. I thought you knew that by now."

He bit back a furious retort.

"Would you mind letting go of me now, please?" she asked grimly.

He released her, slouching back in his own chair. "The money would make an incredible difference," he said, refusing to give up. "We could buy some more tractors, clean out the rest of the groves, restore the coffee bushes, hire some labourers to prune the trees. Then there's the house to fix up properly."

"That's the short cut, Eason, the easy option. You want to be a manager, the grand plantation owner living in his mansion while others bring in the crop. That's not the way to do it, not here. Life is about cycles; you can't fight what nature has ordained. And now we've come round to the time when Charmaine is passed on to Althaea just as it was passed to me all those years ago. I haven't done very well with it, but Althaea and her husband will. They'll rebuild Charmaine slowly. Every day there will be some new accomplishment for them to rejoice about. Their whole life is going to be rich with genuine satisfaction, not this cheaply bought gratitude you offer."

"Then I'll give the bloody money away. She can have me just the way I was when we met, a destitute drifter."

Tiarella's mask of indifference cracked for the very first time. She gave him a tired smile, compassion lurking in flecked emerald irises. "I never expected you to fall in love with her. I really didn't."

"I . . ." He clenched his fists. Admitting that to her would be a defeat in this war, he knew.

"The money won't make any difference to Althaea's answer or mine," she said weakly. "Believe me, I'm being kind to you. Just go, Eason. If you truly love her. Go now. You'll be hurt by her if you don't."

"No. Listen to me, I had a lover before I met Vanstone. He was a good man, he adored me passionately, and I did him. But then Vanstone arrived, and I dropped him. Just like that. I never thought about how he felt. Girls that age can be unknowingly cruel. I don't want that to happen to you."

"Althaea's not like you. She has a heart."

Tiarella laughed. "And you believe I don't? I suppose I can't blame you for thinking that. I am a bitch these days, I admit. But I used to, Eason, I used to have a heart just like hers."

"I don't get it. I really don't. You brought me here, you and that monstrosity snake helped me snuff the bounty hunters. You screwed with me. You stand by and let me screw your daughter. Now you tell me you don't want me here. Why?"

"Your time is over."

"Don't give me that card shit again. You realize she's probably pregnant by now. I didn't exactly hold back."

"Don't get excited, she's not pregnant. I made quite sure she was using a contraceptive."

He stared at her, shocked. "You . . ."

"Bitch? I'm her mother, Eason."

"You're welcome to stay here as long as you like, although I expect you won't want to. But you must understand, neither Althaea nor Charmaine is ever going to belong to you."

"We'll see." He was so furious he didn't trust himself to say anything else to her.

Althaea was in the kitchen, preparing their lunch. She looked up when he came in and gave him a happy smile. He kissed her, and took her hand. "Come along."

She skipped after him as he went out into the hall. Tiarella was standing in the study's doorway, watching. Althaea automatically stiffened, glancing sheepishly at her mother.

"Althaea and I are going upstairs," Eason said levelly. "That cot in my chalet is too small for the kind of sex I prefer. So from now on we'll be using the bed in her room. OK?"

Althaea drew a loud, astonished breath.

Tiarella shrugged indifferently. "Whatever."

Eason grinned victoriously, and tugged a confounded Althaea up the stairs.

"Oh God, she'll kill me," Althaea wailed as soon as the door shut behind them. "She'll kill both of us."

"No, she won't." He imprisoned her head between his palms, putting his face centimetres from hers. "She must learn to accept that you're a grown woman now, and that you and I are in love. We have a perfect right to be together in your bed. I did this for you. Everything I do is for you now."

"You love me?" She sounded even more frightened than before.

"Yes. Now you and I are going to take the rest of the afternoon and evening off, and spend it in here. If your mother doesn't like that, then she should seriously start to think about leaving the island."

Eason had never been in Althaea's bedroom before. When he woke up the next morning he looked round blearily. Wan white walls were hung with holographic posters, one of which gave the bed a panoramic view over rugged snowcapped mountains and a magical Bavarian castle. He turned over. Althaea was missing. Her ageing Animate Animal bear was on the floor along with the white silk negligée. Last night she hadn't quite dropped her reserve completely, but he was definitely making progress. And the seeds of rebellion against her witch mother had been firmly planted. Another pleasurable day at Charmaine.

He pulled on his jeans and went down to the kitchen. Althaea wasn't there either, which was unusual. She normally made breakfast for everyone.

He started opening cupboards, then he heard her screaming for help. Tiarella was already charging down the stairs as he rushed out of the back door. It sounded as though she was down at the jetty. He pounded along the path, wishing to Christ that the fluxpump wasn't back at his chalet. If that damn snake had run amok . . .

When Eason burst out of the trees, the scene he found was nothing like what he expected. Althaea was lying on the grass right on top of the coral wall, stretching out desperately. There was a wooden dinghy in the water, being tossed about by the current. It smacked into the coral wall with a nasty crunch. Althaea tried to grab the arm of the single occupant, but the dinghy twisted and surged backwards.

Eason ran forwards and threw himself down beside her. The dinghy had been holed on the vicious coral teeth surrounding the wall, and was sinking fast. Another swell rose, pitching it forward again. His synaptic web came on-line, calculating the approach vector and projecting the impact point. He shifted round fractionally, stretching out—

A wrist slapped into his waiting palm. He grabbed tight and pulled. The dinghy was dragged back, sharp spears of coral punching through the hull as it sank below the foam. Tiarella landed on the grass beside him with a hefty thump, reaching out to grasp the shoulder of the lad Eason was holding. Together, the three of them hauled him up over the top of the wall.

Eason blinked in surprise. It was Mullen.

"You idiot!" Tiarella yelled. "You could have been killed." She flung her arms round the dazed lad. "Dear God, you could have been killed."

"I'm sorry," Mullen stammered. He was shaking badly. There was blood oozing from his palms.

Tiarella let go, as self-conscious as Althaea had ever been, then sniffed and wiped away what Eason swore were tears. "Yes. Well, OK. It's a tricky approach, you'll have to learn about the currents round the island."

"Yes, miss," Mullen said meekly.

Eason took one of the lad's hands and turned it over. The skin on the palm had been rubbed raw. "What happened?"

"It was the rowing. I'm not used to it."

"Rowing? You mean you rowed here from Oliviera?"

Eason's immediate response died in his throat. He glanced at Althaea who was looking at Mullen with an expression of surprise and wonder.

"Why?" she asked timidly. "Why did you come?"

"I wanted . . ." He glanced round at Eason and Tiarella, panic-stricken.

"Go on," Tiarella said gently. "The truth never hurts in the long run." She smiled encouragement.

Mullen took a nervous breath. "I wanted to see you again," he blurted to Althaea.

Her delicate face betrayed a universe of delight. Then it crumpled to guilt, and she looked at Eason, almost fearful.

His own emotions were almost as confused. What a ridiculous romantic the lad was. Small wonder Althaea was flattered. However, right now he was not prepared to tolerate a rival.

"Eason," Tiarella said sharply. "You and I have to talk. Right now."

"We do, yes, but now is not the time." He said it politely, making an effort to keep his temper in check.

"I insist. Althaea."

"I want you to treat Mullen's hands. You know where the first aid kit is. Do it in the kitchen, I expect he'll want something to eat after that voyage." She patted the surprised lad's head. "Silly boy. Welcome back."

Eason closed the study door, cutting off the sound of Althaea and Mullen chattering in the kitchen. When he faced Tiarella he knew that somehow she'd undermined him. Mullen's arrival had changed everything. Yet he didn't see how that was possible.

"Just what the fuck is going on?" he asked.

Tiarella's expression was glacial. "I warned you. I told you your time was up, but you wouldn't listen."

"My time is just beginning."

"No it isn't. And as from now, you're not to sleep with Althaea again. I mean that, Eason. And I will enforce it if you make me. Solange is quite capable of dealing with you, and that's just the creature you know about."

"Am I? Then it's your call." She opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a finger-length cylinder with wires trailing from one end. "This is out of the fluxpump. I visited your chalet yesterday evening, just in case."

"You would seriously set that snake on me for loving your daughter?"

"I would now, yes. Force is all you know, Eason. It's what you'll use if you think Mullen threatens you. I won't tolerate any violence against him."

"Oh, come on! You honestly think she's going to choose that boy-child over me?"

"She chose him before she was born."

"This is your cards shit again, isn't it?"

"Far from it." She walked round the desk and pointed up at the big family print. "Who is this?" A finger tapped impatiently on Vanstone.

He gave an exasperated sigh. Crazy bitch. Then he looked, really looked at the man's features. All the confidence, all the anger inside him started to chill. "It's . . . But it can't be."

"Yes, it is," she said wistfully. "It's Mullen. About ten years older than he is now."

"What have you done? What is going on here?"

Tiarella grinned ruefully. "Small wonder he frightened the life out of me in that dinghy this morning." She cocked her head to one side, looking up at Eason. "There's just one last thing to show you."

He hadn't even known the house had a cellar. Tiarella took a torch to lead him down the slippery stone steps. There was a metal airlock door at the bottom. It was open, leading into a small decontamination chamber. The door at the far end was shut.

"This is Dad's old lab," Tiarella said as she pumped the manual handle to open the inner door. "The electrics fused in a storm years ago, but it's all still functional, I think."

Inside, Eason found a world completely removed from the rest of Charmaine. Benches of glassware glinted and sparkled as Tiarella swept the torch beam round. Dead electronic modules sprouted wires and optical fibres to mingle with the tubes, bulbs, and dishes. Autoclaves, freezers, synthesis extruders, and vats stood around the walls, along with cabinets he couldn't begin to understand. Two large computer terminals occupied the central desk, a high-resolution holographic projector on the ceiling above them.

"Most of Charmaine's foliage was spliced together in here," Tiarella said. "And those pesky firedrakes."

She came to a halt in front of a large stack of machinery. "What I'm trying to show you, Eason, is that Dad knew what he was doing. He took his master's degree at Kariwak University. Several bitek research labs offered him a position, but he came back here."

"OK, I believe you. Nyewood was good."

"Yes. So have you worked it out yet?"

"He cloned Vanstone for me. A parthenogenetic clone, identical to the original. There was enough of him left after the accident."

"Oh Jesus wept. Rousseau said you gave one of your babies away. Twins! He said you had twins." Then he realized.

"That's right. Dad cloned me as well. He engendered them in here." She tapped the stack of machinery. "And I nurtured the pair of them in my womb. A second little me, a second little Vanstone, growing together even then. After they were born I kept Althaea here, and gave Mullen to the Church orphanage. He grew up in exactly the same environment as Vanstone did."

"You really think she's going to fall in love with him, don't you?"

"She already has; she couldn't do anything else. The love between us is too strong, too beautiful. I couldn't let something that wonderful die, not when I had a chance to see it renewed."

"You used me. You crazy bitch, you used me. You had a lover before Vanstone. That's why you let me come here; to make the conditions for Althaea as close as possible to your time."

"Of course I did. As you used us to escape whatever it was you were fleeing. Althaea had to learn the difference between a meaningless sexual infatuation and the true love which only Mullen can provide."

"Crazy bitch! You can't dictate her life like this."

"But it's my life. And you know she doesn't belong to you. You saw the effect Mullen had on her, and her on him." She smiled, distant with recollection. "Just like me and my Vanstone. He sneaked back to Charmaine from his parish, you know. Only he did it on a regular trader."

"It's different this time," he snarled. "This time, I'm here. She loves me, I know she does."

Tiarella started to put her hand out towards him, then drew back. "Oh, Eason, I never meant for you to get hurt. What the hell is someone like you doing falling in love anyway?"

"Yes. I thought you were perfect when you turned up at the harbour. A thug on the run; selfish and iron-hearted. Why couldn't you treat her the way you treated everyone else in your life?"

He glared at her, helpless against her sympathy, then ran from the laboratory.

"Don't touch her!" Tiarella shouted after him. "I mean it. You leave her alone."

Eason didn't need the warning. It was obvious within hours that he'd lost. Althaea and Mullen were so besotted with each other it was scary. The one person he'd ever loved was gloriously happy, and anything he did to stop that happiness would make her hate him for ever.

He didn't know whether to call it destiny or history.

They went to bed together on the second night, the two of them bounding up the stairs after supper. Althaea was in front, carefree and eager.

He watched them go, remembering that night after the funeral, the wretched difference. Tiarella was watching him, her face showing compassion.

"If it means anything, I am sorry," she said.

"Right." He rose and went out into the gloaming. Rousseau's stock of despicable home-brew was where he'd left it.

Althaea found him the next morning, sitting on the jetty, looking down at the water. A few scraps of the dinghy's timbers were still wedged between the coral spikes.

She settled down beside him, her face anxious. "Are you all right?"

"Sure. I'm just amazed Ross survived as long as he did. That stuff really is dangerous."

"Eason. Mullen and I are going to get married."

"Tough decision, was it?"

"OK. I'm happy for you."

"What the hell else can I say?"

She stared out across the ocean. "I'm almost frightened of myself, the way I'm behaving. I know how stupid this is, I've only known him for two days. But I feel it's right. Is it?"

"Know what I think?"

"I think that your body is the focus for your mind on this journey. It's guided you home through an awful lot of fog, and now it's time to make a safe landing."

He put a finger under her chin, and turned her head to face him. "I want to know one thing. And I want you to be completely honest. Did you ever love me?"

Tiarella gave him a quizzical glance as he came into the kitchen and flopped down at the table.

"You'll be happy to hear I'm leaving," he announced.

Her blatant relief made him laugh bitterly.

"I'm not that heartless," she protested.

"Orphée and I will take you wherever you want to go."

"How very conscientious of you; but it's not that simple."

"What do you mean?" The old suspicion resonated through the question.

"I've thought this through. Wherever I am, I will always think of Althaea. You know that. Which means you and I will always worry that I might come back. Because I know I'll never be able to trust myself, not completely. So what I propose is that I go somewhere that I can't come back from. I'll pay you to take me there, give Charmaine a proper contract to maintain the ride. God knows you can do with the money despite all those ridiculous ideals of yours; it'll be a nice dependable income for Althaea and Mullen to start with, too."

"What are you talking about? Where do you want to go?"

The zero-tau field was nothing more than a grey eyeblink. An eyeblink that was giddily disorientating. The laboratory instantly changed to a dark, cool room with an uneven polyp ceiling.

Where Tiarella was leaning over him to switch on the pod a moment before, another figure now straightened up as her finger left the control panel. They looked at each other suspiciously. The girl was about twenty, undoubtedly related to Althaea. He could never mistake that fragile, narrow chin; her skin was ebony, though, with flaming red hair trimmed to a curly bob. Geneering trends had changed a lot, apparently.

She managed a strong echo of Althaea's shy grin. "I never quite believed it," she said. "The man in the basement. You're a family legend. When we were little Dad told us you were like a sleeping knight ready to defend Charmaine from evil. Then after I grew up I just thought they were using the zero-tau pod to store botanical samples or something."

"I'm afraid I'm not a knight, nothing like." He swung his feet out of the pod, and stepped down. The floor was raw coral. Large cases and plastic boxes were stacked up all around. "Where am I?"

"The basement. Oh, I know what you're thinking. They dismantled the old lab fifty or sixty years ago. The family has membership in an agronomy consortium back on Kariwak. They provide upgrades for Charmaine's groves these days." She gestured at the stairs.

"April nineteenth, 2549."

"Jesus Christ, a hundred and two years. Is the Confederation still intact?"

"Oh yes." She gave him an awkward grimace. "Mr Eason, Grandma's waiting."

"Grandma?" he asked cautiously.

He stopped at the foot of the stairs. "That wasn't the deal."

"I know. She says she'll understand if you want to jump back into the pod for another few days. She doesn't have long to live, Mr Eason."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Always knew what she wanted, did Althaea. I never said no to her back then."

The girl smiled, and they started up the stairs.

"So you're her granddaughter, are you?"

"Great-great-granddaughter, actually."

He recognized the layout of the house, but nothing more. It was full of rich furnishings and expensive artwork. Too grand for his taste.

Althaea was in the master bedroom. It was painful for him to look at her. Two minutes ago she'd been a radiant seventeen-year-old a week from her wedding day.

"Almost made a hundred and twenty," she said from her bed. Her chuckle became a thin cough.

He bent over and kissed her. Small black plastic patches were clinging to the side of her wrinkled neck. He could see the outline of more beneath her shawl.

"Still want to fight dragons for me?" she asked.

"'Fraid not. I was rather impressed by that great-great-granddaughter of yours."

She laughed and waved him into a seat beside the bed. "You haven't changed. Mind you, you haven't had the time."

"Oh, him. Been gone five years, now."

"We had a century together. That's why I wanted to see you again. I wanted to thank you."

"For doing what you did. For leaving us alone." She tilted her head towards the open window. "I loved him, you know. All the time he was alive, and even now, a whole century of love. It was an excellent life, Eason, truly excellent. Oh, I wasn't a saint; I had my share of fooling around when I was younger, so did he. But we stayed together for a hundred years. How about that?"

"I lied to you about the children. Remember the day after you arrived I said I wanted ten."

"Course you do; it's only been two months for you. Well, I only had eight."

"Yes. But, ah, what they achieved. Take a look." She flicked a pale finger at the window. "Go on."

So he did. And there was his dream waiting outside. The neat ordered ranks of fruit trees stretching right round the island, a fleet of tractors buzzing down the grassy avenues, and Edenist-style servitor chimps scampering through the branches in search of the bright globes. The red-clay rooftops of a small fishing village; boats bobbing at their moorings along the seven jetties. People walking and cycling everywhere. Adults and children setting up tables and parasols in the garden ready for a party. And, as ever, the firedrakes, noisy flocks of them spiralling and wheeling overhead.

"That's all thanks to you," she said. "I don't know what would have happened if you'd stayed around. I was so torn. I loved Mullen for a century, but I kept the guilt, too."

"It's beautiful," he said.

"You can stay if you want. I'd like you to enjoy it."

"No. My time here is over."

"Ha! That's Mother talking."

"Oh yes. Mind you, I never told Mullen. It was too weird."

"She was right, though, wasn't she? You two were made for each other."

"Yes, damn her, she was right. But that guilt always made me wonder."

It was called the Torreya Memorial Clinic, a mansion sitting astride the foothills above Kariwak. Long since converted from a private residence, its main wings provided free health care for the city's poor. Of course, such charity was expensive, so the foundation which ran it also provided first-class treatment for those who could afford it. As well as standard medical facilities there was an excellent rejuvenation centre, and for those who wished to give their offspring the best start in life, a geneering department.

Eason waited for Dr Kengai to complete his credit checks, remembering the last time he was in an office, facing down agent Tenvis. The doctor had a much better view over Kariwak than the old Kulu Embassy provided. Although the city was much the same size as it had been a century ago, he was disappointed to see the number of skyscrapers that had sprung up. The sequoias were still there along the central boulevard, and prospering, tall green spires waving gently high above the clutter of white buildings.

"Your financial status appears quite impeccable, Mr Eason," Dr Kengai said happily.

Eason grinned back with equal sincerity. "Thank you. And you'll have no trouble providing the service I want?"

"A parthenogenetic clone is a relatively straightforward procedure. It poses no difficulty."

"Good." He unclipped the silver chain around his neck, and handed over the locket. "Is there sufficient genetic material here?"

Dr Kengai removed the tuft of gold-auburn hair it contained. "You could reproduce several million of her from this." He teased a single strand loose, and returned the locket.

"I only want one," Eason said.

"I understand you don't intend to raise the girl yourself?"

"That is correct. I'm going to be away travelling again for a few more years, my ride isn't quite finished."

"Unfortunately, we do have to reassure ourselves that the child will have a viable home to go to once she is removed from the exowomb. The clinic is not in the business of producing orphans."