"You told me you had prayed to God to tell you whether I was a spaceman or not, and God had said—"

"God had told me you were a fraud." Harry's face seemed almost healthy now, with the memories coming back. "I was a pretty rampant little theologian then. So you ducked out."

Arthur nodded. "I said I'd be going away, and never coming back—the alien inside me, rather. And it did."

"You refused to acknowledge you had ever acted like an alien. Total memory blank. What a scam."

"Our friendship survived. That surprised me a little, years later, thinking about it . . ."

"I wouldn't have believed you if I hadn't wanted to. As you say, life was dull."

Arthur looked down at Harry's shriveled arms. "It wasn't right. I deeply regretted it. It might be the only thing between us I do regret ..."

"Besides stealing Alma Henderson from me."

"That was a favor. No. I mean it. I especially regret doing that to you now, because . . . I'm about to do it again."

Harry's grin took an edge of puzzlement. Arthur's expression was deadly serious, but enthused; his arms fairly twitched with holding something in, and he reached up to pinch his cheek, as he always did when thinking.

"All right," Harry said.

That brought the tears to Arthur's eyes. The way Harry accepted whatever was coming from him, without hesitation, forthrightly. You could be married a million years and such instant rapport would be impossible. Arthur loved Harry fiercely then. The tears slid down his cheek and he took a deep breath, then leaned over and whispered in his friend's ear.

"Christ," Harry said when he had finished. He stared earnestly at Arthur. One finger slowly tapped the blanket. "Now I know I'm dreaming." He blinked at the cloud-filtered sunshine coming through the window curtains. "You wouldn't ..." Abandoning that question, he said, "When did this happen to you?"

"This morning."

Harry looked at the curtain. "Ithaca. She can tell me. I've been confused. She left ..."

Arthur took the metal spider from his pocket and held it before Harry's face, resting it in his palm. It moved its legs in a slow, restless dance. Harry's eyes widened and he made an effort to back up against the pillows. "Christ," he repeated. "What is it? What is it doing here?"

"It's a miniature von Neumann probe," Arthur said. "It explores, recruits. Does research. Gathers samples. It makes copies of itself." He returned the spider to his pocket. "Captain Cook has his own enemies," he said.

"So what are you, a slave?"

Arthur didn't respond for a moment. "I don't know," he said.

"Who else ... ?"

Arthur shook his head. "There are others."

"What if it's another . . .layer of deception?" Harry asked, closing his eyes again.

"I don't think it is."

"You're saying there's hope."

Arthur's expression changed to puzzlement. "That's not the word I'd use. But there's a new factor, yes." "And this is all you know."