“Look — there — rising over the Hand of God. Is it?”

“Yes, I think so. Our ship.”

They were the last to go as Millesgarden was closed. Most of that afternoon they had wandered among the sculptures, he awed and delighted by his first experience of them, she bidding an unspoken farewell to what had been more a part of her life than she had understood until now. They were lucky in the weather, when summer was waning. This day on Earth had been sunlight, breezes that made leaf shadows dance on the villa walls, a clear sound of fountains.

But when the sun went down, the garden seemed abruptly to come still more alive. It was as if the dolphins were tumbling through their waters, Pegasus storming skyward, Folke Filbyter peering after his lost grandson while his horse stumbled in the ford, Orpheus listening, the young sisters embracing in their resurrection — all unheard, because this was a single instant perceived, but the time in which these figures actually moved was no less real than the time which carried men.

“As if they were alive, bound for the stars, and we must stay behind and grow old,” Ingrid Lindgren murmured.

Charles Reymont didn’t hear her. He stood on the flagstones under a birch tree, whose leaves rustled and had begun very faintly to turn color, and looked toward Leonora Christine. Atop its pillar, the Hand of God upbearing the Genius of Man lifted in silhouette against a greenish-blue dusk. Behind it, the tiny rapid star crossed and sank again.

“Are you sure that wasn’t an ordinary satellite?” Lindgren asked through quietness. “I never expected we’d see—”

Reymont cocked a brow at her. “You’re the first officer, and you don’t know where your own vessel is or what she’s doing?” His Swedish had a choppy accent, like most of the languages he spoke, that underlined the sardonicism.

“I’m not the navigation officer,” she said, defensive. “Also, I put the whole matter out of my mind as much as I can. You should do the same. We’ll spend plenty of years with it.” She half reached toward him. Her tone gentled. “Please. Don’t spoil this evening.”

Reymont shrugged. “Pardon me. I didn’t mean to.”

An attendant neared, stopped, and said deferentially: “I am sorry, we must shut the gates now.”

“Oh!” Lindgren started, glanced at her watch, looked over the terraces. They were empty of everything except the life that Carl Milles had shaped into stone and metal, three centuries ago. “Why, why, it’s far past closing time. l hadn’t realized.”

The attendant bowed. “Since my lady and gentleman obviously wished it, I let them alone after the other visitors left.”

“You know us, then,” Lindgren said.

“Who does not?” The attendant’s gaze admired her. She was tall and well formed, regular of features, blue eyes set wide, blond hair bobbed just under the ears. Her civilian garments were more stylish than was common on a spacewoman; the rich soft colors and flowing draperies of neomedieval suited her.

Reymont contrasted. He was a stocky, dark, hard-countenanced man who had never bothered to have removed the scar that seamed his brow. His plain tunic and trews might as well have been a uniform.

“Thank you for not pestering us,” he said, more curt than cordial.

“I took for granted you wished freedom from being a celebrity,” the attendant replied. “No doubt many others recognized you too but felt likewise.”

“You’ll find we Swedes are a courteous people.” Lindgren smiled at Reymont.

“I won’t argue that,” her companion said. “Nobody can help running into it, when you’re everywhere in the Solar System.” He paused. “But then, whoever steers the world had better be polite. The Romans were in their day. Pilate, for instance.”

The attendant was taken aback at the implied rebuff. Lindgren declared a little sharply, “I said älskvärdig, not artig.” (“Courteous,” not “polite.”) She offered her hand. “Thank you, sir.”

“My pleasure, Miss First Officer Lindgren,” the attendant answered. “May you have a fortunate voyage and come home safe.”

“If the voyage is really fortunate,” she reminded him, “we will never come home. If we do—” She broke off. He would be in his grave. “Again I thank you,” she said to the little middle-aged man. “Good-by,” she said to the gardens.

Reymont exchanged a clasp too and mumbled something. He and Lindgren went out.

High walls darkened the nearly deserted pavement beyond. Footfalls sounded hollow. After a minute the woman remarked, “I do wonder if that was our ship we saw. We’re in a high latitude. And not even a Bussard vessel is big and bright enough to shine through sunset glow.”

“She is when the scoopfield webs are extended,” Reymont told her. “And she was moved into a skewed orbit yesterday, as part of her final tests. They’ll take her back to the ecliptic plane before we depart.”

“Yes, of course, I’ve seen the program. But I’ve no reason to remember exactly who is doing what with her at which time. Especially when we aren’t leaving for another two months. Why should you keep track?”

“When I’m simply the constable.” Reymont’s mouth bent into a grin. “Let’s say that I’m practicing to be a worrywart.”

She glanced sideways at him. The look became a scrutiny. They had emerged on an esplanade by the water. Across it, Stockholm’s lights were kindling, one by one, as night grew upward among houses and trees. But the channel remained almost mirrorlike, and as yet there were few sparks in heaven save Jupiter. You could still see without help.

Reymont hunkered down and drew their hired boat in. Bond anchors secured the lines to the concrete. He had obtained a special license to park practically anywhere. An interstellar expedition was that big an event. Lindgren and he had spent the morning in a cruise around the Archipelago — a few hours amidst greenness, homes like parts of the islands whereon they grew, sails and gulls and sun-glitter across waves. Little of that would exist at Beta Virginis, and none of it in the distances between.

“I am beginning to feel what a stranger you are to me, Carl,” she said slowly. “To everyone?”

“Eh? My biography’s on record.” The boat bumped against the esplanade. Reymont sprang down into its cockpit. Holding the line taut with one hand, he offered her the other. She had no need to lean heavily on him as she descended, but did. His arm scarcely stirred beneath her weight.

She sat down on a bench next the wheel. He twisted the screw top of the anchor he grasped. Intermolecular binding forces let go with a faint smacking noise that answered the slap-slap of water on hull. His movements could not be called graceful, as hers were, but they were quick and economical.

“Yes, I suppose we’ve all memorized each other’s official accounts.” She nodded. “For you, the absolute minimum you could get by with telling.”

(Charles Jan Reymont. Citizenship status, Interplanetarian. Thirty-five years old. Born in the Antarctic, but not one of its better colonies; the sublevels of Polyugorsk offered only poverty and turbulence to a boy whose father had died early. The youth he became got to Mars by some unspecified means and held a variety of jobs till the troubles broke out. Then he fought with the Zebras, with such distinction that afterward the Lunar Rescue Corps offered him a berth. There he completed his academic education and rose fast in rank, until as colonel he had much to do with improving the police branch. When he applied for this expedition, the Control Authority was glad to accept him.)

“Nothing whatsoever of yourself,” Lindgren observed. “Did you even give that away in the psychological testing?”

Reymont had gone forward and cast off the bow line. He stowed both anchors neatly, took the wheel, and started the motor. The magnetic drive was soundless and the propeller made scant noise, but the boat slipped rapidly outward. He kept his eyes straight ahead. “Why do you care?” he asked.