Into the cell, holding a short staff glowing cool blue, stepped the stooped, grizzled figure of Amahain-Frolk, security minister

for the

Gerontocracy of Sorpen. The old man smiled at him and nodded approvingly, then turned to the corridor and, with a

thin, discolored hand,

beckoned somebody standing outside the cell to step onto the short walkway and enter. He guessed it

would be the Culture agent Balveda,

and it was. She came lightly onto the metal boarding, looked round slowly, and fastened

her gaze on him. He smiled and tried to nod in

greeting, his ears rubbing on his naked arms.

“Balveda! I thought I might see you again. Come to see the host of the party." He forced a grin. Officially it was his banquet;

he was the

host. Another of the Gerontocracy’s little jokes. He hoped his voice had shown no signs of fear.

Perosteck Balveda, agent of the Culture, a full head taller than the old man by her side and still strikingly handsome even

in the pallid glow

of the blue torch, shook her thin, finely made head slowly. Her short, black hair lay like a shadow on

her skull.

“No," she said, “I didn’t want to see you, or say goodbye."

“You put me here, Balveda," he said quietly.

“Yes, and there you belong," Amahain-Frolk said, stepping as far forward on the platform as he could without overbalancing

and having to

step onto the damp floor. “I wanted you tortured first, but Miss Balveda here"—the minister’s high, scratchy

voice echoed in the cell as he turned

his head back to the woman—“pleaded for you, though God knows why. But that’s where

you belong all right; murderer." He shook the staff at

the almost naked man hanging on the dirty wall of the cell.

Balveda looked at her feet, just visible under the hem of the long, plain gray gown she wore. A circular pendant on a chain

around her neck

glinted in the light from the corridor outside. Amahain-Frolk had stepped back beside her, holding the shining

staff up and squinting at the

captive.

“You know, even now I could almost swear that was Egratin hanging there. I can…" He shook his gaunt, bony head. “… I can hardly

believe it

isn’t, not until he opens his mouth, anyway. My God, these Changers are dangerous frightening things!" He turned

to Balveda. She smoothed

her hair at the nape of her neck and looked down at the old man.

“They are also an ancient and proud people, Minister, and there are very few of them left. May I ask you one more time. Please.

Let him

live. He might be—"

The Gerontocrat waved a thin and twisted hand at her, his face distorting in a grimace. “No! You would do well, Miss Balveda,

not to keep

asking for this… this assassin, this murderous, treacherous…

spy,

to be spared. Do you think we take the cowardly murder and impersonation

of one of our outworld ministers lightly. What damage

this…

thing

could have caused! Why, when we arrested it two of our guards died just

from being

scratched!

Another is blind for life after this monster spat in his eye! However," Amahain-Frolk sneered at the man chained to the

wall,

“we took those teeth out. And his hands are tied so that he can’t even scratch himself." He turned to Balveda again. “You

say they are few.

I say good; there will soon be one less." The old man narrowed his eyes as he looked at the woman. “We are

grateful to you and your people for

exposing this fraud and murderer, but do not think that gives you the right to tell us

what to do. There are some in the Gerontocracy who want

nothing to do with

any

outside influence, and their voices grow in volume by the day as the war comes closer. You would do well not to

antagonize

those of us who do support your cause."

Balveda pursed her lips and looked down at her feet again, clasping her slender hands behind her back. Amahain-Frolk had turned

back to

the man hanging on the wall, wagging the staff in his direction as he spoke. “You will soon be dead, impostor, and

with you die your masters’

plans for the domination of our peaceful system! The same fate awaits them if they try to invade

us. We and the Culture are—"

He shook his head as best he could and roared back, “Frolk, you’re an idiot!" The old man shrank away as though hit. The Changer

went

on, “Can’t you see you’re going to be taken over anyway. Probably by the Idirans, but if not by them then by the Culture.

You don’t control your

own destinies anymore; the war’s stopped all that. Soon this whole sector will be part of the front,

unless you

make

it part of the Idiran sphere. I

was only sent in to tell you what you should have known anyway—not to cheat you into something

you’d regret later. For God’s sake, man, the

Idirans won’t

eat

you—"

“Ha! They look as though they could! Monsters with three feet; invaders, killers, infidels… You want us to link with them.

With three-strides-

tall-monsters. To be ground under their

hooves.

To have to worship their false gods."

“At least they have a God, Frolk. The Culture doesn’t." The ache in his arms was coming back as he concentrated on talking.

He shifted as

best he could and looked down at the minister. “They at least think the same way you do. The Culture doesn’t."

“Oh no, my friend, oh no." Amahain-Frolk held one hand up flat to him and shook his head. “You won’t sow seeds of discord

like that."

“My God, you stupid old man," he laughed. “You want to know who the real representative of the Culture is on this planet.

It’s not her," he

nodded at the woman, “it’s that powered flesh-slicer she has following her everywhere, her knife missile.

She might make the decisions, it might

do what she tells it, but it’s the real emissary. That’s what the Culture’s about:

machines. You think because Balveda’s got two legs and soft skin

you should be on her side, but it’s the Idirans who are on

the side of life in this war—"

“Well, you will shortly be on the other side of

that.

" The Gerontocrat snorted and glanced at Balveda, who was looking from under lowered

brows at the man chained to the wall.

“Let us go, Miss Balveda," Amahain-Frolk said as he turned and took the woman’s arm to guide her from

the cell. “This…

thing’s

presence smells more than the cell."

Balveda looked up at him then, ignoring the dwarfed minister as he tried to pull her to the door. She gazed right at the prisoner

with her

clear, black-irised eyes and held her hands out from her sides. “I’m sorry," she said to him.

“Believe it or not, that’s rather how I feel," he replied, nodding. “Just promise me you’ll eat and drink very little tonight,

Balveda. I’d like to

think there was one person up there on my side, and it might as well be my worst enemy." He had meant

it to be defiant and funny, but it

sounded only bitter; he looked away from the woman’s face.

“I promise," Balveda said. She let herself be led to the door, and the blue light waned in the dank cell. She stopped right

at the door. By

sticking his head painfully far out he could just see her. The knife missile was there, too, he noticed, just

inside the room; probably there all the

time, but he hadn’t noticed its sleek, sharp little body hovering there in the darkness.

He looked into Balveda’s dark eyes as the knife missile

moved.

For a second he thought Balveda had instructed the tiny machine to kill him now—quietly and quickly while she blocked Amahain-Frolk’s

view—and his heart thudded. But the small device simply floated past Balveda’s face and out into the corridor. Balveda raised

one hand in a

gesture of farewell.

“Bora Horza Gobuchul," she said, “goodbye." She turned quickly, stepped from the platform and out of the cell. The walkway

was hoisted

out and the door slammed, scraping rubber flanges over the grimy floor and hissing once as the internal seals

made it watertight. He hung

there, looking down at an invisible floor for a moment before going back into the trance that

would Change his wrists, thin them down so that he

could escape. But something about the solemn, final way Balveda had spoken

his name had crushed him inside, and he knew then, if not

before, that there was no escape.

…

by drowning them in the tears

…

His lungs were bursting! His mouth quivered, his throat was gagging, the filth was in his ears but he could hear a great roaring,

see lights

though it was black dark. His stomach muscles started to go in and out, and he had to clamp his jaw to stop his

mouth opening for air that