“The ship then. It’s hounded me down at last.”

“Not Ship.”

“Lewis! He did this. He and Legata!”

Oakes felt his tears begin. Lewis and Legata. He was unable to meet Panille’s steady gaze. Lewis and Legata. A Flatwing moved away from the poet, crawled onto the toe of Oakes’ boot, rested its bristling head there. Oakes stared down at it in horror, unable to command his own muscles. Frustration forced words from him.

“Tell me who did this!”

“You know who did it.”

An anguished cry was wrenched from Oakes’ throat: “Noooooooooooo!”

“You did it, Oakes. You and Thomas.”

“I didn’t!”

Panille merely stared at him.

“Tell your demons to kill me then!” Oakes hurled the words at Panille.

“They are not my demons.”

“Why don’t they attack?”

“Because I show them a world which some would call illusion. No creature attacks what it sees, only what it thinks it sees.”

Oakes stared at Panille in horror. Illusion. This poet could fill my mind with illusion?

“The ship taught you how to do that!”

“Avata taught me.”

A feeling of hysteria crept into Oakes. “And your Avata’s done for . . . all gone!”

“Not before teaching us the universe of alternate realities. And Avata lives in us yet.”

Oakes stared down at the deadly Flatwing on his boot. “What does it see?” He pointed a shaking finger at the creature.

“Something of its own life.”

A crash shook the ground all around them and the Flatwing crept off his boot to squat quietly on the sand. Oakes looked toward the source of the sound, saw that another coveside section of the Redoubt had slipped away into the surf. The white line of the horizon had moved right up to the land—thunderous waves. The cove amplified the waves, condensing them and sending them high against the shore. Oakes stared in dumb horror as another section of the Redoubt ripped away and fell from view.

“I don’t care what you say,” Oakes muttered. “The planet’s beaten us.”

“If that’s what you want.”

“What I want!” Oakes rounded on him in rage, broke off at the approach of two E-clones carrying a wounded man on a litter. Hali Ekel, her nose ring glittering in the brilliant light, walked alongside. Her pribox was hooked to the patient. Oakes looked down at the litter and recognized the man there: Raja Thomas. The litter carriers stared questioningly at Oakes as they lowered Thomas to the sand.

“How bad?” Oakes directed the question at Hali.

Panille answered: “He is dying. A chest wound and a flash bum.”

A chuckle forced its way from Oakes. He gulped it back. “So he won’t survive me! At last—no Ceepee for the damned ship!”

Hali knelt beside Thomas and looked up at Panille. “He won’t survive being carried to the shelter. He wanted me to bring him to you.”

“I know.”