The fog lay down over them and Mirsky closed his eye, grateful at last for the undisturbed slumber.

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Four

Lanier—lying on the couch, hand gripping the African print upholstery, staring up at the featureless cream-colored ceiling, ostensibly resting—knew this much, and very little more:

Their quarters were located in the outer reaches of the rotating cylindrical precinct called Axis Nader: five apartments along a hallway, each with a bedroom, a bathroom and a living room; at the end of the hallway, a communal dining area and a large, circular lounge. The centrifugal force at this level of the precinct was just slightly less than at the Stone's chamber floors. All the quarters were closed off and lacked real windows, though illusart windows of idyllic terrestrial scenes in the apartments and lounge provided a sensation of spaciousness which was hard to deny.

Someone had gone to considerable effort to make the accommodations pleasant and familiar. What Lanier gathered, from all the fuss, was that they were important people. Whether they were prisoners or honored guests, it was impossible to tell for the time being.

He turned his head to one side, reached over to a stack of magazines on the coffee table near the couch, picked up a copy of STERN and flipped through it, not really looking at the turning pages. His eyes kept tracking the apartment, lingering on little details—the art glass vase in one corner of a bureau, red and purple with overlaid gold threads; the rich-feeling couch fabric; the books that lined one shelf; and the memory cubes stacked in an ebony wood holder nearby.

He was about to put the magazines down on a frosted glass coffee table when he realized he hadn't looked at the issue's date. March 4, 2004. Over a year old. Where did they find it?

Or any of the objects in the apartments?

"May I come in?" Patricia asked. The apartment door became transparent and he saw her standing in the hallway. Judging by her attitude, she could not see in.

"Yes," he said. "Please do."

She continued standing outside. "Garry, are you home?"

He puzzled this over for a moment; she hadn't heard him. Symbols appeared in the air to one side of the door, flickering rapidly, little marvels of calligraphy—picts, Patricia had called them, statements made up of single symbols called icons. When nothing happened, he approached the door and the room voice, sexless and melodic, asked, "You have a visitor, Mr. Lanier. Would you like Patricia Luisa Vasquez to enter?"

"Yes, please, let her in," he said. The door became opaque again and then slid aside.

"Hello," she said. "We're all meeting in a half hour—getting together with the woman who was in the hangar. Olmy says she's our 'advocate.' I thought I'd talk things over with you first."

"Good idea," he said. "Let's sit."