With his recent analysis of Ferry, Panille tried to see the man sympathetically. It was difficult. Painful powers centered on this room, which was functional shipside standard: two hatches in metal walls, instruments in their racks, no ports. The room was blocked by a low barrier and a large com-console behind which Ferry sat. A gate on the right led to a hatch in the far wall.

It occurred to Panille that Ferry was old for shipside. He had watery gray eyes full of false boredom, puffy cheeks. His breath gave off a heavy floral perfume. There was slyness in his voice.

“Brought your own recorder, I see.” He punched a notation into the com-console which shielded him from the waist down.

Ferry glanced at the shipcloth bag on Panille’s shoulder. “What else you bring?”

“Personal possessions, clothes . . . a few keepsakes.”

“Hrrrm.” Ferry made another notation. “Let’s see.”

The distrust in this order shocked Panille. He put the bag on a flat counter beside the com-console, watched while Ferry pawed through the contents. Panille resented every stranger-touch on intimate possessions. It became obvious after a time that Ferry was searching for things which could be used as weapons. The rumors were true, then. The people around Oakes feared for their own flesh.

Ferry held up the flexible net of silver rolled into its tie bands. “Wha’s’s?”

“I use that when I’m writing my poetry. Ship gave it to me.”

Ferry put it onto the counter with care, went back to examining the rest of the bag’s contents. Some items of clothing he passed beneath a lens behind him and studied details in a scanner whose shields prevented anyone else from seeing what he saw. Occasionally, he made notations in the com-console.

Panille looked at the silver net. What was Ferry going to do with it? He could not take it!

Ferry spoke over his shoulder while examining more of Panille’s clothing under the scanner lens.

“You think the ship’s God?”

The “ship”? The usage surprised Panille. “I . . . yes.”

And he thought back to that one conversation he had had with Ship on the subject. That had been a test, too. Ship was God and God was Ship. Ship could do things mortal flesh could not . . . at least while remaining mortal flesh. Normal dimensions of space dissolved before Ship. Time carried no linear restrictions for Ship.

I, too, am God, Doctor Winslow Ferry. But I am not Ship . . . Or am I? And you, dear Doctor, what are you?