"I had to look it up, because Salvatore refused to tell me what it meant," said Fatuma, evidently proud of her discovery. "It means 'how evil am I/Who killed the bird/That was my mother/When she flew in the sky'. Perhaps a reference to Maya's difficulties in transforming after his birth. Or more generally the idea that his mere existence has tethered her to a mundane life in a laboratory like the one in the picture. I don't know enough about laboratories to know if it's Maya's meteorological lab or the medical lab where her gene therapy was devised, but I'm ready to bet there's some significance there, as well.

"So that's probably what Salvatore had in mind when he painted this," she continued. "But what I see is more than that. A statement about how we've imprisoned nature, our human nature, in an artificial environment. In a way, I think the panther is more than an animal from Earth, or a symbol of the painter's mother. I think to some extent, it represents all of us and symbolises our condition on Alpha."

Completely baffled by Fatuma's speech, Alan stared at the picture, but all he could see was a panther in a birdcage. Fatuma didn't seem particularly offended, though: perhaps she was used to her speeches being met with stony silence.

"Anyway, enough of me twittering away," she declared. "I'll leave you to enjoy the exhibition. Come on, Tim, I must introduce you to some people."

With that, she dragged Tim away. Alan watched as they went to join Salvatore and the girl he was talking to. Sal was certainly beginning to look the part of an eccentric painter; his curly brown hair was longer than was fashionable for young Alphans and he was wearing black trousers and a shermeen shirt which he had not tucked in. Alan was surprised to note that Salvatore was looking less like Tony as time went on. Or perhaps it was the curly hair which made him look so different.

"What was all that about?" he heard Emma ask. "What did that girl Fatuma mean?"

Alan grinned and put his arm around his wife. "Oh, don't worry. She's probably gearing herself up to become Alpha's first art critic. I never did follow all that stuff."

"I think Sal should stick to paintings like that," said Emma, indicating the fresco on the far wall. "Not painting riddles about his unfortunate mother. I mean, how embarrassing for Maya to have her son painting her in a cage!"

Alan nodded his agreement. The fresco was a lot less disturbing. It depicted some sort of jungle full of Earth animals, each one faithfully reproduced from a stock picture in the computer, though the elephant on the far right had an unnatural pinkish tinge that made it look more like a hippopotamus.

"He should do paintings like the ones Alex paints," continued Emma. "Good pictures of real people and real things."

"Your brother is a good painter," agreed Alan. "I'm sure Salvatore could do that sort of thing, too, if he put his mind to it. He certainly has a knack for painting animals. Even the panther in this picture is very good. But maybe he feels he needs to paint these weird scenes instead. Most painters have a fanatical need to paint what's going on in their head."

"Yeah, well, judging by these paintings, I'd rather not know what's going in Salvatore Verdeschi's head," said Emma with a smile. "Come on, let's see what the next one is like."

Davey had not been planning to visit the exhibition. He was invited, as were all Alex's relatives and acquaintances, but although he was currently on Alpha to see his mother, Davey's intention had been to skip this evening altogether. Then Emma called him and said she would be coming, and went on about all the other people who would be there, and he had decided to go. He had no particular desire to "catch up" with all his childhood friends, but on second thoughts, the idea of a painting exhibition had intrigued him.

He hadn't expected Salvatore to be such a good painter. Davey's only precise recollection of the young man was the affair that Salvatore had had with his sister Hilly three years earlier. Davey had been at Dover at the time and so missed the whole business; by the time he heard about it, Hilly and her husband were on their way to Koenigshafen, seeking exile from Alpha in the frozen Lokian outpost.

Everyone Davey had spoken to had told him Salvatore was to blame for the affair, and had shown no remorse and no interest in the idea he might have made Hilly pregnant. Considering Hilly's near-total lack of motivation or willpower, Davey was not surprised. Salvatore Verdeschi sounded like a nasty piece of work, a callous young man seeking only his own pleasure.

But the story Salvatore's paintings told was different. Of the six works in the little exhibition, only one seemed even remotely hedonistic. Davey had expected potted plants and naked women, but he was treated to a display that was full of darkness and despair. One picture in particular caught his attention.

Entitled Quagmire, it depicted a pack mule struggling in one of the deep patches of mud that formed on the Dover flats after the Winter. Heavily laden, the animal was visibly sinking in the thick mire, its hind legs already buried while its front legs ploughed inefficiently at the mud. The animal's eyes were wide with terror, its ears flat on its neck; even though Davey had never seen an Earth animal in reality, he knew them well enough to know this one was in great distress.

Standing beside the mud patch, safe on a piece of stable doverite, was the mule's owner, an Alphan man in full uniform, his trouser legs barely splattered with mud. Perhaps out of mercy, the man held an old-fashioned Earth rifle aimed at the mule's head. The Alphan was no doubt planning to shoot the mule to spare it the agony of suffocating in the mud. As he observed the painting more closely, a detail caught Davey's eye and made him smile. Even as the Alphan was preparing to shoot the mule, he had the animal's tether wrapped around his arm. Perhaps the Alphan had been using this tether to guide the mule. Davey wondered what would happen when the Alpha pulled the trigger -- would the mule sink into the mire and pull its owner in with it?

"Intriguing, isn't it?"

Davey turned to find Alex Koenig standing beside him with his wife Dinah. The two men embraced; although they had never been close friends, they had got on well in their school days.

"I think there's more to Salvatore Verdeschi than I had imagined," admitted Davey, looking at the painting again.

"I'm sure that as an artist, you appreciate his works more than we would," said Alex, who for all his own artistic experiments didn't seem to consider himself an artist. "I can see the despair, the loneliness, the ambivalence about our life on Alpha, but most of the symbolism is lost on me."

"I don't even see that much," giggled Dinah. "These paintings are awful."

Alex didn't even grace that with an answer. Davey had always wondered why Alex had married such an ill-suited partner. As a computering apprentice, Dinah had been one of Davey's colleagues and he had often thought it was a toss-up which of Hilly or Dinah was the more boring. While Alex was highly intelligent and ever interested in learning new things, Dinah was dull and unimaginative, interested only in clothes and babies. She wasn't even all that pretty; she had inherited her father's flat face and her mother's taste for excessive makeup. How Alex, so introspective and solitary, could bear to live with three children and a prattling fool like Dinah eluded Davey completely.

"I was wondering if this one had something to do with Tony Verdeschi's death," continued Alex, indicating the painting. "I find it interesting that Sal chose to paint a cross up on the cliff like that."

Davey hadn't noticed the cross before, but he could now see that there was indeed something that looked like a cross, apparently stuck on a ledge near the top of the cliff. Was Salvatore trying to make a statement about religion? Davey decided Alex was right; the cross was probably there to symbolise his father's death. Tony Verdeschi had not been a religious man, but Davey knew there was a Christian cross for him in the Dover cemetery, even though Verdeschi's actual remains had been cremated and scattered over Lake Bergman. One could not live at Dover for any length of time without hearing every detail of Tony Verdeschi's glorious life and death.

"I wonder what the mule is about," said Davey thoughtfully; he hadn't had time to think about the full meaning of the painting. "A symbol of the burdens we labour under as Lokians?"

"Personally, I think it's a portrait of the artist," suggested Alex.

"You think he painted himself as a donkey?" exclaimed Dinah, giggling again. "I always heard Sal Verdeschi was stubborn, but I didn't think it'd be that bad!"

"It's not a donkey, it's a mule," said Alex patiently. "A cross between a donkey and a horse. A sterile hybrid bred to be a beast of burden. That's what makes me think Salvatore is depicting himself in this picture. He doesn't seem to think much of himself, either."

Dinah didn't look convinced. "He didn't seem too down on himself when we talked to him earlier. He kept going on about 'I painted this and I painted that'. He's got an ego right up with Fatuma Ofori's, and that's saying something!"

Davey smiled at the mention of Fatuma. As she was a fellow artist, he had naturally been following her work, albeit mostly from a distance, since he no longer lived on Alpha. He didn't particularly care for her performances; from what he had seen of them, she seemed to rely heavily on Earth songs and poems. Although she rendered them beautifully on stage, she didn't have the talent to give her performances more meaning or structure, leaving them as an unsatisfying mishmash of disparate pieces. They had corresponded in a desultory way over the past few years, exchanging music files and discussions about Earth art -- or the little that was left of it on Alpha, at least. Davey was hoping he would get to talk to her in person this time around.

"I don't think Sal does have such a big ego," Alex was saying. "I look at his paintings and I see a very frightened young man with a lot of issues on his mind. In this picture, he sees himself drowning in a quagmire, weighed down by his problems, and with someone -- Alphan society, perhaps -- compounding the whole issue by trying to shoot him while he's down."

"Yes, I see that now," agreed Davey, taking his mind off Fatuma and returning his attention to the painting. "The quagmire is perhaps some mistake Salvatore felt he had made -- something he walked into, at any rate, because you don't usually stumble into those mud flats unless you're not paying attention... When was this done?"

He picked up the piece of paper that was propped up against the painting and started to read it. "Quagmire, Year 28... Of course."

Davey glanced at Alex and realised the other man knew what he was thinking. This painting was probably Salvatore's reaction to the business with Hilly. Something he had walked into himself; something that Alphan society had wanted to shoot him down for. This definitely made sense.

"It's a clever way of expressing what's going on in his head," said Alex. "He bares his soul, but you have to work to see it. Mind you, the connection between a mule and Salvatore is pretty obvious, because of the cross-breeding. I can't pretend I know the guy very well, but I can see why that would bother him, or at least why it would be an important part of how he sees himself. It does make him different from the rest of us."

Evidently uninterested, Dinah interrupted her husband. "I think I'll leave you two to admire the picture. I need to check up on the children anyway. Do you want a drink when I get back, Alex?"

"Yes, dear," he said vaguely, his eyes still on the painting.

Dinah smiled, evidently content with his reaction, and went off to call her family. Davey watched as her light shermeen dress shimmered with her walk, revealing all of her right leg virtually to the fold of her buttock. Davey could see nothing had changed: Alphan women still dressed like tarts and expected to be treated like nuns.

"You still a happily married man, Alex?" he asked suddenly.

"Oh yes," said Alex, as if it were obvious. "We get on very well; we take care of the kids and do our work. Everything is fine."

"Spoken like a true Alphan," said Davey with a half-hearted smile. "As long as the production and reproduction keeps going, nothing else matters. I never did think you'd married for love. I guess that's why it doesn't bother you to have your wife flashing her arse to all and sundry. Mind you, it's probably the only good thing about her."

Alex looked down at Davey, his small pale eyes narrow with irritation. "Look, Davey, I know you've been having a rough time on that side..." he started.

"Yeah, well, let me tell you one thing about Alphan women, Alex. All these girls want is some poor prick like you or me to knock them up as soon as it's legal, then they can get good quarters and play happy families. At the rate things are going, they'll be expecting the men to do all the work before too long." Davey shook his head in disgust. "It's difficult to believe their mothers were hard-working human beings."

"Davey!"

Alex was visibly shocked, but Davey didn't care about the opinion of the near-stranger Alex had become. To some extent, Davey could recognise that Alex was right, that his own tumultuous love life was the main factor behind his outburst. But he still believed that Alphan women were playing a sly game.

How long would it be before the high birth-rate and early marriages made women unsuitable for proper work? How long before men were forced to shoulder all the burden of Alpha's material survival, while the women retired to their homes to nurture their precious broods and chatter uselessly about clothes and babies? Davey knew that women like Dinah would like nothing better than to be relieved of their duties. In Davey's eyes, Alphan women were regressing back to the level from which their Earth grandmothers had fought so hard to elevate themselves.

But these were thoughts that he didn't need to share with Alex. The man would understand them even less than did Layla Habibi, Dover's self-appointed Keeper of the Temple. Not that Davey had ever expressed the extent of his disgust for her gender to her; it would undermine his bid to replace her as Keeper. Now that Winter was over, people would flock to the Temple, and Davey saw a golden opportunity to convince them of his own religious views, rather than Layla's strange synthesis of Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Davey's religion was divinely inspired, after all, and should be shared with his ignorant fellow humans. But he didn't need to share it with Alex right now.

"You're right," he said, flashing a friendly smile. "I've been on edge lately. A lot of personal problems." Davey turned towards the painting. "Perhaps I should take up daubing and get it all off my chest, right, old chum? I must say, I sometimes wondered, you know. I used to think about Hilly's affair and wonder what Salvatore got out of it all. I mean, Hilly is hardly a great catch, and I'd imagine a boy of sixteen would normally have gone for someone closer to his own age and perhaps a bit more lively. It makes more sense for him to be with that girl Fatuma. I thought maybe he just wanted sex and it didn't matter who with, and that when everything got out of hand, he just shrugged his shoulders and left the Devers to it. But I think it affected him more than I thought."

"Maybe he only felt guilty after the fact," suggested Alex. He appeared to have forgiven Davey for his outburst. "I seem to remember Alan went and gave him a hard time. Perhaps that made him realise he'd done something very wrong."

Davey shook his head. "Yes, but I don't see realisation, here, I see desperation. The mule isn't just being punished for wandering into the mud; it's facing a certain death from all sides. The only bit of colour in this picture is the Alphan's uniform; the red on that sleeve is positively obscene compared to the greys and browns of the rest of the picture. Maybe that means the impending execution is the only hope left for the mule, the hope that it will die quickly and painlessly, rather than suffocate or die of exhaustion in the mud. The cross on the hill might be the symbol of the mule's hope of an afterlife, which is what the cross symbolised for Christians on Earth."

"We-ell, I can tell you one thing, Davey: Salvatore Verdeschi is not a religious man," said Alex with an indulgent smile. He evidently thought Davey was superimposing his own religious feelings on the painting.

"It doesn't matter whether he is or not," explained Davey. "It's the symbol that counts. As the son of a Catholic, even a non-believer like Verdeschi, Salvatore knows what the cross represents -- hope in death, the possibility that the end of existence might not be the end of hope. And what I see here is that desire for an end to the struggle and the hope that this end might be better than the existence that went before it."

"That certainly puts a different spin on the picture," agreed Alex, though he still seemed unconvinced. He looked beyond Davey, in the direction of the drinks table. "Sal certainly doesn't look like someone who wants to die."

Davey turned and followed his gaze. To the best of his recollection, he had never met Salvatore Verdeschi, though he had heard plenty of rumours about the young man at Dover. He guessed that Salvatore was the swarthy youth talking to Maya, though he couldn't see the man's face. There was a short curly-haired young woman with them; she looked like Mary Silberstein and Davey assumed she must be Mary's little sister Hester. He wondered if she was Salvatore's new girlfriend, since Fatuma seemed busy with some tall young man. The Silberstein girl was another one dressed to catch a man, her large bust highlighted by a tight green dress. They were all the same.

"Maybe Salvatore has changed his mind about wanting to die," he said thoughtfully, trying to dismiss women from his thoughts. "I had some pretty dark moments as a teenager too, and I grew out of them thanks to my faith. It's just as well if Sal found a way to cope on his own, because it doesn't look as if anyone was there to help him at the time." As far as Davey remembered, the general consensus among Hilly's friends and family had been that Salvatore didn't deserve any sympathy.

"I doubt things were as dramatic as they look in this picture," said Alex with a shrug. "Someone would have noticed."

"Who would have thought that Salvatore would become a painter!" exclaimed Helena, coming to join Maya, who was standing alone by one of the paintings. "And such a good one, too... I had no idea."

Helena felt a pang of guilt; she had thought that Alex was wrong to trust Salvatore with such an elaborate project as the decoration of the secondary school. In fact, she had thought the decoration itself was a mistake, as the chemical resources necessary to produce this quantity of paint could have been better utilised to make pharmaceutical products. The Chem Lab's chief chemist, Nora Edelson, should have had better things to do with her time.

But now that she saw the finished fresco, Helena realised that Alex had made a wise decision. It would do future generations good to see Earth animals, and the fresco had really turned out well. Art -- sculpture in particular -- had once been a hobby of Helena's, and based on her knowledge of art on Earth, she could tell that Salvatore had real talent. His other paintings revealed far more psychological depth than Helena had seen in the works of any of his contemporaries, Alex included. It surprised her, and in some ways, it made her sad as well.

There were no openings for a painter on Alpha. The best Salvatore could hope for was the occasional mural or a job as a decorator, but Helena felt he would be better used in another occupation, albeit one with no connection to his art. According to Alex, Salvatore demonstrated a real talent for mental arithmetic, just like his mother, and seemed to now have an excellent grasp of the chemical concepts underlying his paint work. Alex had suggested asking Nora Edelson if she wanted Salvatore as an apprentice, so that he could put his knowledge to use for the benefit of Alpha. From what Helena knew of Salvatore, she was doubtful he would want to go through another apprenticeship, having already abandoned his post in the Communications Centre, but she had agreed with Alex that it was worth a try.

"Yes, he's very talented," said Maya tenderly, observing the painting in front of her. "Well, of course, I would say that, since he's my only son. I'm hardly an impartial judge."

"No, these paintings really are very good. I think even the critics on Earth would have agreed. I not sure if his pictures would have fetched high prices, but he definitely has talent." Helena was aware that she was repeating herself, so she looked at the far wall. "He did an excellent job of the fresco, too."

"I've already thanked Alex for giving Salvatore the job," continued Maya. "I can't help feeling that this is what Salvatore needs; a solitary task where he is his own master and where he can put his inspiration to good use. He was no good as a communications apprentice."

"Maybe he should try another job," suggested Helena. "There are plenty of openings in other areas which might suit him better. He might be very useful in the Chem Lab, for instance. Perhaps you could talk to him and suggest he have a look at the bulletin boards."

Maya cast her a quick glance but didn't say anything. Observing her friend, Helena couldn't help noticing how much Maya had aged since Tony's death over three years earlier. The Psychon always wore black when she was off duty as now; her hair, cut in a bob, was almost entirely grey and Helena was sure she would never dye it. Maya was mourning Tony as intensely as Helena had once mourned Lee, perhaps even more so -- as intensely as Helena knew she would mourn John if he should fall dead at her feet.

Helena looked at the painting Maya was observing and smiled. "I haven't had a good look at this one yet. It looks as though he has ordered his paintings by chronological order, am I right?"

Maya nodded. "The exhibition is supposed to be a 'chronicle of the artist's life'. I get the feeling Fatuma was behind that particular aspect of it. But I think it's a good idea to show them like this. I'm rather pleased to see that the paintings get more optimistic as they go along. This one is more of a transitional painting."

Intrigued by Maya's description, Helena observed the painting more closely. At first glance, it was simply a photo-realistic depiction of an old Alphan commpost, the sort with the metal clocks and black and white monitors. The commpost was viewed side on, so that two of its identical panels were visible. As she observed and compared the two sides, Helena realised they actually represented two stages in a process.

The left hand panel was bright and clean, as if it were new. Indeed, the calendar underneath the monitor indicated 09/99. The only flaw on this side was the clock face; close inspection revealed that it was melting and leaking. A fine trickle of silvery grey was dripping down the front of the otherwise immaculate commpost. It trickled down onto the floor, pooling into a small, dark puddle on the carpet. The shiny puddle had red highlights, and Helena wondered if this was supposed to be blood. She found the imagery disturbing and turned her attention to the second stage of the painting, the right hand panel.

On this side, the commpost seemed much older; its plastic surfacing was visibly scratched, the monitor covered in dust, the clock face dull and slightly skewed, as if it had been removed for repairs and then put back at an angle. The date on the dusty calendar said 10/28 -- not quite the date of the painting, which was given as Y30 on the name card, but possibly the date of some significant event in Salvatore's life.

The clock on the Y28 side was still leaking, but this time it was leaking into an open book, which, in true surrealist fashion, was hanging in mid-air just beneath the clock. The pages seemed to be absorbing the liquid from the clock and in turn giving life to a vine-like plant that was growing out of the book. Helena suspected that it was one of the Lokian plants whose name she could never remember.

The title of the painting was Redemption and Helena was puzzled as to its significance. She assumed that the Daliesque leaking clock represented the passage of time or some kind of sin, which was redeemed by the book on the right-hand side, and transformed, not into a pool of blood as in the past, but into a thriving plant. It seemed clear that the key to the painting's significance was the book. Helena leaned closer to see if anything was written in it, but unlike The Panther, which bore an inscription clarifying the painting's purpose, Redemption offered no verbal clue as to its significance.

Unable to guess at the painting's meaning, Helena stood back and admired its style instead. She remembered doing this in the art classes she had once taken when she had briefly nurtured the ambition of becoming a professional sculptor. The ambition hadn't lasted long -- the art teacher soon made it clear she didn't have the necessary talent -- but she did learn quite a lot about art history in the meantime.

The clocks were strongly reminiscent of Salvador Dalí, but the book was more similar to something by Magritte. By contrast, the plant seemed to owe more to Renaissance painting than 1930s Surrealism. Helena wondered briefly if it was wise to apply Earth criteria to a painting executed by a half-Psychon Alphan who had never been in a museum. But upon further reflection, she remembered that there were some books on Earth painting in the Library, and that the computer databanks also contained miscellaneous pictures. There was little doubt that Salvatore was aware of the work of the Surrealists and had applied some of their techniques to his own works.

On the other hand, Helena realised she was doing Salvatore an injustice by observing disparate elements of the painting and attributing their origin to other painters. Though they were surreal, Salvatore's paintings gave the impression that they could just possibly happen in real life. The book in this painting cast a realistic, diffuse shadow on the commpost. The proportions were perfect and Helena could imagine that a photograph of a book suspended on a wire beside a commpost could be made to look very much like the painting. She had noticed the same thing about Salvatore's other paintings and she thought it was an attention to detail very much to his credit.

"You do seem very impressed," said Maya.

Tearing her eyes away from the painting, Helena noticed that the Psychon was observing her with a smile.

"I am," admitted Helena. "I used to take art classes and I wish I had had this much talent. It would have saved me some humiliation... It's really a pity there's no outlet for Salvatore's paintings. It isn't as if he chose writing or music, which can be appreciated by anyone. Painting is a much more difficult art to understand."

"I don't think he's really concerned about who can appreciate his paintings," said Maya, shaking her head. "They all have extremely personal themes. This one, for instance, is about his feeling of being saved by Fatuma after he tried to commit suicide."

"Commit suicide? When?" exclaimed Helena, shocked by the revelation.

Maya's bumpy brows met in a worried expression; she evidently regretted broaching the topic. "It was some time ago... He didn't try very hard," she said more lightly, putting on a smile as if to minimise the issue. "But he was very depressed for a while, and he kept it all to himself as usual. And then one day, he got interested in painting, and he met Fatuma in the Library. Whence the book, which is absorbing the... whatever it is from the clock, and turning it into a more positive affirmation of life."

"I did noticed that contrast between the two sides, and in particular between the pool of blood on the floor and the plant which is reaching upwards." Helena smiled with satisfaction; she had forgotten how gratifying it was when the mystery of a picture finally began to unravel.

"Yes, it's a representation of a turning point in his life," said Maya. She indicated the paintings which came after this one in the chronological order. "All the other pictures on this side are more positive."

"I must admit John and I took the exhibition the wrong way around before Alex pointed out our mistake," said Helena with a short laugh. "So I saw his latest paintings before the earlier ones. The contrast is remarkable. Some of the later ones are more like Pop Art than this kind of dark Surrealism."

"I'm not sure what you mean by 'Pop Art', but I do know that Salvatore has been very influenced by Fatuma," explained Maya. "She's very interested in a period called Sixties, so that's probably the period that Salvatore is trying to emulate now. It might sound strange, but I think these earlier paintings are better, in a way. They're more complex, more challenging... but I'm delighted to look at the garish works he does now if they mean he's happy."

Helena looked at the later works and then glanced at Redemption again. "I have to agree with you about the earlier paintings; they are much darker in tone, but more interesting to understand. But don't worry, the later ones are good as well. As far as I can judge based on memories from my student days, that is. I guess the most important thing is that Salvatore is over his depression... I wish I had known about it; we could have done something for him."

"Don't worry about it," said Maya calmly. "Salvatore didn't tell anyone because he didn't want anyone to know. So it's nobody's fault if we couldn't help him. He didn't even tell me until months after the fact. But he got over what was affecting him, and he seems to have plenty of friends nowadays. He's actually been making a list of them for a trip to Loki next week, and I was amazed that he could convince so many people to come. I suppose some are friends of friends, though."

"A trip to Loki? That sounds interesting." Helena remembered trips to the coast with her friends from Med school. Her own children had always tended to go on holiday with their families rather than friends; but then they had married and had their families far sooner than herself and her college colleagues. There had been no time for trips with their friends. "Are they going to Bedrock?"

"The current plan is for them all to descent on Dover," explained Maya. "I presume some of them will go on to Bedrock from there if the weather is warm enough. The forecast isn't very good. But it sounds as if they'll have fun. Salvatore has managed to get enough people to fill an Eagle, so the fun will start on the trip."

Helena smiled delightedly. She had sometimes felt that Salvatore wasn't getting the best out of life -- his grim pictures bore obvious testimony to that fact, and what she had learned today saddened her a great deal. But Redemption suggested that the tide of his life had turned. Helena looked for Salvatore in the room; he was talking to Fatuma Ofori and Tim Desmond, and he had his arm around Hester Silberstein. It looked as if the optimism in Redemption was well warranted.

Hester was wishing she hadn't been so vain. She could have worn the wool A-line dress that was her usual off-duty garment. It would have made her look dowdy compared to the extremely revealing evening dresses the other women were wearing. But at least she wouldn't be feeling embarrassed.

Salvatore had once remarked that her wardrobe seemed very "sober", so Hester had decided to make an effort and dress up for his vernissage. On Fatuma's advice, she had got Aisha Castellano to make her a simple party dress. The result was made of green viscose; it was long and revealed little flesh, but it hugged her body tightly, drawing an unnecessary amount of attention to her chest. There wasn't a single man Hester had talked to so far this evening who hadn't first glanced at the tight green viscose across her bust.

The Ceresian Fatuma had in tow was no exception. In fact, he looked at nothing but Hester's chest. She glanced at the painting beside her, half hoping that he would follow her gaze and stop staring at her. But Tim didn't seem interested in Salvatore's illustration for Akira Fujita's Tokyo Morning Sun. It wasn't one of Salvatore's best pictures in Hester's opinion; it represented a cartoon-like "Manga" woman in shorts and a bikini top, standing with her hands on her hips in front of a more realistic, and more "Salvatoresque" bookcase full of various artefacts of Japanese life. It was a commission work which Salvatore had exposed only to make up the numbers. Hester wasn't surprised that Tim found her bust more interesting to look at.

"I was telling the Carters earlier about the true significance of The Panther," said Fatuma proudly, hanging on Tim's arm. The young man looked at her and smiled politely as she continued. "They had no idea what was going on in that painting!"

"They're engineers, what do you expect?" said Salvatore with a shrug. "I can't blame them if they can't read my mind. In fact, I'd really rather they didn't. I didn't paint The Panther to please them, or anyone else for that matter."

"Why did you have the show if you don't want people to like your paintings?" asked Tim.

"Well, it was actually Alex Koenig's idea," explained Salvatore. "I don't really think my paintings are everyone's cup of tea. They're more like my private therapy sessions."

Hester smiled at the mention of "therapy". Psychoanalysts and therapy sessions featured largely in her parents' cultural background, and her sister Mary had even been inspired to embark on a career as a psychologist on Alpha. Hester thought she knew enough about the subject herself to join in the conversation, even though she usually found Fatuma's presence so overpowering she rarely spoke to her.

"It looks as if the therapy is working," she said, glancing at Salvatore. "Perhaps I should show the pictures to my sister Mary, though, and see if she can come up with some explanation of his obsession for animals."

Realising that they were all looking at her in silence, Hester remembered her dress and lowered her eyes. For some reason, her remarks never seemed to amuse people in general; they only amused some people in particular, like Delores, Salvatore or her mother.

"Well, my obsession for animals has one source," said Salvatore with a laugh. "I identify with them. They're not human -- I'm not human. They're extinct -- I'm nearly extinct too!"

"They humped everything in sight -- you hump everything in sight. Uh-huh, I can see the resemblance," said Fatuma, narrowing her eyes slyly.

"Hey, check your facts before making accusations about my mental health and my sex life," warned Salvatore, waggling his finger at her. "I'll have you know that out of all the people in this room, you're the only one who has been anywhere near this gorgeous body of mine."

Hester cast a glance around the room to check if this was likely. She decided Salvatore was telling the truth. Aside from their small group, the guests seemed to be mostly friends and relatives of Alex Koenig's. In fact, virtually the whole of Alpha's 'aristocracy' was present: the Carters, the Frasers, Salvatore's mother Mrs Verdeschi, all of the Koenigs. Alex Koenig evidently believed in Salvatore's talent to the point of pulling a few well-placed strings in his favour. Hester was impressed at the turn-out... and she was also hoping none of the others had heard Salvatore and Fatuma's current topic of conversation.

"Gee, you Alphans discuss some weird things," said Tim, evidently unsure how to take it. He was looking at Fatuma suspiciously.

"Oh, it's only these two," explained Hester. "You get used to them after a while."

She was certainly getting used to them. Hester had been seeing a lot of Salvatore since Mike's breakdown and subsequent departure for Ceres II a couple of months earlier. They'd go to a movie or have lunch together and talk about various things, though Salvatore seemed reluctant to do anything more. He hadn't so much as invited her to the Grotto, even though she had dropped hints about being available on her rest-day-eves.

"How did you and Fatuma meet, Tim?" asked Hester. Aside from being inordinately distracted by her dress, the Ceresian seemed a bit puzzled by the whole situation, so she thought it would be polite to include him in the conversation.

"Oh, ah, I'm doing work on the textiles factory out at Mare Frigoris. They're constructing a new spinning-machine, so I'm over there to do the actual mounting and stuff." Perhaps realising this didn't answer her question, he added, "Fatuma and her sister came to see how things were coming along."

"And that's how I met this gorgeous hunk of manhood," exclaimed Fatuma, slipping her arm around Tim. The Ceresian seemed a bit embarrassed by Fatuma's affection, but he grinned sheepishly when the young woman kissed his cheek. His eyes then returned to the front of Hester's dress.

Salvatore scowled at Tim and placed his hand around Hester's shoulder. "Um, Hester, would you like another drink?"

As she didn't currently have a drink, Hester nodded, though she was surprised by his interruption of their conversation with Fatuma and Tim.

Hester smiled politely at the others and then accompanied Salvatore over to the drinks table. "What's wrong?" she asked.

Salvatore looked embarrassed. "He kept staring at you. It isn't right. You're not that sort of girl," he said shortly. "Stupid Ceresian has no manners!"

Unsure what to make of this, Hester stared at Salvatore in silence for a moment. She was flattered that he had wanted to protect her, though she thought the protection was a little unnecessary. Tim's attention was embarrassing, but not threatening.

"I made a prat of myself, right?" said Salvatore, glancing at her uncertainly. "I'm sorry. I thought you looked as if he was bothering you... I'm not just being an Italian macho man, you know. If I thought he wasn't bothering you, I wouldn't have... I mean, it's okay if other men... Um. Never mind. I'm sorry." He had evidently decided to give up on this unsuccessful explanation.

"It's okay." Hester smiled indulgently. "You were being chivalrous, although I did think you were being a bit overzealous. You can't blame Tim... this dress is really embarrassing."

Salvatore looked it over with a smile. "I think it's gorgeous," he said after a pause. "You have a fantastic figure. And the dress is perfect; at least it doesn't show your whole leg like Mrs Koenig's does. It leaves some things to the imagination, and there's nothing more, um, tantalising than what you can't see."

The compliment was delivered with such gusto that Hester felt as though she should be blushing. "Oh, you're just kidding me," she said.

"No, I'm not," he said seriously. To Hester's disappointment, he seemed content to leave things at that, and turned towards the drinks table and started to mix himself a vodka and orange. He then poured a glass of white wine for Hester.

"Here." He handed her the glass. "Yes, I think that's a very nice dress. I assume it's one of Aisha's creations." He grinned as he continued, "I'm sure it would turn a few heads down at the Grotto as well. I suppose I should take you there, since you're constantly dropping hints about it!"

Momentarily off guard, Hester was pleased when she realised he was beginning to tease her as freely as he did Fatuma. "Ah, so you're not completely oblivious," she exclaimed. "And there I was thinking all my hints were falling on deaf ears."

"Oh no, I heard you, and I knew exactly what you were getting at," said Salvatore smugly, before adding, more seriously, "The truth is I don't really want to take you to the Grotto. You're a good woman and I don't think you would enjoy it."

"Why not?" Hester didn't see why her perceived status as a 'good woman' should exclude her from going to the Grotto. Lots of 'good' people went there, and it was only Hester's timidity and lack of friends which had kept her away from the place.

Salvatore sighed and looked into the distance, his expression making it clear this wasn't something he wanted to discuss. "Well... I've been going there for some time, and I... I have a bit of a reputation there."

"You have 'a bit of a reputation' outside the Grotto too," said Hester. His elusiveness was beginning to annoy her. "What are you trying to say? That people will assume I'm your latest conquest? The whole of Alpha is probably speculating about us already. Everyone has seen us having lunch together or going to the movies. I'm sure that in the mind of any Alphan who's interested, we're already doing it and planning a wedding!"

That thought seemed to amuse Salvatore. "Yes, I suppose there must be some gossip. But I'm more concerned that they might not think my intentions are honourable. I don't want people gossiping about you."

"I don't care. And if I don't care, then you shouldn't worry either. We can take things at our own pace." Reflecting that now would be a good time for a gesture of closeness, Hester reached out and put her hand on Salvatore's. "We can check out the Grotto some night, and if I don't like it, I'll let you know. Okay?"

Salvatore took Hester's hand and squeezed it gently. "Sounds good to me. I don't want to rush things and get you involved in my disreputable life. I feel I should behave more responsibly towards you."

"I don't think I need protecting, but thanks. You're a good man, Salvatore." He looked very pleased and proud of himself, and Hester felt her heart warm to him.

Salvatore looked around to see if anyone was watching them and then slipped his arm around Hester's waist. He leaned towards her conspiratorially. "Actually, I have something to show you..."

Salvatore's heart seemed to be thumping somewhere in his mouth as he slipped the picture out of its protective folder. The original of this painting was actually drying in his bedroom a couple of levels down, but Salvatore had taken a photograph of it in the hopes of showing it to Hester.

They were in one of the secondary school classrooms, where Salvatore had stored all the bits and pieces he needed to set up the exhibition. On one of the tables, Salvatore had laid out a few sketches and drawings which he had shown Alex earlier. He and Hester were now standing beside this table as he handed her the photograph of his latest work.

Hester took the print-out and observed it silently for a long moment. Instinctively, Salvatore moved closer to look at the picture as well, even though he had memorised it by now. It was a bold, bright painting based on a postcard he had seen reproduced in a book at the Library. The postcard was simply a photograph of an anonymous beauty from the beginning of the 20th century. The young woman was profiled to emphasise her nearly Grecian nose and slightly sloping chin; features which 19th century artists admired, but which had become unfashionable with the advent of cinema and changing tastes in the 20th century. The same features which Hester's profile displayed.

Salvatore had painted a portrait of Hester in virtually the same pose and sepia tones as the woman on the postcard. Back to the camera, face turned to reveal the profile over the shoulder, upturned hair piled high off the neck and forming a crown around her head. But Salvatore didn't just see Hester as an innocent 19th century beauty in black and white. He had imagined her in a natural setting, the sort of flowery garden used to represent the Garden of Eden in Renaissance paintings. As per his habit, Salvatore had also painted in the Dover cliffs, so that it looked as if the garden was flowering on the Flats and Hester was standing in the middle of it.

While painting the picture, Salvatore had been focused on creating a vision of beauty, a deliberate but genuinely inspired contrast with his past work. But as he watched Hester watching the painting, Salvatore began to think that the picture was syrupy and bland, devoid of the sharpness which he had worked so hard to put into his other paintings. He wished he hadn't shown Hester the picture so soon; if he had waited longer, he would have had time to reconsider. Perhaps he would have decided to relegate the picture to his closet along with dozens of others.

Hester observed the painting for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, she lifted her eyes to Salvatore's and smiled, her expression positively beaming with delight.

"Oh, Sal, it's wonderful! And you painted it? I mean, obviously you did. But from memory?"

"I have a photographic memory," he said cautiously. "You really like it?"

Hester nodded enthusiastically, but then took on a more dubious expression. "Well... You could have chosen a prettier model."

Salvatore thought about arguing that point, but then decided that Hester was only joking. He leaned forward and placed his lips on her forehead as an answer. She tossed the photograph back on the table and then he felt her move closer, pressing her body against his. Her lips were easily found and parted willingly as he caressed them with his own.

After a few moments, as if telepathically linked, they both pulled away and just held each other for a while. Standing in the middle of the deserted classroom with his arms around Hester, Salvatore felt divinely content, so content that he was sure he must be generating waves of contentment around him. The thought wasn't all that fanciful; his parents had told him that as a baby, his feelings really did seem to radiate empathically to those around him. Salvatore liked the idea of sharing his contentment with Hester.

"Hmm, this is nice," he heard her say, her voice muffled by his shoulder.

"Yeah. We're lucky people, aren't we."

Upon reflection, he thought that was a strange thing to say, but he really did feel lucky. After a while longer, Salvatore realised that they should return to the exhibition; it was his party, after all, and he should at least be putting in an appearance. He released his hold on Hester and she took a step back. Just for good measure, they kissed again.

"We should be going back," he said, gently brushing a strand of her dark brown hair off her face. "But before we do... I think you're really beautiful."

"And you're... you're God's gift to women," she said with a sly smile.

"So I am. I'll have to show you why some day." He took her hand and kissed it.

Hester ran her fingers through Salvatore's curly hair and smiled mischievously. "You could do with a haircut, though."

"Oh. I see you're on the Fatuma side of that argument," he said with a grin. "My mother prefers it to be this length... Anyway, let's go back."

Salvatore turned towards the door and Hester followed. As he crossed the threshold back into the decorated hall, Salvatore's eyes fell on the brown and grey tones of Quagmire. So many things had changed since that dark time when he had felt friendless and abandoned. With a sigh of satisfaction, Salvatore slid his arm around Hester's waist and half hugged her.