“A long story. I expected another old man. They didn’t tell me you’d look the same. Ser Lanier, I recognize him, but he looks dignified, not like a youngster.”

Farren Siliom folded his arms. “It took us several hours to locate Ser Garabedian.”

“I live as near Armenia as I can,” Garabedian told Mirsky. “The homeland will be cleansed in a few years, and I can return. I’ve worked as a policeman with the Soviet Recovery Forces…I fought in the Armenian Liberation against the Hexamon…Not much of a war, like children fighting their doctors and teachers with sticks. When that was put down, I became a farmer. Where have you been, Comrade General?”

Mirsky glanced around the room, tears in his eyes. “Friends, Viktor and I must talk.”

“They want me to ask you some questions,” Garabedian said.

“Yes, but alone. All but for you, Garry. Will you come with us? We need a room.” He glanced at the president.

“You can use one of my work rooms,” Farren Siliom said. “We will record your meeting, of course…”

Lanier observed the change in Mirsky’s expression. He seemed sharper, more hawk-like, less serene; much more like the Pavel Mirsky he had first met in the Stone, four decades ago.

“I’d like to speak with Ser Lanier for a moment, then he’ll join you,” Korzenowski said.

The two men left the room, guided by the president to another section of his temporary quarters.

“Ser Lanier?” Korzenowski asked.

“He’s Mirsky,” Lanier said.

“Did you doubt?”

“No,” he said.

“But this is additional proof?”

“For the president,” Lanier said. “It has to be the clincher.”

“The president’s reservoirs of doubt are vast,” Olmy said quietly. “Matched only by political expediency.”

The president passed Lanier in the wide cylindrical hallway, nodding at him. Uncomfortable, Lanier followed Mirsky and Garabedian into the work room and stood beside them. A small round table rose out of the floor, surrounded by several free-form chairs. The room smelled vaguely of clean snow and pines; a residue, Lanier suspected, of some previous environment.

Garabedian, cap clutched in gnarled pink and white hands, examined his old comrade with the childlike eyes of the old and weary, eyes empty of any emotion but a kind of stunned wonder.

“Garry, Viktor was with me when the Space Shock Troops invaded the Potato—Thistledown,” Mirsky said. “He was with me when we surrendered, and he advised me during the bad times after…I last saw him before I volunteered to go with the Geshel precincts. You’ve lived through hard times, Viktor.”

Garabedian continued to stare, his mouth slack. Then he turned to Lanier. “Sir,” he said in halting English, “You have not stayed youthful. Some have. But Comrade General Mirsky…”

“No longer a general,” Mirsky said quietly.