Sammy dropped to one knee beside the chair, ignoring the soaking chill of the slush. "Let me tell you about my ships, sir." And he spoke of tonnages and design specs and owners—well, most of the owners; there were some who should be left for another time, when the old man did not have a gun at hand. And all the while, he watched the other's face. The old man understood what he was saying, that was clear. His cursing was a low monotone, a new obscenity for each name that Sammy spoke. Except for the last one—

"Lisolet? That sounds Strentmannian."

"Yes, sir. My Deputy Fleet Captain is Strentmannian."

"Ah." He nodded. "They...they were good people."

Sammy smiled to himself. Pre-Flight should be ten years long for this mission.That would be long enough to bring The Man back physically. It might be long enough to soften his madness. Sammy patted the chair's frame, near the other's shoulder.This time, we will not desert you.

"Here comes the first of my ships, sir." Sammy pointed again. A second later, a bright star rose past the edge of the tenement's roof. It swung stately out into twilight, a dazzling evening star. Six seconds passed, and the second ship came into sight. Six seconds more, and the third. And another. And another. And another. And then a gap, and finally one brighter than all the rest. His starships were in low-orbit moorage, four thousand kilometers out. At that distance they were just points of light, tiny gemstones hung half a degree apart on an invisible straight line across the sky. It was no more spectacular than a low-orbit moorage of in-system freighters, or some local construction job...unless you knew how far those points of light had come, and how far they might ultimately voyage. Sammy heard the old man give a soft sigh of wonder.He knew.