They had come toward each other around the pool's rim, and met now at the cracked stone bench where two paths joined. Kirk put his hand through Martin's arm. He always rather liked to touch people while he talked to them, to be sure that they remained a reality and would not slip away before he had finished what he wanted to say.
"What brings you out so early, when you only fetched port last night?" Martin inquired, in his dry voice.
"I wanted to talk to you," Kirk said, "about that song."
"What, about the hat?"
"No, not that one. The birthday one about the roses. You see, the Maestro gave it to me on my birthday, because he said he thought you didn't need it any more. But you're here, and you do. It's your song, and I oughtn't to have it. So I came to give it back to you," said Kirk.
"I see," said Martin.
"So please take it," Kirk pursued, quite as though he had it in his pocket, "and I'll try to forget it."
"I don't know," said Martin. "The Maestro loves you now just about as much as he loved me when I was your size. His heart is divided--so let's divide the song, too. It'll belong to both of us. You--you made it rather easier for me to come back here; do you know that?"
"Why did you stay away so long?" Kirk asked.
Martin kicked a pebble into the basin of the pool, where it rebounded with a sharp click.