Days, she would pace with him along the shores andhelp in the gathering of driftwood, for she liked a fire atnight; and while heat and cold had long been things ofindifference to him, he came in time and his fashion toenjoy the glow.

And on their walks he would poke into the dank trashheaps the sea had lofted and turn over stones to see whatdwelled beneath.

"God! What do you hope to find in that?" she said, holding her breath and retreating."I don't know," he chuckled. "A stone? A leaf? A door?Something nice. Like that."

"Let's go watch the things in the tidepools. They'reclean, at least."

"All right."

Though he ate from habit and taste rather than fromnecessity, her need for regular meals and her facility inpreparing them led him to anticipate these occasions withsomething approaching a ritualistic pleasure. And it waslater still after an evening's meal, that she came to polishhim for the first time. Awkward, grotesque—perhaps itcould have been. But as it occurred, it was neitherof these. They sat before the fire, drying, warming, watching, silent. Absently, she picked up the rag he had let fallto the floor and brushed a fleck of ash from his flamereflecting side. Later, she did it again. Much later, andthis time with full attention, she wiped all the dust fromthe gleaming surface before going off to her bed.

One day she asked him, "Why did you buy the oneway ticket to this place and sign the contract, if you didnot wish to die?"

"But I did wish it," he said.

"And something changed your mind after that? What?"

"I found here a pleasure greater than that desire."

"Would you teli me about it?"

"Surely. I found this to be one of the few situations—perhaps the only—where I can be happy. It is in the nature of the place itself; departure, a peaceful conclusion,a joyous going. Its contemplation here pleases me, livingat the end of entropy and seeing that it is good."

"But it doesn't please you enough to have you undertake the treatment yourself?"

"No. I find in this a reason for living, not for dying- Itmay seem a warped satisfaction. But then, I am warped.What of yourself?"

"I just made a mistake. That's all."

"They screen you pretty carefully, as I recall. The onlyreason they made a mistake in my case was thatthey could not anticipate anyone finding in this place aninspiration to go on living. Could your situation have beensimilar?"

"I don't know. Perhaps ..."

On days when the sky was clear they would rest in theyellow warmth of the sun, playing small games and some-times talking of the birds that passed and of the swimming,drifting, branching, floating and flowering things in theirpools. She never spoke of herself, saying whether it waslove, hate, despair, weariness or bitterness that had broughther to this place. Instead, she spoke of those neutral thingsthey shared when the day was bright; and then when theweather kept them indoors she watched the fire, slept orpolished his armor. It was only much later that she beganto sing and to bum, small snatches of tunes recently popular or tunes quite old. At these times, if she felt his eyesupon her she stopped abruptly and turned to anotherthing.

One night then, when the fire had burned low, as shesat buffing his plates, slowly, quite slowly, she said in asoft voice, "I believe that I am falling in love with you."

He did not speak, nor did he move. He gave no sign ofhaving heard.

After a long while, she said, "It is most strange, findingmyself feeling this way—here—under these circumstances. .. ."

"Yes," he said, after a time, After a longer while, she put down the cloth and tookhold of his hand—the human one—and felt his griptighten upon her own.

"Can you?" she said, much later.

"Yes. But I would crush you, little girl."

She ran her hands over his plates, then back and forthfrom flesh to metal. She pressed her Ups against his onlycheek that yielded.

"We'll find a way," she said, and of course they did.

In the days that followed she sang more often, sanghappier things and did not break off when he regardedher. And sometimes he would awaken from the light sleepthat even he required, awaken and through the smallestaperture of his lens note that she lay there or sat watchinghim, smiling. He sighed occasionally for the pure pleasureof feeling the rushing air within and about him, and therewas a peace and a pleasure come into him of the sort hehad long since relegated to the realms of madness, dreamand vain desire. Occasionally, he even found himself whistling.

One day as they sat on a bank, the sun nearlyvanished, the stars coming on, the deepening dark wasmelted about a tiny wick of falling fire and she let go ofhis hand and pointed.

"A ship," she said.

"Yes," he answered, retrieving her hand.

"Full of people."

"A few, I suppose."

"It is sad."

"It must be what they want, or what they want towant"

"It is still sad."

"Yes. Tonight. Tonight it is sad."

"And tomorrow?"

"Then, too, I daresay."

"Where is your old delight in the graceful end, thepeaceful winding-down?"

"It is not on my mind so much these days. Other thingsare there."

They watched the stars until the night was all black andlight and filled with cold air. Then, "What is to become ofus?" she said.

"Become?" he said. "If you are happy with things asthey are, there is no need to change them. If you are not,then tell me what is wrong."

"Nothing," she said. "When you put it that way, nothing. It was just a small fear—a cat scratching at my heart,as they say."

"I'll scratch your heart myself," he said, raising heras if she were weightless.

Laughing, he carried her back to the shack.

It was out of a deep, drugged-seeming sleep that hedragged himself/was dragged much later, by the sound ofher weeping. His time-sense felt distorted, for it seemed anabnormally long interval before her image registered, andher sobs seemed unnaturally drawn out and far apart.

"What—is—it?" he said, becoming at that momentaware of the faint, throbbing, pinprick aftereffect in hisbiceps.

"I did not—want you to—awaken," she said. "Pleasego back to sleep."

"You are from the Center, aren't you?"

She looked away.

"It does not matter," he said.

"Sleep. Please. Do not lose the—"M—requirements of Item Seven," he finished. "You always honor a contract, don't you?"

"That is not all that it was—to me."

"You meant what you said, that night?"

"I came to."

"Of course you would say that now. Item Seven—"

"You bastard!" she said, and she slapped him.

He began to chuckle, but it stopped when he saw thehypodermic on the table at her side. Two spent ampuleslay with it.

"You didn't give me two shots," he said, and she lookedaway. "Come on." He began to rise. "We've got to get youto the Center. Get the stuff neutralized. Get it out of you."

She shook her head.

"Too late—already. Hold me. If you want to do something for me, do that."

He wrapped all of his arms about her and they lay thatway while the tides and the winds cut, blew and ebbed,grinding their edges to an ever more perfect fineness.

I think—

Let me tell you of the creature called the Bork. It wasbom in the heart of a dying star. It was a piece of a manand pieces of many other things. If the things went wrong,the man-piece shut them down and repaired them. If hewent wrong, they shut him down and repaired him. Itwas so skillfully fashioned that it might have lasted forever. But if part of it should die the other pieces need notcease to function, for it could still contrive to carry on themotions the total creature had once performed. It is athing in a place by the sea that walks beside the water, poking with its forked, metallic stick at the otherthings the waves have tossed. The human piece, or apiece of the human piece, is dead.