John Morwin studied it. He had seen it by means of assisted telepathy, sculpted it telekinetically, preserved it mechanically. Whatever adolescent fantasy it might have represented, he did not know. Nor did he care. It was there. That was enough. The psychic drain that he felt, the feeling of elation that he felt, the pleasure that he felt in contemplating his creation--these were sufficient to tell him that it was good.

Occasionally, he was troubled by doubts as to whether what he did was really art, in the mere representation of another man's fantasies. True, he possessed the unique combination of talent and equipment to capture a dream, as well as a large fee for his troubles. But he liked to think of himself as an artist. If he could not be a fop, then this was his second choice. An artist, he had decided, possessed as much ego and eccentricity, but because of the added dimension of empathy could not behave toward his fellows with the same insouciance. But if he were not even a true artist .

He shook his head to clear it and removed the basket. He scratched at his right temple.

He had done sexual fantasies, dreamscapes of peace, nightmares for mad kings, psychoses for analysts. No one ever had anything but praise for his work. He hoped that the fact that these were externalizations of their own feelings was not the only ... No, he decided. Portraiture was valid art. But he wondered what would happen if one day he could do his own dream.

Rising, he shut down and removed the equipment from the boy Abse. Then, from his workstand, he picked up the pipe with the old insignia carved into tile side of the bowl, ran his thumb over it, packed it, lit it.

He seated himself behind the boy, after activating the servomechanisms which slowly moved the sleeper's couch into a semi-recline position. The stage was set. He smiled through his smoke and listened to the sounds of breathing.

Showmanship. He had become the businessman once more, the salesman displaying his wares. The first thing that Abse would see upon awakening would be the dramatically situated object. His own voice, from behind, would then break the spell with some trifling comment; and the magic-- broken--would partly retreat into the depths and so be sealed in the viewer's mind. Hopefully, the object's attractiveness would be enhanced by this.

The stirring of a hand. A slight cough. A gesture suddenly frozen, never to be completed ...

He drew it out for perhaps six seconds, then said, "Like it?"

The boy did not reply immediately, but when he did, it was with the words of a younger child, rather than those with which he had entered the studio. Gone was the faintly hidden contempt, the feigned weariness, the ostentatious sense of duty to a parent who had decided upon that as the ideal birthday present for a son who had little else to desire.

"That's it ..." he said. "That's it!"

"I take it, then, that you are pleased?"

"Lords!" The boy rose and moved toward it. He put his hand out slowly, but did not touch the crystal. "Pleased ... It's great." Then he shuddered and stood silent for a time. When he turned, he was smiling. Morwin smiled back, with the left corner of his mouth. The boy was gone again.

"It is quite pleasant," and he made a casual gesture toward it with his left hand, not looking back. "Have it delivered and bill my father."

"Very good."

Morwin rose as Abse moved toward the door that led to the front office and out. He opened it and held it for the boy. Abse halted before passing through and looked into his eyes for a moment. Only then, after a moment, did he return his glance to the globe.

"I--would like to have seen how you did it. It's too bad that we did not think to record the act."

"It's not all that interesting," said Morwin.

"I suppose not. --Well, good morning to you." He did not offer to shake hands.

"Good morning," said Morwin, and watched him depart.

Yes, being spoiled would have been pleasant. Another year or two and the boy would have learned ... everything that he would ever know.

Alyshia Curt, his secretary-receptionist, cleared her throat within her alcove around the corner behind the door. Holding to the frame with both hands, he leaned to his right and peered down at her.

"Hi," he said. "Have Jansen pack it and deliver it; and send the bill."

"Yes, sir," and she gestured with her eyes. He followed them.

"Surprise," said the man seated by the window, without any inflection in his voice.

"Michael! What are you doing here?"

"I wanted a cup of real coffee."

"Come on back. I've got some simmering."

The man rose and moved slowly, his bulk, his pale uniform, his albino hair reminding Morwin for the dozenth time of ice ages and the progress of glaciers.

They passed back into the studio and Morwin sought two clean cups. Locating them, he turned to discover that Michael had crossed, silently, the entire length of the studio, to regard the latest creation.

"Like it?" he asked.

"Yes. It's one of your best. --For that Arnithe kid?"

"Yeah."

"What did he think of it?"

"He said he liked it."

"Mm." Michael turned away and moved to the small table where Morwin sometimes took his meals.

Morwin poured the coffee and they sipped it.

"Tile _lamaq_ season opens this week."

"Oh," said Morwin. "I hadn't realized it was getting around to that time of year. You going out?"

"I was thinking of the weekend after this. We could skim up to the Blue Forest, camp out a couple nights, maybe bag ourselves a few."

"That sounds like a good idea. I'm with you. Anybody else coming along?"

"I was thinking maybe Jorgen."

Morwin nodded and drew on his pipe, his thumb covering the insignia on its side. Jorgen the giant Rigellian and Michael of Honsi had been crewmates during the war. Fifteen years earlier he would have shot either one of them on sight. Now he trusted them at his back with guns. Now he ate, drank, joked with them, sold his works to their fellows. The DYNAB insignia, Fourth Stellar Fleet, seemed to throb beneath his thumb. He was squeezing it tightly, feeling ashamed that he sought to conceal it from the Honsian but unable to uncover it. If we had won it would have been the other way around, he told himself, and nobody would have blamed Michael if he wore that damned big battle ring of his backward or on a chain around his neck, out of sight. A man has to make his life where he finds things best. If I had stayed in the DYNAB, I would still be juggling electrons--in some damned laboratory--on starvation wages.

"How much longer've you got till retirement?" he asked.

"Around three years. Still a lot of looking forward left."

Michael leaned back then, and with his right hand withdrew a news printout from his tunic.

"Looks as if a certain friend of yours plans never to retire."

Morwin took the paper, ran his eyes along the columns.

"What are you referring to?" he asked, for the sake of form.

"Second column. About halfway down."

"'Explosion on Blanchen'? That one?"

"Yes."

He read the report slowly. Then, "I'm afraid I don't understand," he said, while a certain thing like pride occurred within him. He kept it there, inside.

"Your old fleet commander, Malacar Miles. Who else?"

"'Six men dead, nine injured ... Eight units destroyed, twenty-six damaged,'" he read. "'No clues have been found but the Service is working on ...' --If no clues have been found, what makes you suspect the Commander?"

"The contents of the warehouses."

"What was in them?"

"High-speed voice-translation units."

"I fail to see--"

"--Previously only produced in the DYNAB. These were the first ones manufactured on CL worlds."

"So they're cutting into _that_ DYNAB industry too."