The numbers in the game of death were trembling and tumbling behind his eyes as he stepped off the outward bound slideway where it reached the main reception area. His official transport was waiting to take him straight to the shuttle terminal at North Field, and — in spite of the risks associated with the driver being in radio contact with Starflight House — that still seemed the quickest and most certain way of reaching his ship. The vast ice-green hall of the concourse was crowded with men and women coming off their afternoon shifts in the surrounding administrative buildings. They seemed relaxed and happy, bemused by the generosity of the lingering sunlight. Garamond swore inwardly as he shouldered through conflicting currents and eddies of people, doing his best to move quickly without attracting attention.

I’m a dead man, he kept thinking in detached wonderment. No matter what I do, no matter how my luck holds out in the next couple of hours… I’m a dead man. And my wife is a dead woman. And my son is a dead child. Even if the ion tide holds strong and fills my wings, we’re all dead - because there’s no place to hide. There’s only one other world, and Elizabeth’s ships will be waiting there…

A face turned towards him from the crowd, curiously, and Garamond realized he had made a sound. He smiled — recreating himself in his own image of a successful flickerwing captain, clothed in the black-and-silver which was symbolic of star oceans — and the face slid away, satisfied that it had made a mistake in locating the source of the despairing murmur. Garamond gnawed his lip while he covered the remaining distance to his transport which was stacked in one of the reserved magazines near the concourse. The sharp-eyed middle-aged driver saw him approaching, and had the vehicle brought up to ground level by the time Garamond reached the silo.