He grinned. "Hi. Remember me?"

He was a tall man, but like a spacejack, lean and angular. An untidy mass of black curls framed a face that was not quite handsome but carried an intense freight of will.

"I'm afraid…"

"Tory Shostakovich. I reprogrammed you."

She studied his face carefully. Those eyes. They were fierce almost to the point of mania, but there was sadness there, too, and-she thought she might be making this up-a hint of pleading, like a little boy who wants something so desperately he dare not ask for it. She could lose herself in analyzing the nuances of those eyes. "Yes," she said at last, "I remember you now."

"I'm pleased." He nodded to the Jesuit. "Father Landis."

She eyed him skeptically. "You don't seem your usual morose self, Shostokovich. Is anything wrong?"

"No, it's just a special kind of morning." He smiled at some private joke, returned his attention to Elin. "I thought I'd drop by and get acquainted with my former patient." He glanced down at the ground, fleetingly shy, and then his eyes were bright and audacious again.

How charming, Elin thought. She hoped that he wasn't too shy. And then she had to glance away herself, the thought was so unlike her. "So you're a wetware surgeon," she said inanely.

Hans reappeared to distribute mugs of wine, then retreated to the cave's mouth. He sat down, workboard in lap, and patched in the skull-plugs. His face went stiff as the wetware took hold.

"Actually," Tory said, "I very rarely work as a wetsurgeon. An accident like yours is rare, you know-maybe once, twice a year. Mostly I work in wetware development. Currently I'm on the Star Maker project.''

"I've heard that name before. Just what is it anyway?"

Tory didn't answer immediately. He stared down into the lake, a cool breeze from above ruffling his curls. Elin caught her breath. / hardly know this man, she thought wildly. He pointed to the island in the center of the lake, a thin, stony finger that was originally the crater's thrust cone.

"God lives on that island," he said.

Elin laughed. "Think how different history would be if He'd only had a sense of direction!" She wanted to bite her tongue when she realized that he was not joking.

"You're being cute, Shostokovich," Landis warned. She swigged down a mouthful of wine. "Jeez, that's vile stuff."

Tory rubbed the back of his neck ruefully. "Mea culpa. Well, let me give you a little background. Most people think of wetware as being software for people. But that's too simplistic, because with machines you start out blank-with a clean slate-and with people, there's some ten million years of mental programming already crammed into their heads.

"So to date we've been working with the natural wetware.

We counterfeit surface traits-patience, alertness, creativity- and package them like so many boxes of bonemeal. But the human mind is vast and unmapped, and it's time to move into the interior, for some basic research.

"That's the Star Maker project. It's an exploration of the basic substructural programming of the mind. We've rede­fined the overstructure programs into an integrated system we believe will be capable of essence-programming, in one-to-one congruence with the inherent substructure of the universe.''

"What jargonistic rot!" Landis gestured at Elin's stone­ware mug. "Drink up. The Star Maker is a piece of experi­mental theology that IGF dreamed up. As Tory said, it's basic research into the nature of the mind. The Vatican Synod is providing funding so we can keep an eye on it."

"Nipping heresy in the bud," Tory said sourly.

"That's a good part of it. This set of wetware will suppos­edly reshape a human mind into God. Bad theology, but there it is. They want to computer-model the infinite. Anyway, the specs were drawn up, and it was tried out on-what was the name of the test subject?"

"Doesn't matter," Tory said quickly.

"Coral something-or-other."

Only half-listening by now, Elin unobtrusively studied Tory. He sat, legs wide, staring into his mug of Chanty. There were hard lines on his face, etched by who knew what experiences. / don't believe in love at first sight, Elin thought. Then again, who knew what she might believe in anymore? It was a chilling thought, and she retreated from it.

"So did this Coral become God?"

"Patience. Anyway, the volunteer was plugged in, wiped, reprogrammed, and interviewed. Nothing useful."

"In one hour," Tory said, "we learned more about the structure and composition of the universe than in all of history to date."

"It was deranged gibberish." Landis tapped Elin's knee. "We interviewed her and then canceled the wetware. And what do you think happened?"

"I've never been big on rhetorical questions." Elin didn't take her eyes off Tory.

"She didn't come down. She was stuck."

"Stuck?"

Tory plucked a blade of grass, let it fall. "What happened was that we had rewired her to absolute consciousness. She was not only aware of all her mental functions but in control of them-right down to the involuntary reflexes, which also put her in charge of her own metaprogrammer."

"Metaprogrammer is just a buzzword for a bundle of reflexes the brain uses to make changes in itself," Landis threw in.

"Yeah. What we didn't take into account, though, was that she'd like being God. When we tried deprogramming her, she simply overrode our instructions and reprogrammed herself back up."

"The poor woman," Elin said. And yet-what a glorious experience to be God! Something within her thrilled to it. It would almost be worth the price.

"Which leaves us with a woman who thinks she's God," Landis said. "I'm just glad we were able to hush it up. If word got out to some of those religious illiterates back on Earth-"

"Listen," Tory said. "I didn't really come here to talk shop. I wanted to invite my former patient on a grand tour of the Steam Grommet Works."

Elin looked at him blankly. "Steam…"

He swept an arm to take in all of Margritte, the green pillars and gray cliffs alike. There was something proprietary in his gesture.

Landis eyed him suspiciously. "You two might need a chaperone," she said. "I think I'll tag along to keep you out of trouble."

Elin smiled sweetly. "Fuck off," she said.

Ivy covered Tory's geodesic trellis hut. He led the way in, stooping to touch a keyout by the doorway. "Something classical?"

"Please." As he began removing her jumpsuit, the holotape sprang into being, surrounding them with rich reds and cobalt blues that coalesced into stained-glass patterns in the air. Elin pulled back and clapped her hands. "It's Chartres," she cried, delighted. "The cathedral at Chartres!"

"Mmmmm." Tory teased her down onto the grass floor.

The north rose swelled to fill the hut. It was all angels and doves, kings and prophets, with gold lilies surrounding the central rosette. Deep and powerful, infused with gloomy light, it lap-dissolved into the lancet of Saint Anne.

The windows wheeled overhead as the holotape panned down the north transept to the choir, to the apse, and then up into the ambulatory. Swiftly, then, it cut to the wounded Christ and the Beasts of Revelation set within the dark spaces of the west rose. The outer circle-the instruments of the Passion-closed about them.

Elin gasped.

The tape moved down the nave, still brightening, briefly pausing at the Vendome chapel. Until finally the oldest win­dow, the Notre Dame de la Belle Verriere, blazed in a frenzy of raw glory. A breeze rattled the ivy, and two leaves fell through the hologram to tap against their skin and slide to the ground.

The Belle Verriere faded in the darkening light, and the colors ran and were washed away by a noiseless gust of rain.

Elin let herself melt into the grass, drained and lazy, not caring if she never moved again. Beside her Tory chuckled, playfully tickled her ribs. "Do you love me? Hey, tell me you love me."