Gardener was sure of one thing-it wasn't the last.

That the ship in the earth was a font of creation was undeniable… but it was also the wrecked craft of an unknowable species from somewhere far out in the blackness-creatures whose minds might be as different from those of human beings as human minds were from the minds of spiders. It was a marvelous, improbable artifact shining in the hazy sunlight of this Sunday morning… but it was also a haunted house where demons might still walk between the walls and in the hollow places. There were times when he would look at it and feel his throat fill up with strangeness, as at the sight of flat eyes staring up at him from the earth.

But get rid of it how? Blow it up how? Even supposing he wanted to, how would he do it? The packet charges they had used to chop up the bedrock holding the ship fast were more powerful than dynamite, but they didn't even scratch the hull of the thing. Was he supposed to trot off to Limestone Air Force Base, steal an A-bomb, moving with the silky, unbelievable smoothness of Dirk Pitt in a Clive Cussler novel? And wouldn't it be funny, wouldn't it really be the last laugh, if he actually did manage to get a nuke and set it off, only to discover that all he'd really managed to do was to set the ship, still uncannily unharmed and unscratched, free at a stroke?

Those were his options, the third of which was not an option at all… and apparently his hands had known more than his brain, for while he went on turning them over in his mind for the umptieth time, he had gone calmly about the morning's work-driving the pumps up to full blast and making sure that the dumper hoses were solidly planted. Now he was back at the trench, checking the sucker hoses, and the level of the water. He was happy to find he needed a powerful flashlight to see the water-it was falling rapidly. He guessed that blasting and excavation could begin again by Wednesday, Thursday at the latest… and once they got going again, the work would go fast. The rock of an aquifer was spongy and large-pored. They wouldn't need to waste time digging glory-holes for explosives, because there would be enough natural spots for not just exploding radios but satchel charges. The next phase would be like moving from a dense, gluey batter to a freshly risen dough.

Gard stood bent over the cut in the earth for some time, shining the big light into the black depths. Then he clicked it off, meaning to inspect the clamps again. Here it was, only eight-thirty in the morning, and already he wanted a drink.

He turned around.

Bobbi was standing there.

Gardener's mouth dropped open. He closed it with a snap after a moment of gaping and started toward her, fully expecting this hallucination to grow transparent, then be gone. But Bobbi stayed solid, and Gard saw that she had lost a great deal of hair-her brow, a pale and shining white, extended back nearly to the middle of her skull, leaving the world's biggest widow's peak in the center. Nor were these newly exposed sections of skull the only pale things about her; she looked like someone who had been through a terrible debilitating illness. Her right arm was in a sling. And

–and she's wearing makeup. Pan-Cake makeup. I'm pretty sure that's what it is she's laid it on heavy the way a lady does when she wants to cover up a bruise. But it's her… Bobbi… no dream…

His eyes suddenly filled with tears. Bobbi doubled, then trebled. It wasn't until then-that moment-that he realized just how scared he had been. And how lonely.

“Bobbi?” he asked hoarsely. “Is it really you?”

Bobbi smiled, that old sweet smile he loved so well, the one that had saved him from his own idiot self so often. It was Bobbi. It was Bobbi and he loved her.

He went to her, put his arms around her, laid his tired face against her neck. He had done this before, too.

“Hello, Gard,” she said, and began to cry.

He was crying too. He kissed her. Kissed her. Kissed her.

His hands were suddenly all over her; her free one was on him.

No, he said, still kissing her. No, you can't

Shh. I have to. It's my last chance, Gard. Our last chance.

Kissed. They kissed. Oh they kissed and now her shirt was unbuttoned and this was not the body of a sex-goddess, it was white and sickish, the muscles flabby, the breasts saggy, but he loved it and he kissed her and kissed her and their tears were all over each other's faces.

Gard my dear, my dear, always my

shhhh

Oh please I love you

Bobbi I love

love

kiss me

kiss

yes

Pine needles under them. Sweetness. Her tears. His tears. They kissed, kissed, kissed. And as he entered her, Gard realized two things at once: how much he had missed her, and that not a single bird was singing. The woods were dead.

Kissed.

Gard used his shirt, which wasn't very clean anyway, to wipe swatches of brown makeup from his naked body. Had she come out here expecting to make love to him? Something it might be just as well not to think about. Now, anyway.

Although they both should have been Thanksgiving dinner for the mosquitoes and noseeums and moose-flies, spouting sweat as they had been doing, he hadn't a single bite. He didn't think Bobbi had any, either. It's not only an IQ booster, he thought, looking at the ship, it's got every insect repellent on the market beat hollow.

He tossed his shirt aside and touched Bobbi's face, running a finger down her cheek, picking up a little more of the makeup. Most of it, however, had either been sweated off… or washed away by her tears.

“I hurt you,” he said.

You loved me, she answered.

“What?”

You hear me, Gard. I know you do.

“Are you angry?” he asked, aware that the barriers were going up again, aware that he was acting again, aware that it was over, all the things they'd had were finally over. These were sorry things to be aware of. “Is that why you won't talk to me?” He paused. “I wouldn't blame you. You've put up with a lot of shit from me over the years, woman.”

“I was talking to you,” she said, and, sorry as he was to be lying to her after loving her, he was glad to sense her doubt. “With my mind.”

“I didn't hear.”

“You did before. You heard… and you answered. We talked, Gard.”

We were closer to… that.” He flagged an arm at the ship.

She smiled wanly up at him and put her cheek against his shoulder. With most of the makeup scrubbed away, her flesh had an unsettling translucence even her illness, whatever it had been, could not account for.

“Did I? Hurt you?”

“No. Yes. A little.” She smiled. It was that old Bobbi Anderson go-to-hell grin, but a final tear ran slowly down her cheek nonetheless. “It was worth it. We saved the best for last, Gard.”

He kissed her gently, but now her lips were different. The lips of the New and Improved Roberta Anderson.

“First, last, or in the middle, I didn't have any business making love to you, and you don't have any business out here.”

“I look tired, I know,” Bobbi said, “and I'm wearing a lot of goop, as you already found out. You were right-I let myself get overtired and I had something like a complete physical breakdown.”

Bullshit, Gardener thought, but he covered this thought with white noise so Bobbi couldn't read it-he did this with barely a conscious thought. Such hiding was becoming second nature to him now.

“The treatment was… radical. It's resulted in some superficial skin problems and some hair loss. But it'll all grow back.”

“Oh,” Gardener said, thinking: You still can't lie for shit, Bobbi. “Well, I'm glad you're all right. But you maybe ought to take a couple of days off, put your feet up-”

“No,” Bobbi said quietly. “This is the time for the final push, Gard. We're almost there. We started this, you and me-”