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justice.” A moment passed. “If you’re ever inclined to compose again, we would be glad to have you do so. We sadly lack for culture here.”
    “Thank you. I’ll consider it.”
    She waited, staring determinedly into her soup bowl. After a few moments, she heard the rustle of its cloak, the subdued whir and click of its legs as it walked away. There was quiet around her, like the brief silence that falls between movements of a symphony, then murmuring voices slowly returned.
    For an instant they seemed to fill a void within her, one that she’d fought so long and hard to conquer . . . but then, once more, the music failed to reach her. She heard nothing, saw nothing.
    “Hey, lady,” someone seated nearby whispered. “You know who that was?”
    “Yeah, jeez!” another person murmured. “Manny Castro! No one ever stood up to him like that. . . .”
    “Who did you say you were? I didn’t catch . . .”
    “Excuse me.” The plate and bowl rattled softly in her hands as she stood up. She carried it to a wooden cart, where she placed it with a clatter that sounded all too loud to her ears. Remembering the bamboo stalk she’d left on the table, she went back to retrieve it. Then, ignoring the questioning faces around her, she quickly strode out of the dining hall.
    All this distance, only to have the past catch up to her. She began to make the long walk back to Shuttlefield.
     
    When she returned to her tent, she found that it was still there. However, it hadn’t gone unnoticed. A Proctor knelt before the tent, holding the flap open as he peered inside.
    “Pardon me,” she asked as she came up behind him, “but is there something I can help you with?”
    Hearing her, the Proctor turned to look around. A young man with short-cropped blond hair, handsome yet overweight; he couldn’t have been much older than twenty Earth-years, almost half Allegra’s age. He dropped the tent flap and stood up, brushing dirt from his knees.
    “Is this yours?” Less a question than a statement. His face seemed oddly familiar, although she was certain she’d never met him before.
    “Yes, it’s mine. Do you have a problem with that?”
    Her attitude took him by surprise; he blinked, stepping back before he caught himself. Perhaps he’d never been challenged in this way. “It wasn’t here the last time I stopped by,” he said, businesslike but not unkind. “I wanted to know who was setting up here.”
    “I arrived last night.” Allegra glanced toward the nearby shack; her neighbor was nowhere to be seen, yet she observed that the front door was ajar. “Came in yesterday from the Long Journey ,” she continued, softening her own tone. “I couldn’t find another place to stay, so . . .”
    “Everyone from the Journey is being put over there.” The young blueshirt turned to point toward the other side of Shuttlefield; as he did, she noticed the chevrons on the right sleeve of his uniform. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”
    “No one told me anything . . . and now I suppose you want me to move.” She didn’t relish the thought of packing up again and relocating across town. At least here she was closer to Liberty; it would cut her morning hike to work. “I spoke with the lady who lives next door, and she didn’t seem to mind if I . . .”
    “I know. I’ve just talked to her.” He cast a wary eye upon the shack, and for an instant it seemed like the door moved a few inches, as if someone behind it was eavesdropping. The Proctor raised a hand to his face. “Can I speak with you in private?” he whispered. “You’re not in trouble, I promise. It’s just . . . we need to talk.”
    Mystified, Allegra nodded, and the blueshirt led her around to the other side of the tent. He crouched once more, and she settled down upon her knees. From there they could only see the shack roof; even the chicken pen was hidden from sight.
    “My name’s Chris,” he said quietly as he offered his hand. “Chris