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affects surprise — but it is just that, an affectation. "They did?"
    "You saw through the charade of the so-called 'act' and realised that it was nothing more than a rather self-indulgent form of therapy."
    Carrington makes a modest gesture, not owning to such insight.
    "I presume," Devereaux goes on, "that you summoned me here to find out why, why for the past twenty years I have indulged in such psychotherapy?"
    He suspects that Carrington is wary of coming right out and saying that he wishes to record his very last act. Devereaux has the reputation of a temperamental recluse, an artist who might not view kindly the trivialisation of his death on prime-time vid-vision.
    But why else did Carrington summon him, other than to secure the rights to his ultimate performance?
    Carrington surprises him by saying, casually, "But I know why you have resorted to these acts."
    "You do?" Devereaux walks to the wall-window and stares out at the scintillating city. Surely, even so celebrated a journalist as Daniel Carrington could not successfully investigate events so far away, so long ago?
    He turns, facing Carrington. "Perhaps you would care to explain?"
    "By all means," Carrington says. "First, Jean-Philipe Devereaux is a non-de-plume , the name you took when you began your performances."
    "Bravo!"
    "Please, hear me out. Your real name is Jacques Minot, born in Orleans, 2060. You trained at the Orly Institute in Paris, graduated with honours and joined the Chantilly Line as a co-pilot on the bigship Voltaire's Revenge ."
    Devereaux — for although Carrington is correct, he will be Devereaux to his dying day — hangs an exaggerated bow. "I applaud your investigative skills, M. Carrington." He is oddly disturbed by the extent of Carrington's knowledge. He wanted to confess to him, admittedly — but in his own time.
    Carrington continues, "You served on the Voltaire for ten years, then twenty years ago you were promoted to pilot and given your own 'ship, the Pride of Bellatrix . The same year you made the 'push to Janus, Aldebaran, and on the darkside of that planet something happened."
    "But you don't know what?" He feels relief that Carrington does not know everything, that he will after all be able to confess.
    "No, I do not know what happened," Carrington says. "But I know that it was enough to make you quit your job and perfect your bizarre art."
    "I must applaud you. I never thought I would live to hear my past delineated with such clinical objectivity." He pauses. "But tell me — if you know nothing about what happened on Janus, how can you be so sure of my guilt?"
    Carrington smiles, almost to himself. "You were a little insane when you landed on Venus all those years ago — perhaps you still are. You found a street kid. You gave him your laser and a lot of creds and told him to burn a hole in your head. You told him that you deserved it. Not that he needed any justification — all he wanted was the cash. But he couldn't bring himself to laser your head. He put a hole in your heart instead, figuring it was all the same anyway — you'd be just as dead. Except it wasn't the same at all. When the medics found that you were carrying a pilot's Spider Augmentation and had the creds to pay for rehabilitation, they brought you back. After that..." Carrington shrugs. "I think you developed a taste for dying as a way of assuaging your conscience. You turned it into an art form and it paid for your resurrections."
    Devereaux says, "I take it you found the boy?"
    Carrington makes a non-committal gesture, as if to say that he cannot divulge his sources.
    Outside, lightning zigzags from the dense cloudrace, filling the room with an actinic stutter. Seconds later a cannonade of thunder trundles overhead.
    "How did you find out?" Devereaux asks. "About my past, about what I intend to do?"
    "What do you intend, M. Devereaux?"
    Carrington's attitude surprises him. What might he gain by feigning ignorance?
    "Let me proposition you, M.