"Of course it won't," he said. "And I'm not without fear. That surprises you, doesn't it? I'm not a fool without the imagination to be afraid, upfluxer; nor am I so arrogant as to suppose myself beyond the reach of death. I know that in the end I am as weak as the next man in the face of the great forces of the Star — let alone the unknowns beyond it. But, just at this moment, I'm..." He waved a hand in the Air. "I'm exhilarated. I'm doing something more than waiting for the next Glitch to hit Parz, or coping with the devastation of the last one. I'm trying to change the world, to challenge the way things are." His eyecups were dark wells. "And I couldn't bear to allow anyone else to go into the dark at the heart of the Star, and not be there." He looked at her. "Can you understand that?"

"Some say you're running away from the real problems. That genuine courage would lie in staying behind and wrestling with the disaster, not flying off on a spectacular, wasteful jaunt."

He nodded, his smile grim. "I know. Muub's among them. Oh, don't worry; I won't do anything about it. It's a point of view. Even one I share, in my darkest moments." He grinned. "But I like to think my father would have been proud of me, if he could have seen me now. He always thought I was so — practical. So unimaginative. And yet..."

There was a thud from the hull of the "Flying Pig"; the little craft shuddered in the Air. The pigs squealed, thrashing in their stall, and with a single, involuntary movement Dura and Hork grabbed at each other.

The craft settled. Hork's expansive belly, liquid beneath its covering of glittering material, was heavy against Dura's stomach and breasts.

"What was that?"

The small, regular arrays of hair at the fringe of his beard wafted as he breathed. "Corestuff bergs," he said, his voice tight. "That's all. Corestuff bergs. If either of us was a Fisherman we'd not have been startled — that's why they come down here in the first place: to fish for the Corestuff bergs. The "Pig" is designed to cope with little impacts like that; there's nothing to fear." His arms were still around her — and her arms were in turn wrapped around his torso, her hands clutching at the layers of material over his back — and now he reached up to stroke her hair. She wanted, suddenly, to bury herself in this bulky strength, to hide deep inside the warm darkness of the eyecups which were huge before her.

She scrabbled at his clothing, found a line of buttons down the seam at his side; and she felt his thick, clumsy fingers traveling over her own coverall.

A last shred of rationality made her assess his expression, his open mouth and flaring, shining nostrils, and she saw that his need was as great as hers.