"Yes."

"Why?"

"It's not clear. The Quraquat apparently thought it was obvious why an immortal would behave this way, but they didn't explain it. At least not in any of the records we've been able to find.

"Over here, he's assumed a devotional attitude. He is requesting the gift of mortality from his mother. Look at the universal outstretched hands.

"And here" — she moved past Henry, pointing—"here, he is a teacher."

And here, caught up in war. Arm raised. Expression fierce. His right hand was broken off. "He would have been holding a weapon," she said. "He was at a disadvantage, because when they gave him mortality, they did not deprive him of all his divine attributes. He understood the suffering of his enemies. And he could see the future. He knew that death in battle awaited him. And he knew the manner of its coming."

The crocodilian image of the god-hero was not without its nobility. In one frieze, he contemplates mortality in the presence of dark-robed Death.

"Eventually," said Linda, "he asks that his godhood be restored. Here, look at the supplicating hands."

Henry nodded. "I assume it was restored?"

"Telmon left the decision to him. / will comply with your wish. But you have chosen by far the better part. Continue in your present course, and you will be loved so long as men walk in the world. She didn't say 'men, of course, but used the Quraquat equivalent." Linda illuminated the final tableau. Here, he has made his decision, and puts on his armor for the last time.

"After his death, his mother placed him among the stars." She turned toward Henry. "That's the point of the myth. Death is inevitable. Even the gods are ultimately subject to it. Like the Norse deities. To embrace it voluntarily, for others, is the true measure of divinity."

The dark, robed figure was disturbing. "Something familiar about it," said Henry.

Carson shook his head. "It just looks like your basic Grim Reaper to me."

"No." He had seen the thing before. Somewhere. "It isn't Quraquat, is it?"

Art pointed a lamp at it. "Say again?"

"It isn't Quraquat. Look at it."

"No, it isn't," said Linda. "Does it matter?"

"Maybe not," he said. "But take a close look. What does it remind you of?"

Carson took a deep breath. "The thing on lapetus," he said. "It's one of the Monuments."

Dear Phil,

We got a complete set of the Seasons of Tull today. I have attached details of the design, and tracings of eight wedges with inscriptions in Casumel Linear C. We are exceedingly fortunate: the place is in excellent condition, considering that it was close to sea water for most of its existence, and in the water for the last few centuries.

Time was, we would have had a major celebration. But we are getting close to the end here. We'll be turning everything over to the terraformers in a few weeks. In fact, we are the last team left on Quraqua. Everybody else has gone home. Henry, bless him, won't leave until they push the button.

Anyway, your wunderkind has struck gold. Henry thinks they'll name the new Academy library for me.

Linda

— Linda Thomas.

Letter to her mentor, Dr. Philip Berthold, University of Antioch. Dated the 211th day of the 28th year of the Quraqua Mission. Received in Yellow Springs, Ohio, May 28, 2202.

Hutch killed the engine and the lights, and watched the first wave of office workers spread out through the storm. Most headed for the train station, an elevated platform lost in the hard rain. Some huddled in the shelter of the Tarpley Building, and a few—the more prosperous—dashed for their cars. The sky sagged into the parking lot, its underside illuminated by streetlights and traffic.

His lights were still on, but the blinds were down. It was a corner office on the top floor of a squat utilitarian building, a block of concrete and glass, housing law firms, insurance agents, and jobbers reps. Not the sort of place one would associate with romance. But for her, just being here again, just seeing it, set her internal tides rolling.

People were piling up at the main doors, pulling their collars tight, wrestling with umbrellas. Two or three energy fields blinked on. Cars swung into the approaches, headlamps blurred, wipers moving rhythmically.

Hutch sat unmoving, waiting for the lights to go out, waiting for Cal Hartlett to appear out on the street, wondering what she would do when he did. That she was here at all angered her. It was time to let go, but instead she was hanging around like a lovesick adolescent, hoping something would happen. Hoping he would change his mind when he saw her, as though everything they'd had would come rushing back. But if she didn't try, she would have to live with that knowledge, and she would always wonder.

She shrank down into the front seat, and drew the rain and the night around her.

He had first confessed his love to her in that office. She'd sat in as a systems technician for him one memorable evening, and they'd stayed until dawn.

How long ago all that seemed now. She had been between flights, and when it all ended everything had seemed possible. We'll find a way.

The glide train appeared in the distance, a string of bright lights against the general gloom. A few people hurrying across the lot broke into a run. It approached on a long slow curve, braked, and whispered into the station.

Cal was a financial analyst with the brokerage firm of Forman & Dyer. He enjoyed his work, loved to play with numbers, had been fascinated by her profession. My star pilot. He loved to listen to her descriptions of distant worlds, had extracted a promise that one day, somehow, she would take him along. At least, he'd smiled, to the Moon. He had gray eyes and brown hair and good laugh lines. And he loved her.

The lights in his office went out.

He lived eight blocks away. Cal was a fitness nut, and even in weather like this he would walk home.

The glide train pulled out, accelerated, and slipped into the storm.

The steady flow of people thinned to a handful. She watched the last of them, several waving down their rides, two breaking into a run toward the station.

And then he came through the door. Even at this distance, and in the blurred light, there could be no mistaking him.

She took a deep breath.

Cal pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his soft brown jacket and strode into the lot, away from her, with a quick step. She watched him cross the plastene, skirting puddles, plowing steadily ahead through the storm.

She hesitated, very deliberately shifted to low feed, and switched on the engine. The car moved silently across the pavement, and drew up beside him. Until the last moment, she was uncertain whether or not she would swerve away.

Then he saw her. Her window was down, rain pouring in. He looked startled, pleased, ecstatic, uncomfortable. The whole range of emotions played across his face. "Hutch." He stared at her. "What are you doing here?" She smiled, and was glad she'd come. "Want a ride?" The passenger's door lifted, but he stood watching her. "I didn’t't know you were home."

"I'm home. Listen, you're getting drenched."

"Yeah. Thanks." He came around the front of the car and got in. The after-shave was the same. "How are you doing?"

"Okay. How about you?"

"Fine." His voice was flat. "You look good."

"Thanks."

"But then you've always looked good."

She smiled again, warmer this time, leaned over, and carefully kissed his cheek. Cal had seemed fairly dull when she'd first met him. And his profession had done nothing to enhance that image. But he'd touched her in some primal way so that she knew, whatever happened tonight, she'd never be the same. His appearance, which had been so ordinary in the beginning, was now leading-man, drop-dead caliber. How and when had that happened? She had no idea.