"I'll take that, then."
"Good. I'll bring a mug for your friend, too."
"My friend?" She turned and saw a giant striding through the trees, towering over them, pushing them apart with two enormous hands. For a dizzy instant, she goggled in disbelief, and then the man shrank to human stature as she remembered the size of the saplings.
He grinned. "Hi. Remember me?"
He was a tall man, but like a spacejack, lean and angular. An untidy mass of black curls framed a face that was not quite handsome but carried an intense freight of will.
"I'm afraid…"
"Tory Shostakovich. I reprogrammed you."
She studied his face carefully. Those eyes. They were fierce almost to the point of mania, but there was sadness there, too, and-she thought she might be making this up-a hint of pleading, like a little boy who wants something so desperately he dare not ask for it. She could lose herself in analyzing the nuances of those eyes. "Yes," she said at last, "I remember you now."
"I'm pleased." He nodded to the Jesuit. "Father Landis."
She eyed him skeptically. "You don't seem your usual morose self, Shostokovich. Is anything wrong?"
"No, it's just a special kind of morning." He smiled at some private joke, returned his attention to Elin. "I thought I'd drop by and get acquainted with my former patient." He glanced down at the ground, fleetingly shy, and then his eyes were bright and audacious again.
How charming, Elin thought. She hoped that he wasn't too shy. And then she had to glance away herself, the thought was so unlike her. "So you're a wetware surgeon," she said inanely.
Hans reappeared to distribute mugs of wine, then retreated to the cave's mouth. He sat down, workboard in lap, and patched in the skull-plugs. His face went stiff as the wetware took hold.