What was it I saw and recorded out there?

Try as he might to understand the behavior of the Pandoran creatures, Murdoch could not do it.

Lewis is right. We should just wipe them out.

And as he thought of Lewis, Murdoch asked himself how long this most recent emergency at the Redoubt would keep the man out of touch. For all they really knew, Lewis might be dead. No one was completely immune to the threats of Pandora—not even Lewis. If Lewis were gone . . .

Murdoch tried to imagine himself elevated to a new position of power under Oakes. The images of such a change would not form.

Chapter 8

Gods have plans, too.

—Morgan Oakes, The Diaries

FOR A long time, Panille lay quietly beside Hali in the treedome, watching the plaz-filtered light draw radial beams on the air above the cedar tree. He knew Hali had been hurt by his rejection and he wondered why he did not feel guilty. He sighed. There was no sense in running away; this was the way he had to be.

Hali spoke first, her voice low, tentative.

“Nothing’s changed, is it?”

“Talking about it doesn’t change it,” he said. “Why did you ask me out here—to revive our sexual debate?”

“Couldn’t I just want to be with you for a while?”

She was close to tears. He spoke softly to avoid hurting her even more.

“I’m always with you, Hali.” With his left hand he lifted her right hand, pressed the tips of his fingers against the tips of her fingers. “Here. We touch, right?”

She nodded like a child being coaxed from a tantrum.

“Which is we and which the material of our flesh?”

“I don’t . . .”

He held their fingertips a few centimeters apart.

“All the atoms between us oscillate at incredible speeds. They bump into each other and shove each other around.” He tapped the air with a fingertip, careful to keep from touching her.

“So I touch an atom; it bumps into the next one; that one nudges another, and so on until . . .” He closed the gap and brushed her fingertips. “. . . we touch and we were never separate.”

“Those are just words!” She pulled her hand away from him.

“Much more than words, you know it, Med-tech Hali Ekel. We constantly exchange atoms with the universe, with the atmosphere, with food, with each other. There’s no way we can be separated.”

“But I don’t want just any atoms!”

“You have more choice than you think, lovely Hali.”

She studied him out of the corners of her eyes. “Are you just making these things up to entertain me?”

“I’m serious. Don’t I always tell you when I make up something?”

“Do you?”

“Always, Hali. I will make up a poem to prove it.” He tapped her wire ring lightly. “A poem about this.”

“Why’re you telling me your poems? You usually just lock them up on tapes or store them away in those old-fashioned glyph books of yours.”