Joris nodded. He walked away across the apron as though he carried on his massive shoulders some heavy burden that weighed them down. Trehearne signed over his manifests to the port official in charge of unloading and went in search of Shairn. She stood outside the great barred gate, watching for him. She was just as beautiful as he remembered. He said, "You haven't forgotten me then?" "No. Did you expect me to?" "I wouldn't have been surprised." She laughed--the sweet familiar laughter spiced with mockery. "You're a wise man." She cocked her head back and studied him. "You've changed. You've got so brown and hard and--older. I think I like you even better now. But I'll have to learn to know you all over again." She pulled him toward the long, sleek vehicle that waited. "It will be nice," she said, "this getting acquainted again!" The broad road took them northward along the coast, away from the clamoring spaceport and the city. The cliffs rose from the golden sea, wild and forbidding. She asked suddenly, "Where did you get that?" His sleeve had fallen back and she was looking at the scars on his wrist. "Someone set the hounds on me," Trehearne answered indifferently. Then, "By the way, how is Kerrel?" "I haven't seen him." She glanced at the scars again. "How did he work it?" "How did who work what?" "Oh, stop trying to be subtle! I had a feeling that Kerrel might arrange something for that voyage. He's not a man who takes his defeats lightly." Trehearne told her briefly the story of Yann and the hounds. He finished, "I want to see Kerrel." "You will!" Shairn's eyes sparkled. "And I want to be there when you do!" The car swung around a curve and there on its great crag loomed the Silver Tower--Shairn's ancestral home, built by generations of Vardda men and women who had reached out with strong hands to grasp the stars. For a time, with Shairn, he forgot about Kerrel and Torin and all the things that preyed upon his mind. He only knew that it was very good to be here. It was evening when he was again reminded of them. They were sitting in the gallery, sipping the sharp, cold wines, and Shairn said, "Are you happy, Michael?" He remembered another time when she had asked that question--the night that Edri had walked away alone down the avenue of trees. He remembered Edri crying out in the dark against injustice, and instantly the old restlessness was back upon him. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I'm happy." He turned the wine-glass in his hands, brooding. "Shairn, could you get Edri out here? I'd like to see him." He felt her stiffen and draw away and he thought that she was angry with him. He went on, "I didn't mean now. Tomorrow's time enough. But I--well, I want to talk to him." "You're fond of Edri, aren't you?" "He was a good friend to me." "Yes--and to me." She was silent for a moment and then she turned around. "You might as well know now as later. Edri was arrested a month ago." Trehearne sprang up. "Arrested?"