They all enjoyed the view. To one side, a gunmetal blue sheen of sea yawned in the distance. The seemingly flat horizon to either side disappeared into a haze; the water gave no impression of being concave, only vast. Here, Cliff mused, masts would not be the first sign of an approaching ship.

There were a few Earthly analogues to this place, he reflected. Earthside, deep sea creatures lived in constant darkness, the opposite of this steady daylight. Here the sun stayed put in the sky, so animals could navigate by it. They all hid away to sleep, except for some lizard carnivores he saw dozing in the eternal sun. Beyond those bare facts, Cliff could not see how to generalize.

Terry came and sat beside him to admire the views. They walked around a bluff to see the other side, silent. They had exhausted their small talk long ago. The unending days were wearing on them all. Their clothes, though of Enduro cloth, showed popped linings and ragged cuffs. They stopped whenever they found a stream or lake but often smelled rank. The men had ragged beards, and Irma’s hair kept getting in her way. They didn’t cut hair, though, because it kept their UV exposure down. Though everyone with a SunSeeker berth was exceptionally strong and tough, living in the open wore them down. Worst of all was the strong expectation that none of this was going to change soon.

“That way,” Terry said, pointing, “that’s up-Bowl, right?”

“You mean to higher latitudes?” Cliff tossed a rock onto the steep slate gray rock below them and watched it bounce and scatter until he lost track of it in mist below.

“Yeah, past the mirrors. Must be a hundred million klicks away from here.”

“Pretty far, right,” Cliff said, distracted by something he had glimpsed. He brought up his binocs and close-upped the mirror zone. It was flashing rainbow colors, tiny pixels of blue and white and pink rippling. He had seen that before, but this time whole regions of mirrors were forming the same color, making—an image.

He stared at it, mouth open.

“Look up close,” he whispered to Terry. “What do you see?”

“Okay, I—good grief. It’s … a face.”

“Not just a face. A person—human.”

“What?” Terry grew silent. “You’re right! A woman.”

“Moving, too—it’s … it’s Beth.”

“My God … yes. It’s her.”

“And her lips are moving.”

“Yeah. I used to lip-read, let me … She’s saying ‘come,’ I think.”

Cliff found he had been holding his breath. “Right.”

“Come … to … me. Repeats. That’s it.”

The face on the mirrors repeated the words over and over. Her face rippled and snarled in spots where wave coherence failed.

Terry said, “Does that mean they have her?”

“These are aliens. Maybe their contexts are different. It could mean they want her to go to them. Or it’s directed to us, and me, and says, go to Beth.”

“Damn,” Terry said.

Cliff stared at the repeating pattern and frowned. He seemed to float on the shock of it, suspended, seeing a face he had longed for. He had dreamed of her so much through these desperate days, imagining her dead or in some alien hellhole.…

“Unless … it could be Beth sending the message.”

THIRTY-NINE

For Cliff, dreams made it all worse. The next “day,” he awoke with the scent of roast turkey in his mind. When he was a boy, his idea of heaven was Thanksgiving leftovers. He had loved chopping onions beside his mother, stuffing the bird with green cork tamales instead of regular stuffing, as Grandmother Martínez did. The other side of the family did ground lamb, rice, and pinyon nuts. Drifting up from sleep, he tasted the Arabic stuffing flavored with prickly spices and a little cinnamon. He blinked into the constant dappled sunlight, not wanting to leave the dream. His stomach growled in sympathy.

Food dreams … He had them every sleep now. They ate simply here, but his unconscious didn’t have to like it.

He got up, yawning and reaching for some fragrant fruit they had found the day before. They managed to get enough small game, shooting from the magcar, and they all gathered berries and herbs to avoid hunger here—but his sleep turned to fragrant feasts nearly every “night.” He suspected food stood in his dreams for some deeper yearning, but could not figure out what it might be.

He mentioned this to Irma as the “day” was drawing to a close, and she said immediately, looking him in the eye, “Beth. Obviously.”

This made him blink because it was obvious and he had not seen it. “I … suppose so.”

“Just as I miss and want Herb.” Still the direct stare.

“Of course.” That was his filler phrase while he tried to think, but Irma wasn’t having any.

She shot back, “You don’t remember Herb, do you?”

“Uh, engineer, right?”

“No, he’s a systems man.”

“Well, that sort of engin—”

“Redwing was going to revive him to work on the drive problem, but we got too busy.”

“And you miss him.…” Cliff resorted to a leading phrase to get away from the Beth issue, but it didn’t work.

She said, “We’re helping each other through the hard stuff, Cliff. I want you to know that’s all it is.”

“Of course.” Pause. “Not that I don’t have, well, real feelings toward you.”

She smiled. “I do, too, but they’re—how to say?—not deep.”

“Sex does have what the psychers call a ‘utility function,’ yes.”

“As long as we both know that. And speaking of it, I’m not really tired … yet.”

This was clearly a lead-in, so he smiled and said, “I’ve got to take a stroll before settling down.”

The team followed a set procedure when they slept. Find a secure place, often one that surveyed the land around them but was in shadow. Be sure nothing could approach silently by rigging lines that would rattle some gear if tripped. Post a guard if the situation looked risky. Have a spot where people could retreat for a toilet, perhaps even fresh water.

Today—the term meant nothing more than their awake interval—they camped under a broad canopy of tall trees. Wildlife chattered and jeered above as they walked through dense vegetation. Cliff always kept aware of his flanks and regularly turned to look back, to recall the path. They kept silent, wary. What he called a smokebush bristled with its tiny branches, easing slowly toward them as it sensed their motion. It could snare only insects and small birds, but a moving plant still gave him the creeps.

Irma checked above, head swiveling regularly, and they were a few hundred meters from camp when she abruptly turned and kissed him. He responded to her quick kisses and short, panting breath, and only when her clothes were mostly off did he notice that there was no comfortable place to lie down. “Maybe we should walk some more that—”

“There’s a slanted tree, see?”

“Yeah, those zigzag trees. I think exploit the sun’s constant position. See, they stage tiers of upward-facing limbs and leaves, to cup the sunlight. Each layer is staggered to the side, so a single tree, seen from above, makes a broad emerald area, captures more sun.”

“Faaaa-scinating.”

Her dry tone made him turn and she kissed him hard and deep. Oh yeah, we came here to—

She backed him onto the broad, slick-barked wood. He shucked his trousers down to his ankles, and she smiled when she saw he was ready.

“There.” She settled on him. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

“Lots better.”

“Stay still.”

He wheezed with her weight as she moved. “Oh … kay.”

“Hold me … here.”

In the long moments he felt the breeze caress them with soft aromas and listened for any sound that might be a threat. Fidget birds that were always chattering and scattering chose this moment to go jumping through a nearby bush. He glanced to check, then focused on her eyes, which were drilling into him with concentration.

You’re never off duty, he thought, and she whispered, “Slow. Don’t rush it. Slow. Keep doing that. Oh yes. God, Herb, yes, that’s it. Just like that.”