"Hardly," Hesse said, glaring at the back of Milligan's head. "As a bonus, they've also managed to maintain a certain degree of professionalism. If you'd like, we can shuffle the shifts around so that a different group is on duty when you want to be here."

"No, no, this group will be fine," Faraday said soothingly. "I can always send them to their rooms if it gets too bad. So if it's too late to keep this shift from going crazy, Dr. Sprenkle, why are you here?"

"Mostly, to monitor Raimey's mental and emotional state," Sprenkle explained. "The Council is concerned about psychological conflicts as he melds into his Qanskan body."

"Or to be more precise," Hesse added bluntly, "they're worried that he might forget who he is. It's vital that he not forget where his ultimate loyalties lie."

Faraday looked up at the main display, currently showing the roiling clouds of Jupiter some ninety thousand kilometers below them. "No, I suppose not," he said quietly.

"Colonel?" Beach called, half turning around. "The surgeons downstairs say they're ready to go."

"Thank you," Faraday said as he stepped past Hesse and sat down in the command chair. Time to say good-bye to Matthew Raimey.

Or at least, to say good-bye to what Matthew Raimey had been.

It was, Raimey thought, rather like being in a coffin. A thick, form-fitting coffin, lined on every wall with conduits and pipes and tubing of every thickness imaginable. The kind of coffin that would be specially designed for the funeral of a master plumber.

The probe passed one of the corridor lights as it rolled along, and he got a quick glimpse of the particular group of tubes and jars sitting directly in front of his face. His brand-new digestive system, the techs had identified it: an external stomach and set of intestines, hanging out there in front of him where he could keep an eye on it.