The administrator lifts one hand, tilting it to and fro, so that the signet ring on his middle finger flashes in the sun.

“My ring records you.”

Again, the man winces at the word “you.”

“What is said?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Is recorded?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Now?”

“From the very beginning, yes.”

“Then that... has been made clear.”

“Good.”

“... Good.”

The man thinks, his lips working a bit.

“... also,” he says, with effort.

“Also?”

“Good also,” the man says hastily.

“You also find that good?”

“It’s agreed,” the man says, wincing again.

“Good.”

“Good.”

The man keeps his eyes on the water, the better to hide the terror that wells up in them. The administrator observes him neutrally. When the man speaks again, his voice is almost a bleat of fear.

“And...”

The administrator waits.

“And... what did you—”

He snaps his jaws shut on the word, and his eyes dart impulsively toward the administrator, who remains blandly impassive.

“What was—” he starts again. “Were there any observations... visual observations, or— sights... made during— made in the— made in transit here, the transit here?”

As he finishes the question, he releases a pent lungful of air.

“My mouth, framed in the rear-view mirror,” the administrator says.

“That’s good... That’s... that’s good?”

“That’s good, yes.”

The man nearly sighs through his nose and stops abruptly in a windless snort. He draws his lips into his mouth and presses them shut. His eyes fail to receive impressions. He struggles to keep himself completely still. Sitting without breathing, without moving.

The administrator watches him. He then raises his head and gaze to a spot high in the blue over the scintillating trees. A gleaming spindle turns its faceted side toward him, flaring as it catches the daylight. The administrator’s eyes don’t waver, blink, or squint. He raises his hands and ripples his fingers, typing in the air. The spindle rotates, turning edgewise to them, and melts back into the blue.

“I have other calls to make today,” the administrator says briskly. “You’ll be all right here?”

“Yes!” the man yelps. “Y-yes, I’m quite all right here.”

The administrator, paused in the act of standing up, watches the man for a full minute, before straightening himself.

“Are you quite all right, here?” he asks quietly, as if he weren’t repeating the man’s words.

“I...” the man trails off. His brow is contracted, his eyes are anguished. His mouth trembles.

“I’m fine,” he says after a moment.

The administrator says: “Until later, then?”

“Yes,” the man says. “I’m fine.”

He pours all his hope and will into that word. His head wobbles as he bites back his voice.