"Yes." A huge face lowered towards him. He reached up to stroke the stern visage. The flesh was hardening. He felt a sweet pang of sadness. Was his father already so old, so near to Consolidation?

"Listen to me. See my face. Your name is Sculptor 472. I am Sculptor 471. You must remember your name."

Sculptor 472. "Thank you," he said seriously. "But--" But what did "Sculptor" mean? He searched his mind, the memory set he'd been born with. Limbs. Father. People. Consolidation. The Sun; the Hills. There was no referent for "Sculptor." He felt a stab of fear; his limbs thrashed. Was something wrong with him?

"Calm yourself," his father said evenly. "It is a name preserved from the past, referring to nothing."

Sculptor 472. It was a good name; a noble name. He looked ahead to his life: his brief three-day morning of awareness and mobility, when he would talk, fight, love, bear his own buds; and then the long, slow, comfortable afternoon of Consolidation. "I feel happy to be alive, father. Everything is wonderful. I--"

"Listen to me."

He stopped, confused; his father's tone was savage, insistent.

Something was wrong.

"Things are -- difficult, now. Different."

Sculptor 472 wrapped his limbs around his torso. "Is it me?"

"No, child. The world is troubled."

"But the Hills -- Consolidation--"

"We had to leave the Hills." There was shame in 471's voice now; again Sculptor became aware of the crush of people beyond the cage of his father's strong limbs. "The Hills are damaged. There are -- Sun-people -- strange forms, glowing, shining. We dare not go there. We had to flee."

"But how will I Consolidate? Where will I go?"

"I'm sorry," his father said. "We must travel far. Perhaps we will find new Hills, where we can Consolidate. Perhaps before your time is due."

"But what about you?"

"Never mind me." With harsh, urgent gestures, 471 poked at his son. "Come. Can you walk?"

Sculptor unwrapped his limbs, settled them to the ground and stood, experimentally. He felt a little dizzy, and some of his joints ached. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine. But I must know--"

"No more talking. Run, child!"

His father rolled away from him and surged stiffly after the fleeing people.

Without 471's protective cage of limbs Sculptor was left exposed. The land here was bare, flat; the sky overhead was black and empty. He blinked away false memories of shaded Hills, of laughter and love.

His people surged to the horizon, abandoning him.

"Wait! Father, wait!"

Awkwardly, stumbling as he learned to ripple his eight limbs across the uneven ground, Sculptor hurried after his father.

Michael Poole joined the flitter in Lunar orbit. He was met by Bill Dzik, the Baked Alaska project director. Dzik was a burly, breathless man, his face rendered unnaturally smooth by Anti-Senescence treatment; he carried a small briefcase. His hand, plump and warm, engulfed Poole's. "Mike. Thanks for meeting me."

"I wasn't expecting to see you here personally, Bill."