"Dirk?" Gwen had finished eating. She was fastening her jumpsuit tight again, framed in the murky light. Behind her the walls were alive with gray-white dancers. Dirk heard drums, and whispers, and promises. And he knew the last were lies.

"One question, Gwen," he said heavily.

She stared at him.

"Why did you call me back?" he said. "Why? If you thought we were so dead, you and me, why couldn't you leave me alone?"

Her face was pale and blank. "Call you back?"

"You know," he said. "The whisperjewel."

"Yes," she said uncertainly. "It's back in Larteyn."

"Of course it is," he said. "In my luggage. You sent it to me."

"No," she said. "No."

"You met me!"

"You lasered us from your ship. I never– Believe me, that was the first I knew that you were coming. I didn't know what to think of it. I thought you'd get around to telling me, though, so I never pressed."

Dirk said something, but the tower moaned its low note and took his words away from him. He shook his head. "You didn't call me?"

"No."

"But I got the whisperjewel. On Braque. The same one, esper-etched. You can't fake that." He remembered something else. "And Arkin said-"

"Yes," she said. She bit her lip. "I don't understand. He must have sent it. But he was my friend. I had to have someone to talk to. I don't understand." She whimpered.

"Your head?" Dirk asked quickly.

"No," she said. "No."

He watched her face. "Arkin sent it?"

"Yes. He was the only one. It had to be. We met on Avalon, right after you and I… you know. Arkin helped me. It was a bad time. He was there when you sent your jewel to Jenny. I was crying and all. I told him about it, and we talked. Even later, after I met Jaan, Arkin and I stayed close. He was like a brother!"

"A brother," Dirk repeated. "Why would-"

"I don't know!"

Dirk was thoughtful. "When you met me at the spaceport, Arkin was with you. Did you ask him to come along? I was counting on you being alone, I remember."

"It was his idea," she said. "Well, I told him I was nervous. About seeing you again. He… he offered to come along and lend me moral support. And he said he wanted to meet you too. You know. After all I had told him on Avalon."

"And the day you and he took off into the wild– you know, when I got into trouble with Garse and then Bretan-what went on?"

"Arkin said… an armor-bug migration. It wasn't actually, but we had to check. We rushed away."

"Why didn't you tell me where you were going? I thought that Jaan and Garse had beaten you up, that they were keeping you away from me. The night before, you'd said-"

"I know, but Arkin said he'd tell you."

"And he convinced me to run away," Dirk said. "And you, I suppose he told you that to convince me you should…"

She nodded.

He turned toward the window. The last light was gone from the tower tops. Above, a handful of stars sparkled. Dirk counted them. Twelve. An even dozen. He wondered if some of them were really galaxies, away across the Great Black Sea. "Gwen," he said, "Jaan left this morning. From here to Larteyn and back, by aircar-how long should that take?"

When she did not answer, he turned to look at her again.

The walls were full of phantoms, and Gwen trembled in their light.

"He should be back by now, shouldn't he?" She nodded and lay back again on the pale mattress. The Siren City sang its lullaby, its hymn to final sleep.

Dirk walked across the room.

The laser rifle was leaning up against the wall. He lifted it, felt once again the vaguely oily texture of the slick black plastic. His thumb brushed over the wolf's head. He raised the weapon to his shoulder, sighted, fired.

The wand of light hung for at least a full second in the air. He moved the rifle slightly, and the pencil beam moved with it. When it faded, and the afterimage left his retinas, he saw that he had burned an uneven hole in the window. The wind was whistling through it loudly, making an odd dissonance with the music of Lamiya-Bailis.

Gwen climbed unsteadily out of her bed. "What? Dirk?"

He shrugged at her and lowered the rifle.

"What?" she repeated. "What are you doing?"

"I wanted to make sure I knew how it worked," he explained. "I'm… I'm going."

She frowned. "Wait," she said. "I'll find my boots."

He shook his head.

"You too?" Her face was hard, ugly. "I don't need to be protected, damn it."

"It's not like that," he said.

"If this is some idiot move to make yourself a hero in my eyes, it isn't going to work," she said, putting her hands on her hips.

He smiled. "What this is, Gwen, is some idiot move to make myself a hero in my eyes. Your eyes… your eyes aren't important anymore."

"Why, then?"

He hefted the rifle uncertainly. "I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe because I like Jaan, and owe him. Because I want to make it up to him for running out after he'd trusted me and named me keth."

"Dirk," she began.

He waved her quiet. "I know… but that isn't all. Maybe I just want to get Ruark. Maybe it's because Kryne Lamiya had more suicides than any other Festival city, and I'm one of them. You can pick your own motive, Gwen. All of the above." A faint smile brushed across his face. "Maybe it's because there are only twelve stars, you know? So it doesn't make any difference, does it?"

"What good can you possibly do?"

"Who knows? And why does it matter? Do you care, Gwen? Do you really?" He shook his head, and the motion sent his hair tumbling over his forehead once again, so once more he had to stop and brush it back. "I don't care if you care," he said forcefully. "You said, or implied, that I was being selfish back in Challenge. Well, maybe I was. And maybe I am now. I'll tell you something, though. Whatever I'm going to do, I'm not asking to look at your arms first, Gwen. Know what I mean?"

It was a fine exit line, but halfway out the door he softened, hesitated, turned back. "Stay here, Gwen," he told her. "Just stay. You're still hurt. If you have to run, Jaan said something about a cave. You know anything about a cave?" She nodded. "Well, go there if you have to. Otherwise stay here." He waved a clumsy farewell at her with the rifle, then spun and walked away too quickly.

Down in the airlot the walls were just walls-no ghosts, no murals, no lights. Dirk stumbled over the aircar he wanted in the dark, then waited while his eyes adjusted. His derelict was no product of High Kavalaan; it was a cramped two-seater, a black and silver teardrop of plastic and lightweight metal. No armor at all, of course, and the only weapon it carried was the laser rifle he laid across his lap.

It was only a little less dead than the rest of Worlorn, but that little was enough. When he tapped into the power, the car woke, and the instruments lit the cabin with their pale radiance. He ate a protein bar quickly and studied the readings. The energy supply was low, too low, but it would have to do. He would not use the headlamps; he could fly by the scant starlight. And the heater was likewise to be dispensed with, as long as he had his leather jacket to keep him from the chill.

Dirk slammed down the door, sealing himself in, and flicked on the gravity grid. The aircar lifted, rocking a bit unsteadily, but it lifted. He gripped the stick and threw it forward, and then he was outside and airborne.

He had one brief flash of terror. If the grid had been feeble enough, he knew, there would be no flight at all, just a rolling rumble to the moss-choked ground below. The aircar throbbed and dipped alarmingly once clear of the lot, but only for an instant; then the grid caught hold and they rode up on the singing winds, and the only thing left tumbling was his stomach.