Jonah Kuperman extended a hand, his manner every bit as engaging as his brother's. "Dr. Wolfe, it's a pleasure. We've been looking forward to your coming--your book's been all the talk aboard ship for the past week--"

"And back there," Eli said, indicating the two men farther along the corridor, "are Dr. Leon Tarbell, the documents expert"--I shook the hand of a small but fierce-looking man in his middle years, whose red eyes glowed hot even when he smiled--"and Professor Julien Fouche, the molecular biologist." At that a well-built, gray-bearded man of 60 or so stepped forward, causing my heart to skip one or two beats: an understandable reaction on meeting a man who not only was one of the seminal minds of our era but also was supposed to have been killed in a plane crash several years earlier.

"It can't be," I whispered, shaking his big, very vital hand. "You--you're dead!"

"Not so dead as all that," Fouche answered with a gruff laugh. "A necessary ruse, to explain my sudden disappearance. My work with Malcolm and Larissa was becoming quite exclusive, and uncomfortable questions were being asked--"

"All right, all right, gentlemen," Larissa said. "You'll have time for mutual admiration later. Right now we'd better be on our collective toes." The others nodded and began to move purposefully away. "Prep the turret, Eli!" Larissa called after them. "I'll be right up! Leon--we'll want full power for combat maneuvers!"

Leon Tarbell's head reappeared for an instant. "'Combat,' Larissa?" he asked with a knowing look. "Don't you mean evasive maneuvers?"

Larissa's lips curled, and then Tarbell dashed off, looking for all the world like one of Satan's merrier minions.

As the men moved to attend to their tasks, each of them began shouting orders and answers, the whole producing an excited and exciting chorus such as might have accompanied the launch of an old seafaring ship. I turned when I heard a slight hissing noise and saw the doorway through which we'd jumped being sealed from above by a hatch that moved quite smoothly, especially given its considerable speed. Once it was in place, some gentle lights came up along the base of the corridor, revealing a surprising sight: rather than the usual plastic and polished metal that one was accustomed to finding in high-tech environments, the walls of the passageways were lined with fine wood paneling, and in every third or fourth panel hung a small painting, elegantly framed and subtly lit.

My mouth fell open. "Beautiful," I mumbled.

"Thank you, Doctor," Larissa answered in a charmingly self-involved way, looking down and running her hands along her hips and thighs. Her face dropped a bit when she glanced up and saw what I meant. "Oh. The ship." She took my hand, and we started down the corridor. "Yes, that's Malcolm for you--he adores the incongruous."

"You're not exactly what I would have expected either, Larissa--that is, if I can call you--"

"You can," she answered, striding purposefully along. "Larissa Tressalian, to be exact. You may also remark on the lovely sibilance of the name, though I warn you, it's a pretty stale line." For an instant I attempted to determine why her name, while indeed pretty, had a familiar ring to it; but then I was distracted when she touched the collar of her bodysuit with her free hand, indicating that she was receiving another communication. "Yes, brother dear...? Yes, I'm just taking him to his quarters to--freshen up..." She looked at me in a way that seemed more than a little suggestive; then she suddenly turned away, standing still. "Where...? Land and air units...? All right, I'm on my way to the turret." When Larissa looked at me again her expression had changed: the coy cat had become a gleeful predator. "Freshening up will have to wait, I'm afraid, Doctor." She gripped my hand tighter and broke into a trot. "A different sort of amusement's been lined up!"

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