Rathven took it. Winced.

“What?”

“He’s dead, Finch.”

“Of course he’s dead. It’s the murder case. I need to know who he is. It’s very strange. I can’t get my head around it. I need your help.”

And there’s no one in the station I trust to thoroughly check out that list.

“Are you sure you want to tell me more?” Rathven said.

People came to Rathven who the gray caps would count as enemies. Seeking information from her library. Information from her. Finch turned a blind eye. But someday somebody was going to test Rath’s neutrality, her ability to put it all in a locked box.

A sound distracted him. A sudden retreat of water somewhere in the darkness behind him. He’d seen fish “walk” up out of that darkness. Watched them gasping as they tried to be something other than fish. Once, Finch had heard a splashing like oars, from deep in the tunnel. Had asked Rath, half serious, “Is there something you want to tell me?” She’d ignored him.

Finch put down his tea. Leaned back in the chair. Do I trust Rathven more or less than Sintra?

“A dead man and a dead gray cap. In the same apartment. The gray cap is just a torso with arms and a head. No blood. True, it’s a gray cap. But maybe they weren’t even murdered. Maybe murdered, but not in the apartment. I didn’t get much out of the memory bulbs.” Not much I can share.

It felt good to talk. Drew the tension out of him. Got rid of a strange echo in his head.

Rathven nodded, looking serious. “Didn’t get much? So you got something.” She waited, expectant.

“I haven’t given you enough?” he asked with mock shock. “No. That’s not all. They seem to have fallen from a great height. Maybe from the walls of a desert fortress. I have to file a report today.”

Do I sound crazy?

“What other clues?” Rathven asked.

Suddenly irritable: “Jumbled memories. Including a conversation with the dead man. Must have imagined that.”

“What?”

“Just what I said! Are you deaf?” The man laughed again. Blindingly, unbelievably bright, a light like the sun shot through the window. The night sky torn apart by it.

Realized he’d shouted at her. “Sorry.”

Rath gave him a look he could not interpret. “You’re not the same today,” she said.

“Do you think I can do what I do and not be changed?” Spitting out the words. “Take memory bulbs? Work in the station?”

“I don’t care,” Rathven said. “If you change too much, I won’t let you back in here.” An intensity behind her gaze. Seeing someone or something other than Finch. Couldn’t even imagine …

“Sorry,” Finch said. The words took an effort. Gritted his teeth. Said it again. Fuck!

Rathven looked down. Took a sip of tea. Said, “So the dead man was talking to you?”