Waiting for the news of the final plans to reach them, Rodzhensky and Mirsky floated a few meters from each other in the greenery. A macrame pattern of light-snakes brightened a deep three-dimensional glade beyond their quarters, casting leaf shadows over them.

Mirsky studied the young corporal carefully, noting the shine of his skin, the loose excitement around his lips, the way his eyes started from his face. The future is a drug for him, Mirsky thought. Was it that way for himself, as well?

"I understand so little," Rodzhensky confided, pulling himself along a branch closer to Mirsky's position in a crook. "But I feel I will understand—and they are so helpful! We are strange to them—don't you feel that? But they welcome us!"

"We're novelties," Mirsky said. He did not want to exhibit his own misgivings to the corporal. His own heart beat faster each time he thought of what they faced.

The female homorph assigned to the morose American tracted toward them.

"Your friend worries me," she said. "We're considering returning him to your people. . . . He won't admit it, but I think he's made the wrong decision."

"Give him time," Mirsky said. "We've all left a lot behind. We'll be very homesick. I'll talk to him."

"I will, too," Rodzhensky said enthusiastically.

"No," Mirsky said, holding up his hand. "Just me. We talked when I negotiated with the Americans, and we volunteered together."

Rodzhensky, abashed, agreed with a sharp nod.

Mirsky knocked on the pearl-colored translucent outer surface of the sphere. Within, Rimskaya answered, "Yes? What?" in English.

"Pavel Mirsky."

"No more talking, please."

"We don't have much time. Either you go back now, or you face up to our decision."

"Leave me alone."

"May I come in?"

The sphere's door dilated and Mirsky pulled himself inside. "They'll be leaving soon," he said. "There won't be any choice after they get started—you'll be here forever."

Rimskaya looked terrible—pale, his red hair sticking out in all directions, his face scruffy with a four-day's growth of beard. "I'm staying," he said. "I've made up my mind."

"That's what I told your hostess."

"You're speaking for me?"

"No."

"What does it matter to you? You're back from the dead. You don't give a damn about your position—your own people tried to kill you. Me, I've left. . . responsibilities, loyalties."

"Why?" Mirsky asked.

"Shit, I don't know."

"Maybe I do."

Rimskaya regarded him doubtfully.

"You want to see the ultimate," Mirsky said.

Rimskaya simply stared, neither confirming nor denying.

"You, me, Rodzhensky, maybe even the woman—we're misfits. We aren't happy with just living one life. We reach out." He held up a grasping hand. "I always wanted to see the stars."