He was no respecter of money or position, nor could he be won over by charm or by that series of affectations known as charisma. During his sixty-odd years, he had found there were as many louts in the patrician classes as there were ignoramuses farther down the social spectrum. He liked to believe that only intellect engaged him, al-

though he was inclined to assess intellect as a direct corollary of an individual's regard for MacAllister's opinions.

"My name is Casey Hayes," she said. She fumbled in a jacket pocket and produced a press card. "I'm with Interweb."

MacAllister allowed his eyes to drift momentarily shut. A journalist.

She was tall, with fashion-model features, and lush brown hair brushed back in the current style. She wore gray slacks and a dark jacket with a diamond stud. No ordinary journalist, this one, he decided.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, noncommittally.

"Mr. MacAllister, have you been listening to the reports out of the Maleiva system?"

"Regarding the ruins? Yes, I've been keeping up with them. Of course."

He had slowed his pace but not stopped. She fell into step beside him. "It occurred to me," she said, "that this is precisely the sort of event that would interest you. A solitary tower in a faraway place."

"Really?" Journalists always saw in him a potential story, and they were perfectly willing to fabricate whatever circumstance might dictate to get him to talk. There was just no knowing when MacAllister might say something outrageous and shock the public sensibility, or perhaps offend a whole bloc of people. Like last year's remark at Notre Dame, where he was receiving an award, that anyone who truly wished to develop tolerance toward other human beings should start by casting aside any and all religious affiliation. When challenged by one of the other guests, he had asked innocently whether anyone could name a single person put to death or driven from his home by an atheist over theological matters. Had the individual been fully functional, MacAllister had thought, he would have questioned the editor's own celebrated intolerance.

But thank God these people were never quick on their feet.

"Yes," she continued. "I've been a reader of yours ever since college." She launched into a short dissertation on the wonderfulness of his work, and he was inclined to let her go on. But it was late and he was tired. So he encouraged her to come to the point.

"On Maleiva HI," she said, "we're looking at a lost civilization. Maybe some of them are even still alive." She beamed a smile intended to sweep his resistance into the night. "What were they like, do you think? How long had they been there? Does this kind of climax suggest that their entire history, everything they've ever accomplished, is really of no consequence?"

"Young lady," he began.

"Casey."

"Young lady, how on earth would I know? For that matter, why would I care?"

"Mr. MacAllister, I've read Reflections of a Barefoot Journalist."

He was surprised. Barefoot was a collection of essays from his early days, jabbing every social stupidity from breast worship to the timorousness of husbands. But it also contained a long essay defending the bizarre notion, originally promulgated by Rousseau, that there was much to be learned from those untouched by the decadent influence of civilization. That of course was before he'd grasped the truth, that decadence was rather an appealing state. "None of it applies," he said. "The fact that somebody lived on Deepsix who knew how to pile stones on top of one another scarcely seems to be of any significance. Especially since they and the stones are about to go to a happier world."

She looked at him and he saw determination in her eyes. "Mr. MacAllister, you must be wondering why I stopped you."

"Not really."

"I'd like very much-"

"To do an interview with me."

"Yes. As a matter of fact, I would. If you could spare the time."

He'd been a young journalist himself once. Long ago. And it was hard to refuse this particular woman. Why was that? Was he being compromised by his wiring? "About what?" he asked.

"I'd just like to do a general conversation. You can talk about whatever pleases you. Although since we're both here for the Event, that would undoubtedly come up."

He thought about demanding the questions in advance. But he wouldn't want to have it get about that one of the world's most spontaneous thinkers had to have everything up front. "Tell me, uh…" He hesitated, his mind blank. "What did you say your name was, again?"

"Casey Hayes."

"Tell me, Casey, how do you happen to be on this flight? Did you have some sort of foreknowledge about this?"

She tilted her head and gazed steadily back at him. He decided he liked her. She seemed intelligent for a woman journalist.

"Why, no," she said. "In fact, I'm not supposed to be working at all. The ticket was a birthday gift from my parents."

"Congratulations," he said. "You're very lucky to have such parents."

"Thank you. I'll confess I thought that the prospect of watching worlds crash into one another had considerable possibility for a story. If I could get the right angle."

"Let us see if you've done so, Casey. How did you plan to approach the matter?"

"By finding one of the world's most brilliant editors and presenting his reactions to the public."

The woman had no shame.

She gazed steadily at him. He thought he saw the glitter of a promise, of a suggestion for a reward down the road, but ascribed it to the same male software that rooted him in place, that prevented his precipitate retreat to his quarters. "Maybe," she continued, "we could talk over lunch tomorrow, if you're free? The Topdeck is quite nice."

The Topdeck was the most posh eating spot on the vessel. Leather and silver. Candles. Bach on the piano. Very baroque. "Doesn't seem quite right," he said.

"All right" She was all compliance. "Where would you suggest?"

"I put it to you, as an alert journalist. If you were going to interview someone on the significance of the Titanic, or the Rancocas, where would you propose to hold the conversation?"

She looked blank. "I'm not sure," she said.

"Since both have been recovered and, to a degree, reconstructed, surely nothing would serve as effectively as one of the forward staterooms."

"Oh," she said. And again: "Oh! You mean go down to the surface."

Did he mean that? But yes, why not? History of a sort was about to be made. It wouldn't hurt his reputation to be present at the nexus. He might be able to put the appropriate interpretation to events. The world's uplifters, sentimentalists, and moralists would be in rare form during these next few days, drawing what lessons they could from the death of a sentient species. (How sentient, of course, would never become an issue.) There would be the usual references to the event as a warning from the Almighty. It occurred to him that if any of these unfortunate creatures were actually found, there would be a heart-_ wrenching outcry for some sort of desperate rescue effort, presumably from the decks of the Evening Star.

Why not indeed?

"Yes," he said. "If we want to talk about Deepsix, then Deepsix is the place we should go."

She was hesitant. "I don't see how we can arrange it," she said. "Are they sending any tours down?"

He laughed. "No. But I'm sure it can be managed. We have a couple of days yet. I'll see what I can do."

When he got back to his stateroom, MacAllister locked the door and sank into a chair.

The journalist reminded him of Sara.

Not physically. The angles of Sara's face were softer, Sara's hair was several shades darker, Sara's bearing not quite so imperial. They were both about the same size and weight, but once you got beyond that, it was hard to see a physical similarity.