"Yes, Madame Minchenko," said Silver breathlessly in her most-politest voice. This woman was quite the most aged downsider Silver had ever seen, bar Dr. Minchenko and Dr. Cay himself.

"We must go now, to get Tony," Dr. Minchenko said. "We'll be back as quick as we can drive. Silver will help you; she's very good. Hold the ship!"

The two men hustled back out, and within moments the land rover was boiling off across the barren landscape.

Silver and Madame Minchenko were left regarding each other.

"Well," said Madame Minchenko.

"I'm sorry you had to leave all your things," said Silver diffidently.

"H'm. Well, I can't say I'm sorry to be leaving here." Madame Minchenko's glance around the shuttle's cargo bay took in Rodeo by implication.

They shuffled forward to the pilot's compartment and sat; the monitor scanned the monotonous horizon. Madame Minchenko still clutched her giant-spoon suitcase in her lap. Silver hitched herself around in her wrong-shaped seat and tried to imagine what it would be like to be married to someone for more than twice the length of her own life. Had Madame Minchenko been young once? Surely Dr. Minchenko had been old forever.

"However did you come to be married to Dr. Minchenko?" Silver asked.

"Sometimes I wonder," Madame Minchenko murmured dryly, half to herself.

"Were you a nurse, or a lab tech?"

She looked up with a little smile. "No, dear, I was never a bioscientist. Thank God." Her hand caressed the black case. "I'm a musician. Of sorts."

Silver perked with interest. "Synthavids? Do you program? We've had some synthavids in our library, the company library that is."

The corner of Madame Minchenko's mouth twisted up in a half-smile. "There's nothing synthetic in what I do. I'm a registered historian-performer. I keep old skills alive—think of me as a live museum exhibit, somewhat in need of dusting—only a few spider webs clinging to my elbow. . . ." She unlatched her case and opened it to Silver's inspection. Burnished reddish wood, satin-smooth, caught and played back the colored lights of the pilot's compartment. Madame Minchenko lifted the instrument and tucked it under her chin. "It's a violin."

"I've seen pictures of them," Silver offered. "Is it real?"

Madame Minchenko smiled, and drew her bow across the strings in a quick succession of notes. The music ran up and down like—like quaddie children in the gym, was the only simile Silver could think of. The volume was astounding.

"Where do those wires on top attach to the speakers?" Silver inquired, pushing up on her lower hands and craning her neck.

"There are no speakers. The sound all comes from the wood."

"But it filled the compartment!"

Madame Minchenko's smile became almost fierce. "This instrument could fill an entire concert hall."

"Do you . . . play concerts?"