“Not my responsibility,” Kepta said. “Not at all. I’ll be gone. Nothing to fear from me; there never was. But you don’t want to believe that. It takes something away from you.” The spider-arms relaxed, the grip yielded. “Your clothes are there. I think you might be cold.

He moved, on his own, crawled off the sweating, plastic surface. Everywhere about him was the stench of his own fear. He tucked his clothing to him and held onto it. “I stink,” he muttered at it. “I want a bath. I’m going back to Lindy, thanks.”

Kepta would stop him, he thought; would move the arms again. But they all retracted with one massive snick of metal, clearing him a path.

“A machine could carry you,” Kepta said.

“I’ll walk.”

It hurt. Every movement hurt, however slow. Every thought did, in this trap that he was in. He limped toward the exit from this place, the way he had come in. He cherished the pain, that it filled his mind like needful ballast, filled cracks and crevices and darknesses and took away the need to think. Tears ran down his face, and he could not have said whether they were true tears or only a welling up of too much fluid; he was beyond all analyses.

<> destroyed the Rafe-simulacrum that <> wore and expanded past its limits with relief. <> had already absorbed everything that surfaced in Rafe-mind, all the suppositions, all the facts, all the emotive feeling. <> felt a lingering distress.

There was a time of adjustment afterward, there must be, in which <>’s human experiences and <>’s own flowed past each other in comparison, and <> kept them all. <> was interested for various reasons, but one reason assumed priority, that <> was due for challenge—indeed, had, to a great extent provoked it, seeing opportunity.

More, there was additional use in Rafe-mind for </> had worn it. Ancient and unbending as </> was, </> had slipped into it, and this was worth interest. It was always well, under any circumstances, to know just what </> was about.

And if </> had found some congruency to </>self in Rafe-mind, then <> was interested.

“Is it pleasant?” <> taunted </> across the width of the ship.

</> had no answer, </> had taken a shape much more like </>’s own configurations, and the Paul-mind nested in it.

<> was thunderstruck.

“See,” said <^> in an undertone of distress as <^> came slipping up to <>’s presence. “See, <^> said as much. So did ((())). Even ((())).”

“Quiet,” said <>, losing all amusement, and having searched the tag ends of Rafe-mind to account for the disaster, decided finally that Paul Gaines was, in this simulacrum, more than slightly warped.

Paul-mind, Rafe-mind informed <>, was stationer, and that meant a wealth of things. It meant a life style; it meant groups; and security, and comfort if one could get the value-items to exchange for it—which was one motivation for human ships moving constantly in transfer of materials from collection to consumption (but not the sole motive of those who ran those ships). This thread led to comprehensions. Paul-mind was not like Rafe. Paul Gaines wanted to be contained in something, in anything. Space frightened him; strangeness did; but what provided him comfort was never strange to Paul.

And there Paul sat, in </>’s heart, nested, protected and surviving.

<> was, to admit it, utterly chagrined.

Paul has other qualities,the Rafe-memories said. Rafe-mind called it bravery, and attached whole complexes of valuations to that word. Not group-survival over individual, though that was part of it. Not retaliation simply, though it might manifest in that; or equally well, by its negative. Not self-aggrandizement, either, though it could be that; or equally well self-denial. The term attached to valuations of person—the affirmation of some ideal species-type, <> judged.

Rafe-mind was not sure it itself possessed this quality; but it desired it. To evidence that it did possess it, Rafe tried not to be disturbed.

For that reason Rafe had walked the corridor to the lab, while paradoxically the remnant of Rafe-mind <> still retained, recognized this act for what it was, that Rafe might comply and intend at the same time to make violent resistance, the moment Rafe had the chance.

Rafe-mind called this second concept dignity.

<> thought of it as self-preservation, but remembered it was, perhaps, strategy, as well, that Rafe did this thing for all the group he perceived as his.

Responsibility.

And what group does Paul belong to?<> wondered, having information about the words Old Man, and ship, and an arrangement <> found disturbingly accusatory.

<> was Old Man too; <> had such a group. They were the passengers. Responsibility, Rafe would say again. <> felt no such thing. But to be the focus of loyalty, that appealed to <>.

</> would appropriate this Paul Gaines. There was no likelihood that </> would not, having no such thing as loyalty </>self.

Easier, <> thought, if Paul had met some segment of = = = =. Desire for containment, indeed. The Cannibal could have provided that, had <> not intervened.

“Mad,” said <^>, nesting close to <>, which <> sometimes permitted. “Pity him, <>.”

“Paul would find <^> quite disturbing,” <> said. “So would all of them.”

“<^> know that,” <^> said. And, extraneously, as <^> often spoke: “<^> know bravery.”

<^> had a certain skill, to dip into <>’s mind without leaving anything behind, not a unique talent, by any means. It was <>’s nature, and the ship’s. “It is not—” <> said, and named a concept in <^>’s terms.

“It feels like that,” <^> said. “<^> would have walked down that hall.”

“Of course <^> would,” <> said, unsurprised. “For somewhat skewed reasons. It is not—” and <> named that word again, which neither Rafe-mind nor Jillan-mind (which <> also had) possessed the biological reflexes to understand.

“Go,” <> said to <^>, “and tell </> that </> need not skulk about. It’s merely </>’s paranoid suppositions that <> would interfere.”

“</> supposes that <> can’t,” <^> said. “</> said to tell <> so.”

<> sent a pulse through the ship, violent enough to touch any sense. “So much for can’t,” <> said, and went off to keep a thing for which the Rafe-mind had no complete word, but promisewas close enough.

Rafe Two sat, tucked up against the dark, invisible wall; and Jillan and Paul kept to their side of the containment. They stared at one another. That was all that was left to do, in the limbo they were in.

“I have to explain,” Rafe had said, taking that position from some time ago, “what happened to me.” He spoke quite calmly, quite rationally, thinking of his back against an interface that something might pierce very unexpectedly; his face toward—“I’m not sure what you are,” he had said to them. “That Paul that came up to us, that’s not the only double that exists. There was you too—Jillan. It got me. Strong, really strong. It took me to that place, that—” He did not like to remember it. “I don’t know what it did; it hurt. Like the first time. Maybe it did some adjustment. Maybe—maybe it did something else.” Suppositions about that had tormented him thus far; he did not fully trust himself. “I’m telling all of it, you see. I just don’t know what it did to me. But it used you to get at me. Now I don’t know what I’m locked up with. Just let’s keep to our own sides of this place awhile.”