"What's that supposed to mean?" Madoc demanded obligingly.
"It means that self-appointed gods inevitably begin to see everything everything as a game," Damon told him. "When you can do anything at all, you can only decide what to do at any particular moment on aesthetic grounds. Once you get past the groundwork of Creation, what is there to do with what you've made but play with it?" as a game," Damon told him. "When you can do anything at all, you can only decide what to do at any particular moment on aesthetic grounds. Once you get past the groundwork of Creation, what is there to do with what you've made but play with it?"
Madoc picked up the thread of the argument readily enough. "Is that what your foster parents are doing? Playing a game with the world they made?"
Damon shrugged his shoulders. "If they are," he said, "they're being very secretive about it. Karol dropped a few hints, but the guys he hired to remove me from the action were giving nothing away. I suppose it's only natural that after I dropped out they'd want me to get down on my knees and beg before they let me in again."
"But you don't want to get back in. You've got a life of your own now."
"It's not that simple anymore," Damon said.
"It is if you want it to be."
"I suppose I can simply refuse to play messenger no matter how hard I'm pressed," Damon conceded, working through that train of thought. "I could go home, get back into my hood and pick up where I left off, building Planet X for those game players, designing phone tapes, putting Di into the pornotape and taking her out again, using her and then erasing all the recognizable aspects of her individuality. I could could just get on with my work and hope that I'll be allowed to get on with it in peace-except that after my little trip to Olympus, I'm no longer sure that kind of thing is worth doing. The chrome-plated cheat who told me I could fly was lying-but I think he was trying to persuade me that if only I were willing to come aboard I might be able to just get on with my work and hope that I'll be allowed to get on with it in peace-except that after my little trip to Olympus, I'm no longer sure that kind of thing is worth doing. The chrome-plated cheat who told me I could fly was lying-but I think he was trying to persuade me that if only I were willing to come aboard I might be able to learn learn to fly." to fly."
Madoc couldn't follow that, but Damon was too preoccupied with his own train of thought to pause for fuller explanations. "The trouble is," he went on, "that when you've looked up at Olympus and down into the ultimate abyss, it puts everything else into a new perspective-even though you know full well that it's only a VE, just one more small step on the way to realizing all all our dreams. That's who the our dreams. That's who the real real movers and shakers were supposed to be, in the original poem: not statesmen or corpsmen, but dreamers of dreams." movers and shakers were supposed to be, in the original poem: not statesmen or corpsmen, but dreamers of dreams."
"Realizing our dreams is a long hard road for people like you and me," Madoc pointed out. "Our kind of work might look a little shabby compared with PicoCon's, but how else are people like us going to work our way up? Unless, of course, you've decided that now you've broken into your father's money you might as well use it all. You don't have to-just because you're not a virgin anymore it doesn't mean you're a whore." He sounded genuinely concerned for the matter of principle that seemed to be at stake.
"I want to know know, Madoc," Damon said softly. "I want to know exactly exactly what's going on-and you can't find out for me. PicoCon has all the answers; maybe I what's going on-and you can't find out for me. PicoCon has all the answers; maybe I should should try to get aboard." try to get aboard."
"A corpsman? Not you, Damon. Not that that."
Damon shrugged again. "Maybe I should go to Lagrange-Five, then, and make my peace with Eveline. She might have been a lousy mother, but she's the only one I have left . . . and she she must know what all this is about, whether my father's alive or not." must know what all this is about, whether my father's alive or not."
"Nobody needs mothers anymore," Madoc opined. "All that went out with the sterility plagues-but if you choose your friends wisely, they'll be with you all the way. Whether you use the money or not, you can still be Damon Hart. If you and I stick together, we can still take on the world."
Damon knew that they were talking at cross-purposes-that Madoc's anxieties weren't connecting with his at all. Even so, the underlying substance of Madoc's argument was closer to the heart of the matter than Madoc probably knew.
Damon was still trying to figure out what his next step ought to be when the door buzzer went.
"Shit!" said Madoc, immediately moving to hit a combination of keys on the console of Lenny Garon's display screen.
The camera mounted in the outside of the door dutifully showed them two men standing in the corridor, waiting for an answer to their signal. Damon couldn't put a name to either one of them, but one of them was unusually tall-and he was sporting an ugly and very obvious bruise.
Damon echoed Madoc's expletive.
"Who are they?" Madoc asked, having picked up the note of recognition in Damon's tone.
"Probably cops," Damon said. "The big one followed me from my building. I thought I'd put him out of it-I hit him hard enough to stop any ordinary man tailing me. Must be tougher or smarter than I thought."
The man with the bruise was already growing impatient. "Mr. Tamlin?" he said. "It's all right, Mr. Tamlin-we're not the police. We just want-"
Mr. Tamlin? Damon echoed silently, wondering why on earth they were addressing themselves to Madoc rather than to him. Before he had time to focus on the seemingly obvious inference, however, the tall man's attempted explanation was brutally cut short. Something hurtled into him from beyond the limits of the picture frame and sent him cannoning into his companion. Damon echoed silently, wondering why on earth they were addressing themselves to Madoc rather than to him. Before he had time to focus on the seemingly obvious inference, however, the tall man's attempted explanation was brutally cut short. Something hurtled into him from beyond the limits of the picture frame and sent him cannoning into his companion.
"Oh, shit shit!" said Madoc, with even more feeling than before-but he was already diving for the door to wrestle it open.
Damon, for once, was much slower to react. He was still trying to piece together the logic of what was happening.
Lenny Garon had obviously not gone far when Madoc had suggested that he take a walk. Indeed, he had evidently taken it upon himself to stand guard somewhere along the corridor. As soon as he had seen the two strangers press his door buzzer, he had decided that Damon and Madoc were in dire need of his protection-and he had thrown himself at the two visitors with little or no regard for his own safety. If they were telling the truth about not being the police, Lenny might be in very grave danger indeed; he didn't have the kind of IT which could pull him through a real real fight. fight.
Madoc had the door open by now, and he hardly paused to take stock of the situation before throwing himself at the tall man's companion, who was already struggling to his feet.
The man with the bruise had knocked Lenny aside, but wasn't going after him. Instead, he was backing up toward the far wall of the corridor, holding his arms out as if he were trying to calm everything down. He had opened his mouth, probably to shout "Wait!" but he choked on the syllable as he looked into the open doorway and caught sight of Damon. The shock in his eyes seemed honest enough. He really had come looking for Madoc Tamlin, not knowing that Damon would be here too.
Damon still hesitated, but Lenny Garon didn't. Lenny had already committed himself and he was sky-high on his own adrenalin. The boy went after the tall man like a ferret after a rat, and his adversary had no alternative but to turn his placatory gesture into a stern defense.
Cop or not, the man with the bruise was certainly no innocent in the art of self-defense, and he had already been knocked down too often to tolerate being put down again. He blocked Lenny's lunging blows and hit the boy, then grabbed him and smashed him into the wall as hard as he could-hard enough to break bones.
That made Damon's mind up. He went after the tall man for a second time, determined to amplify the bruises he had already inflicted. As he charged through the doorway he didn't even look to see what had become of Madoc and the second man; he trusted Madoc's streetfighting instincts implicitly.
Again the man with the bruise tried to avoid the fight. He backed up the corridor as rapidly as he could, and this time he actually managed to shout: "Wait! You don't-"
Damon didn't wait for the "understand"-he kicked out at the knee he'd already weakened in the alley. The tall man yelped in agony and dropped to one knee, but he was still trying to scramble away, still trying to put a halt to the whole fight.
Damon figured that there'd be plenty of time for discussion once he and Madoc had the two men safely under control in Lenny's capsule, so he didn't stop. He slashed at the man's throat exactly as he had done before, and made some sort of connection before something slammed into his back and pitched him forward onto his knees.
His instinct was to lash out backward, on the assumption that someone had charged into him, but there was no one there-and the pain in his back grew and grew with explosive rapidity, giving him just time to realize that he had been shot yet again: hit by some kind of dart whose poison was making merry hell with his nervous system. His IT was undoubtedly fighting the effect, and the pain soon slackened to crawling discomfort-but he didn't lose consciousness. His rigid body hit the ground with a sickening thud, but the dart hadn't been loaded with the kind of poison that would force his senses to switch off.
As the two men snatched him up and scuttled toward the stairs, though, he began to wish that it had.
Twenty-five.
D.
amon never did lose consciousness, but the consciousness he kept had little in reserve for keeping track of what was happening to his paralyzed body. He knew that he had been loaded into the back of a car which roared off at high speed, and he knew that when the car eventually stopped he was taken out again and bundled into a helicopter-but the only part of the journey that really commanded commanded his attention was the time they tried to force his paralyzed limbs into a different configuration so that they could strap him into one of the helicopter's seats. He heard a great deal more than he saw, but most of what he heard was curses and oblique complaints from which he wouldn't have learned anything worth a damn even if he'd been able to concentrate. his attention was the time they tried to force his paralyzed limbs into a different configuration so that they could strap him into one of the helicopter's seats. He heard a great deal more than he saw, but most of what he heard was curses and oblique complaints from which he wouldn't have learned anything worth a damn even if he'd been able to concentrate.
What he was was conscious of, to the expense of almost everything else, was the battle inside his body for control of his neurones. He knew that the sensation of being occupied by hundreds of thousands of ants burrowing their way through his tissues wasn't conscious of, to the expense of almost everything else, was the battle inside his body for control of his neurones. He knew that the sensation of being occupied by hundreds of thousands of ants burrowing their way through his tissues wasn't really really the movement of his nanomachines, but it was hard to imagine it any other way. It wasn't especially painful, but it was severely discomfiting, both psychologically and physically. He was reasonably certain that he would come through it safely and sanely, but it was an ordeal nevertheless. the movement of his nanomachines, but it was hard to imagine it any other way. It wasn't especially painful, but it was severely discomfiting, both psychologically and physically. He was reasonably certain that he would come through it safely and sanely, but it was an ordeal nevertheless.
Damon found a little time to wonder whether the two hit men-which was what they presumably were, given that they certainly didn't seem to be cops-knew what effect the weapons they carried might have on moderately IT-rich victims, and whether they cared, but it wasn't until he began to recover fully possession of himself that he was able to pay close attention to their conversation. By that time, the thrum of the helicopter's rotors had bludgeoned them into taciturnity-a taciturnity that might have lasted until they landed had not the man he'd ambushed in the alley noticed that Damon was recovering from the effects of the shot. That was enough to restart the catalogue of complaints; his luckless pursuer obviously had a lot of grievances to air.
"You've got a real problem, you know that?" the tall man said. "You hear me? A real problem."
Damon fought for the composure necessary to move his head from side to side and blink his eyes. When he eventually succeeded in clearing his blurred vision, he was surprised to see that the bruise on the man's face was in better condition than it had any right to be. Somewhere along the line, he'd slapped some synthetic skin over it to provide his resident nanotech with an extra resource. The expression surrounding the bruise was one of whiney resentment.
Damon was sitting in a seat directly behind the helicopter's pilot. The shorter man who'd come to Madoc's apartment with the man with the fading bruise was sitting beside the pilot; the copter only had the four seats. Reflexively, Damon moved his reluctant hand toward the lock on his safety harness, but the tall man reached out to stop him.
"Careful!" he said. "You got me in enough trouble as it is. Anything else happens to you, I'll be out of a job for sure. Please Please sit tight. None of this was supposed to happen. If you'd just given me time to sit tight. None of this was supposed to happen. If you'd just given me time to talk talk . . . like I said, you got a real problem, lashing out like that all the time. It's crazy!" . . . like I said, you got a real problem, lashing out like that all the time. It's crazy!"
Damon felt an impulse to laugh, but he wasn't yet in any shape to act on it. He tried to edge sideways so that he could look out of the porthole beside his seat, but the effort proved too much. Beyond the pilot, though, he could see dark green slopes and snow-capped peaks as well as sky. He thought he recognized Cobblestone Mountain directly ahead of the copter's course, although it was difficult to believe that they'd come so far in what had not seemed to be a long time.
"It isn't funny," the tall man complained, having deciphered the attempted laugh. "I guess I might have asked for it, the first time, waiting till you were in the alley before I tried to catch up and not realizing you'd gone in there to jump me-but what was all that stuff at the kid's apartment? We told told you we weren't the police. Stupid kid could have got himself badly hurt." you we weren't the police. Stupid kid could have got himself badly hurt."
By the time this speech was finished Damon had got his head far enough up to take a peep through the porthole, but it didn't tell him anything he didn't already know. They were in the hills, heading for the Sespe Wilderness.
"What happened to Madoc?" Damon asked weakly.
"We left him laid out on the kid's bed, with the VE pak cradled in his arms. The police will have them both by now-and don't blame us for having to do it that way. All we wanted was to get the tape to where it was always supposed to go. We would have let Tamlin go his own way if you hadn't practically started a war. The kid's in hospital again, but he'll be okay. You'll have to talk to him about his attitude-he doesn't have the IT for that kind of action."
"You didn't know I was there, did you?" Damon whispered, just to make sure. "I thought thought I left you in no shape to follow me." I left you in no shape to follow me."
"Damn right. Dirty trick, kicking a guy in the head when he's down. When I woke up I had to get new instructions. I was told to go get the tape, so that we could deliver it to Interpol, just as we intended when we left it with the burned-out body. You really are a nuisance, you know that? Thanks to you, I am having the worst day of my life life. All I wanted to do was talk talk to you-and now you've to you-and now you've really really messed things up." messed things up."
"You followed me into the alley because you wanted to talk to me?"
"Sure. Once you'd got rid of Yamanaka's bugs my employers figured it was safe to have a private word. You could have had it in town and been free and clear by dinnertime, if you hadn't taken it into your fool head to start a shooting match in a public corridor."
"You started a shooting match," Damon pointed out. "Lenny only started a brawl." started a shooting match," Damon pointed out. "Lenny only started a brawl."
"Either way," the tall man said in an aggrieved tone, "the cops will have dug out every bug in the walls by now and run the tapes. Your face, my face . . . and the face of my colleague here, who had no option but to pull his gun before your friend carved him up. All you had to do was let us in, but you had to wade in and we had to defend ourselves any way we could. Violence escalates-and now we're all all in Yamanaka's file. You could have cost us our in Yamanaka's file. You could have cost us our jobs jobs."
"How sad," Damon muttered. "Who exactly is is your employer?" your employer?"
"I can't answer that," the tall man complained. "All I wanted was a quiet word, and now I'm up for kidnapping. They have my face face. They never got my face before, but who knows what'll happen now? I could be in real trouble."
"Why?" Damon wanted to know. "How many kidnappings did you do before before they got a picture of your face?" they got a picture of your face?"
His captor wasn't about to answer that one either.
"Why didn't your employer employer have his quiet word before he turned me loose last time?" Damon demanded, allowing his tone to declare that have his quiet word before he turned me loose last time?" Damon demanded, allowing his tone to declare that he he was the one who had the serious grievance, even though he no longer felt as if he were a fleshy ants' nest. "Why come after me again, after a mere matter of hours?" was the one who had the serious grievance, even though he no longer felt as if he were a fleshy ants' nest. "Why come after me again, after a mere matter of hours?"
"Something else went wrong," the tall man muttered. "You Heliers are absolute hell to deal with, I'll give you that."
"What?"
The man with the bruise shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "We were monitoring an eye at the place we left Arnett," he said. "We were expecting hugs all round when your people came to get him-but that wasn't the way it went. They shot him! Can you believe that? They shot shot him. Next thing we know, he's been dumped in the road!" him. Next thing we know, he's been dumped in the road!"
"Are you sure they killed killed him?" Damon asked sharply. him?" Damon asked sharply.
The tall man hesitated before he shrugged again, which suggested to Damon that it was a recognized possibility that Silas hadn't been killed and that the body dumped in the road might have been the same kind of substitute as the body left for Madoc to find. "His nanotech had all been flushed," the man with the bruise said eventually. "They must have known that if they watched the tape we put out on the Web. Maybe they were just knocking him out-but they had no reason to do that if they were your your people. Who'd ever have thought Eliminators could be that smart, that well organized?" people. Who'd ever have thought Eliminators could be that smart, that well organized?"
"Who are my my people supposed to be?" Damon asked him. "You mean Conrad Helier's people-except that Conrad Helier's dead. So is Karol Kachellek, except that you probably don't believe that either. So who's supposed to be running things, given that Eveline Hywood's a quarter of a million miles away in lunar orbit? Me?" people supposed to be?" Damon asked him. "You mean Conrad Helier's people-except that Conrad Helier's dead. So is Karol Kachellek, except that you probably don't believe that either. So who's supposed to be running things, given that Eveline Hywood's a quarter of a million miles away in lunar orbit? Me?"
The tall man shook his head sadly. "All I wanted was a quiet talk talk," he repeated, as if he simply could not believe that such an innocent intention had led to brawling, shooting, and kidnapping-all of it dutifully registered on spy eyes that the police would have debriefed by now.
"Where are we going?" Damon asked.
"Out of town," the tall man informed him gruffly. "Your fault, not mine. We could have sorted it out back home if you hadn't blown it. Now, we have to take it somewhere really really private." private."
The Sespe and Sequoia Wilderness reserves had supposedly been rendered trackless in the wake of the Second Plague War-by which time its chances of ever getting back to an authentic wilderness state were only a little better than zero-but Damon knew that closure against wheeled vehicles didn't signify much when helicopters like this one could land in a clearing thirty meters across.
"You can't get more private than Olympus," Damon said-but as he looked out again at the nonvirtual mountains which were now surrounding the helicopter he realized that he had actually contrived to force his adversaries to take a step they had not intended. This time, there was a record of his abduction in Interpol's hands. This time, Interpol could put faces and names to his captors, or at least to their foot soldiers. He knew that he could claim no credit for the coup-it was all the result of a chapter of accidents and misconceptions-but the fact remained that the game players had finally been taken beyond the limits of their game plan. They had been forced to improvise. For the first time, PicoCon-assuming that it was was PicoCon-was losing its grip. PicoCon-was losing its grip.
"Your boss is scared," Damon said, working through the train of thought. "He thinks it really might have been the Eliminators who got to Silas, after the people he expected to collect him never showed up. One minute he was convinced the message Silas was supposed to deliver was home and dry, the next he was unconvinced again. You're right-if Silas is is dead you could be in real trouble, especially now that Interpol has two faces in the frame. Mr. Yamanaka doesn't like the way you've been running rings around him. He'll come after you with such ferocity that you'll be very lucky indeed to get away with only losing your job. How much damage could you do to PicoCon, do you think, if you and your partner decided to talk?" dead you could be in real trouble, especially now that Interpol has two faces in the frame. Mr. Yamanaka doesn't like the way you've been running rings around him. He'll come after you with such ferocity that you'll be very lucky indeed to get away with only losing your job. How much damage could you do to PicoCon, do you think, if you and your partner decided to talk?"
The tall man didn't react to the mention of PicoCon. "All you had to do was listen listen," he complained. "You could have saved us all a hell of a lot of trouble."
"If you were the ones who took Silas in the first place," Damon pointed out, "and posted that stupid provocative note under my door, you went to a hell of a lot of trouble yourselves, all because you wouldn't listen wouldn't listen when we told you that Conrad Helier is dead." when we told you that Conrad Helier is dead."
"Sure," said the tall man scornfully. "Helier's dead, and para-DNA is a kind of extraterrestrial tar, just like Hywood says. All you ever had to do was listen All you ever had to do was listen-but now it's getting ugly and it's all your your fault." fault."
"What does Eveline say about para-DNA?" Damon wanted to know. does Eveline say about para-DNA?" Damon wanted to know.
"If you spent more time listening to the news and less playing cloak-and-dagger, you'd know. She made an announcement to the entire world, press conference and all. Para-DNA is extraterrestrial-the first representative of an entirely new life system, utterly harmless but absolutely fascinating. We are not alone, the universe of life awaits us, etcetera, etcetera. Now we know where you got your impulsive nature from, don't we?"
"Are you saying that para-DNA isn't isn't extraterrestrial-or that it isn't harmless?" extraterrestrial-or that it isn't harmless?"
"I don't know know," the tall man informed him, as if it were somehow Damon's fault that he didn't know. "All I know is that if it's on the news, it's more than likely to be lies, and that if the name Hywood's attached to it then it must have something to do with our little adventure. I may be only the hired help but I'm not stupid stupid. Whatever all this is about, your people aren't responding sensibly. It doesn't take a genius to figure that Hywood was supposed to talk to my employers before she started shooting her mouth off to the whole wide world, but she decided to kick off early instead. The whole damn lot of you are so damn touchy touchy. Must be hereditary."
Damon didn't bother to point out that Eveline Hywood wasn't his mother. Conrad Helier was was his real father, and Conrad Helier's closest associates had provided the nurture to complement his nature. It had never occurred to him before that his contentiousness might be a legacy of his genes or his upbringing, but he could see now that someone considering his reactions to this strange affair alongside those of his foster parents might well feel entitled to lump them all together. his real father, and Conrad Helier's closest associates had provided the nurture to complement his nature. It had never occurred to him before that his contentiousness might be a legacy of his genes or his upbringing, but he could see now that someone considering his reactions to this strange affair alongside those of his foster parents might well feel entitled to lump them all together.
The helicopter now began its descent toward a densely wooded slope which, while nowhere near as precipitate as the slope of the virtual mountain where he had talked to the robot man, nevertheless seemed wild enough and remote enough to suit anyone's idea of perfect privacy.
It was just as well that the helicopter could land in a thirty-meter circle, because the space where it touched down wasn't significantly bigger. The tall man undid Damon's safety harness before he could do it himself and said: "Can you get down?"
"I'm fine," Damon assured him. "No thanks to you. You're not coming?"
"I'm far from fine-and that's entirely down to you," the man with the bruise countered. "We have to disappear. It wasn't exactly a pleasure meeting you, but at least I'll never see you again." have to disappear. It wasn't exactly a pleasure meeting you, but at least I'll never see you again."
"You know," said Damon as the pilot reached back to open the door beside him, "you really have a problem. Apart from being an incompetent asshole, you have this moronic compulsion to blame other people for your own mistakes." He got the distinct impression that the tall man would have hit him, if only he'd dared.
"Thanks," said Damon to the pilot as he lowered himself to the ground. He ducked down low the way everybody always did on TV, although he knew that he was in no real danger from the whirling rotor blades.
There was a cabin on the edge of the clearing that looked at first glance as if it must have been two hundred years old if it were a day-but Damon saw as soon as he approached it that its "logs" had been gantzed out of wood pulp. He judged that its architect had been a relatively simple-minded AI. The edifice probably hadn't been there more than a year and shouldn't have been there at all. Given that the nearest road was halfway to Fillmore, though, it was certainly private; it probably had no electricity supply and no link to the Web. It was a playpen for the kind of people who thought that they could still get back in touch with "nature."
The man who was waiting for Damon stayed inside until the helicopter had risen from the ground, only showing himself in the doorway of the cabin when no one but Damon could see his face. Damon saw immediately that he was an old old man, well preserved by nanotech without being prettified by rejuve cosmetology. His hair was white and he was wearing silver-rimmed eyeglasses. Nobody had to wear spectacles for corrective purpose anymore, so Damon assumed that he must have become used to wearing them in his youth, way back in the twenty-first century, and had kept them as a badge of antique eccentricity. man, well preserved by nanotech without being prettified by rejuve cosmetology. His hair was white and he was wearing silver-rimmed eyeglasses. Nobody had to wear spectacles for corrective purpose anymore, so Damon assumed that he must have become used to wearing them in his youth, way back in the twenty-first century, and had kept them as a badge of antique eccentricity.
"Are you the Mirror Man?" Damon asked as he approached.
The ancient shook his head. "The Mirror Man's off the project," he said, evidently untroubled by the admission he was making in recognizing the description. "I've been appointed in his stead, to tidy things up-and to calm things down. Come in and make yourself at home." He pronounced the final phrase with conscientiously lighthearted sarcasm.
"I'm a prisoner," Damon pointed out as the other stood aside to let him pass, "not a guest."
"If you'd only paused to listen to what the man had to say," the old man replied mildly, "we'd have offered you a formal invitation. I think you'd have found it too tempting to refuse. You can call me Saul, by the way." It wasn't an invitation to intimacy; Damon guessed that if the man was called Saul at all it would be his surname, not his given name.
"Stay away from the road to Damascus," Damon muttered as he surveyed the room into which he was being ushered. "Revelations can really screw up your life."
The cabin's interior was more luxurious than the exterior had implied, but it had a gloss of calculated primitivism. Authentic logs were burning within the proscenium arch of an inauthentic stone fireplace set upon a polished stone hearth. There were three armchairs arranged in an arc around the hearth, although there was no one waiting in the cabin except the old man.
There was a stick of bread on the table, together with half a dozen plastic storage jars and three bottles: two of wine, one of whiskey. Damon almost expected to see hunting trophies on the wall, but that would have been too silly. Instead there were old photographs mounted in severe black frames: photographs taken in the days when the wilderness had only been half spoiled.
"Are we expecting somebody else?" Damon asked.