I dreamed of Martians and Earthians standing equal and strong and proud, hands linked in friendship, cemented by bonds of kinship, separated by no gulfs such as now yawned before me, separating me from Steve. I wanted to shout: "Good luck, Steve, Azala. You're good kids and you deserve the best." Then I remembered that Steve was nearly forty, not quite a kid by Earthian standards. But, looking at Azala, I was pretty sure that Steve still had his best years ahead of him. I wanted to go up to him and shake his hand for the last time. But now the hands of my people were tugging at my shoulders, stripping off the Earthian garments I'd worn so long with scant respect for my desire to be as human and regular as the next guy. They got the suit off, and then I saw the old familiar cloak, purple and billowing out with shimmering star images, and I shuddered a little because I knew I'd never really feel at ease wearing it from that moment on. They got me into the cloak and they bent down and straightened the stiff imperial folds and I was suddenly bored and deathly weary. A chill wind from the stars seemed to blow over me, but I stood straight and still, and allowed them to fasten on the cloak the great glowing jewel I'd worn from childhood. Steve saw me then. He was sitting up very straight, his hand on Azala's tumbled, red-gold hair, and I heard him say: "Holy smoke." I stared down at the jewel, blazing and shuddering and shivering in the desert air, and I shut my eyes tight, wishing for the first time in my life that it did not proclaim me Tulan Sharm, the Glorious One, Temporal Ruler of the Seven Cities before Whom the Stars Bowed.