So no more drugs, for him or his customers—only wine, and beer at the most. He hadn't needed to smuggle any more, anyway—he had enough invested, he could live on the interest. Or his wife and boy could, while he eked out a living wandering from bar to bar, singing for shekels. The accommodations weren't too great, but other than that, it wasn't so different. He'd missed his son's early years though, and was beginning to think of going back to Ceres and getting to know him. Henrietta couldn't be all that bad.

Then he'd had the letter from the lawyer, and decided maybe she could. He'd had to live on his singing after that, because the court had given Henrietta all the stocks and bonds, and the kid. Whitey didn't have a leg to stand on—so he'd missed the lad's middle years, and teen years, too, because Henrietta had taken the money and the boy and emigrated to Falstaff, where Whitey couldn't follow—he didn't have the money for a ticket any more.

Not that he was about to try. In fact, he was ashamed for even thinking about it.

Of course, there was the chance that the kid might have wanted to meet him, when he grew up—so Whitey had written him a letter, when he found out that the kid had come back to Ceres. But the boy sent him a pointed note, one, and very pointed—"Stay out of my life." Not much arguing with that—and not much of a surprise, considering all the things Henrietta had told him about his father, some of which were actually true. So Whitey had lived with his second big regret, and gone on singing.

Ceres! Why did the kid have to go back there?

Because it was where he'd spent his boyhood, of course—nice to know it must have been halfway happy.

So Whitey had subscribed to Ceres News Service, and kept track of the main events in the boy's life—his marriage, his daughter's birth, his family's plunging into the new commuter colony on that large asteroid called Homestead, with the brand new idea in domes—overlapping force-field generators that completely englobed the rock.

And the dome had collapsed, and the boy and his wife were dead.

But the baby was alive.

The baby was alive, and her father hadn't left a will, and her mother's parents had followed Henrietta's lead and opted for cold sleep while their assets increased—

And Whitey was next of kin.

He touched the letter in his breast pocket, not needing to open it, still able to see the print when he closed his eyes. Next of kin, so little Lona was his responsibility, his second chance to raise a child. He watched Triton dwindling astern with Neptune's huge orb behind it, and felt a strange excitement welling up under the sorrow, vowing that, this time, he wasn't going to make a mess of it, no matter how tough it got.

It got tough.

It got really tough really fast, because it was a hospital the lawyer took him to, not an orphanage or a foster home—a hospital, and she was sitting in the dayroom, a beautiful, blonde, blue-eyed, six-year-old little girl, watching a 3DT program. Just watching.

Not talking, not fidgeting, not throwing spitballs—nothing.

"Lona, this is your grandfather," Dr. Ross said.

She looked up without the slightest sign of recognition—of course. They'd never met, she probably hadn't even known about him. "Are you my mommy's daddy?"

Whitey's smile slipped. Hadn't she met the other grandfather, either? Before he chilled out, of course. "No, I'm the other one."

"My daddy's daddy?"

"Yes."

"What was he like?"

The doctor explained it to him, after he had recovered, in her office. "It was a huge trauma, and she didn't have any defenses against it—after all, she's only six. It's not surprising that she has repressed all memory of it—and any memory that had anything to do with it, too."

"No surprise at all." He forced a smile. "She didn't have that much to remember yet."

Dr. Ross nodded. "We'll have to be very careful, very patient in working around the amnesia. She'll have to learn everything, all over again—but you have to tread very lightly. Don't mention Homestead, or her parents, or anything about her past for a while. There's no way of knowing what will trigger a memory painful enough to set her back."

Whitey nodded. "And she'll have to have psychiatric care?"

"Yes, that's vital."

"I see… Do you take private patients, Doctor?"

"Yes, a few," Dr. Ross said instantly, "and I can make room for Lona."

So he had to settle down, after all—find an apartment to buy, arrange the financing, have the furniture cast and delivered. Then, finally, he was able to lead her out of the hospital and out into the corridor, her little hand in his, already trusting, on her way home.

She was very good.

Too good—Whitey found himself wishing for a little naughtiness. But she was totally obedient, did exactly what she was told—

And not one thing more.

When he didn't have something for her to do, she just sat watching the 3DT, hands in her lap, back straight (as he had commanded, hoping to get a rise out of her). Everything he taught her, she learned on the first try, then did whenever he told her to do it. She made her bed every morning, washed her dishes, studied her alphabet—

Like a robot.

"She could simply be naturally good," Dr. Ross said carefully. "Some children are."

"Some children may be, but it's not natural. Come on, Doctor—just a little disobedience? A little backtalk? Why not?"

"Guilt," the doctor said slowly.

Whitey stared. "What could she have to feel guilty about?"

"The explosion," the doctor sighed. "Children seem to feel that if something goes wrong, it must be their fault, must be the result of something they did."

Whitey frowned. "I can see that making her sad, all right—but absolutely perfectly behaved? And why would that keep her from dreaming?"

"Everyone dreams, Mr. Tambourin."

"Whitey." he squeezed his eyes shut; his real name had unpleasant associations with his past. "Just 'Whitey.' "

" 'Whitey,' " the doctor said reluctantly. "And we know Lona dreams—that's why I gave her the REM test."

"Then how come she says she doesn't?"

"She doesn't remember. She's repressing that, too."

"But they're happening now! And the accident was months ago!"

"Yes," the doctor said, musing, "but she may feel that it's wrong to dream."

"In Heaven's name, why?"

"She may have been angry at her parents," Dr. Ross explained. "Children frequently are, any time they're told No or punished. They want to strike back at their parents, want to hurt them, tell them to drop dead—and, if she'd gone to bed in that frame of mind…"

"She might have dreamed she was killing them?"

"Something like that. Then she woke up, and found they really were dead—so she repressed the traumatic event, and repressed all memory of her parents, since that reminded her of her guilt."

"Isn't this a little farfetched?"

"Very," the doctor admitted. "It's just conjecture, Mr… Whitey."

He sighed. "Mr. Whitey" would do. "We don't have enough information for anything more than a guess, do we?"

"Not yet, no."

"Okay, let's say you're right, Doctor. What do we do about it?"

"Prove to her that wishes don't make things happen, Mr.— Whitey."

Whitey suddenly turned thoughtful. "I suppose that is how it looks to her. But why would that make her so scrupulously obedient?"

"Because if you're naughty," the doctor murmured, "horrible things happen."

"And if you've been that naughty…"

"You want to be punished," the doctor finished for him. "Yes."

"Well." Whitey stood up, with a smile. "She shouldn't have to do it all by herself, should she?"