Gypsy chuckled dryly. “Oh, no. We trust you just about as far as you trust us. One thing at a time. But you know your part—if you’ll do it. There’s no real cost to you, I promise you. You have Brazil’s word on that and you know that’s good.”

“I’ll do what I can,” the snake-man responded, apparently sincere.

Gypsy got up, stamped out his cigarette on the shiny floor, and looked around at the large office. “Tell me, Ortega, how do you stand it—being trapped in here all the time, year after year, for so long? I think I’d go nuts and kill myself.”

A wan smile came to Ortega’s face. “Sometimes I think of that. It’s easy, you know, for me. All I have to do is go to the Zone Gate and go home. I’m over two thousand years old, you know. Too old. But the spell that keeps me alive traps me here. You should know that.” His voice dropped to a dreamy whisper and he seemed to be gazing at not his visitor or the wall but something beyond the wall, something only he could see. “To feel wind again, and rain, and see the stars one last time. Oh, by God! Do I dream of that!”

“Why not do it, then? At least, do it after this is all over.”

The Ulik snorted. “You don’t really realize my trap, do you? I’m a Catholic, Gypsy. Not a good one, perhaps, but a Catholic nonetheless. And stepping back there—it would be suicide. I can’t bring myself to do it, you see. I just can’t kill myself.”

Gypsy shook his head in silent wonder. “We make our own hells, don’t we?” he murmured, almost too softly to be heard. “We make ’em and we live in ’em. But what kind of hell could be worse than this one?” He looked squarely at Ortega and said, louder, “You’ll hear from Brazil himself shortly, and I’ll keep in touch.” And with that he walked over to the office door, which opened for him, and stepped through. It closed behind him, leaving only the butt on the floor and the smell of stale cigarette smoke as signs he had ever been there.