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media outlet; allow me to make a plea.” Hollus paused for a second while the Native Canadian adjusted his camera angle. “I am looking for unfettered access to a comprehensive collection of fossils,” said Hollus, speaking loudly. “In exchange, I will share information my people have gathered, when I think it is appropriate and fair. If there is another museum that will offer me what I seek, I will gladly appear there instead. Simply—”
    “No,” said Christine, rushing forward. “No, that won’t be necessary. Of course, we’ll cooperate any way we can.”
    Hollus turned his eyestalks away from the camera. “Then I may make my studies under terms that are acceptable to me?”
    “Yes,” she said. “Yes, whatever you want.”
    “The government of Canada will still require—” began the white CSIS man.
    “I can as easily go to the United States,” said Hollus. “Or Europe, or China, or—”
    “Let him do what he wants!” shouted a middle-aged male museum patron.
    “I do not mean to intimidate,” said Hollus, looking at one of the federal agents and then the other, “but I have zero interest in being a celebrity or in being forced into narrow passages by documentarians or security people.”
    “We honestly don’t have any latitude in our orders,” said the white agent. “You simply have to come with us.”
    Hollus’s eyestalks arched backward so that his crystal-covered orbs looked up at the mosaic on the Rotunda’s domed ceiling high above, made up of more than a million Venetian-glass tiles; perhaps this was the Forhilnor equivalent of rolling one’s eyes. The words “That all men may know His work”—a quote, I’m told, from the Book of Job—were arranged in a square at the dome’s apex.
    After a moment, the stalks came forward again, and one locked onto each of the agents. “Listen,” Hollus said. “I have spent more than a year studying your culture from orbit. I am not fool enough to come down here in a way that would make me vulnerable.” He reached into a fold of the cloth wrapped around his torso—in a flash, the other CSIS man had his gun in his hand, too—and pulled out a polyhedral object about the size of a golf ball. He then scuttled sideways over to me and profferred it. I took it; it was heavier than it looked.
    “That device is a holoform projector,” Hollus said. “It has just imprinted itself with Dr. Jericho’s biometrics and will only work when in his company; indeed, I can make it self-destruct, quite spectacularly, if anyone else handles it, so I advise you not to try to take it from him. Further, the projector will only work at locales that I approve of, such as inside this museum.” He paused. “I am here by telepresence,” he said. “The actual me is still inside the landing craft, outside the building next door; the only reason I came down to the surface was to supervise the delivery of the projector that Dr. Jericho is now holding. That projector uses holography and micromanipulated force fields to give the impression that I am here and to allow me to handle objects.” Hollus—or the image of him—froze for a few seconds, as if the real Hollus was preoccupied doing something else. “There,” he said. “My lander is now returning to orbit, with the real me aboard.” Some people rushed outside through the museum’s glass-doored vestibule, presumably to get a glimpse of the departing ship. “There is nothing you can do to coerce me, and there is no way you can physically harm me. I do not mean to be rude, but contact between humanity and my people will be on our terms, not yours.”
    The polyhedron in my hand issued a two-toned bleep, and the projection of Hollus wavered for a second, then disappeared.
    “You’ll have to surrender that object, of course,” said the white man.
    I felt adrenaline coursing through me. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but you saw Hollus give it directly to me. I don’t think you have any claim to it.”
    “But