Korzenowski slipped the block into his robe’s pocket. Olmy stretched out his hand and the Engineer clasped it. Then he left the small quarters.

Will he transmit the message? the Jart asked as they exited the bore hole.

“Yes,” Olmy answered. “Damn you to whatever Jarts call hell.”

The Jart’s internal voice seemed tinged with sorrow. We are like brothers, yet we do not trust each other.

“Not at all,” Olmy said.

I cannot convince you of the urgency of my mission now.

“You haven’t yet.”

When your people open the Way again, I do not know what they will find…but it will not likely be pleasant.

“They’re prepared.”

Your passion is curious. I can do your kind no harm. You carry the message of descendant command. That is the message your friend will transmit—that you are not enemies, must not be enemies.

54

Earth

On his last day on Earth, Lanier cut wood for their stove—more a decorative item than a necessity—and enjoyed the physical labor. The positioning of the iron wedge and the solid slam of the sledge. The stacking of the logs. Solid, muscle-straining, authoritative, ancient rituals.

He watched Karen baking bread, and tasted a slice from a fresh loaf early in the afternoon.

“Today, I am free of my little helpers,” he said, pointing to a red mark on a wall calendar. The last of his internal medical remotes would have dissolved by now.

“You should call Christchurch for another check-up,” Karen said, following him with her green-gold eyes.

“They won’t remove the implant,” Lanier said. “Until they agree to do that, I’m boycotting Ras Mishiney’s little medical tyranny.”

She smiled, obviously not agreeing, but not willing to argue any more.

“Fine bread,” he said, putting on his boots, grimacing at the new muscles he had found chopping wood. “Makes the whole world cheerful again, just by its smell.”

“Old English recipe, with some Hunan embellishments,” Karen said, removing a second loaf from the oven. “My mother used to call it Four Unities Bread.” She slipped the loaf onto a rack on the tile counter. “Going walking?”

He nodded. “Need to stretch and cool down after all that labor. Want to go along?”

“Four more loaves,” she said, taking his arm and kissing him on the cheek. She stroked his gray stubble with one hand, solicitous, gentle. “You go on. I’ll have dinner ready when you get back.”

He took the short trail behind the house, into an old coniferous forest that had managed to survive clear-cutting throughout the twentieth century. The thick arching ferns and spreading canopy of branches cast everything into a sun-spotted green gloom. Birds cut devious flutters through the undergrowth and high overhead.