Maybe, she thought, she'd better call it all off and return the books. They'd already cost Gruber his life-though for the life of her she couldn't figure out who had killed him-and given her a few too many close brushes with violence.

She'd have to contact Kien. That'd be easy, but the details of the exchange might be tricky to work out. Also, she didn't want to come out of this thing entirely empty-handed.

She looked out the window of the cab pensively, and, struck by sudden inspiration, called out, "Stop, stop right here!"

The driver took her at her word and slammed on the brakes, bringing the taxi to a screeching halt. She could hear tires squeal behind them as she leaped out and tossed some crumpled bills onto the front seat.

"Thanks," she said breathlessly, and turned and ran up the street.

"My pleasure," the cabbie said with a bemused expression, watching her bikini-clad form with appreciation as she ran up to the front of the Famous Bowery Wild Card Dime Museum.

"Jack! Jack, it is you, am I not right?"

A familiar voice, any familiar voice in the Village's circus atmosphere today was a shock. Jack turned and saw a handsome man, half a head taller than he, looking down at him.

"Hello, Jean-Jacques," Jack said. Jean-Jacques had arrived from Senegal six years ago. He worked part of the time as a waiter at the Simba on Sixth Avenue at Eighth, and the rest of the time as a tutor for foreign students learning English at the New School. Jack had never seen a man with more striking features. "Listen," he said to the other. "I need some help." He took out Cordelia's snapshot.

Jean-Jacques nodded, but seemed distracted. "Anything, my friend. Anything at all."

Jack knew there was something wrong. "What is it?"

"Nothing to be of concern." Jean-Jacques looked away toward the pedestrians moving briskly past them. The early afternoon sun shone on his skin so that the deep black shone almost blue.

"I doubt that." Jack put a hand on the man's shoulder, conscious of the warm vitality radiating through the bright pattern. "Tell me."

Jean-Jacques looked back at Jack, his penetrating gaze meeting Jack's eyes. "It is the retrovirus," he said. "It is the killer. I have just been to see my doctor. The diagnosis was unfortunately positive." He sighed. "Quite positive."

"Retrovirus?" said Jack. "You mean the wild card-"

"No." Jean-Jacques interrupted him. "The surer killer." The word seemed to stick in his throat. "AIDS."

"Mother of Jesus," said Jack. "I am sorry." He started closer to Jean-Jacques, caught himself for just a second, then went ahead and embraced the man. "I'm very sorry."

Jean-Jacques gently pushed Jack away. "I understand," he said simply. "You are not the first I have told. Already they are treating me like one of the damnable jokers." He shut his eyes sadly, then opened them and said, "Don't worry, old friend. You are all right. I know who it was." He shut his eyes again. "And I know when it was." His head began to shake slightly and Jack again embraced him. This time, Jean-Jacques did not push him immediately away.

"I think you are on a mission," Jean-Jacques said. "Tell me what you are seeking, and if I can help, I shall."

Jack hesitated, then told him about Cordelia. The Senegalese inspected the photograph. "A very beautiful young lady." He glanced at Jack. "You share the same eyes." Then he handed back the picture. "Go," he said. "Continue your search. As I said, if I observe anything that could be of use to you, I will let you know."

There was nothing more to say, but Jack remained there beside Jean-Jacques.

"Go," Jean-Jacques repeated. He smiled slightly. "Good fortune." Then he turned on his heel and was gone.

"This is your important stop?" Roulette asked, eyeing the decaying wall of a riverfront warehouse. Tachyon had dismissed Riggs several blocks away, and a brisk sweat-raising walk had ended here.

He glanced back over his shoulder as his slender hands opened the large shiny padlock. His expression was one of suppressed excitement and mischief, rather like a little boy about to show off his collection of tadpoles. And she suddenly realized that he was very young. Because of mutation and their obsession with the life sciences, the Takisian life span was vastly longer than the human. Tachyon at eighty-something was a graybeard by Earth standards, but only verging on manhood by Takisian norms. It explained a lot.

The door swung open on well-oiled hinges, and he waved her through. Her sharp retreat brought her up hard against his chest.

"Don't be afraid."

"My God, what?" She glanced cautiously at the glowing monstrosity squatting in the center of the empty, echoing room. It looked rather like a wentletrap seashell, but the tips of its gray spines were set with glowing amber and purple lights. It also seemed to be resting in a glittering whirlpool, for dust was spiraling in toward the creature.

"The ship."

"What?"

"Your ship," she amended quickly. "Yes, Baby."

"Baby?"

"Uh huh." Tachyon's lilac eyes rested lovingly on the ship, and Roulette's shields (painstakingly erected by the Astronomer) responded to a nearby telepathic communication.

"She's frustrated. She tried to say hello to you, but you have shields." He cocked his head to one side, seriously regarding her. "Strange. Most humans…" A quick shake of the head. "Well, come inside."

"I… I'd rather not."

"She won't hurt you."

"It's not that."

"What then?"

She hunched her shoulders and walked toward the ship, though it felt like a betrayal. Sometime early tomorrow morning the Astronomer would seize this living vessel, and pilot her far away.

The ship obligingly opened her lock, and they entered the control room. The inner walls and floor of the ship glowed like polished mother-of-pearl, casting opalescent light across the large canopy bed that dominated the room. Tachyon chuckled. "Your expression is priceless. You see, unlike most of my kind I vowed I would die in bed. This seemed to be a way to ensure it."

The rest of the furniture had a fragile beauty, and it was clear from the width of the chair seats that Takisians were smaller than humans. Unless this furniture had been made for Tachyon's personal use.

The alien took her gently by the shoulders, and indicated the wall. Flowing silver script gleamed.

Greetings, Roolete.

Tachyon smiled, and shook his head. Roulette.

"Her spelling isn't so good yet. She just started this when I had some other friends aboard. She's picking up a knowledge of written English by a low-level drain. I'm indulgent so I let her get away with it."

"It's unbelievable."

She seated herself on the bed while Tachyon unearthed a pair of crystal goblets from a chest which seemed to be an extrusion of the ship herself.

Another message flitted across the wall while the alien's back was turned.

You are honored. There was something peevish about the message.

"Cut it out, Baby," warned Tachyon. Apology.

"Accepted," Roulette said, feeling like an idiot.

Tachyon splashed a dollop of brandy into each glass from his hip flask. Two bright spots of color were burning on his cheeks. "You are the first woman I've ever brought here. So she is curious, hopeful, and a little resentful."

"She loves you."

"Yes, and I her." He brushed his palm across one curving wall.

"Why hopeful?" She took a sip of cognac.

"Despite being a little jealous she wants to see me marry, and sire children. Pedigree, continuance, is very important to the ships. Over the centuries they've absorbed our obsession with ancestor worship, and she considers me a failure. I keep telling her I have a lot of time left. Especially since I now live on Earth." He joined her on the bed.

"I've read a great deal about you, but I've never seen this mentioned. Of course its logical you would have a ship, how else would you have gotten here?"