We talked. We had decades to fill in. She told me about her work and her life, the interest in xeno-anatomy she had developed, the monographs she had composed, a new procedure for muscle grafting she had pioneered. She had taken up the spinet, as a means of relaxation, and had now mastered all
but two of Guzella's Studies. She had written a book, a treatise on the comparative analysis of skeletal dimorphism in early human biotypes.
'I almost sent you a copy, but I was afraid how that might be misconstrued.'
'I own a first edition/1 confessed.
'How loyal! But have you read it?'
Twice. Your deconstruction of Terksson's work on the Dimmamar-A sites is convincing and quite damning. I might take issue with your chapters on Tallarnopithicene, but then you and I always did argue over the "Out of Terra" hypothesis/
'Ah yes. You always were a heretic in that regard/
I felt I had so much less to give back. There was so much about my life in the last few years I couldn't or shouldn't tell her. So I told her about Nayl instead.
This man is trustworthy?'
'Completely/
And you're sure it's him?'
Yes. He's using Glossia. The beauty of that code is that it's individually idiomatic. It can't be broken, used or understood by outsiders. You'd have to be in my employ for a long time to grasp the fundamentals of its mechanism/
That bodyguard. The one who betrayed your household/
'Kronsky?'
Yes. He was in your employ/
'Not for long. Even with the basics he'd grasped, he couldn't dupe me for long using Glossia/
'So we're going to be rescued?'
'I'm confident we'll be able to get off-planet/
Well, Gregor, I think that good news calls for an indulgent dessert/
The steward brought us ribaude nappe, sticky and sweet, followed by rich black Hesperine caffeine and digestifs, an oaky amasec for me and a thimble of pasha for her.
We were laughing together by then.
It was a fine dinner and a good night spent in delightful company. I have not known its like to this day.
I was woken by the jar and a thump of a halt just after dawn. Outside, a whistle blew, muffled by the car's hull, and there came the distant mutter of men's voices.
Slowly, I slid out of bed, doing my best not to disturb Crezia. She was still deeply asleep, though she rolled over and reached, murmuring, into the cooling space I had just vacated.
I tried to find some clothes. They were strewn on the floor, and with the blind down, it was a matter of touch.
I prised back the edge of the blind with one finger and peeked out. It was already light, frosty and colourless. There was a station outside, and people milling on the snowy platform.