"Sounds like you didn't much care for it."

His tone, evidently, has betrayed him. "It was a childhood like any other. There were some good points, some bad."

"Too isolated?"

Logan shrugs. "When you're my age, these sorts of feelings soften a great deal, though at the time I probably saw it that way. In the end, it wasn't the life for me-that's really all there is to say."

"Still, Headly is a very traditional place. Some would even say backward."

"I don't think the people there would see it that way."

A quick smile. "Perhaps I misspoke. What I mean is, it's a long way from a horse farm in Headly to heading the chancellor's task force on resettlement. Would that be fair to say?"

"I suppose. But I never had any doubts that I would go to university. My parents were country people, but they let me chart my own course."

She looks at him warmly. "So, a bookish boy, then."

"If you like."

This is followed, once again, by a brief trip to her notes. "Now," she says, "I have here that you're married."

"I'm afraid your information is a little out of date. I'm divorced."

"Oh? When was that?"

The question makes him uncomfortable. Still, it is a matter of public record; he has no reason not to answer. "Six years ago. All very amicable. We're still good friends."

"And your ex-wife, she's a judge, yes?"

"She was, with the Sixth Family Court. But she's left that now."

"And you have a son, Race. What does he do?"

"He's a pilot in the air service."

Her face brightens. "How marvelous."

Logan nods. Obviously she knows all of this.

"And what does he have to say about your discoveries?"

"We haven't really talked about it, not recently."

"But he must be proud of you," she says. "His own father, in charge of an entire continent."

"I think that's a bit of an overstatement, don't you?"

"I'll rephrase. Going back to North America-you'd have to concede it's pretty controversial."

Ah, thinks Logan. Here we go. "Not to most people. Not according to the polls."

"But certainly to some. The church, for instance. What do you make of their opposition, Professor?"

"I don't make anything."

"But surely you've thought about it."

"It's not my place to hold one voice above any other. North America-not just the place but the idea of the place-has sat at the center of humankind's sense of itself for a millennium. The story of Amy, whatever the truth is, belongs to everyone, not just the politicians or the clergy. My job is simply to take us there."

"And what do you think the truth is?"

"It doesn't matter what I think. People will have to judge the evidence for themselves."

"That sounds very ... dispassionate. Detached, even."

"I wouldn't say that. I care a great deal, Miss Tripp. But I don't leap to conclusions. Take these names on the stone. Who were they? All I can tell you is that they were people, that they lived and died a very long time ago, and that somebody thought well enough of them to make a memorial. That's what the evidence says. Maybe we'll learn more, maybe we won't. People can fill in the blanks however they like, but that's faith, not science."

For a moment she appears nonplussed; he is not being a cooperative subject. Then, reviewing her notes again: "I'd like to go back to your childhood a moment. Would you say you come from a religious family, professor?"

"Not especially."

"But somewhat." Her tone is leading.

"We went to church," Logan concedes, "if that's what you're asking. It's hardly unusual in that part of the world. My mother was Ammalite. My father wasn't really anything."

"So she was a follower of Amy," Nessa says, nodding along. "Your mother."

"It's just the way she was raised. There are beliefs, and there are habits. In her case, I'd say it was mostly a habit."

"What about you? Would you say you're a religious man, Professor?"

So, the heart of the matter. He feels a growing caution. "I'm a historian. It seems like more than enough to occupy myself."

"But history could be said to be a kind of faith. The past isn't something you can actually know, after all."

"I wouldn't say that."

"No?"

He settles back to gather his thoughts. Then: "Let me ask you something. What did you have for breakfast, Miss Tripp?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's a straightforward question. Eggs? Toast? A yogurt, perhaps?"

She shrugs, playing along. "If you must know, I had oatmeal."

"And you're quite certain? No doubts in your mind."

"None."

"How about last Tuesday? Was it oatmeal or something else?"

"Why this curiosity about my breakfast?"

"Indulge me. Last Tuesday. It wasn't very long ago, surely you ate something."

"I haven't the foggiest."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not important."

"Not worth remembering, in other words."

She shrugs again. "I suppose not."

"Now, how about that scar on your hand?" He gestures toward the one holding the poised pen. The mark, a series of pale, semicircular depressions, runs from the base of her index finger to the top of her wrist. "How did you get that? It looks to be quite old."

"You're very observant."

"I don't mean to be impertinent. Merely demonstrating a point."

She shifts uncomfortably in her chair. "If you must know, I was bitten by a dog. I was eight years old."

"So you do remember that. Not what you ate last week, but something that happened long ago."

"Yes, of course. It scared the hell out of me."

"I'm sure it did. Was it your dog or a neighbor's? A stray, perhaps?"

Her expression grows irritated. Not irritated: exposed. As he watches, she reaches with her other hand to the scar and covers it with her palm. The gesture is involuntary; she isn't aware that she is doing it, or is only partly cognizant.

"Professor, I fail to see the point in all this."

"So it was your dog."

She startles.

"Forgive me, Miss Tripp, but if it wasn't, you wouldn't be so defensive. The way you covered your hand just now? It tells me something else."

She moves her hand away deliberately. "And what's that?"

"Two things. One, you believe it was your fault. Perhaps you were playing too roughly. Perhaps you teased him, not meaning to, or maybe a little. Either way, you were part of it. You did something, and the dog responded by biting you."

She shows no reaction. "And what's the other?"

"That you never told anyone the truth."

The look on her face tells Logan that he has hit the mark. There is a third thing, of course, that has gone unstated: the dog was put down, perhaps unjustly. Nevertheless, after a moment passes, she breaks into a grin. Two can play at this game.

"That's quite a trick, Professor. I'll bet your students love it."

Now he's the one who smiles. "Touche. But it's not a trick, Miss Tripp, not entirely. The point is a meaningful one. History isn't what you had for breakfast. That's meaningless data, gone with the wind. History is that scar on your hand. It's the stories that leave a mark, the past that refuses to stay past."

She hesitates. "You mean ... like Amy."

"Exactly. Like Amy."

Their eyes meet. Over the course of the interview, a subtle shift has occured. A barrier has unexpectedly fallen, or so it feels. Logan notes yet again how attractive she is-the word he thinks of, somewhat old-fashioned, is "lovely"-and that she wears no ring. It has been a while for him. Since his divorce, Logan has dated only occasionally and never for long. He does not still love his ex-wife; that isn't the problem. The marriage, he has come to understand, was really a kind of elaborate friendship. He isn't sure quite what the problem is, though he has begun to suspect that he is simply one of those people who is destined to be alone, a creature of work and duty and not much else. Is his interlocutor's flirtatious manner merely a tactic, or is there more to it? He knows that he is, for his age, passably appealing. He swims fifty laps each morning, is still blessed with a full head of hair, favors pricey, well-tailored suits and somewhat splashy ties. He is aware of women and maintains a certain courtly style-holding doors, offering his umbrella, rising when a female companion excuses herself from the table. But age is age. Nessa calls him "Professor," the appropriate mode of address, yet the word also carries a reminder that he is at least twenty years older than she is: old enough, technically, to be her father.

"Well," he says, rising from his chair. "If you'll excuse me, Miss Tripp, I'm afraid I'll have to stop there. I'm running late for a lunch engagement."

She seems caught off guard by this announcement-jarred from some complex mental state by this ordinary detail of a day. "Yes, of course. I shouldn't have kept you so long."

"May I show you out?"

They make their way through the silent building. "I'd like to talk more," she says, as they are standing on the front steps. "Perhaps once the conference is over?"

She retrieves a card form her bag and hands it to him. Logan glances at it quickly-"Nessa Tripp, Features, Territorial News and Record," with both home and office numbers-and slips it into the pocket of his suit coat. Another silence; to fill it, he offers his hand. Students flow by, singly and in groups, those on bicycles weaving through the stream like waves around a pier. The air is alive with the buzz of youthful voices. Nessa lets her hand linger an extra second in his, though perhaps it is he who does this.

"Well. Thank you for your time, Professor."

Her watches her walk down the steps. At the bottom, she turns.

"One last thing. Just for the record, the dog wasn't mine."

"No?"

"He was my brother's. His name was Thunder."

"I see." When she says nothing else, he asks, "If you don't mind my asking, what became of him?"

"Oh, you know." Her tone is causal, even a little cruel. She raises her index fingers to make air quotes. "My father took him to 'a farm.' "

"I'm sorry to hear it."

She laughs. "Are you kidding? Couldn't have happened to a nastier son of a bitch. I was lucky he didn't bite my hand off." She hikes her bag higher on her shoulder. "Call me when you're ready, okay?"

She smiles as she says this.

Logan takes a streetcar to the harbor. By the time he arrives at the restaurant, it is nearly one o'clock, and the hostess directs him to the table where his son is waiting. Tall and rangy, with pale blond hair, he takes after his mother. He is wearing his pilot's uniform-black slacks, a starched white shirt with epaulets on the shoulders, and a dark, narrow tie clipped to the front of his shirt. At his feet rests the fat briefcase he always carries when he flies, emblazoned with the insignia of the air service. When he catches sight of Logan, he puts down his menu and rises, smiling warmly.

"Sorry I'm late," Logan says.

They embrace-a quick, manly hug-and settle in. It is a restaurant they have been coming to for years. The view from their table embraces the busy waterfront. Pleasure boats and larger commercial craft ply the water, which sparkles in the bright autumn sunshine; offshore, wind turbines stand in echelon, propellers spinning in the ocean breeze.

Race orders a chicken sandwich and tea, Logan a salad and sparkling water. He apologizes once again for his lateness and the short time they will have together, their first visit in months. Their talk is light and easy-his son's twin boys, his travels, the travails of the conference and Logan's next trip to North America, scheduled for late winter. It is all familiar and comfortable, and Logan relaxes into it. He has been away too long, depriving himself of the enjoyment of his son's company. He has certain regrets about Race's childhood. Logan was too absent, too distracted by work, and much was left to the boy's mother. This capable, handsome man in uniform: what has Logan done to deserve such a prize?