“But how will I Consolidate? Where will I go?”

“I’m sorry,” his father said. “We must travel far. Perhaps we will find new Hills, where we can Consolidate. Perhaps before your time is due.”

“But what about you?”

“Never mind me.” With harsh, urgent gestures, 471 poked at his son. “Come. Can you walk?”

Sculptor unwrapped his limbs, settled them to the ground and stood, experimentally. He felt a little dizzy, and some of his joints ached. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. But I must know—”

“No more talking. Run, child!”

His father rolled away from him and surged stiffly after the fleeing people.

Without 471’s protective cage of limbs Sculptor was left exposed. The land here was bare, flat; the sky overhead was black and empty. He blinked away false memories of shaded Hills, of laughter and love.

His people surged to the horizon, abandoning him.

“Wait! Father, wait!”

Awkwardly, stumbling as he learned to ripple his eight limbs across the uneven ground, Sculptor hurried after his father.

Michael Poole joined the flitter in Lunar orbit. He was met by Bill Dzik, the Baked Alaska project director. Dzik was a burly, breathless man, his face rendered unnaturally smooth by Anti-Senescence treatment; he carried a small briefcase. His hand, plump and warm, engulfed Poole’s. “Mike. Thanks for meeting me.”

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here personally, Bill.”

Dzik tried to smile; his mouth was lost in the bulk of his face. “Well, we have a problem. I’m sorry.”

Poole stifled a sigh; a knot of tension settled in his stomach.