Germyn was caught off balance. He took his eyes off the sky, half
turned, glanced at the face of the person who had spoken to him, raised
his hand in the assurance-of-identity sign. It was all very quick and
fluid--almost too quick, for he had had his fingers bent nearly into
the sign for female friends and this was a man. Citizen Boyne. Germyn
knew him well; they had shared the Ice Viewing at Niagara a year before.
Germyn recovered quickly enough, but it had been disconcerting.
He improvised swiftly: "There are stars, but are stars still there if
there is no Sun?" It was a hurried effort, he grieved, but no doubt
Boyne would pick it up and carry it along. Boyne had always been very
good, very graceful.
Boyne did no such thing. "Good morning," he said again, faintly. He
glanced at the stars overhead, as though trying to unravel what Germyn
was talking about. He said accusingly, his voice cracking sharply:
"There isn't any Sun, Germyn. What do you think of that?"