“What if the Culture’s won the battle outside the Barrier and they’re waiting for us when we come out, with or without the

Mind." Yalson

asked. She didn’t sound hostile, just interested. She was the only one he felt he could rely on, though he thought

Wubslin would follow, too.

Horza nodded.

“That’s unlikely. I can’t see the Culture falling back all over this volume but holding out here; but even if they did they’d

have to be very lucky

indeed to catch us. They can only see into the Barrier in real space, don’t forget, so they’d have no

warning of where we’d be coming out. No

problem there."

Yalson sat back, apparently convinced. Horza knew he looked calm, but inside he was tensed up, waiting for the mood of the

rest to make

itself clear. His last answer had been truthful, but the rest were either not the whole truth, or lies.

He had to convince them. He had to have them on his side. There was no other way he could carry out his mission, and he had

come too

far, done too much, killed too many people, sunk too much of his own purpose and determination into the task, to

back out now. He

had

to track

the Mind down, he

had

to go down into the Command System, Idirans or no Idirans, and he

had

to have the rest of what had been Kraiklyn’s

Free Company with him. He looked at them: at Yalson, severe and impatient, wanting

the talking to stop and the job just to be got on with, her

shadow of hair making her look both very young, almost child-like,

and hard at the same time; Dorolow, her eyes uncertain, looking at the

others, scratching one of her convoluted ears nervously;

Wubslin, slumped comfortably in his seat, compressed, his stocky frame radiating

relaxation. Wubslin’s face had shown signs

of interest when Horza described the Command System, and the Changer guessed the engineer

found the whole idea of this gigantic

train-set fascinating.

Aviger looked very dubious about the whole venture, but Horza thought that now he had made it clear nobody was going to be

allowed to

stay on the ship, the old man would accept this rather than go to the trouble of arguing about it. Neisin he wasn’t

sure about. He had been

drinking as much as ever, been quieter than Horza remembered him, but while he didn’t like being bossed

around and told what he could and

couldn’t do, he was obviously fed up being stuck on the

Clear Air Turbulence,

and had already been out for a walk in the snow while Wubslin

and Horza were looking at the medjel suit. Boredom would make

him follow, if nothing else.

Horza wasn’t worried about the machine Unaha-Closp; it would do as it was told, like machines always did. Only the Culture

let them get so

fancy they really did seem to have wills of their own.

As for Perosteck Balveda, she was his prisoner; it was as simple as that.

“Easy in, easy out…" Yalson said. She smiled, shrugged and, looking round at the others, said, “What the fuck; it’s something

to do, isn’t

it."

Nobody disagreed.

Horza was reprogramming the

CAT

’s fidelities once more, entering the computer’s new instructions through a worn but still serviceable

touchboard, when Yalson

came onto the flight deck. She slipped into the copilot’s seat and watched the man as he worked; the touchboard’s

illuminated

display threw the shadows of Marain characters over his face.

After a while she said, looking at the markings on the illuminated board, “Marain, eh."

Horza shrugged. “It’s the only accurate language I and this antique share." He tapped some more instructions in. “Hey." He

turned to her.

“You shouldn’t be in here when I’m doing this." He smiled, to show her he wasn’t serious.

“Don’t you trust me." Yalson said, smiling back.

“You’re the only one I do," Horza said, turning to the board again. “It doesn’t matter anyway, for these instructions."

Yalson watched him for a little longer. “Did she mean a lot to you, Horza."

He didn’t look up, but his hands paused over the touchboard. He stared at the illuminated characters.

“Who."

“Horza…" Yalson said, gently.

He still didn’t look at her. “We were friends," he said, as though talking to the touchboard.

“Yeah, well," she said, after a pause, “I suppose it must be pretty hard anyway, when it’s your own people…."

Horza nodded, still not looking up.

Yalson studied him for a little longer. “Did you love her."

He didn’t reply immediately; his eyes seemed to inspect each of the precise, compact shapes in front of him, as though one

of them

concealed the answer. He shrugged. “Maybe," he said, “once." He cleared his throat, looked briefly round at Yalson,

then leaned back to the

touchboard. “That was a long time ago."

Yalson got up then, as he went back to his task, and put her hands on his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Horza." He nodded again,

and placed one

hand over hers. “We’ll get them," she said. “If that’s what you want. You and—"

He shook his head, looked round at her. “No. We go for the Mind, that’s all. If the Idirans do get in the way, I won’t care,

but… no, there’s no

point in risking more than we have to. Thanks, though."

She nodded slowly. “That’s all right." She bent, kissed him briefly, then went out. The man gazed at the closed door for a

few moments, then

turned back to the board full of alien symbols.

He programmed the ship’s computer to fire warning, then lethal laser shots at anybody or anything approaching it unless they

could be

identified by the distinctive electromagnetic emission signature of their suit as one of the Free Company. In addition,

it required Horza’s—

Kraiklyn’s—identity ring to make the

CAT

’s elevator work and, once on board, to take control of the ship itself. Horza felt safe enough doing

this; only the ring

would let them take over the ship, and he was confident nobody could take that from him, not without a greater risk to

themselves

than even a squad of mean and hungry Idirans could provide.

But it was possible that he might be killed, and the others might survive. Especially for Yalson, he wanted them to have some

sort of escape

route that didn’t depend totally on him.

They took down some of the plastic boarding in the Changer base so that if they did find the Mind they would be able to get

it through. Dorolow

wanted to bury the dead Changers, but Horza refused. He carried each of them to the tunnel entrance and

left them there. He would take them

with him when they left; return them to Heibohre. The natural freezer of Schar’s World’s

atmosphere would preserve them until then. He looked

down at Kierachell’s face for a moment, in the waning light of late afternoon,

while a bank of clouds coming in from the frozen sea built over the

distant mountains, and the wind freshened.

He would get the Mind. He was determined to, and he felt it in his bones. But if it came to a firefight with the ones who

had done this, he

wouldn’t shrink from it. He might even enjoy it. Perhaps Balveda wouldn’t have understood, but there were

Idirans and Idirans. Xoralundra was a

friend, and a kind and humane officer—he supposed the old Querl would be considered

a moderate—and Horza knew others in the military

and diplomatic missions whom he liked. But there were Idirans who were real

fanatics, who despised all other species.

Xoralundra would not have murdered the Changers; it would have been unnecessary and inelegant… but then you didn’t send moderates

on missions like this. You sent fanatics. Or a Changer.

Horza returned to the others. He got as far as the crippled flyer, now surrounded with the plastic boarding they had removed

and facing the