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"
Look
,
Kristin
.
I
’
ve
found
a
way
to
do
this
.
To
lie
convincingly
to
Bancroft
and
shut
the
case
down
.
It
’
s
illegal
,
very
illegal
,
but
no
one
that
matters
gets
hurt
.
I
don
’
t
have
to
tell
you
about
it
.
If
you
don
’
t
want
to
know
.
"
She
thought
about
it
for
a
while
,
eyes
probing
the
water
alongside
the
yacht
,
as
if
the
answer
might
be
swimming
there
,
keeping
pace
with
us
.
I
wandered
along
the
rail
to
give
her
time
,
tilting
my
head
back
to
scan
the
blue
bowl
of
the
sky
overhead
and
thinking
about
orbital
surveillance
systems
.
Out
in
the
middle
of
a
seemingly
endless
ocean
,
cocooned
in
the
high
-
tech
safety
of
the
yacht
,
it
was
easy
to
believe
you
could
hide
from
the
Kawaharas
and
Bancrofts
of
this
world
,
but
that
kind
of
hiding
died
centuries
ago
.
If
they
want
you
,
a
youngish
Quell
had
once
written
of
the
Harlan
’
s
World
ruling
elite
,
sooner
or
later
they
’
ll
scoop
you
up
off
the
globe
,
like
specks
of
interesting
dust
off
a
Martian
artefact
.
Cross
the
gulf
between
the
stars
,
and
they
can
come
after
you
.
Go
into
centuries
of
storage
,
and
they
’
ll
be
there
waiting
for
you
,
clone
-
new
,
when
you
re
-
sleeve
.
They
are
what
we
once
dreamed
of
as
gods
,
mythical
agents
of
destiny
,
as
inescapable
as
Death
,
that
poor
old
peasant
labourer
,
bent
over
his
scythe
,
no
longer
is
.
Poor
Death
,
no
match
for
the
mighty
altered
carbon
technologies
of
data
storage
and
retrieval
arrayed
against
him
.
Once
we
lived
in
terror
of
his
arrival
.
Now
we
flirt
outrageously
with
his
sombre
dignity
,
and
beings
like
these
won
’
t
even
let
him
in
the
tradesman
’
s
entrance
.
I
grimaced
.
Compared
to
Kawahara
,
Death
was
a
three
-
bout
pushover
.
I
stopped
at
the
prow
and
picked
a
point
on
the
horizon
to
watch
until
Ortega
made
up
her
mind
.
Suppose
you
know
someone
,
a
long
time
ago
.
You
share
things
,
drink
deeply
of
each
other
.
Then
you
drift
apart
,
life
takes
you
in
different
directions
,
the
bonds
are
not
strong
enough
.
Or
maybe
you
get
torn
apart
by
external
circumstance
.
Years
later
,
you
meet
that
person
again
,
in
the
same
sleeve
,
and
you
go
through
it
all
over
again
.
What
’
s
the
attraction
?
Is
this
the
same
person
?
They
probably
have
the
same
name
,
the
same
approximate
physical
appearance
,
but
does
that
make
them
the
same
?
And
if
not
,
does
that
make
the
things
that
have
changed
unimportant
or
peripheral
?
People
change
,
but
how
much
?
As
a
child
I
’
d
believed
there
was
an
essential
person
,
a
sort
of
core
personality
around
which
the
surface
factors
could
evolve
and
change
without
damaging
the
integrity
of
who
you
were
.
Later
,
I
started
to
see
that
this
was
an
error
of
perception
caused
by
the
metaphors
we
were
used
to
framing
ourselves
in
.
What
we
thought
of
as
personality
was
no
more
than
the
passing
shape
of
one
of
the
waves
in
front
of
me
.
Or
,
slowing
it
down
to
more
human
speed
,
the
shape
of
a
sand
dune
.
Form
in
response
to
stimulus
.
Wind
,
gravity
,
upbringing
.
Gene
blueprinting
.
All
subject
to
erosion
and
change
.
The
only
way
to
beat
that
was
to
go
on
stack
forever
.
Just
as
a
primitive
sextant
functions
on
the
illusion
that
the
sun
and
stars
rotate
around
the
planet
we
are
standing
on
,
our
senses
give
us
the
illusion
of
stability
in
the
universe
,
and
we
accept
it
,
because
without
that
acceptance
,
nothing
can
be
done
.
Virginia
Vidaura
,
pacing
the
seminar
room
,
lost
in
lecture
mode
.
