But Shira only frowned.

They approached the dwellings and workplaces of the Friends. The buildings, simple cubes and cones built on a human scale, were scattered around the heart of this landscape ship like toys, surrounding the old stones at the center of the disk. The building material was uniformly dove-gray and — when Berg ran her fingertips over the wall of a teepee as she passed — smooth to the limit of sensation. But it was human-warm, without the cold of metal. This was "Xeelee construction material," one of the many technological miracles that had apparently seeped down to mankind — and their foes, like the Squeem and the Qax — from the mysterious Xeelee, lords of creation.

Friends moved among the buildings, patiently going about their business. One small group had collected around one of the data capture devices they called "slates," and were arguing over what looked like a schematic of the earth-craft.

They nodded to Shira, and to Berg with glances of curiosity.

Berg had counted about thirty Friends of Wigner aboard the craft, roughly split between male and female. They appeared to be aged between twenty-five and thirty, and all seemed fit and intelligent. Obviously this crew had been selected by the wider Friends organization for their fitness for the mission. All followed the shaved-skull fashion of Shira — some, Berg had noticed with bemusement, had even removed their eyelashes. But they were surprisingly easy to distinguish from each other; the shape of the human skull was, she was learning, as varied — and could be as appealing to the eye — as the features of the face.

"You’ve done well to get so far," Berg said.

"More than well," said Shira coolly. "Our craft has successfully traversed the portal, without significant damage or injury. Our supplies — and our recycling gear — should suffice to sustain us in this orbit around Jupiter for many years. Long enough for our purposes." She smiled. "Yes, we have done well."

"Yeah." Berg sourly studied the busy knots of Friends. "You know, it might help me a lot to understand you if you told me what the hell your Project is all about."

Shira studied her sadly. "That would not be appropriate."

Berg took a stance before her, hands on hips, and set her face into what she knew would be a commanding scowl. "Don’t hide behind platitudes, Shira. Damn it all to hell, it was my ship — my Interface — that you used to get as far as you have. And it’s the lives of my crew, lost on the wrong side of the wormhole, that have paid for the success you so complacently report. So you owe me a bit more than that patronizing crap."

Shira’s pretty, paper-fine face creased with what looked like real concern. "I’m sorry, Miriam. I’m not meaning to patronize you. But I — we — genuinely believe that it wouldn’t be right to tell you."

"Why? At least tell me that much."

"I can’t. If you understood the Project, then you would also see why you can’t be told any more."

Berg laughed in her face. "Are you kidding me? Is that supposed to satisfy me?"

"No," Shira said, grinning almost cheekily, and again, for a moment, Berg felt a tug of genuine empathy with this strange, secret person from the other side of time. "But it really is all I can give you."

Berg scraped her fingers across her wiry stubble of hair. "What is it you’re afraid of? Do you think that it’s possible I’ll oppose you — try to obstruct the Project?"

Shira nodded seriously. "If you gained only partial understanding, then that is possible. Yes."

Berg frowned. "I don’t think you’re talking about understanding — but about faith. Even if I knew what you were up to, I might oppose it if I didn’t share the same irrational faith in its success. Is that it?"

Shira did not reply to that; her gaze was clear and untroubled.

"Shira, maybe you genuinely need my help," Berg said. "I’d rather not rely on faith that my ship is going to fly, if I’ve a chance of getting into the drive and making sure it does."

"It’s not as simple as that, Miriam," Shira said. She smiled disarmingly. "And I wish you’d stop pumping me."

Berg touched the girl’s elbow. "Shira, we’re on the same side," she said urgently. "Don’t you see that?" She gestured vaguely in the direction of the inner Solar System. "You’ve got the resources of five planets — of Earth itself — to call on. Once people understand what you’re trying to avert — the nightmare of the Qax Occupation — you would be given all the help the worlds could muster. You’d have the strength of billions."

"It wouldn’t work, Miriam," Shira said. "Remember, we have developed fifteen centuries beyond you. There is little your people could do to help."

Berg stiffened, drawing away from the girl. "We could pack a hell of a punch, Shira. What if the Qax follow us back in time, through the portal? Won’t you need help to stave them off?"

"We can defend ourselves," Shira said calmly.

That sent a shiver through Berg, but she pressed on: "Then imagine a hundred violently armed GUT ships crashing through that portal, and into the future. They could do a hell of a lot of damage—"

Shira shook her head. "A single Spline warship could scythe them down in a moment."

"Then let’s use the advantage of the centuries we’ve gained." Berg slammed her fist into her palm. "There’s not a Qax alive at this moment who even knows humans exist. We could go and roast them in their nest. If you gave us the secret of the Squeem hyperdrive, we could build a faster-than-light armada and—"

Shira laughed delicately. "You’re so melodramatic, Miriam. So violent!" She made a wide cage of her hands. "At this moment, the Qax already operate an interstellar trading empire spanning hundreds of star systems. The thought of an ill-equipped rabble of humans from fifteen centuries before my time having any hope of overcoming that might is risible, frankly. And besides — we are not hyperdrive engineers. We could not ‘pass on the secrets’ of the Squeem drive, as you put it."

"Then let our engineers take it apart."

"Any such attempt would result in the devastation of half a planet."

Berg found herself bridling again. "You’re still being patronizing," she protested. "Even insulting. We’re not complete dummies, you know; we are your ancestors, after all. Maybe you ought to have more respect."

"My friend, your thinking is simplistic. We did not come here to attempt a simple military assault on the Qax. Even were it to succeed — which it could not — it would not be sufficient. Our purpose is at once much more subtle — and yet capable of achieving much, much more."

"But you won’t tell me what it is? You won’t trust me. Me, your own great-to-the-nth grandmother—"

Shira smiled. "I would be proud to share some fraction of your genetic heritage, Miriam."

Side by side they walked on, still heading toward the center of the earth-craft. Soon they had cleared the belt of construction-material huts with their knots of busy people, and the hum of the Friends’ conversation faded behind them; when they reached the center of the craft it was as if they were entering a little island of silence.

And as the two women walked into the broken circles of stones, that seemed entirely appropriate to Berg.

There were no globe lights here; the stones, hulking and ancient, stood defiant in the smoky light of Jupiter. Berg stood beneath one of the still-intact Sarsen arches and touched the cold blue-gray surface of a standing stone; it wasn’t intimidating or cold, she thought, but friendly — more like stroking an elephant. "You know," she said, "you could cause a hell of a stir just by landing this thing on Earth. Maybe on Salisbury Plain, a few miles from the original — which, of course, is standing there in the wind and the rain, in this time zone. If it was up to me I couldn’t resist it, Project or no Project."