Nightwatch laid stillness on the corridors of Envoy. When Nansen's door chimed, he looked up in surprise.

He had dimmed illumination in his cabin to a twilight. A stubby candle, one of a number newly made for him by the nanos, burned on his desk below the old crucifix. He sat gazing at the flame, no longer really seeing, though somehow it was like a small sun around which awareness circled through silence, until the door recalled him.

"Come in," he said. The captain is never free.

For a moment the fluorescence outside dazzled his eyes. He saw the newcomer as a black hole in it. She stepped through, the entrance closed, and the candle cast his shadow vague over Dayan.

She stopped, herself half blinded until vision grew used to the dusk. He rose. "What is the matter?" he asked wearily.

She caught her breath in a gulp. Her words stumbled. "I'm sorry. This is very late. And I knew you'd rather be alone." As often as possible. "But I thought — at this hour we could talk . . . privately."

"Yes, of course. Please be seated." He resumed his chair at the desk and swiveled it around to face hers.

For a while they were mute. She stared down at the hands clenched together in her lap. Finally she got out: "This is ... hard to say, but —" She raised her head toward him and finished in a rush. "Are you planning any kind of service, memorial, anything for Jean? And Colin," she added dutifully.

"No," he replied.

"Some of us ... expected you would."

"My fault. I should have made an announcement."

"We'd like to say good-bye to her."

His flat tone gentled. "I understand. But don't you see, there's too much emotion, too much bitterness — in certain of us. It would be disruptive to meet this soon for that purpose."

She regarded him. With the candle behind, his expression was hard to make out. "Do you truly think so?"

"I don't know," he sighed. "I can't read the souls of people. It is my guess. For most of us, me too, a service would be comforting. But I can't very well tell those who look on me as a murderer that they mustn't come."

"Oh, Rico!" She half rose from her seat, reached toward him, and sank back down.

"That is my guess," he repeated. "I could be wrong, but I dare not risk it. Thank you, though, for reminding me. I'll tell them tomorrow, everybody is welcome to ... pray for her, wake her, whatever feels right, ... by themselves, or with their near friends."

"You are mourning alone, aren't you?"

"That seems best."

"You are always alone. In your heart, since she went away. Unless you are with your God."

"I am not a very good believer, I fear," he said regretfully. "But one can try." In haste, not to reveal more: "Why have you come here, Hanny?"

He could see how his use of her first name helped her gather courage. "I have a great favor to ask of you. Maybe too great."

"Yes?"

"Let me join in saying good-bye to her. In praying for her."

His eyes widened with surprise. It took him a brief span to respond, most softly, "May I ask why you wish this?"

Tears caught in eyelashes and captured faint flamelight. Her voice harshened. "I need  —  I am guilty, Rico. I connived with her. She got me to ... seduce Lajos into giving her the flight —" She lowered face into crook-fingered hands.

"I wondered about that."

"If I hadn't —"

He squared his shoulders. "Then probably Lajos Ruszek would be dead. You could not have known. I did not." The calm broke. "Over and over I tell myself I did not."

She looked anew at him. "And you didn't, Rico."

"Nor you."

"But I — what we feel, what I wish had happened — my horrible thoughts —" She swallowed a breath.

Having regained self-control, he gave her a wry smile. "You're unjust, Hanny. Well, I've heard that Jews are too prone to self-accusation."

"Were," she corrected him in a whisper. "I suspect I am the last Jew. And a woman and an unbeliever, but the only vessel the heritage has left."

"And I am the last" — he shrugged —"whatever it may be."

Dayan became able to speak quietly. "Jean, though, what she was, her kind of spirit, can't we hope it is still alive at home?"

"Thank you for saying that," he gave her.

"Could we remember her tonight — just for a few minutes? — we two? It would help me."

"You do me honor," he replied.

The candle thew dim, shadow-flickery light up over crucified Christ. Nansen knelt and folded his hands in orison. She stood beside him and said Kaddish.

Cluttered, devoid of any outside view, the work center seemed closed off from the stars. But as Sundaram and Yu watched what appeared on a screen before them, awe reached in through metal and coursed through marrow.

"Already?" he wondered.

Those were no longer vague, short pulses. Sharp and clear, a curve undulated through changes of form while simple-looking symbols altered correspondingly but kept the same basic array. The adjacent screen showed its computer's quick interpretations, equations rendered in Arabic numerals, Greek and Roman letters, international signs for mathematical operations. Through analytical geometry, a language was beginning to unfold.

"Yes," Yu said hushedly, "I assumed they would need time to trace out our circuits. Now I think they can . . . move electrons, alter quantum states, directly" — and thus use the enormous bandwidth of the station's transmitters to send pictures . . . and what else, later?

"Intelligence speaking to us. Out of where, out of what?"

"Surely not from the black hole or its immediate environs" — its hell. "But perhaps they . . . draw on those extreme conditions . . . somehow ... to make something possible."

"Something too strange for us to imagine."

She touched his brow. "We will, in time. You will."

"We shall want Hanny's advice, above all, at this stage. How to interpret, how to respond. Later, as we grow beyond mathematics and physics, Simon's. And at last, everyone aboard?"

From the ship's data hoard Mokoena had summoned some of the music Kilbirnie loved. She was leaning back, eyes closed, listening to "The Flowers of the Forest" and trying to understand that idiom, when Zeyd entered her cabin. She heard, rose to greet him, and signaled the player for low volume. Pipes and drums became background, like wind wailing along a seacoast.

"You look grim," she said.

Her tentative smile died before his face. "I feel grim," he said. "I have been talking with Al Brent."

"Must you?" She attempted a little humor. "I have learned to dodge aside when I see him coming."

"Yes, he is obsessive. But what he has to say, right or wrong, we cannot continue hiding from."

"I suppose not," she said dully. "Hiding, that may be why the mess and the common room are so cheerless" — with strained silences broken by intermittent conversation about meaningless matters.

"Then should we not bring it into the open and have done?"

"Of course. It's only — we're afraid to. The wound is too fresh."

"To stay here in spite of everything, or give it up and go home. A simple question."

"It isn't. Even between you and me." This was in fact their first recent touching on it. "Scientific values versus — what?"

"Survival, perhaps. And the science isn't yours or mine."

She rallied from sadness. "How can you be sure? Those beings, or that being — not life as we know it, but. . . maybe we'll learn things about our own kind of life, too, that we never knew."

"And maybe not. In either case, there'll be nothing for a chemist to do."

Her eyes implored him. "How can you be certain? Besides, you're more than a chemist, Selim. And as for going home, what does that mean any longer?"

"Enough," he snapped. "You're talking general principles again. We have been over that ground until it's trampled bare."

"But Jean's death —"

"Yes, that has changed things." Zeyd began to pace, up and down before her. The music ended. Without it, his tones sounded machinelike. "Doubtless this isn't logical. But people aren't. Al is right. We must meet soon and decide. I will put it to the captain."

"And others will," she foresaw. Pause. "If it comes to a vote, will you be for leaving?"

"Yes."

"And I will be for staying." She drew close to him. "We mustn't let this divide us."

"You are too late," he said. "The crew is already divided." He took her hands. Tenderness welled up. "But we two, Mam, we will not let that happen, will we?"

In Ruszek's cabin the same disagreement took another turn.

"If you hadn't honeyed me into giving her the mission —" he grated. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but how could I have known?" Dayan cried.

They had left their scats and stood stare against stare in the middle of the room. Apart from the furnishings, it was well-nigh empty; he had few possessions. A vase of flowers she had brought was withering. With several drinks under his belt, blood flushed his cheeks, sweat sheened on the bare scalp, the mustache bristled.

"Sorry? Would you rather it was me dead?"

Her glance fled from his. "No, oh, no."

"I can't feel thankful to you. It was blind luck."

"Of course."

"Evil luck. For me also."

"Then why are you angry?"

"The senselessness of it."

"Your God —"

He ignored her essay at peace. "And the senselessness of hanging here. You know Nansen won't let me fly. He'll cancel the other manned explorations we planned. Mustn't risk the last boat. But the pilot can sit and rot, after you get your way."

"Please, Lajos, no." She met his eyes afresh and spoke levelly. "We will find work for you, outside observations, interior refitting —"

"Sops, while you scientists have your fun and games. Sops. Or the damned stupid virtuals, no better. I spit them out!" he roared. "I say we go home before we lose more lives!"

"We won't."

"Do you know that? Are you a witch, to know that? And we will lose lives, years out of our lives, thrown away, waiting for what? Nothing worth the cost. I say go home."

She braced herself, the red head high. "And I say stay."

He lifted a fist. She stood where she was. His arm dropped. He snarled, turned on his heel, and stamped out.

She remained there a few minutes before seeking her private quarters.

At parade rest before his people in the common room, Nansen saw them seated apart, Sundaram, Yu, and Dayan on the right, Brent, Cleland, and Ruszek on the left. Mokoena and Zeyd were side by side in the middle, as if to bridge what lay between.

Talk had been ragged until Yu now said, "Jean Kilbirnie should not have died for nothing."

"I am sorry," Nansen told her, and meant it, "but that is out of order. We stipulated beforehand that there shall be no emotional declarations at this meeting."

Brent leaned forward. "Then what is there to say?" he flung back. "Are you a man or a robot?"

"We cannot let certain things, such as hostility, go free," Nansen replied to the assembly. "They feed on themselves. If discipline, morale, and common purpose deteriorate, the black hole may quite possibly kill us. The meeting will confine itself to rational arguments."

"We've heard them," Ruszek growled. "They were old before we left Tahir. What's crazy is to keep going over them."

"And the rational thing to do is consider our feelings," Brent advanced. "Most of us can't take much more. If we don't leave soon, that's what will destroy us as a crew."

"No," Zeyd put in. "I disagree. I prefer an early return. But regardless of what the decision is, we should have the brains and backbone to carry it through."

"Or don't you believe you have them, Al?" gibed Dayan.

Our half hour together seemed to calm her, Nansen thought. But something has her on edge again.

"That will do," he reproved. "If the meeting cannot proceed in orderly fashion, I will adjourn it."

"What was the point of calling it?" Brent demanded.

"To clarify our thinking."

"W-we know where we stand." Cleland's voice firmed. "Captain, I call for a vote."

"This is not a voting matter," Nansen said.

"Please," Sundaram ventured. "With respect, the articles of the expedition can be interpreted as meaning that after five years at the original destination, which are past, policy decisions will be made democratically."

Nansen looked into the brown countenance. "You want to stay, don't you?" he asked.

"With all my heart. But I am trying to be fair. Logical, as you requested."

Nansen smiled a trifle. "You would." Louder: "A vote is futile in any event. Counting myself, we have five who want to stay" plus Jean, were she here, "four who want to go."

"Y-you're forgetting the Tahirians," Cleland said. "Ivan, Peter, Leo  —  make seven. Emil is for you, I admit. But still, it's seven against six."

"Simon is neutral," Brent added. He spoke truth, they knew. Scientific curiosity was seldom a strong Tahirian motivation, at least in the one Tahirian culture still in existence. Simon had served ens race and clan by enlisting, with the personal sacrifice that that entailed. Whatever came of it, en would be an alpha at home. "Seven to six, Nansen."

"We will not count ballots," the captain stated. "Voting is not a Tahirian concept."

"What?" Cleland yelled. "They're not free, thinking beings?"

"They are. But they never signed our articles. They agreed to take part in our expedition for its duration, which they knew was unpredictable. It was a human idea, this is a human ship, and humans will decide."

Nansen raised a hand to quell protests. "The poll stands at five to four, if anyone insists on a poll. Logic and equity are the real considerations. Everyone accepted — some of us reluctantly, but we accepted — that this new journey was for the purpose of carrying out research on the black hole and making contact with the intelligences. We have barely commenced. Our whole aim, our pledge to our race, who gave much to send us, has been to try to rind meaning in the universe. We may be on the verge of doing so. If we cannot stay loyal to that promise, how can we cope with space, or with an Earth that will be alien to us?

"If we continue the work, we can depart at any time: when we have learned enough, or when it does really seem foolhardy to linger. But once we turn back, then psychologically and morally — for we do have our Tahirian shipmates to consider — that is irrevocable.

"Pending such a change in circumstances, we will keep station here. I expect that everyone will work in good faith for our mission and for the general well-being.

"The meeting is ended."

He strode out. His listeners sat wordless. After a while they began to stare at each other.

Cleland could not stay seated for long at a time. In his quarters, where things lay chaotically strewn and every display screen was dark, he poured whiskey for Brent and himself, and wandered around in front of his guest, talking in fragments. The engineer waited the spell out.

Finally he could say from his chair: "Yes, you and I know, Tim. The others don't. They're afraid to face the fact. Even Lajos — I think he and Dayan have quarreled over this, and I've tried him, hinted, but he hangs back. Probably he hasn't yet shed his old dog-grateful attitude toward Nansen. So setting things right has to start with us two. We know."

The low-pitched intensity caught at Cleland. He halted and looked into eyes that smoldered up at him. "What do you mean?" he asked thinly.

"We're dealing with a madman."

Cleland's hand clenched around his tumbler. "A monster, at least. Doesn't give a curse — about Jean  —  Did he ever in his life shed a tear?"

"A madman, I say. Maybe not by clinical tests, but for all practical purposes, like Mao Zedong in his later years. Lost in his fever dream of a scientific triumph. As if anything anybody could find here can ever matter to humankind, the way the knowledge and power we can bring will. He'll gamble those, and us, to chase his fantasy — down into the black hole."

"He ... he did say ... we can always leave if it — it's not working out —"

"He lied." Brent gestured. "Sit down and listen." Jerkily, Cleland obeyed. "You know he lied. When will he admit it? After how many more deaths?"

"But what can we do?"

"That's what you and I have got to talk about. And later with Ivan, Peter, and Leo."

"What do you mean?" Cleland begged again.

Brent's voice tolled. "Law, from when men first put to sea, and our ship's articles, and plain common sense, all say there is a right and duty to override a master whose insanity endangers his command."

Cleland gasped. "Mutiny?"

"I don't believe a board of inquiry, or whatever we'll meet when we come home to Earth, will regard it that way. I think we'll be exonerated, because we had no choice, and heroes, because of what we saved  —  brought back for humankind."

"B-but —"

Brent's manner grew downright practical. "I've given this a lot of thought. It can be done. And without loss of life."

"Just the two of us? Come on, Al!"

"Once it's done, the others will accept. They'll soon see how right we are. But no, not just you and I. Also our Tahirian allies."

Cleland shook his head, as if it had taken a blow. "I think — the whole idea of violence — it'd appall them."

"I tell you, we don't need violence, if we organize the operation and do it right. Nobody has to get hurt."

"Emil wouldn't go along," Cleland protested. "Nor Simon, especially if — if en gets fascinated."

Brent nodded. "That is a problem, yes. Not only recruiting our Tahirians, but keeping it from those two. That body language of theirs makes secrecy unnatural to them." He formed a taut grin. "However, people, including Tahirians, can learn things that never were in their nature. What else is civilization? And this, it'll add to the surprise, come the day. I have some ideas about how. I imagine you'll have some good ones, too, Tim."

"I don't know — really —"

"My God!" Brent exploded. "Nansen sent Jean to her death, and you don't want to see justice done?"