They walked along side by side. The autumn stars had come out, incredible in number and brilliance, twinkling and almost blinking because of the dust stirred up by the earthquake and the wind, so that the whole sky seemed to tremble, a shaking of diamond chips, a scintillation of sunlight on a black sea. Under that uneasy splendor the hills were dark and solid, the roofs, hard-edged, the light of the street lamps mild.

“Four years ago,” Shevek said. “It was four years ago that I came back to Abbenay, from that place in Southrising—what was it called?—Red Springs. It was a night like this, windy, the stars. I ran, I ran all the way from Plains Street to the domicile. And you weren’t there, you’d gone. Four years!”

“The moment I left Abbenay I knew I’d been a fool to go. Famine or no famine. I should have refused the posting.”

“It wouldn’t have made much difference. Sabul was waiting to tell me I was through at the Institute.”

“If I’d been there, you wouldn’t have gone down to the Dust.”

“Maybe not, but we mightn’t have kept postings together. For a while it seemed as if nothing could hold together, didn’t it? The towns in Southwest—there weren’t any children left in them. There still aren’t. They sent them north, into regions where there was local food, or a chance of it. And they stayed to keep the mines and mills going. It’s a wonder we pulled through, all of us, isn’t it?… But by damn, I will do my own work for a while now!”

She took his arm. He stopped short, as if her touch had electrocuted him on the spot. She shook him, smiling. “You didn’t eat, did you?”

“No. Oh Takver, I have been sick for you, sick for you!”

They came together, holding on to each other fiercely, in the dark street between the lamps, under the stars. They broke apart as suddenly, and Shevek backed up against the nearest wall. “I’d better eat something,” he said, and Takver said, “Yes, or you’ll fall flat on your face! Come on.” They went a block to the commons, the largest building in Chakar. Regular dinner was over, but the cooks were eating, and provided the traveler a bowl of stew and all the bread he wanted. They all sat at the table nearest the kitchen. The other tables had already been cleaned and set for next morning. The big room was cavernous, the ceiling rising into shadow, the far end obscure except where a bowl or cup winked on a dark table, catching the light. The cooks and servers were a quiet crew, tired after the day’s work; they ate fast, not talking much, not paying much attention to Takver and the stranger. One after another they finished and got up to take their dishes to the washers in the kitchen. One old woman said as she got up, “Don’t hurry, ammari, they’ve got an hour’s washing yet to do.” She had a grim face and looked dour, not maternal, not benevolent; but she spoke with compassion, with the charity of equals.