Ve had no luggage, no backpack, nothing; ve must have arrived earlier, and returned to the airport … to meet me? I had a serious need to be horizontal, and I couldn’t imagine what ve wanted to tell me that couldn’t wait until morning – and couldn’t be said on a tram … but that was probably all the more reason to hear it.

I said, “Good idea. I could use some fresh air.”

Kuwale seemed to know where ve was going, so I put my notepad away and followed along. It was a warm, humid night, but there was a steady breeze which took the edge off the oppressiveness. Stateless was no closer to the tropics than Sydney; overall, it was probably cooler.

The layout of the center of the island reminded me of Sturt – an inland South Australian neopolis built at about the time Stateless was seeded. There were broad, paved streets and low buildings – most of them small blocks of apartments above shopfronts – six stories high at the most. Everything in sight was made from reef-rock: a form of limestone, strengthened and sealed by organic polymers, which was “farmed” from the self-replenishing quarries of the inner reefs. None of the buildings was bleached-coral white, though; trace minerals produced all the colors of marble: rich grays, greens and browns, and more rarely, dark crimson, shading to black.

The people around us seemed relaxed and unhurried, as if they were all out for leisurely strolls with no particular destination in mind. I saw no cycles at all, but there’d have to be a few on the island; tram lines stretched less than halfway to the points of the star, fifty kilometers from the center.

Kuwale said, “Sarah Knight was a great admirer of Violet Mosala. I think she would have done a good job. Careful. Thorough.”

That threw me. “You know Sarah?”

“We’ve been in touch.”

I laughed wearily. “What is this? Sarah Knight is a big fan of Mosala … and I’m not. So what? I’m not some Ignorance Cult member here to do a hatchet job; I’ll still treat her fairly.”

“That’s not the issue.”

“It’s the only issue I’m willing to discuss with you. Why do you imagine it’s any of your business how this documentary’s made?”

Kuwale said calmly, “I don’t. The documentary’s not important.”

“Right. Thanks.”

“No offense. But it’s not what I’m talking about.”

We walked on a few meters, in silence. I waited to see if keeping my mouth shut and feigning indifference would prompt a sudden revelatory outburst. It didn’t.

I said, “So … what exactly are you doing here? Are you a journalist, a physicist … or what? A sociologist?” I’d almost said: A cultist – but even a member of a rival group like Mystical Renaissance or Culture First would never have mocked the deep wisdom of Janet Walsh.

“I’m an interested observer.”