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back against it. Closing his eyes, he drew in a long breath. He straightened his fingers one by one, eased his head from side to side, worked his shoulders loose, and slowly exhaled.
    The room was sparsely furnished: white ceiling, three wooden shelves mounted on the far wall, an unvarnished wooden table under the window. A flashlight was plugged into a recharger beside the door. Two wooden-frame armchairs with foam cushions; cream-coloured plasterboard walls, and a plank floor. In the closet was another anorak and set of heavy thermal work pants like the ones he had been given in the blimp. There was a door to the bedroom, another to the bathroom, and an alcove with a sink and microwave oven. A scuffed blue suitcase and a large duffel bag had been left just inside the front door. Grebbel heaved the bag over his shoulder and carried it into the bedroom. Then he put the suitcase on the table in the living room, fumbled a key from his pockets, and snapped the lid up.
    He pulled out two folded shirts and a pair of slacks, put them on the table, and picked up a thick plastic folder that had been underneath. He weighed it in his hands, then sat down. Unopened, it lay on the table, his hands flat on either side of it. He swallowed, and carefully lifted the cover.
    A lot of e-mail printouts, a few letters on white airmail paper, on lined, three-hole loose-leaf sheets; spidery in blue ink, or black squarish italics. A graduation certificate from technical college, an old driving licence, with an earnest, youthful face he could just bring himself to recognise. A passport with a holo-portrait that looked barely more familiar.
    A small e-photo album.
    He moistened his lips before pulling it towards him and stepping down its menu.
    Bright faces, party crowds, portraits of two or three under trees, in thick-carpeted living rooms with mahogany furniture, on the steps of a beige stone building. Faces. Grinning, polite, severe, friendly, laughter-distorted, anonymous faces.
    His jaw clenched. When he tilted the album towards him, he caught sight of the scars on his wrist, and stopped. He closed his eyes and did not breathe.
    His hand went up to sweep the table clear.
    He shuddered and brought it down slowly. His breath came out in a ragged sigh.
    With fingers that shook, he squared the album parallel to the corner of the table, stacked the letters and other papers back in the folder beside it, and pushed himself to his feet.
    Methodically he took his clothing out of the bags, one item at a time, carried each with his head lowered, and placed it in the cupboard. When he had finished, he stood motionless in the same hunched position, and his breathing grew harsh. He straightened up then and fastened his coat and went out, quietly pulling the door shut behind him.
    Hands jammed in pockets, he walked slowly in the midday darkness, listening to the gravel under his boots, concentrating on the sights and sounds that reached him, the half-familiar tang of the alien forests—trying not to think. Something whistled in the trees.
    At one point a man and woman passed him from the opposite direction, talking quietly together. Grebbel thought he heard the man say, “Who knows what he was like back then?” and laugh. And he found he had swung round, his breath surging, his hands ready to seize and twist.
    He checked himself and watched as the couple walked on, oblivious, the cold air pressing against his face like a steel mask.
    Then his ears were filled with the sounds of his own body, breathing again, walking.
    He stopped when another sound grew to dominate them, and found he was overlooking the site of the dam again. White water thundered before him under the lights. The earth seemed to shiver under his feet. He stared at the water that piled up, that churned and lathered and forced its way through the narrow sluiceways. Its frustrated urgency made his muscles tighten and quiver.
    On the far bank a dump truck emerged from a lighted tunnel entrance