Some weird part of the Old South? New Orleans?But there were cars on the street among the horse-drawn vehicles, big boxy-looking things with thin smokestacks and high iron-shod wheels.

It's a historical piece, in a way, Gwen said, moving up behind Jennifer.

The New Yorker shifted uneasily; the head of IngolfTech seemed to radiate heat. She'd noticed that in the pool, an almost unhealthy warmth, like a fever. Obviously it wasn't, though. 7wonder what that scent is she's wearing. Odd to put on perfume after a swim.Sort of a musk, but flowery too. Or was it a scent at all? Something that teased at the edge of perception.

The next mural was a sky view, clouds gilded by the sun. Across them swept the shadows of . . .

airships, orca-shaped dirigibles. A fleet of them, dozens, perhaps hundreds. Biplanes were darting among them. Jennifer shook her head.When did thathappen? The First World War?

A pastoral scene followed, vaguely Italian-looking. Hot sunlight on a dusty white road flanked by pencil cypress; vineyards snaking up a hill, the silvery-green of olives on the next, a line of Maxfield Parrish-blue mountains on the horizon, and a villa on a slope in the middle distance. In the foreground were a man and a woman on horseback, both in high-collared black jackets, boots, fawn trousers, wearing studded-leather belts with knives and heavy automatic pistols bolstered at their waists. They were halted in the shade by the side of the road, leaning on the pommels of their saddles and talking to a group of men and women in peasantish clothing.Italian, definitely, Jennifer thought. The costumes were pure cotadini, working clothes from three or four generations ago.But I can't place the context.

Tuscany? she said, nodding.

Chianti, Gwen replied. It's a family connection.

Your family lives there? Jennifer asked, surprised.

Gwen's name and bone structure were both rather Nordic, despite her coloring. And there was something mid-Atlantic about her accent, sometimes. Of course, a lot of Brits had moved there-it was even called Chiantishire occasionally inEuropean Travel and Life, which Jennifer read religiously.

Not . . . now, Gwen said. More of a . . . tradition.

The last panel was still incomplete, about three-quarters done. Jennifer blinked in surprise. The background was buildings, burning and shattered, under a darkened sky. The foreground was a hillock.

Bodies sprawled about it, in unfamiliar uniforms and equipment but with an American-flag shoulder flash.

On the hillock was . . .well, a monster. Alien? Something that looked like a cross between a gorilla and a wolf, at least. Much of its body was covered by futuristic-looking equipment, armor perhaps; the firelight caught at dull-red fur on the rest, and glinted off its eyes. One clawed foot rested on a human face; a huge curved knife was in one fist, a chunky-looking weapon throwing an iridescent beam in the other. The long jaws were parted in a fanged gape, long tongue lolling like a scarlet banner, serrated teeth gleaming. She could almost hear the bellowing snarl; the thing radiated a lust to kill.

Now don't tell methat is historical, she said, glancing aside and out the tall windows.

No, not in the present context. Although perhaps it might be someday.

My God, what an imagination you've got!

That closed-in smile again. Actually I'm not very imaginative. It doesn't . . . run in the family, you might say.

Jennifers mouth twisted. It must have taken a fair amount of imagination to produce all this, she said, waving her free hand.

No, just intelligence, memory, and application-not at all the same thing, Gwen corrected.

Ms. Ingolfsson- Gwen.

Gwen, why do I get the feeling you are bullshitting me?

I'm not, she said. I'm just not telling you enough to understand what Iam telling you. The information's accurate, but radically incomplete.

Jennifer swung around, a spark of anger in her face. In other words, you're bullshitting me. Look, I may be only a minor player- Gwen put the tips of her fingers on Jennifer's arm. The contact jolted her, a slight but perceptible shock.

Her skin prickled again, and she felt flushed, as if she were coming down with the flu. The sensation startled her; she usually had better control of her temper than that.

That's not necessarily true, Gwen said. She maintained the touch for a moment, then removed it. I'm something of a judge of . . . human nature, and I think you're going to be a good deal more than a bit player. Otherwise I wouldn't waste time on you.

Jennifer finished the sherry.And here I thought you wanted me for my body, she thought sardonically-a suspicion whichhad crossed her mind, for some reason, That too, Gwen said tranquilly.

I didn't say that! Jennifer blurted in horror. She stared at her glass. Two sherries and a couple of glasses of Chardonnay at dinner; shecouldn't be that drunk.

Not very loud, Gwen agreed. But I've got excellent hearing.

Look, I'm sorry, that was a joke. Her reputation would be ruined if she offended a client so gratuitously.

The alarm she felt was sluggish, somehow. She felt breathless, as if the Bahamian night was much warmer than it actually was. Sweat trickled down her face, and she could feel a pulse beating in her throat. And there seemed to be a hint of some unfamiliar scent from Gwen, something indescribable, like perfumed meat-except that it was wholly pleasant. Jennifer inhaled more deeply.

Gwen smiled and tapped rhythmically on the rim of her glass. That's your heartbeat. You seem to be upset about something, Jenny. You don't mind if I call you Jenny, do you? .

No, Her tongue felt thick. My friends call me Jenny.Why in God's name did I say that?

Jenny.

Gwen drifted a little closer, moving with that smooth dancer's gracefulness. Jennifer blinked; the other's green eyes seemed to be enlarging, filling her vision. Something touched her on either side of the neck, a soft light caress. Fingers. Moving with excruciating delicacy, barely touching her skin. Patterns of heat flowed after them.

Look . . . ah-please-I, um, like men.

Wonderful, that gives us something in common.

The fingers trailed down over her collarbones to the sensitive skin beneath her arms, stroking at the tender areas on the inside of her elbows. Jennifer shuddered, dazed. Lips touched hers; she responded instinctively, raising her face to the kiss. Off-balance, her arms came up and rested on the other's bare back The skin beneath her hands burned hot, the muscles beneath moving like sheets of living metal. Her eyes jerked open in startlement. Gwen's tongue slid between her teeth.

Mmmmph!

I can'tbelieveI'm doing this! The only other time she'd ever kissed a woman was once at university as an experiment; she'd been drunk then, and even so it had been about as exciting as kissing an arm.

Gwen leaned back slightly. Lovely, she said.

This is unprofess . . . ional, Jennifer said.

The top of her robe came down around her shoulders. Gwen's hands cradled her breasts lightly, fingertips brushing over her nipples. She bit back a moan; it was the most sheerly erotic sensation she'd ever felt, the carnal equivalent of a mouthful of chocolate tiramisu. Her knees quivered.

Oh, to hell with it.She put her hands behind Gwen's head and kissed her again.

For a moment, Jennifer wondered where she was. Then memory avalanched back in.

Oh, myGod, she mumbled.

The other half of the big bed was empty; it stood under a ceiling fan, with French doors on three sides leading to shaded galleries. By the quality of the pale light, it was near dawn.

Good morning, Jenny, Gwen said.

Jennifer flushed and pulled the sheet up under her chin with both hands. Gwen took a glass of orange juice from the wheeled tray and sat on the edge of the bed. She was naked and entirely comfortable with it, something that Jennifer envied a little.That's not all I envy, she thought. The head of IngolfTech had a figure like a ballet dancer, except for the thicker arms and neck and the fact that she wasn't flat-chested.I feel like a slug.

Isn't it a little late to be shy? Gwen asked, offering the glass of juice. I mean . . . She inclined her head toward the sheet. Been there. Done that.

True enough,Jennifer thought, sitting up and taking the glass. She gave Gwen a quick peck on the lips and looked out the window as she drank.

You make me feel self-conscious, she said after a moment.And embarrassed. God. She remembered more of the details.I yelled and everything. I neverlose control of myself like that.

What, about your weight? Gwen said, and touched her lightly. Ridiculous. Just pleasantly plump in the right places-what's the word,zaftig?

She rose and belted on a robe, then pulled a medicine jar from a drawer. But if it really bothers you, I'll put some of these in your purse. She picked it up off the chair-somebody had brought in her clothes, which made Jennifer blush again.

What's that? she asked, sipping at the orange juice.

Metaboline, one of our products. Take one a week for a month, then one every month for a year. She came back and sat cross-legged on the foot of the bed.

Jennifer made a face. Diet pills?

No, it's a metabolic adjustment. Increases your appetite, if anything-eat whatever you please-but it puts your body's static burn up even more. She smiled. Trust me.

Jennifer blushed again, down to her breasts. Gwen watched with enjoyment, which made the flush worse.

This isn't . . . ah . . . isn't like me, the New Yorker said, looking out the window.

Gwen made a graceful gesture. Think of it as a matter of personal chemistry, she said. No big deal.

Besides, it had been a while for you, hadn't it?

Yes. You too?

No, I don't believe in passing up an opportunity for pleasure, Gwen said. She grinned. You may have noticed. Come on, let's have a shower and then you can get back to your room before your colleagues wake up.

Homesickness, Gwen said thoughtfully, looking down from her perch in the deep window, down to the dock where the Americans had boarded their plane.

That plan was launched, like a javelin-better, like a cunning shipkiller missile, with its own mechanical intelligence. It would strike or miss, and she would act accordingly. Dismiss it.

I've been realizing how much homesickness must affect you humans.

More than you? Alice said from the lounger, looking up from her magazine,Architectural Digest.

Much, Gwen said. Your lives are so short, and yet this world you've made changes so quickly.

Something-perhaps the way the sun flickered through the bougainvillea on the coral-rock wall outside-prompted a memory.

First century,she thought. Back visiting on Claestum in Tuscany; she'd been . . . yes, a section-director on the Mars project then, glad of a break from space habitats.

Riding down from the hills, with a gralloched deer slung over the pack horse behind her. Rough slopes, the rutted earthen track and the slow clump of hoofs, the panting breath of the hound-beasts at heel.

Summer smells of arbutus and thyme, leaf mold, horse, dog, the meaty scent of the deer carcass. Creak of leather and rattle of javelins in the holster before her knee; a flash of shy movement in the bushes, a glimpse of great brown eyes-a faun, still new and rare then. Stabbing flickers of light as she rode out into the valley fields, with the slow warm wind bringing her scents from miles beyond. Through an orchard of gnarled old apple trees-memory within memory, the sloping field new-planted with thin saplings-and into a grain field half reaped, the line ofservus and the rhythmic flash of their sickles.

Crimson poppies among the tall corn, the way the tunics stuck to the workers' flanks, the sweet mild smell of their sweat.

Three centuries ago,she thought. Yet-if only she could breach the wall of universes that separated her from it-nothing essential would have changed. Young oaks would have grown to great trees, the great-great-grandchildren of those reapers would reap the same right-yellow grain in the same fields; the younger cousin who held that land would be at home in the manor. All memory was strong with her kind, but this one had more than vividness. Theimpact was still there, as tangible as the rich taste of the venison roasted with mushrooms, or the cool blue eyes of cousin Cercylas, the turn of his hand as he gestured.

It's odd to think of you being homesick at all, Alice said.

Gwen looked up at her. Only three weeks since the embryo implant, not enough to alter her scent much.

The language of her body had already changed, relaxed, tension draining out of the muscles around her mouth and in her neck day by day. It flattered her, and brought out the ripe-peach texture of her skin.

Also she thinks better when she's calm and happy.

We're not altogether self-sufficient, she said gently. We have our families, friends, likes and dislikes. Any social animal gets attached to their framework. For that matter, you're part of mine, now-it's a family relationship, in a way, and a fairly close one.

The Australian looked down at her stomach and traced it with her fingertips. Yes, I suppose so. Funny I canremember being upset about what you were doing to me, but I can't recall thefeelinganymore.

Everything just seems so . . . nice. I'm really looking forward to the birth, and having the baby to raise.

So am I, said Gwen, uncoiling from the window-niche.

I must see that she has a few of her own, in a couple of years,she thought.I'll breed her to Tom, perhaps. Establish a brooder-line for the new infant, as a birth-gift. It would be her first clone, after all; Draka rarely cloned themselves. A little different from the traditional sperm-and-egg or egg-to-egg gene merging.

It was pleasant to be thinking of ordinary domestic matters like this; pleasant and a little premature.

Wouldn't do to forget this is just a little enclave of normalcy here, she reminded herself. Beyond that horizon lay a vast feral wilderness to be subdued.

Gwen yawned and stretched. Back to work No rest for the wicked.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

DOMINATION TIMELINE.

EARTH/1.

February 20, 445th YEAR OF THE FINAL SOCIETY (2445 A.D.).

Tolya Mkenni had traveled a good deal via the Web-neural induction wasn't quite the same as being there, but it came fairly close. The last three years had been different:physical travel not just to the high-casteservus resorts of eastern North America but all over the planet on the Project's business, even to Luna. Not least to the clinic in Apollonaris where she'd been given the supreme honor of another lifespan. And now she was bound to Archona itself, to appear before the lords of the State. It was almost as thrilling as it was terrifying. She shifted slightly in the comfortable seat of the transport.

Mirror, she said.

A space before her turned silver and then showed a three-dimensional image of herself. Not much different from what she'd seen for most of the past eighty years, except that the little signs of age-wrinkles at the corner of her gray eyes, threads of silver in her shoulder-length wheat-blond hair-were gone or going; the tone of her brown skin had turned youthfully resilient.Another three-quarters of a century, she thought.I may see my great-grandchildren born. Amazing; only a few hundred of her breed had been granted that, in all the centuries of the Final Society. Woven into the left corner of her neat brown tunic was a stylized circle with a gap, symbol of another honor almost as great: Draka-level access to the Web and unlimited personal mobility.

See that you deserve it,she told herself sternly. Aloud: Visual, external.