He sees the shadow just before he enters the lounge, a dim silhouette against the bulkhead. A part of him wants to turn and run back to his cubby, but it's a much smaller part than it used to be. Most of him is just tired. He steps forward.

Lubin is waiting there, standing motionless beside the ladder. He stares through Scanlon with eyes of solid ivory.

"I wanted to say goodbye," he says.

Scanlon laughs. He can't help it.

Lubin watches impassively.

"I'm sorry," Scanlon says. He doesn't feel even slightly amused. "It's just— you never even said hello, you know?"

"Yes," Lubin says. "Well."

Somehow, there's no sense of threat about him this time. Scanlon can't quite understand why; Lubin's background file is still full of holes, the rumors are still festering over Galápagos; even the other vampires keep their distance from this one. But none of that shows through right now. Lubin just stands there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looks almost vulnerable.

"So they're going to be bringing us back early," he says.

"I honestly don't know. It's not my decision."

"But they sent you down to— prepare the way. Like John the Baptist."

It's a very strange analogy, coming from Lubin. Scanlon says nothing.

"Did you— didn't they know we wouldn't want to come back? Didn't they count on it?"

"It wasn't like that." But he wonders, more than ever, what the GA knew.

Lubin clears his throat. He seems very much to want to say something, but doesn't.

"I found the windchimes," Scanlon says at last.

"Yes."

"They scared the hell out of me."

Lubin shakes his head. "That's not what they were for."

"What were they for?"

"Just— a hobby, really. We've all got hobbies here. Lenie does her starfish. Alice— dreams. This place has a way of taking ugly things and lighting them in a certain way, so they almost look beautiful." A shrug. "I build memorials."

"Memorials."

Lubin nods. "The windchimes were for Acton."

"I see."

Something drops onto Beebe with a clank. Scanlon jumps.

Lubin doesn't react. "I'm thinking of building another set," he says. "For Fischer, maybe."

"Memorials are for dead people. Fischer's still alive." Technically, anyway.

"Okay then. I'll make them for you."

The overhead hatch drops open. Scanlon grips his suitcase and starts to climb, one-handed.

"Sir—"

Scanlon looks down, surprised.

"I—" Lubin stops himself. "We could have treated you better," he says at last.

Scanlon knows, somehow, that this is not what Lubin intended to say. He waits. But Lubin offers nothing more.

"Thanks," Scanlon says, and climbs out of Beebe forever.

The chamber he rises into is wrong. He looks around, disoriented; this isn't the usual shuttle. The passenger compartment is too small, the walls studded with an array of nozzles. Forward, the cockpit hatch is sealed. A strange face looks back through the porthole as the ventral hatch swings shut.

"Hey..."