The nose of the vessel was a conical superstructure sheathed entirely in the same transparent material I'd seen in Larissa's turret, and the three levels of the space it housed--an observation dome up top, a helm and guidance center in the middle and a small conference area below--were connected by bare metallic staircases. In fact, the fittings generally were in the high-tech style I had originally expected to find on boarding; but coming as it now did on the heels of the rather anachronistic decor outside, the style was somewhat unexpected and even jarring.

The doorway through which I'd come was to the rear of the nose's control level. Though there was little light to see by, I could tell that there were two men sitting before the guidance panel, and beyond them the decaying malls and decrepit housing developments of suburban Florida spread out before us. I began to move forward with trepidation, and then the man on the left spoke, cheerfully enough but without facing me:

"Dr. Wolfe! Excellent, you managed to escape Larissa--which is far more, I suspect, than our pursuers will do."

And then he turned, or rather the entire seat he occupied did: for it was in fact a wheelchair, one that even in the near darkness I could see contained not the formidable physical specimen I'd anticipated, but a frail, somewhat pitiable form that did not seem to match the vibrant voice it produced.

"I suppose I should offer you some melodramatic welcome," the voice continued in the same amiable tone. "But we're neither of us the type, eh? No, I suspect that what you'd really like is some answers..."

"My name's Malcolm Tressalian--did my sister manage to relay that much to you, or have you endured uninterrupted seduction since you came aboard?"

"Yes--I mean no--I mean she did--"

Tressalian laughed and rolled closer to me, his face becoming fully visible for the first time. "You must understand that she almost never takes any interest in men--but when she does, my God..." I smiled at this statement, though I was paying more attention to his face than to his words. The features were not unlike Larissa's--handsome in a fine-boned way--and the hair was the same silvery color. The eyes, however, were quite different, being of a peculiarly light, rather otherworldly blue. Yet there was something far more important than any of this in the face, a look I had seen many times in children who'd served harsh prison terms, as well as in schizophrenic patients who had lived for too long without treatment:

It was the imponderable depth brought on by compressed, relentless mental and physical torment, a brand as unmistakable as any birthmark.

"And I do apologize," Tressalian continued amiably, "for the way you were brought aboard." As he said this, he shifted into position to stand up, something he apparently felt was important to do at that moment, given the pain that it evidently caused him. He reached for a pair of aluminum crutches that were mounted on either side of his chair, clipped them to his upper arms and then managed to get to his feet. I didn't know quite what move to make to assist him, especially since I guessed that he desired none; and indeed, once upright, he looked very pleased that he was able to approach me and shake hands on his own. "However," he continued, "I'm sure you appreciate that we couldn't just leave you behind to suffer a fate like Mr. Jenkins'." His expression grew earnest. "I trust Eli expressed his condolences--let me add my own. It was a sickening thing to do, even for that unkillable beast we call Central Intelligence."

"Then it was the government," I said quietly, Max's face flashing across my mind for an instant.

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