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light-sculpture of a beautiful woman. She stood demure and at ease, a Greek Goddess in a flowing gown. Other pieces littered the room, but none so stunning as the raven-haired Mediterranean beauty.
    "My wife," Wellard said briefly. "She died almost thirty years ago, giving birth to my daughter. We were living in the wilds of Benson's Landfall at the time, in retreat from contemporary trends." He stopped himself and regarded Abbie, as if resentful at having imparted this information.
    She moved around the room, laying hands on crystals, regarding light sculptures. He even worked in the ancient medium of oils on canvas. He watched her from the exit to the second dome, as if impatient to usher her away. "Don't bother telling me what you think – I already know. You Augmented are all the same. You have no appreciation of the truth of the work by the artists you call Primitives."
    It was a moment before she could bring herself to reply. She found his attitude of injured pride rather pathetic, like a chided child convinced of his worth. She sought to subdue him with praise.
    "On the contrary, I find your work very powerful. I'm moved by it. Few artists these days are so honest, so open – few would admit to their faults and weaknesses. Your guilt is very apparent."
    "Art is the communication of true emotion-" He regarded her with what might have been new respect, hedged with suspicion. "Regret and guilt constitute so much of my past. Perhaps by trying to come to terms with the guilt through my work I might cure myself-"
    "To find you can no longer create?"
    He gave a grudging smile. "Isn't all art a striving for an elusive cure?"
    She gazed around at the work in progress and tried to calculate the hours invested in creation. She gestured. "Don't you ever feel like... like giving in?"
    His regard of her changed; from wary respect, his eyes showed hostility. He became businesslike. "I am employing you not to ask questions, but to follow my orders to the letter. What I will be asking of you over the next day or so is highly unconventional."
    She was surprised. "Piloting?"
    "And more. But we'll discuss this later. I will pay you well to undertake my instructions, but you can resign if you so wish."
    Abbie smiled, hoping her trepidation was not obvious.
    "You must be tired. I'll show you to your room. Tomorrow," he went on, "you will meet my daughter."
    Abbie smiled again, conscious of her heartbeat.
    ~
    She awoke the following morning to dazzling sunlight. She had slept well and without interruption, and it was a while before it came to her where she was and what she was doing here.
    She showered, found her gown and stood before the clear curve of the dome. She slid open a panel and leaned out, and the beauty of the view was some compensation for her anxiety. In the foreground, below her dome, was Wellard's studio; projecting from it was a semi-circular patio like a stage, directly above the sea. Across the bright blue waters, the next island in the chain was a verdant knoll dotted with residential domes. The sun burned low on the horizon.
    As she gazed down, Wellard stepped on to the patio. He was barefoot, wearing only a shapeless pair of trousers. Abbie was about to wave in greeting, but something about his attitude stopped her: he was talking to himself and making wild, angry gestures as if drunk. He leaned over the palisade that encompassed the patio, shook his fist at the sea and shouted something incomprehensible. From a tray on a table beside him he picked up something wet and red and dropped it over the rail. He followed it with another strip of what Abbie took to be meat. This and Wellard's semi-nakedness filled her with revulsion.
    As she watched the meat shimmer through the clear blue depths, it was overtaken on the way up by a chain of dancing bubbles. They broke the surface, followed by others. Dimly she made out a dark shape, rising; foreshortened at this angle, it broke the surface and torpedoed towards the overhanging