The man gave a grave nod. His left hand formed the mudra for correct. "Yes."

"And this isn’t a virtual?"

Correct again. "No."

"Then something has gone wrong."

Correct "Yes. A moment, sir, if you please." The man finished tamping, slipped his foot into a waiting boot, then lit the pipe with the anachronistic lighter in his left hand. He puffed, drew in smoke, exhaled, put the lighter in his pocket, and settled back in the walnut embrace of his chair.

"I am Dr. Li," he said. Stand by said the left hand, the old finger position for a now-obsolete palmtop computer, a finger position that had once meant pause, as correct had once meant enter, enter because it was correct. "Please remain in bed for a few more minutes while the nanos doublecheck their work. Redundancy is frustrating," puffing smoke, "but good for peace of mind."

"What happens if they find they’ve made a mistake?"

Don’t be concerned. "It can’t be a very large mistake," said Li, "or we wouldn’t be communicating so rationally. At worst, you will sleep for a bit while things are corrected."

"May I take my hands out from under the covers?" he asked.

"Yes."

Davout did so. His hands, he observed, were brown and leathery, hands suitable for the hot, dry world of Sarpedon. They had not, then, changed his body for one more suited to Earth, but given him something familiar.

If, he realized, they were on Earth.

His right fingers made the mudra thank you.

Don’t mention it signed Li.

Davout passed a hand over his forehead, discovered that the forehead, hand, and the gesture itself were perfectly familiar.

Strange, but the gesture convinced him that he was, in a vital way, still himself. Still Davout.

Still alive, he thought. Alas.

"Tell me what happened," he said. "Tell me why I’m here."

Li signed stand by, made a visible effort to collect himself. "We believe," he said, "that the Beagle was destroyed. If so, you are the only survivor."