WILL THE CIRCLE BE UNBROKEN?

An exchange of vows, a pair of slender gold bands slipped upon fingers. A formal pronouncement made by the justice of the peace. Finally, an embrace and a kiss. As the wedding guests stood to applaud, the bride and groom turned and, arm in arm, stepped out from beneath the rose-decked trellis, smiling bashfully as they strolled down the red carpet laid upon the grass between rows of folding wooden chairs.

From the front row, Carlos watched as Susan was led away by Jonathan Parson, and suddenly realized that his strongest emotion was neither happiness nor relief, but rather astonishment. Had it really been only thirteen summers ago that his daughter was born? No, not even that long; today was Muriel 45, the midmonth Raphael of the third month of spring, and Susan's birthday was Uriel 52, near the end of summer, a little more than four months from now. Where had all the years gone? One minute, she's a baby in your arms. The next . . .

Hearing Wendy snuffle, he looked around to see tears running down her face. "Sorry," she whispered, wiping her eyes with a linen handkerchief. "I'm being silly. It's just that . . ."

"I know." Putting an arm around her, he watched Susan pause to accept a hug from one of her friends. "They make a beautiful couple, don't they?"

Wendy was about to answer when, from the other side of Sand Creek, there was a volley of gunshots. Members of the Colonial Militia, led by Chris Levin, firing their carbines into the air. Although Susan had been too young to fight in the revolution, nonetheless she was the daughter of a veteran— of the legendary Rigil Kent, in fact— and thus entitled to receive the customary seven-gun marriage salute. Although he'd known it was coming, Carlos flinched anyway; this was a tradition he'd come to despise, no matter how many weddings he'd attended. Too many bad memories.

The volley barely interrupted the Coyote Wind Ensemble as they performed Mendelssohn's "Wedding March." Carlos reflected again upon how many other people from Susan's life were here. Quite a few were original colonists. Seated next to Wendy, also wiping away tears, was Kuniko Okada, who'd delivered Susan at birth. There was Dana Monroe, brought in from Leeport by Paul Dwyer, who'd also furnished the shag-drawn wagon that carried bride and groom to the river side. Bernie and Vonda Cayle, Henry Johnson, Lew and Carrie Geary, Sissy Levin, his old friend Barry Dreyfus and his parents Jack and Lisa . . . all had insisted upon being here, with a few older ones like Henry and Vonda making the effort to hobble down to the river. This was a special day for everyone who'd come here aboard the Alabama; they'd watched Susan grow up, and they had their own memories of her as a child.

Yet there were others, those who'd been among the subsequent waves of colonists. Benjamin Harlan, standing beneath the trellis, serving as justice of the peace. His mate, Allegro DiSilvio, conducting the ensemble as they wove their way into a reprise of Pachelbel's "Canon in D." Klon Newall and Fred LaRoux, who'd come in with their families from Midland.

Carlos glanced over his shoulder, caught a brief smile from Morgan Goldstein, who'd flown in this morning from New Brighton. Indeed, Morgan had paid for the reception; Wendy almost refused, insisting the bride's family would take care of this. After all, Goldstein had run against her in the last presidential election on a prodevelopment platform that sought to put the brakes on the environmental and endangered-species legislation that her administration had recently spearheaded, only to discover that most of the colonists sided with the incumbent. He'd lost by several thousand votes, a decisive majority when it came to Coyote's expanding yet still small population. Carlos persuaded Wendy to accept his offer in the spirit in which it was intended, as a peace-making gesture, and she'd reluctantly accepted.

Yet, without a doubt, the strangest member of the wedding party was Manuel Castro. Standing beside Jonathan Parson, offering Susan's ring at the appropriate moment, the irony was lost on no one: the former lieutenant governor of Liberty during the Union occupation, now acting as best man at the wedding of the first child born on Coyote. Yet Jonathan had been adamant; Manny Castro had offered him sanctuary when he was on the run, and now he'd have the Savant stand up for him at his wedding. Many here were visibly uncomfortable by his presence— Dieter Vogel had almost refused to attend, relenting at the last minute if only for diplomatic reasons— but Molly Thompson had taken the occasion to sew a new cloak for Manny, the light brown shagswool she'd selected making him look much less sinister.

Nearly fifteen years since First Landing Day, by the LeMarean calendar, and now the stepchildren of Coyote were growing up. Carlos reflected upon this as he and Wendy joined the procession following the bride and groom from the altar. It wouldn't be long before he'd be a grandfather. He didn't feel that old, yet there was silver in his wife's hair, and on cold mornings he felt a certain stiffness in his shoulders and knees when he got out of bed. I'm still young, he reminded himself. Hell, Wendy gave me a physical just last month, told me I was . . .

"Tell me this isn't happening." Marie came up beside him to squeeze his arm and whisper in his ear. "Your baby's too young for this."

"My thoughts exactly." Carlos stopped to give his sister a hug, noting that her eyes were red-rimmed as well. "Last time I checked, she was . . ."

"Thirty-six, by Earth reckoning." Wendy had stopped crying. "Back there, she'd be an old maid. Here . . ."

"Call it prolonged adolescence." It wasn't anything no one hadn't noticed before. Perhaps it was the diet or the fresh air, or maybe it was the psychological impact of longer seasons, yet the average life span of a Coyote inhabitant was much longer than someone on Earth. Even without the aid of gene therapy, the most elderly colonists were in relatively good health. And the young . . . "Don't question it. How was the trip over?"

"Not bad. Dana put us up last night at her inn." Marie nodded toward Rain; she was with her Uncle Garth, chatting with Sissy Levin. She hesitated, then added, "I dropped in on Hawk. He's doing better."

"Hmm . . . yeah, I think so, too." This was something the family still didn't care to talk about. Following the incident at the starbridge, Hawk had been handed over to the magistrates to stand trial for his father's murder. The Liberty Compact didn't have capital punishment, yet he might have remained in the Liberty stockade for the rest of his life if Wendy hadn't interceded on his behalf. As it was, he was committed to a rehab farm outside Leeport for the next three years, with parole possible if he successfully went through psychiatric treatment.

The discovery that Hawk was responsible for Lars's death had been rough on Marie and her family, yet the aftermath of the starbridge affair had hurt Carlos and Wendy as well. The magistrates had sentenced Susan and Jon to six months in the stockade, with the last two months commuted to community service. Their punishment did little to assuage the anger of many colonists, who thought that they'd put the lives of the Gatehouse crew at risk for what was essentially a protest action; some claimed that they would have received stiffer sentences if Susan hadn't been the president's daughter. At Carlos's insistence, the wedding was delayed until late spring; by then, the two of them had served their time, and the incident had faded from memory.

"C'mon. The reception line's forming up." Wendy tugged at his arm. "You don't want to miss that, do you?"

Carlos glanced at the tent set up nearby. Rows of linen-covered tables, with fresh-cut wildflowers and bottles of waterfruit wine. On the buffet line, roast pork and red potatoes, steamed greens and goat's cheese, with a wedding cake and casks of sourgrass ale awaiting the party to follow the reception dinner. Even a box of hand-rolled Minnesota cigars, imported from Earth, for those who cared to indulge in such decadence. True to his word, Morgan Goldstein had spared no expense.

"Sure. Let's go." It was worth shaking a few dozen hands. And besides, his daughter was waiting for him. Radiant in her wedding dress, the afternoon sun casting a halo around her veil, she gazed at her father with a certain shyness. A little girl who'd finally grown up, but nonetheless hadn't outgrown her father.

So he went over to kiss his daughter on the cheek, and shake hands with his new son-in-law, and take his place in line to receive the congratulations and best-wishes of the wedding guests. Never once did he glance up at the sky, nor did he suspect that, very soon, something would come from it that would change everything.

The long afternoon wore on. The dinner was splendid, the atmosphere relaxed and informal. Carlos had just danced with his daughter and was waiting for her and Jon to cut the cake, when Tomas Conesco appeared. The moment Carlos spotted him, he knew there was trouble.

Tom had received a wedding invitation, of course, but he'd begged off. The Budget Committee was scheduled to meet tomorrow morning to discuss the next quarter, and as Wendy's chief of staff he felt it was more important that he work through the weekend in order to make sure that the executive summary didn't contain any errors. So when Carlos saw Tom standing nervously on the other side of the tent, searching the reception for Wendy, he realized that something more urgent than a glitch in the spreadsheets had brought him here.

Wendy noticed him, too. Seated near Carlos at the head of the table, she interrupted her conversation with Ana Tereshkova to raise a hand. Seeing her, Tom moved through the crowd; he did so without raising much attention, although a few guests looked up when someone not wearing a suit appeared in their midst. Making his way to the president's side, he bent down and whispered in her ear.

Carlos tried to catch what Tom was saying, but the background noise drowned him out. Wendy listened intently; she said nothing, and kept her expression carefully neutral, yet from the look in her eyes Carlos could tell she was surprised. She whispered something to Tom and sent him off, then she leaned across the table to Carlos.

"Something's come up," she murmured. "I've got to go." She stood up, then hesitated and looked at Ana. "Would you come with me, please?"

"Of course, Madam President." Uncrossing her legs beneath her crinoline skirt, Ana rose as well. Since the events of last autumn, she'd become commodore of the newly formed Coyote Federation Navy. It wasn't much of a fleet, to be sure: the CFSS Robert E. Lee— formerly the EASS Drake— along with two shuttles and a skiff, yet they were what the colonies had purchased from the European Alliance in exchange for renegotiated passage rights through the starbridge. And although Admiral Tereshkova was now a family friend, it was an indication that something important had occurred when she addressed Wendy by her honorific.

Carlos was pleasantly inebriated— three glasses of wine and a fine cigar had put him in a mellow state of mind— but sobriety quickly returned. "I'm coming with you," he said, pushing back his chair. Wendy started to object, and he shook his head. "Don't argue. Not unless you want to cause a scene."

That shut her up, however reluctantly. "Give Susan and Jon my apologies," Wendy muttered. "Tell her . . . I dunno, just tell her something . . . then come with us. We're heading back to GH."

So it was left to Carlos to saunter over to the head table and make excuses to the bride and groom. Although Susan was mystified by her parents' sudden departure, she'd had a few glasses of waterfruit wine herself, and thus was happy beyond the point of caring. Jon was curious, and started to ask questions, yet a stare from his new father-in-law reminded him of his place; he remained in his seat, and poured another drink for Jonas Whittaker. Few people took notice when Carlos slipped away from the reception, and joined Wendy, Ana, and Tom on the dirt road leading from Sand Creek into town.

"All right," he said, "someone want to tell me what's going on?"

"First, Mr. President," Tomas said, "let me apologize for . . ."

"Never mind." Wendy pulled up the hem of her skirt to keep it out of the dirt. "Just tell him what you heard." She glanced back at her husband. "You're gonna love this."

"About a half hour ago," Tomas continued, "a ship came through the starbridge. An Alliance shuttle . . ."

"I didn't know one was scheduled." Carlos sidestepped a clingberry bush. According to the renegotiated agreement, all incoming Alliance starships were supposed to be cleared in advance with the customs department.

"There wasn't." Tomas's voice rose. "When the bridge was activated from the other side, our people on the Gatehouse didn't know what was going on. No prior notification. No data sent. It just . . . it just happened, that's all."

"But you said it was an Alliance shuttle." Carlos was confused. "If it was from—"

"That's the point," Wendy said. "It's an Alliance shuttle, but it didn't come from Earth."

Carlos stopped. "What . . . ?"

"Not from Earth," Wendy repeated, halting to look at him. "Our Gatehouse sent a hyperspace message to Starbridge Earth. They confirmed . . . nothing had been sent through from their end."

"We even linked our comps, to confirm the information." Tomas stopped as well. "The Alliance denies any involvement, and the records prove it. Their starbridge hasn't opened since the Magellan went through three weeks ago."

"Then who . . . ?"

"The ship identified itself as the EAS Maria Celeste." Wendy's voice was flat, yet there was a note of incredulity. She looked at Tereshkova. "Tell him."

Ana didn't respond immediately. The late afternoon sky was beginning to tint purple with approaching sunset; a thin wind rustled through the high grass around the path. "The Maria Celeste was . . . is, rather . . . a shuttle belonging to the Galileo," she said at last. "The first Alliance starship. The one that . . ."

"The one that disappeared." Carlos felt something creep up his spine. "What's it doing here now?"

"We'll know soon enough." Wendy walked quickly up the road toward Government House. "Time to have a talk with her captain."

"Or whoever else is flying that thing," Ana murmured.

The communications room was located on the ground floor of Government House. Packed with shortwave radio and satphone transceivers, it served as the major link between Liberty and the rest of the colonies, along with the Gatehouse and the Lee, now permanently stationed in high orbit. There was barely room for the four of them, and not enough seats for everyone; the radio operator on duty was clearly irate to have this many people invade his domain, but he said nothing as he pulled out a chair for Wendy, letting the others lean against walls or stand in the doorway.

"Maria Celeste, this is Liberty Communications, Coyote Federation. Do you copy? Over." The duty operator listened for a moment to his headset, then adjusted the gain on his board. "Maria Celeste, this is Liberty Communications, Coyote Federation. Do you . . . ?"

"We copy." The voice that came from the wall speaker was male, fairly young, with a faint British accent. "With whom am I speaking, please?"

Wendy gestured to the headset she'd put on, and the operator nodded. "Maria Celeste, this is President Wendy Gunther of the Coyote Federation. Would you please identify yourself?"

A moment of static. "Theodore Harker, first officer of the EAS Galileo. Never heard of the Coyote Federation, ma'am, but all the same we're glad to hear you."

A gasp from Ana Tereshkova. Her face had gone pale. "He's right," she murmured. "Harker was the Galileo's first officer. But . . ."

"But what?" Wendy glanced over her shoulder at her. "Tell me."

Carlos knew. The Galileo disappeared in 2288, shortly after it jumped through an experimental starbridge to the Kuiper Belt. By Gregorian reckoning, it was now 2344. "How old was Harker?" he asked.

"I don't know." Ana shook her head. "Thirty, perhaps thirty-five."

"Does that sound like someone in his late eighties?" Carlos looked back at Wendy. "Don't you get it? It's been fifty-six years. Where has he been for . . . ?"

"Liberty, do you read?" Harker's voice came back online. "We know this must be a surprise to you, but we're coming in fast, and we'd like to know where we can land. Assuming we have your permission, of course."

"He can rendezvous with the Lee," Ana said. "I'll get in touch with my crew, tell them to change orbit . . ."

"Hell with that." Carlos looked askance at her. "I want to meet this guy as soon as possible."

"I agree." Wendy glanced at Ana. "Can you send a skiff from the Lee to intercept them and guide them here? To Shuttlefield, I mean."

Ana reluctantly nodded, and Wendy turned to the duty operator. "Put her through to the Lee on a separate channel," she said, then she touched her mike again. "Affirmative, Mr. Harker. You have permission to land. We're dispatching a craft to escort you to a nearby landing site."

Another pause. "We appreciate that, Liberty. However, please advise your craft to maintain safe distance. Our drive may interfere with their control systems if they come too close."

"I have no idea what he's talking about." Ana's face registered puzzlement. "How could they . . . ?"

"We copy, Maria Celeste, and we'll take that under advisement." Wendy hesitated, then spoke again. "Mr. Harker, the Galileo has been missing for a very long time. Where is it? And where are you coming from?"

Nearly half a minute elapsed before they received a reply. "The Galileo has been destroyed, along with most of its crew, including the captain." Harker's voice sounded tight. "Only three survivors, myself included . . ."

"Oh, my god," Carlos murmured. Wendy shushed him.

"We made the jump from HD 143761," Harker went on. "Rho Coronae Borealis." Pause. "We're very tired, and we'd just like to land. We'll explain everything once we're on the ground. ETA . . . um, about an hour or so from now. Maria Celeste, over and out."

Before Wendy could reply, there was a buzz of static. No one spoke for a few moments; they simply stared at the wall speaker. "Did I hear that right?" she said at last. "Did he just say that he was landing in only an hour?"

"That's impossible." Ana was incredulous. "EA shuttles aren't capable of. . ."

"I think we've just chucked 'impossible' out the window," Carlos muttered.

It was sundown when the Maria Celeste landed at Shuttlefield, the burnt-orange glow of the setting sun casting its rays upon the spacecraft as it slowly descended upon the apron. Yet it did so in near silence. No blast of jets, no roar of engines being throttled back; only a low, almost supernatural hum from a pair of oblong pods mounted on the aft fuselage where the nuclear engines should have been.

Carlos found himself trembling as he watched the craft settle upon its landing gear. At first glance, the Maria Celeste looked very much like an oldstyle ESA shuttle. Yet although the hull was weathered, its underside scorched and dented from atmospheric entry, it no longer flew like anything ever assembled on Earth.

Perfect reactionless drive, he thought. No rockets, no jets. Someone has retrofitted this thing . . .

Recessed plates on either side of the mysterious pods went dark, fading from the deep blue radiance they'd emitted, and the humming lapsed into silence. A short distance away, the Virginia Dare came in for a landing, its VTOLs howling as they kicked up dust. By contrast, the Maria Celeste landed so peacefully that only the evening breeze stirred the wind sock upon its post.

"Spooky," Carlos murmured. "Really spooky."

"Uh-huh." Wendy pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. "I'm not sure if I like the looks of this." Through the cockpit windows, they could see silhouetted figures, backlit by interior lights. She glanced back toward the gate, where a couple of blueshirts had positioned themselves inside the fence. "Do you think we ought to . . . ?"

"Bring them closer?" Carlos thought about it a moment, then shook his head. "No, have 'em stay back. No reason why we shouldn't trust them." He paused, and looked at Ana. "Is there?"

Ana was quiet, studying the Maria Celeste with barely disguised awe. "There may be humans onboard," she said at last, "but humans didn't rebuild that ship." She hesitated, "Leave the Proctors where they are. A show of force might make them nervous." A faint smile flickered across her face. "It did for me, at least."

Carlos nodded. Unlike when the Columbus had made its unexpected arrival nearly two years ago, no one besides the two Proctors had accompanied them to the landing field. Word had not yet gotten out that an unknown spacecraft was touching down in Shuttlefield, so there were no crowds to be kept back. For all he knew, the rest of the wedding guests were still at the party. Just as well. Until they knew what they were dealing with . . .

A grating noise from the underside of the shuttle, then a belly hatch opened and a ramp began to lower to the ground. "All right, then," Wendy said. "Let's see who's come for dinner."

"At least we're appropriately dressed." None of them had a chance to change out of their wedding outfits. Carlos started to step forward, then self-consciously stopped himself. "After you, Madam President."

Wendy didn't smile. Squaring her shoulders, she purposefully walked toward the Maria Celeste, Carlos and Ana following just a few steps behind. They'd just reached the spacecraft when they heard footsteps upon the ramp. A few moments passed, then three figures made their way down from the spacecraft.

Two men— one in his mid-thirties, the other closer to fifty— and a woman in her late twenties. The younger man had long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail; the older man was tall and thin, with a mop of grey hair receding from a high forehead. The woman was svelte and had short blond hair parted on one side. None wore ESA uniforms; instead, their clothes were long robes, off-white yet braided with ornate designs that softly glowed with an iridescence that seemed to come from the fabric itself, giving them an almost angelic appearance.

The three of them hesitated at the bottom of the ramp, almost as if reluctant to introduce themselves, then the younger man stepped forward. "President Gunther?" he asked. Wendy nodded. "Theodore Harker, first officer of the EASS Galileo." A slight frown. "Or perhaps, I should say, former first officer. As I told you earlier, the Galileo is no longer with us."

"I understand." Wendy extended her hand, which Harker unhesitantly grasped. "This is my husband, former president Carlos Montero, and Commodore Anastasia Tereshkova, former commanding officer of the EASS Drake . . ."

"Now the Robert E. Lee, under flag of the Coyote Federation. It was our skiff that intercepted you." Although Ana came forward, she didn't offer her own hand. "I've heard of you, Mr. Harker. The disappearance of the Galileo has become something of a legend."

"I imagine it has." Harker gave her a rueful smile. "Fifty-six years ago, or at least so I've been told."

"You've been told?" Ana raised an eyebrow. "By whom?"

Harker took a deep breath. "A long story, believe me." He turned to the others. "Jared Ramirez, astrobiologist, and Emily Collins, the Celeste's pilot." Harker took Collins's hand; in that instant, it seemed as if the patterns of their robes changed to a warm yellow hue. "We owe much to her. She's the one who brought us safely here."

"Here from where?" Wendy couldn't hide her bewilderment. "Mr. Harker, you said that you've come from Rho Coronae Borealis. We checked our star charts . . . that system's over fifty-two light-years from Earth."

"And fifty l.y.'s from 47 Ursae Majoris." Ramirez's face was solemn. "We know. We came through a starbridge."

"But not one built by us, I gather." Ana peered closely at him. "Haven't I heard of you before, Dr. Ramirez?"

Ramirez looked away as if in embarrassment; the designs of his cloak subtly shifted to a purple color. "All in the past," he said quietly. "A lifetime ago . . ."

"A lifetime, indeed." Wendy let out her breath. "Look, I'm . . . we're pleased you've managed to find your way here, but you must understand."

"What happened to the Galileo?" Carlos couldn't help himself. "Why were you fifty light-years from here? What—?"

"Did you make first contact?" Wendy's voice was quiet, yet insistent.

Harker regarded her with faint amusement, as if she'd just asked an obvious question. Carlos noticed that his robe's designs became scarlet. Apparently some sort of biomemetic feedback. "Of course," he replied. "You haven't figured that out already?"

Before anyone could interrupt him again, Harker raised a hand. "Look, you've got a lot of questions, and we'll answer them all. But . . ." He sighed. "It's a long story, and there's something important you first need to know."

"And that is?" Wendy asked.

The three surviving members of the Galileo expedition gazed at one another, as if uncertain who should speak next. "We're not alone," Ramirez said, his cloak's patterns becoming off-white once more. "We know that now. There's hundreds . . . maybe thousands . . . of other races in the galaxy. Most are younger than our own, and many of them are still struggling to survive. A few are more advanced than our own, and some . . ."

"The survivors are the ones who've learned how to leave their home worlds," Harker continued. "The old theories . . . the Drake equation, Shklovskii's and Sagan's principles . . . are correct. A race that develops the ability to leave its place of origin is more likely to escape self-destruction than those who don't. But by the same token, not all races who achieve interstellar travel are ones you'd necessarily want to meet."

"There's good out there," Collins said, her voice low, "but there's also evil."

Something in the way she said this caused Carlos to shiver. "I don't like the sound of that."

"Nor should you." Ramirez's robe darkened. "Believe me, we've seen things straight from your worst nightmare."

"But we've also seen things that give us hope," Harker added. "And that's just it. The elder races . . . the ones who try to keep peace in this part of the galaxy . . . have been observing us for quite some time." He smiled. "Oh, not as long as you might imagine. They became aware of humankind only after one of their ships observed the Alabama, not long after it left our system."

Carlos shared a look with Wendy. She, too, remembered the cryptic note left behind by Leslie Gillis. What he'd seen from the Alabama's rec deck wasn't an illusion; he'd indeed spotted an alien vessel. "We've had reason to suspect that, yeah."

"But why haven't they contacted us?" Wendy asked. "Why did they wait so long?"

"As she said, there's evil out there." Harker's smile faded. "The other races have learned to be careful about whom they contact. They watch, they wait, they observe. And when they feel confident . . ."

"They find a way to make contact." Collins smiled. "Which is why we're here."

Carlos stared at her, then at Harker and Ramirez. "I don't . . . I mean, are you saying—?"

"Yes. Exactly." Harker's expression was calm. "They've been observing Coyote for quite some time now. Waiting to see what you'd do with it, how you'd treat another world once you'd settled it. What might happen once you finally developed hyperspace travel. Think of it as a test."

"And we . . . ?"

"Yes. We've passed. They want to talk to us now." Harker paused. "Ready for the next part? Here it is . . . we didn't come here alone."

Carlos stared up at the Maria Celeste. "Are you saying . . . ?"

"What you think I'm saying." A sly grin appeared on Harker's face as he turned to Wendy. "One of them is up there. A Coronean, if you want to call them that . . . although they refer to themselves as the hjadd. Heshe's a representative, and heshe'd like to have a word with you."

For the first time, Carlos noticed a shadowy form lurking just within the shuttle's hatch. Bipedal, upright; vaguely anthromorphic, yet clearly not human. My god, he thought, it's one of them . . .

Wendy saw it, too. Her face lost color, and she involuntarily took a step back. "I don't . . . I mean, I can't . . ."

"Yes, you can." Carlos took his wife's hand, and wasn't surprised to find that it was shaking. "You're the president, remember?"

He looked back at Ana, saw that she wore the same expression. The time had come to put away their fear of the unknown; they had to embrace wonder, find a way back to the things that had led them here in the first place. The stars beckoned, inviting them to join a plurality of worlds.

The words of an old song came to him just then, a spiritual he'd heard long ago in his younger days. He didn't know why he remembered it just then, yet nonetheless it was appropriate:

Will the circle be unbroken?

By and by, Lord, by and by,

There's a better home a waitin'

In the sky, Lord, in the sky.

Wendy stopped trembling. "You're right," she said quietly. "It's my job . . . and yours, too." She smiled. "C'mon. Let's go meet the neighbors."

Hand in hand, they walked up the ramp.