Author: Alan Dean Foster
Date: 2003-02-04T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: General; Science Fiction; Human-alien encounters; Humanx Commonwealth (Imaginary organization); Adventure; Life on other planets; Fiction
Description: From Publishers Weekly If the idea of big bugs (the thranx) and human-sized snakes (the AAnn) makes you squirm, you'll have fun with bestseller Foster's latest installment (after 2000's Dirge) in his saga of interspecies conflict set in the far reaches of the galaxy. The fanatic Elkanah Skettle, a human, together with his evil thranx associate, Beskodnebwyl, plan to terrorize a huge fair on the planet Dawn, as tensions on another planet build perilously close to war. After some pointless perambulations, two amiable preachers of different species manage to intervene, handily and unconvincingly
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group

Diuturnity's Dawn

1

Bugs.

Hundreds of bugs. Thousands of them, many nearly as tall as she. All chittering
and clicking and waving their feathery antennae at one another as they went
about their daily business. Magnified by the heat and the more than 90 percent
humidity they favored, the atmosphere in the teeming underground avenue was
saturated with the natural perfume emitted by their massed bodies.

Understandably, they stared at her, their gloriously red-and-gold compound eyes
tracking her progress. When she felt it necessary, she would respond to their
inquiring gazes with acrr!lk of acknowledgment. Astonished to hear a human
speaking High Thranx, their multiple mouthparts would invariably twitch in
startled response. Such moments made her smile—though she was careful not to
expose her teeth. Through such small diplomacies were relations between species
improved for the better.

They were not bugs, of course. Though commonly used to describe the highly
intelligent insectoids, that word was typically insensitive human shorthand. The
thranx were arthropods, insectlikebut internally very different from their
primitive Terran look-alikes. Four-armed and four-legged, or two-armed and
six-legged—depending on the needs of the moment—they had helped humankind
finally defeat the invidious Pitar. That notable achievement was now more than
thirty years in the past. Since then, relations between the two victorious
species had improved considerably over the suspicions and uncertainty attendant
upon First Contact.

Stagnated would be a more accurate description, she mused. In certain specific
instances, it could even be argued that they had decayed. As a second-level
consul attached to the human embassy on Hivehom, it was the job of Fanielle

Anjou and her colleagues to see that they did not worsen any further. Those who
entertained higher hopes found themselves frustrated by the sluggish pace of
diplomacy on both sides.

The electrostatic wicking of the shorts and shirt she wore reduced the effect of
the oppressive humidity by more than half, and the electronic cooler integrated
into her neatly cocked cap did much to mitigate the heat, but there was no way
to pretend she was comfortable. It had been worse on the transport capsule that
had brought her into the inner city, even though the commuting thranx had
politely allotted her more space than they would have one of their own. As she
wiped at her face, she reflected on the eternal low-tech usefulness of an
absorbent handkerchief.

Diplomatic offices were on this level, but another half quadrant forward. She
passed a nursery, where larval thranx were cared for and educated while awaiting
metamorphosis; an eating establishment, with its rows of padded benches on which
a tired thranx could stretch out on its abdomen, legs dangling comfortably on
either side; and a large public information screen. The activities it proffered
were utterly alien to her. Despite nearly ninety years of casual contact, and
much closer interaction during the Humanx-Pitar War, humans still knew all too
little about the enigmatic eight-limbed acquaintances with whom they shared the

Orion Arm of the galaxy.

The public announcements that periodically echoed above the constant clacking of
busy mandibles were all in Low Thranx. She had not mastered either language, but
for a human, she was considered fluent—at least by her colleagues. What the
thranx thought of her attempts to speak their complex language she did not know.

No doubt they considered soft lips and a flexible tongue poor substitutes for
hard mandibles.

At least, she thought, I can make myself understood. That was more than many of
her click-challenged coworkers could claim.

An adult female with two adolescents in tow passed close by. Unlike human
postpubescents, the pair of youngsters were perfect downsized versions of the
adult. They were in the premolt stage, preparing to shed their hard exoskeletons
preparatory to growing into another size. Both had their antennae pointed
rigidly and impolitely in the direction of the bizarre biped coming in toward
them. As she strode past, Anjou overheard one chitter excitedly.

“But Birth Mother, it’s so soft and pulpy! How can it stand upright like that?

And on onlytwo legs!”

Anjou did not hear the birth mother’s answer. From what the diplomat knew of
thranx culture, the reply was most likely in the form of some mild chastisement
coupled with an attempt at explanation. What the latter would consist of would
probably be highly imaginative. The average hive dweller knew as much about
human physiology as a hydroengineer whose business it was to work on the
venerable water system of London knew about a thranx’s internal plumbing.

The particular burrow complex she was traversing was home to, among other
segments, the Diplomatic Contact section. Its sub-burrow loomed just ahead. The
main entrance, with its impressive portico of anodized metal and floating holoed
worlds, presented no problem. Entering the lift and hallway that lay beyond,
however, forced her to watch out for low-hanging appliances. Here her short
stature was a positive advantage. Her male colleagues dreaded having to visit
anything smaller than a main burrow corridor. If Jexter Henry, who stood a shade
under two meters tall, wanted to spend some time in a city like Daret, his
travels would be restricted to the main corridors. As a consequence, he was
essentially confined to the human outpost at Azerick.

Thoughts of that establishment, of its comfortable surroundings on the temperate

Mediterranea Plateau on the largest of Hivehom’s four continents, did not
improve her mood. At least, she reflected as she turned into a tertiary access
tunnel, the Contact facilities were located in a brand-new section of the city.

Being the capital not only of Hivehom but of the entire thranx expansion, Daret
had been among the first burrows to transform itself from a traditional hive
into a real city. As a diplomatic representative, she had been allowed to visit
the older, archeologically important sections of the metropolis, with their
early nurseries, food storehouses, and primitive arsenals. She had maintained a
smile—tight lipped, of course, so as not to expose her teeth—throughout, but had
no desire to repeat the tour. Even to a nonclaustrophobe, the ancient quarter of
the city was oppressive.

As she passed through the unobtrusive security scan, the male thranx of midage
who had been following her ever since her arrival in Daret was at last compelled
to abandon his pursuit and continue on past the entrance. He was not
disappointed. Though he possessed within his backpack the means for evading the
security system, now was not the time to employ it. That would come later, when
the fractionated time-part was deemed right by himself and his compeers.

Even fanatics have a sense of timing.

Unaware that she had been followed, Anjou presented her thranx security chit to
a series of scanners. It took her longer to gain entrance to the facility than
thranx who ambled up from behind and passed her, since the automated security
system had to not only verify that the pass she carried was indeed a match to
her particular cerebral emissions, but that she was of the species claimed by
the embedded photons. The eye scan that served to pass most thranx was of no use
in identifying humans, with their oversized, single-lensed oculars.

Eventually she reached the corridor that led to Haflunormet’s office. He greeted
her with a cheerful click and whistle, to which she replied to the best of her
increasing fluency in Low Thranx. He also inclined his head slightly forward,
presenting his feathery antennae. Bowing in turn, she reached up and flicked
them gently with the tips of her index fingers before allowing them to make
contact with her forehead. Formalities concluded, he employed both a truhand and
foothand to direct her to one of the three benches that fronted the freeform arc
of his workstation. Composed of a wondrously light yet strong beryllium-titanium
alloy, it was anodized with a flux that gave it the look of a dark, fine-grained
wood.

There were no windows in the chamber because there was nothing to look out upon.

Dwellers within the ground throughout most of their history, the thranx were
equally comfortable on the surface, but a complex assortment of reasons kept
their communities underground. A human forced to work every day in such
confinement would have found it suffocating, despite the excellent simscene of
luxuriant jungle that filled one wall with color, depth, and a farrago of
fragrance.

“I bid you good digging, Fanielle.” The Terran diplomat and her thranx
counterpart had been on a first-name basis for several months now. As he settled
himself back on his elongated seat, she retired to one of the low visitors’

benches. Instead of lying prone on her chest and stomach while straddling it
head-forward in the thranx manner, she simply sat down on the soft artificial
padding. It made for a perfectly comfortable perch, if one discounted the
absence of any back support. It was certainly preferable to sitting on the
floor.

She did not need to see Haflunormet to recognize him. Every individual thranx
emitted a distinctive personal perfume, each more aromatic and sweet-scented
than the next. A visit to a city the size of Daret could easily overpower the
olfactory sensitive. To her, entering a thranx hive was like plunging into a sea
of freshly plucked tropical flowers. Even those humans who disliked the
appearance of the thranx were hard put to remain hostile in their astonishingly
fragrant presence.

Unfortunately, she reflected, a way had yet to be found that could effectively
transmit true smell via tridee. It was too bad. If every human could meet a
thranx face-to-face, the continuing uncertain and unsettled state of relations
between the two species might be at least partially alleviated.

The improvement in Haflunormet’s Terranglo had kept pace with her growing
fluency in both Low and the more difficult High Thranx. “I trust you had a
pleasant journey from Azerick?”

“The flight was smooth enough, if that’s what you mean.” She shifted her rear on
the near end of the long, narrow cushion, wishing for something to rest her
spine against. “The tube transport from the port into Daret was a little slow.”

“It’s a busy time of year. Fourth cycle of the Dry Season here.”

She chuckled softly. “You have a dry season?” It had rained hard and steady ever
since the atmospheric shuttle had begun its descent into Daret Port East.

“Taste in atmospheric conditions is relative.” Haflunormet gestured expressively
with both truhands. “I don’t see how you humans stand that high, cold desert you
call the Med’ranna Plat’u.”

Anjou tried not to think of the pleasant, temperate hillsides where the human
outpost was situated. Despite the best efforts of her specialized attire, she
was sweating profusely. Though she had grown personally fond of Haflunormet, she
couldn’t wait to get out of the chamber, with its low ceiling and windowless
environment, and back onto the surface.

“I see that you are uncomfortable.”

His observation startled her. “I didn’t know you had become so adept at
interpreting human expressions.”

“It is difficult.” He gestured casually. “It takes continuous effort for us to
realize that those species equipped with flexible epidermi utilize them to
convey the same kinds of meanings that we do with our hands. And your skin is
more elastic than that of the AAnn, the sentient race you most closely resemble
physically. I have had to work hard with my study visuals.”

“You watch my face; I observe your limb movements.” She gestured decorously. “By
such studies do we learn from each other.”

He rose from behind the workstation. “Enough to know that you would be more at
ease outside the city.” Approaching until he was standing next to her on all
four trulegs, he reached up with a foothand and gently urged her in the
direction of the portal.

“Let’s take a riser to the surface,keerkt . It will be just as hot and humid,
but I know that your kind respond with favor to the unrestricted flow of open
air.” He made a short gesture of curious indifference. “A peculiar affectation,
but a harmless one.”

She was more than tempted. “What about security?”

Compound eyes flashing golden beneath the overhead illumination, he indicated
reassurance. “We can talk freely in the Park. There are many secure places.”

She did not need further convincing. Together, they exited his work chamber and
retraced her steps as far as the main corridor. Instead of continuing on past

Security, they turned down another narrow passageway that terminated at a bank
of oval gateways. Her head just did clear the entrance to the one he selected,
but she had to bend slightly at the waist to avoid bumping it on the ceiling of
the internal transport motile. Nearly all her male and most of her female
colleagues would have been forced to sit on the floor.

Haflunormet coded in a destination, and in seconds they were ascending at a
rapid rate of speed. When the riser halted and the portal reopened, she was
greeted by a vista of tangled alien rain forest, wondrous aromas, and ferine
screeching. The ostensible wildness was illusory. The bulk of the terrain that
lay directly above the subterranean capital consisted of carefully tended
parkland. The filtered water sources, holoed directions that appeared at the
wave of a truhand, concealed emergency communications devices, artfully
disguised food-procuring facilities, and other technologically inconspicuous
paraphernalia scattered strategically along the path Haflunormet chose pointed
to the highly domesticated nature of the “jungle track” down which they began
strolling. In appearance, the forest they were entering was little different
from those undomesticated tracts that survived elsewhere on Hivehom. But this
one had been tamed.

Not only did the heat and humidity not assault her as they exited the riser, it
was actually cooler and drier on the surface than in the vast hive conurbation
below. Repressing a smile, she hoped it was not too chilly out for Haflunormet.

Their divergent preferences in climatic conditions provided numerous
opportunities for amusement. In contrast to their weather, the thranx sense of
humor was noticeably drier than that of humans. The intent of traditional human
slapstick, for example, escaped them completely. To a thranx, a pie in the face
was food wasted; nothing more. In contrast, whistling thranx were often clearly
amused by conflations that humans found nothing more than common coincidence.

We still, she reflected as she strolled down the path alongside the thranx
diplomat, have so very much to learn about one another.

A quartet ofqinks bobbled past over their heads, gyrating from one tree to
another. Both mating pairs capered around each other, performing an intricate
mating dance in the air. As she understood it from the Biology Department, qinks
only mated in fours, the twofold coupling bolstering the chances of producing
viable offspring instead of unsettling it. Like little helicopters, the
multiwinged qinks whirled overhead in tiny, tight circles. This meant that at
any one time, one or two of the participants was actually flying backward.

Ordinarily, it would put that individual at risk from lurking predators. But
since qinks only flew the mating dance in tetrads, two of them were always
keeping an eye on the sky ahead at all times.

She lengthened her stride, not wishing to be standing directly beneath the
whirling aerialists when the time came for them to consummate their performance.

Though his legs were markedly shorter than hers, Haflunormet had six of them at
his disposal and had no trouble matching the pace. In a sprint, she knew, she
could easily outrun him and most other thranx. With his three sets of legs and
greater endurance, over a distance he would catch up to and surpass her.

Qinks and sprints, witticisms and woes, she reflected. All grist for the mill of
diplomacy. Haflunormet felt similarly, though he was inherently more pessimistic
than his human counterpart. Or maybe it was patience, she decided. Humans
frequently mistook the immoderate patience of the intelligent arthropods for
pessimism.

“How are you coming with arranging that meeting we spoke about?” she asked him.

In presenting the question, she employed a combination of human words and thranx
words, clicks, and whistles. This useful and informal shorthand manner of
speaking was gaining increasing favor among not only the diplomatic but the
scientific staff at Azerick. Combined with thranx gestures and the resident
humans’ best attempts to imitate these utilizing only two hands instead of four,
it formed a kind of casual symbolic speech. This allowed thranx to practice
their Terranglo and humans the opportunity to train their throats in the
elaborate vocalizations of the thranx.

“Krrik,it is proceeding slowly. Discouragingly so. I think the physicists are
not the only ones who are absorbed in the study of inertia.” He glanced over and
up at her to make sure she understood the last term correctly. As she did not
immediately laugh in the human manner, he could not be certain she had
understood his attempt at humor. Of all the humans he had met—admittedly this
was not a large number—Anjou was the most consistently serious. Perhaps, he
ruminated, this was why she got along so well with the thranx. To Haflunormet it
appeared she sometimes acted in this manner to the detriment of her relationship
with her fellow mammals.

Watching her step easily alongside him, he tried to admire the play of her
muscles, obscenely visible beneath the semitransparent epidermis. Diplomat or
no, he found he could not do it. There was simply too much movement, too much
visible play within the anatomical structure. In this it resembled that of the

AAnn, but the reptiloids’ internal composition was concealed by tough,
reflective, leathery scales. If a person peered closely at a human, individual
blood vessels could be seen not only beneath the skin but forming rills and
ridges above it. Their entire corporeal structure was, inarguably, turned inside
out.

He forced himself not to look away. It would be impolite. This female was his
hive counterpart. Much as the sight unsettled his stomachs, he was determined to
maintain visual contact. As to the sharp, distinctive, and wholly unpleasant
smell that emanated from the biped, he steadfastly refused to dwell on it. No
matter how their future relations evolved, he realized that there were some
things that could not be changed through negotiation.

He worked to pay attention, realizing that the tottering upright stinking blob
was speaking. No, he corrected himself resolutely: It was a graceful, fluid
biped who was addressing him. Formal diplomacy aside, the thranx were
exceedingly polite: a consequence of having evolved in surroundings so confined
that humans could not even conceive of the social forces that had been at work.

To the thranx, of course, they did not seem confined at all, but perfectly
normal and natural. It was wide-open aboveground spaces that tended to
occasionally make them nervous. Consequently, their conquest of space had been a
more impressive feat than that of humans. Psychology was harder to engineer than
spacecraft.

Anjou was deep in thought as they turned a bend in the trail. Eint Carwenduved
was Haflunormet’s superior. Because of the rigid thranx chain of diplomatic
command, only she could properly accept a formal proposal from the Terran
government and pass it on to the Grand Council for discussion and consideration.

It had taken a select group of forward-thinking statespeople from half a dozen
human settled worlds almost two years to finally hammer out a preliminary
proposal for establishing closer ties between their respective species. This had
not even been voted on by the Congress on Terra, yet the signatories felt that
opening negotiations with their thranx counterparts at the same time as the
details were being debated on the human homeworld would, if nothing else, serve
to accelerate mutual consideration of the delicate issues involved.

It was an acknowledged diplomatic ploy, a means of forcing reluctant individuals
on both sides to consider politically highly sensitive issues they might
otherwise prefer to ignore. Easy enough for the executive director of the colony
world of Kansastan to ignore the question of closer human-thranx relations—but
not if he felt that his thranx counterpart on Humus was ready to vote on the
matter. Merely having the proposals presented for contemplation forced those to
whom they were delivered to deliberate their possible ramifications. A good deal
of the work of real diplomacy consisted of engaging such individual
uncertainties.

Just agreeing on what was technically a compilation of informal suggestions was
a triumph for those thranx and humans involved. Others, they knew, were actively
working to discourage the implementation of even one of the proposals. One way
to do this was to persuade those in positions to actually make decisions to
simply ignore anything relevant that crossed their desks. Hence Anjou’s intense
desire to have a face-to-face meeting with Eint Carwenduved. Haflunormet’s
superincumbent could not only present proposals to the Grand Council; she could
go so far as to make recommendations.

Through Haflunormet, Anjou had been trying to arrange such a meeting for more
than six months. Patience or pessimism, whatever one chose to call it, the
seemingly endless procrastination was driving her crazy. She could not give vent
to her true feelings, however—not in front of Haflunormet. The xenologists had
been firm on that from the beginning. She had yet to meet a thranx who would not
recoil in distaste at what was to them an often explosive human outburst of
emotion.

Anyway, she told herself, diplomats do not do that sort of thing. So the fact
that she wanted to stop right there and then in the middle of the domesticated
alien jungle and scream out her frustration to curious qinks and any other
exotics within range of her voice had to remain nothing more than a passing
fancy. But the desire did not wane quickly, she realized.

The delay was not Haflunormet’s fault. She knew that. Thranx diplomacy made the
human equivalent appear to progress at lightning speed. There was nothing to be
done about it but persist, stay polite, and keep her hopes up.

“Why the continuing reluctance?” She gazed over at glittering compound eyes that
were more advanced than that of any terrestrial insect. “It’s just a meeting. It
needn’t even last very long.”

Haflunormet stepped, one set of legs at a time, over an artfully positionedzell
root. “Eint Carwenduved continues to study the proposals.”

“I know that—she’s been ‘studying’ them for the better part of a year.” At once,

Anjou regretted her tone, even though it was unlikely that Haflunormet was aware
of its significance. His knowledge of human gestures, facial expressions, and
linguistic peculiarities was improving rapidly, however, so she was more
concerned than she would have been a few months ago.

He did not react as if he detected any bitterness, however. “You must
understand, Fanielle, that such things take more time to be resolved among my
kind than they seem to among yours. Carwenduved must be certain of herself
before she commits to any course of action because she will inevitably be held
responsible for relevant consequences.”

Which was a fancy and not altogether alien way of saying that the eint was
stalling, Anjou knew.

“The eint marvels at your earnestness,” Haflunormet continued. “She sees no need
for a ‘face-to-face,’ as you call it.” As the thranx diplomat spoke, he absently
employed a truhand to preen his left antenna.

“My people believe strongly that personal contact is an important component of
diplomacy.”

Haflunormet indicated understanding. “You do realize that not all my kind take
pleasure from being in your physical presence.” He hastened to qualify his
comment. “I did not mean you personally, of course! I meant humans in general.”

“I know what you meant.” Anjou was not naÏve. She was fully aware that most
thranx, especially those who had experienced little or no contact with humans,
found the presence of her kind physically unappealing. It was something she had
worked hard to overcome, in everything from her attire to her manner of
speaking. “But as a diplomat, I am entitled to certain accommodations.” This
time her tone was firm. “Eint Carwenduved realizes this as well.”

“I know that she does.” Haflunormet sighed, the air wheezing gently from the
breathing spicules that lined his b-thorax. “Your patience gains you merit in
her eyes as well as in mine, Fanielle.”

What patience? she thought. I’m going crazy here, hanging around up at Azerick
waiting for your mommy bug to deign to see me. She promptly shunted the
undiplomatic and very unthranxlike thought aside.

Instead of thinking antithranx thoughts, what might she make use of that the
thranx themselves would react to? Perhaps she had been stalking the impasse from
the wrong direction. Perhaps she had been thinking too many human thoughts.

How would a thranx diplomat gain speedier access to a counterpart? It would have
to be something informal, she knew. The delicate intricacies and involved
traditions of thranx hive government were still largely a mystery to the human
researchers charged with interpreting them. More was known about thranx culture
and society in general. Mightn’t there be something there she could apply?

She halted so suddenly that Haflunormet was momentarily alarmed. Both antennae
fluttered in her direction. “Is something the matter, Fanielle? If you are
feeling stressed by the local conditions, we can find you a climate-controlled
chamber in which to revitalize—though I personally find the weather outside
today a bit on the cool side.”

“Yes,” she told him. “Yes, I am feeling a little—a little faint.” She put the
back of one hand to her forehead in a melodramatic gesture any human would have
found amusing, but which the anxious thranx could only view as potentially
alarming. “It happens to us—at such times.”

He indicated confusion. “Of what ‘times’ are you speaking?”

“Oh, that’s right. You don’t know. I haven’t told you before now, have I? An
oversight on my part. You see—I’m pregnant, Haflunormet. With, um—” She thought
of the dancing qinks. “—quadruplets.” Unfamiliar with the nature or frequency of
human birthing, the anxious diplomat ought to accept her admission at face
value. He did.

“Srr!lk!You should have told me!” Setting aside his instinctive distaste for
such contact, he took her free hand in both his foothands. “Do you want to lie
down? Can I get you fluid? Do you wish an internal lubrication?”

“Uh, no thanks,” she replied hastily, dropping the hand from her forehead even
as she wondered what an on-the-spot internal lubrication meant to a thranx
female.

In a determined gesture of interspecies concern, Haflunormet continued to hold
her hand, doing his best to ignore the unnatural warmth that radiated from the
pulpy flesh. He realized how much he had come to like this particular human. If
something were to happen to her while she was in his company, not only would it
reflect on his individual and family history, he would regret it personally.

“How are your eggs? Excuse me,” he corrected himself, “your live feti. Fetuses?”

Despite his disquiet, he could not bring himself to contemplate the wriggling,
unshelled larvae that must even now be jostling for room within her womb. He
tried to lighten the moment. “As you possess no ovipositors that I could observe
going into pre-laying spasm, I had no visual clue to your condition.”

“It’s all right. I’ll be fine.” Meeting his gaze, which she assumed reflected
his concern even though his compound eyes could not convey anything like such a
complex emotion, she announced firmly, “Tell Eint Carwenduved that the pregnant
human Fanielle Anjou is making a formalBryn’ja request.”

Haflunormet started, his antennae twitching. Then he simultaneously whistled his
amusement and understanding. “The news will place the eint in a difficult
position.”

That’s the idea, she thought, wincing perceptibly for effect. If she understood
the pertinent aspect of thranx culture correctly, no adult could refuse a first

Bryn’ja request from a female who was about to lay. Such a compunction applied
equally to ordinary citizens, respected poets, noted teachers, and everyone
within the hive irrespective of function. It even applied to diplomats.

Of course, it was a blatant lie. Surely, she told herself, the first time in
history one had been employed in the service of diplomacy. She would have to
make sure her colleagues at Azerick were informed of her “condition” lest the
always thorough thranx decided to check on it with a second source. Once her
rather abrupt pregnancy was verified, it would be interesting to see how the
thranx would react. Time would at last become a factor. To refuse a first

Bryn’ja request from a gravid female until after she laid her eggs would earn
the refuser significant opprobrium. Her only real concern was whether or not the
custom would apply across species lines. And if it did, would it be subject to
the same onerous, lingering deliberation as every other communication she had
asked Haflunormet to pass along to the chamber of the eint? Could any thranx
authority move at more than a sluggard’s pace, no matter the incidental
circumstances?

The official response was as revealing as it was gratifying. So much of
successful diplomacy was not about knowing how to do something, or when, but how
to step just ever so slightly outside the boundaries of traditional, formal
negotiation without falling into the pit of cultural transgression.

Within thirty-two hours, she received acknowledgment of her long-sought-after
appointment.

2

The Bwyl were furious. They had been ever since the revelation of the presence
on Willow-Wane of the covert human outpost there, with its clandestine attempts
to bring humans and thranx closer together, had been divulged to an unknowing
hive public more than eighty years earlier. It was bad enough, from the
standpoint of the Bwyl, that humans and the thranx had cooperated in a war
against the Pitar that was no hive’s business. The disclosure that the
soft-bodied, bipedal mammals had been allowed to establish what amounted to a de
facto colony on a developed thranx world amounted to cultural sacrilege. The
purity of the Great Hive had been defiled.

Worse still, the vast majority of thranx had reacted indecisively at best,
indifferently at worst, to the announcement. Now that the war against the Pitar
lay nearly in the receding past, where humans were concerned the average
burrower seemed to hold little in the way of strong opinion. So long as the
humans posed no overt threat to the Great Hive and did not ally themselves with
the bellicose AAnn, the typical worker was content to ignore them. And if the
respective life tunnels of the two species happened to intersect now and then,
why, it would only be polite to pause and allow those traveling crosswise to
pass without confrontation.

It was all very bewildering to the Bwyl. What about the sanctity of the hive?

Where was traditional deference to poetic purity? Bad enough to allow these
red-blood-pumping creatures access outside the usual restricted diplomatic
missions. To allow ordinary citizens to mix with them at will, without proper
safeguards or preliminary acculturation, was to invite cultural degradation and
worse. What was a newly metamorphosed adolescent to think when confronted with
sophisticated sentients who wore their skeletons on theinside and peered at the
universe out of single-lensed eyes?

It was not to be tolerated. But the Bwyl, though a multihive fellowship, were
few in number. They could not influence the councils proportionately. They did
have many who were sympathetic to their aims, but who were afraid to express
their beliefs openly. The Bwyl base of support was large, but diffuse.

It did not matter. They could wait no longer. Already, there was talk at
significant hive levels of formalizing a much closer alliance with the humans.

True, such talk had been rampant since the end of the Humanx-Pitar War. Lately,
though, it had taken on a certain urgency. Important eints who believed they
could make use of the humans as a bulwark against the adventurism of the AAnn
had been pressing for more than talk. Regrettably, they found sympathetic
hearing organs among traitorous members of the lower councils. Now dialogue
threatened to become action, and action, decision. For the sake of the Great

Hive, this had to be prevented.

Which was why the Bwyl had called the meeting on Willow-Wane. Its members were
not alone in their stand. There were two other interhival societies that had on
more than one occasion expressed similar sentiments. Representatives of the S!k
and the Arba had arrived on Willow-Wane only days before to participate in the
critical discussion.

Now the twineight gathered on the shore of the River Niivuodd, chattering
amiably among themselves. To passersby they looked for all the world like a
group of taskmates out for a day’s relaxation. They carried food and drink and
humming amusements, and talked of inconsequentialities. But their intentions
were far more serious than an afternoon’s casual distraction. They had not
joined together beneath Willow-Wane’s searing sun for purposes of frolic.

When all had assembled by the river’s shore and settled themselves in a half
circle facing the water and one another, and when assurance came from posted
sentries that no patrollers, first class or otherwise, were lingering in the
vicinity, Tunborelarba of the Arba waved all four hands for quiet and proceeded
to open the solemn convocation with a pugnacious, if not downright martial,
paean to the virtues of the Great Hive. His fine words and whistles encompassed
them all, from outworld visitors to their resolute Willow-Wane hosts.

Then Beskodnebwyl of the Bwyl rose on his four trulegs and declaimed what all of
them were thinking. Overhead, a flock of silvertaiax flew past, dipping and
looping to snap in unison at the smaller arthropods that filled the steamy
afternoon air. Their sedateke-uk ,chitt-chitt ,ke-uk-uk did not interrupt the
flow of the charismatic speaker’s words.

“We are gathered here because we agree that anything deeper than the
traditional, polite, formal relations that exist between sentients of different
species is an abomination that is not to be tolerated.” Attentive antennae and
glittering compound eyes were focused in his direction. Near the back, the
ovipositors of a young female S!k as fanatical as she was attractive contracted
in response to the forcefulness of the Bwyl’s words.

“There are those among the hives of several of the burrowed worlds who believe
that a stronger relationship can be forged with these humans. These fools dwell
in the nursery of delusion. The bipeds are too different—not only in appearance,
but in culture, actions, psychohistory, and every other standard that is used to
take the measure of another species. Our alliance with them for the duration of
the latter part of the Pitarian War was superficial and designed to achieve
maximum diplomatic benefit in a limited period of time.”

“Principally to forestall the designs of the AAnn,” an Abra could not refrain
from pointing out.

Beskodnebwyl did not upbraid his impassioned listener for the discourteous
interruption. All were allies in this place: supporters of a similar philosophy.

He had no intention of alienating a collaborator over a point of etiquette.

“That is so. Yet despite what appears to us to be the obvious, there are among
our own kind those who are sufficiently deluded to desire to place the security
and sanctity of the Great Hive itself at risk. They intend to do this by forging
ties with these humans of a nature so intimate I can scarcely bring myself to
contemplate it. You will understand my feelings when you receive the detailed
reports that will be provided to all of you at the close of this gathering. All

I can say without going into further particulars is that there are varieties and
types of corruption not even new larvae can dream of.”

“They must be blind!” someone chirruped above a chorus of lesser clicking.

For a second time, Beskodnebwyl deferred his right to criticize an outburst.

“There are all kinds of blindness, many of which have nothing to do with the
sense of sight. It is these we must correct, even at the risk of carrying out
bitter antisocial behavior. The very ancestral integrity of the Great Hive is at
stake.” Reaching back into a thorax pouch, he withdrew a compact projector and
spurred it to life. Immediately, a semitransparent globe appeared before the
body of thranx assembled by the river. It was a representation of an attractive
world even the most galographically sophisticated among them did not recognize.

“The planet Dawn, as the humans have named it. A fetching place, by all
description. Newly settled and growing rapidly. There is also, in this
subversive spirit of specious cooperation that presently exists between our
respective species, a sizable burrow located beneath the swamps and savannas of
the minor southern continent.”

“What has this to do with us and our avowed purpose?” a female S!k inquired
reasonably.

Manipulating the projector, Beskodnebwyl increased the magnification
substantially, until they found themselves eying one of the distorted, sprawling
aboveground conurbations that had become more and more familiar recently in the
information media. Frivolously tall, slim edifices, not only unaesthetic but
impractical, thrust absurdly all the way up into the weather. Extensive
agricultural facilities bumped up against a surprising amount of undeveloped
green space. Free-standing bodies of water were spotted with fishing craft.

Clearly visible were all the mysterious accouterments of a characteristic
aboveground human hive.

“There is to be a fair held on Dawn, to be situated not far outside the capital
city of Aurora.” Beskodnebwyl continued to manipulate the details of the holo as
he explained. “A cultural fair, exhibiting the best and newest of human music
and arts.”

“Is that not a contradiction in terms?” someone ventured. Amused whistling
spilled from the assembled to drift across the river.

“Obviously, not to humans, it isn’t,” Beskodnebwyl observed when the laughter
had died down. “This gathering will also present contributions from the local
thranx of the southern continent.” He leaned forward, stretching his b-thorax,
his antennae quivering with barely concealed passion. “It is to be a wholly
cross-cultural, cross-species event—the first of its kind on Dawn. In addition
to presentations by the locals, a number of important artists from nearby
settled worlds, both human and thranx, are also to participate. For so young a
colony, it promises to be a most prestigious and important convocation, a
watershed in the settlement’s evolution.” He drew himself back, pausing and
gesturing for emphasis.

“We of the Bwyl also intend that it shall be so, and in a manner that will leave
a deep and lasting impression on perceptive sentients everywhere. We hope that
you of the S!k and the Abra will join us in making our own presentation at this
fair.”

“Which will consist of?” The senior Abra present waved an antenna inquiringly.

Beskodnebwyl did not hesitate, nor did his tone change. “We hope to disrupt the
fair, and in doing so push the course of human-thranx relations back onto a
proper level, by killing as many of the participants as possible. Operating
under the guise of the ancient Protectors, we hope to make our case so
irresistibly to all citizens of the Greater Hive that they will have no choice
but to see the correctness of our doctrine.” He indicated first-degree
confidence.

“The humans will respond immediately to our actions, of course. Once word of our
involvement and efforts is disseminated, they will enter the fair and kill us as
quickly as they can. With luck, some of us will escape to carry on the necessary
work. Those of us who do not will be recycled knowing that they gave their
essence to preserve the Great Hive, much as our ancestors did in the course of
thousands of ancient battles. This cause is nobler than any of those, because it
is carried out on behalf of the entire Great Hive itself.” He switched
deliberately to the rougher but more straightforward Low Thranx.

“Males and females of the S!k and the Abra: Will you join with your hive mates
the Bwyl in this great and noble undertaking?”

Animated discussion followed, lively but by no means uniform. Clearly, there
remained among the disputants considerable difference of opinion. Having chosen
directness over diplomacy, Beskodnebwyl had no leeway for hesitation. Nor had he
intended to leave any.

“How would you intend to do this thing?” Velhurmeabra of the Abra was clearly
taken aback by the proposal and not afraid to say so. “Will the humans have in
place no precautions against such an eventuality, no guards?”

“Why should they?” Beskodnebwyl replied expansively. “It is a cultural fair, not
a military caucus. As to the actual methods to be employed in the carrying out
of our intentions, we have already spent much time refining our options.”

“What about introducing into the atmosphere of the gathering a powerful
cyanotoxin?” one of the more enthusiastic S!k proposed.

“For the same reason that we cannot spread a lethal hemolument.” This time the
images generated by Beskodnebwyl’s hand-held projector were more detailed, full
of charts and sketches that floated in midair before the assemblage. “Human
blood binds oxygen through the use of iron, not the usual copper. I am assured
that given enough time and resources, suitable poisons could be engineered for
use against them. We have neither. By the same token, biological agents that
would devastate us are just as likely to pass harmlessly through their systems.

For example, thegin!gas wasting disease for which no cure has yet been
discovered degrades chitin. I am told that malignant as it is, it might at most
cause the hair and fingernails of some humans to fall out. That is hardly the
bold statement we wish to make.”

“Then what do you propose to do?” Uhlenfirs!k of the S!k asked, then waited
quietly.

Beskodnebwyl underlined his response with deliberate movements of antennae and
truhands. Behind him, an aquatichermot splashed in the river, pursuing a school
of hard-shelledcouvine , predator and prey alike oblivious to the convocation on
the nearby bank vigorously contemplating mass murder.

“Explosives have the advantage of not discriminating between species. Volunteers
have already been chosen. They will infiltrate this detestable fair and wreak
such havoc as cannot be imagined. The fact that individuals will be free to do
their work independent of any central control ensures that even if one or more
are detected and forced to abort their mission, the others will be able to
proceed unimpaired. Additionally, every operative will enter adequately armed
for their personal defense.”

The nominal leaders of the S!k and the Abra conferred, supported by their most
able aides. When they were through, Velhurmeabra of the Abra faced his expectant
counterparts across the semicircle.

“While we of the Abra and the S!k feel much as you do with regard to this too
rapid and too intimate mixing of species, we have decided not to participate in
your plans to disrupt the cultural fair on the world of Dawn. While we are not
entirely opposed to the use of violent means of dissuasion, indiscriminate
bombing of so large a gathering will inevitably slay or injure numerous artists
as well as ordinary visitors.”

One of the S!k spoke up. “The killing of an artist is an abomination unto
itself. The stifling of any fount of creativity, however modest, diminishes us
all.”

Beskodnebwyl gestured understanding. He had expected this line of objection.

“Humans feel otherwise. They make no such sharp distinctions between, say,
composers of music and purifiers of water. It is further proof of their degraded
culture.”

“But you cannot guarantee,” Velhurmeabra continued inexorably, “that only human
artists will die.”

“Unfortunately,” Beskodnebwyl responded, “explosives are notoriously
undiscriminating. It is conceded that thranx will also perish in the making of
our statement. It is unavoidable.”

“Then we cannot participate actively,” the Abra concluded.

Beskodnebwyl pounced on an inflection. “ ‘Actively’?”

The leader of the S!k spoke up. “We have no legs to provide you, no antennae to
aid you, no eyes to share. But—” He hesitated only for emphasis. “—we wish you
well in the enterprise, which seems almost certain to accomplish the goals you
have set out for it. While not participating directly, we can perhaps provide
some small encouragement.”

“In any event, we will do nothing to discourage you from burrowing in this
chosen direction,” the Abra concluded.

It was not all that Beskodnebwyl had hoped for. But logistical support would be
useful and would free up the dedicated members of the Bwyl to carry out the more
active components of the scheme. The Abra and the S!k could not overcome the
deep-seated cultural prejudice against the killing of artists. Only the Bwyl had
progressed far enough to do that. But the support of the others would be
welcomed. They wished to share in the credit for the ultimate disruption of
human-thranx integration, but not in the ultimate risk.

It was better than outright dissension, Beskodnebwyl knew. The Abra and the S!k
had access to materials and contacts and useful facilities that were denied the

Bwyl. When the deed was done, the truth would come out. Credit would be
apportioned where due. Beskodnebwyl was not concerned with the refining of such
matters. He carried nothing for credit. He wanted only to put a halt to this
abhorrent, noisome mixing of species.

If the Burrow Master was with them, they would do precisely that—once and for
all time.

Elkannah Skettle stepped off the shuttle and examined the world spread out
before him with great interest. Ahead, he saw Lawlor and Martine passing rapidly
through Customs. Pierrot, Botha, Nevisrighne, and the others were somewhere in
the crowd behind him that was still filing off the transport vehicle. They had
grown used to traveling together yet keeping their distance from one another.

The port facilities were efficient, the port’s equipment spotless, the smiles on
the faces of the local officials almost painfully welcoming. And why shouldn’t
they be? he mused. Dawn was a new world, bursting with opportunity, unclaimed
lands, fortunes yet to be made. The climate was salubrious, the terrain
inviting, the local flora and fauna reasonably pacific. A fine place to live and
an enchanting place to visit.

Provided, he knew as he smiled pleasantly at the young woman who passed him
through the body scanner, it could be kept free of bugs.

Not that there was anything inherently wrong with the bugs, he reflected as he
presented himself to Customs. Or with the Quillp, or the AAnn, or any of the
diverse other intelligent races with whom humankind shared this corner of the

Orion Arm. He had reason of his own to be grateful to the bugs. Without the aid
they had rendered to humankind in the Pitarian War, a favorite grandniece of his
might not have survived the fighting. Military assistance in the midst of
conflict was always welcome.

But the idea that relations should proceed beyondthat was simply intolerable to
one who loved his kind. The thranx might be all twirling antennae and sweet
smells on the surface, but they were as alien as any sentient species humanity
had yet encountered. The revelation that they had an actual colony in the Amazon

Basin had been enough to trigger simmering outrage not only in men like himself,
but in many who previously had given little thought to the problem.

And itwas a problem. How could humankind ever be certain of its safety, of its
very future, if empty-headed authorities allowed aliens to expand beyond the
customary, restricted diplomatic and commercial sites where they were allowed?

The notion that such growth should not only be permitted but encouraged and
codified was sufficient to prod Skettle and those of like mind to move beyond
protest to action. Negotiations, he knew, were presently at a delicate stage and
could go either forward or back. A well-timed statement might be enough to put a
stop to foolishness that bordered on the seditious.

Unlike others who felt similarly, Skettle did not think those humans who blindly
advocated intimate ties with the thranx were traitors. They were simply
ignorant. The bugs had deceived them. They were very clever, the thranx. Polite
to a fault, ever conscious of the feelings of others, they had lulled supposedly
astute people into a false sense of security the likes of which humankind had
never before experienced.

But not all of us, he thought resolutely as he presented his travel case for
inspection.

He waited while it passed beneath the Customs scanner. His corpus had already
been cleared. Now it remained only for his luggage to do the same. Lawlor was
the only potential weak link in the group, he knew. The man tended to exhibit
unease even when no threat was apparent. That was why Skettle had chosen to
carry this particular case. Old men were not usually the first to be suspected
of smuggling.

With a tip of his cap and a practiced smile, the earnest young inspector passed
him through. Picking up his case on the other side of the scanner, Skettle
resumed his trek through the terminal, staying in the middle of the stream of
disembarking passengers. Compared to those on major worlds like Terra or

Amropolus, the terminal was not large. The scanner had detected nothing inside
his case beyond the expected: clothing, vacation gear, personal communicator—the
usual unremarkable assortment of travel goods.

It had not, however, performed a detailed analysis of the luggage itself. Even
had it undergone that thorough an examination, the local authorities would still
have been hard pressed to prove anything. Had they noted the composition of

Lawlor’s case, and Martine’s, and subjected them to observation by a trained
physical chemist, however, they would no doubt have been persuaded to
investigate further.

Each of the three cases was composed of a different set of materials. When
certain specific sections of the trio were cut up and then layered together in
the appropriate proportions, then treated with a commonly available binding
fluid, the result was neat little squares of an extraordinarily dynamic
explosive. Utilizing this product, Elkannah Skettle and his colleagues intended
for the widely advertised Dawn Intercultural Fair to give off even more heat
than its organizers intended.

Everything had been carefully prepared in advance. It was meant for the deadly
consequences to be blamed on unknown provocateurs working together with renegade
thranx elements, but the apportionment of blame was not really crucial. What
mattered was the disruption, and preferably the destruction, of the fair itself.

If nothing else, it would put an end to what was supposed to be an exchange of

“culture” among the races. What nonsense! Skettle chuckled to himself. The idea
that humans and bugs should create art in common, that thranx culture should be
allowed to contaminate human painting, music, song, or sculpture, would have
been laughable if it was not so dangerous. Such aesthetic degradation could not
be allowed. Were no one but Skettle and his associates thinking of the children
as yet unborn? He thought, as he had so very many times, of the brave forebears
of his own organization who had given their lives in the attempt years before to
wipe out the foul thranx colony located in the Reserva Amazonia. Their sacrifice
would not go unavenged.

The Preservers took separate transport to the small hotel they had booked.

Located on the outskirts of Aurora, capital of the semitropical colony, the
establishment overlooked a small natural lake and was within easy commuting
distance of the fair. Following a suitable pause after checking in, they
assembled by ones and twos in a prereserved commons room. There they bantered
trivialities while Botha checked for hidden sensors and erected an
industrial-strength sound envelope. There was no reason to suspect the presence
of the former and no demonstrated need for the latter, but they were taking no
chances—especially when the hand weapons they had contracted for were due to
arrive with their local contact later in the day.

Feeling secure, they activated the tridee and waited the necessary few seconds
for the room unit to warm up. As soon as the menu appeared in the air on the far
side of the room, Pierrot directed it to provide them with as much local
background on the fair as was available for viewing, commencing with material
recorded as recently as ten days prior to their arrival.

The site was expanding impressively. Portable structures had been raised on the
far side of the main lake, facilities for transport vehicles had been prepared
underground, a high-speed transport link with the city continuing on to the
shuttleport had been constructed and tested, and the usual virtually invisible
molegel had been suspended in place above the entire site to shield it from any
adverse weather, since Dawn did not yet possess the advanced climate-moderating
facilities of more technologically mature worlds. Most of the larger exhibits
were already in place and undergoing final checkout.

“Show us the thranx pavilions,” Skettle ordered the tridee. Obediently, it
supplied perfectly formed floating images on one side with a running printed
commentary, in addition to the accompanying audio, on the other. Cerebral
plug-ins were available, as was to be expected in any decent hostelry. Skettle
disdained their use in favor of group observation.

“Look at that grotesquerie.” Pierrot called for magnification, and the tridee
unit complied. “What can that abomination possibly be?” She was shaking her head
disdainfully.

“Some kind of organic sculpture, I would guess.” Botha possessed more
imagination than most of them, Skettle included. “It’s not so bad, if you ignore
the color scheme.”

“Remember,” Skettle announced, “it’s not the content of the fair that we’re here
to terminate. We’re not art critics.” A few laughs rose above the ongoing
commentary from the tridee. “It’s the possibility that such content may lead to
a freedom for thranx on human worlds that will let them infiltrate and
eventually dominate our very lives, from the way we create to the way we live.”

This time his words were greeted not with laughter, but with grim muttering.

They watched for more than an hour, until Nevisrighne could take it no more.

Rising, he walked over to the room’s food service bay and ordered a chilled
alcoholic fruit drink. “I’m sorry, but I can’t watch anymore. Too many bugs for
one morning.”

“Time we finalized more than observations, anyway.” Botha looked expectantly to

Skettle.

The old man nodded, his fine gray beard bobbing prominently. “All right. I know
you’re all anxious to begin the actual work, but we must be careful not to rush
matters. Now that the time for action is so near, it is all the more imperative
that we exercise restraint and caution. The last thing we need is to attract the
attention of local authorities.”

Pierrot made a rude noise. “Security here is primitive compared to even New

Riviera.”

“General security, most likely,” Skettle agreed. “But because of the sensitive
nature of the fair, more than local government is involved. As a consequence,
there will be extra precautions in place. Not only those of Earth, but from

Hivehom as well.”

No one followed Skettle’s observation with any abrupt, disparaging comments.

They had a healthy respect for thranx technology. But technology only added to
the challenge. As to the eventual success of their mission, none among them had
the slightest doubt. They were each of them well and truly dedicated to their
avowed cause.

From his luggage Botha produced a purpose-built three-dimensional diagram of the
fair site. It was exceptionally thorough. As well it ought to be, Skettle
reflected, since he and half a dozen sympathetic associates of the Preservers
had worked at refining and improving it almost constantly ever since the idea of
the fair had been proposed and acted upon. It was safe to say that even the fair
organizations themselves did not possess a schematic any more detailed than the
one that presently floated before the oddly hushed crowd in the commons room.

Everything from food service to sewerage to controlling electronics to items as
simple and straightforward as disposal bins were reflected in the diagram. There
was nothing that could not be expanded and rotated so that the finest detail of
construction and integration could be analyzed. Though not of a technical mien
himself, Skettle could admire the artistry that had gone into the compilation of
the schematic. It was a most beautiful diagram of destruction.

Fanning out to preselected locations throughout the fair, at the height of
general festivities, he and his companions would install and try to
simultaneously detonate the blended explosives. An impartial, emotionless
beholder might have observed that among the myriad devices intended to be
planted throughout the fair, not one was designed to impact upon the integrated
fire-control facilities. With a cutting-edge emergency plant designed to cope
instantly with even a minor blaze, the destruction of such facilities would seem
to an outside observer to be a priority for a group of terrorists planning
wholesale destruction. That such a contingency was nowhere in evidence was a
tribute not to oversight or ignorance, but to the skill of Botha and the team he
had worked with back on Earth.

It was astonishing, Skettle mused as he admired the schematic, how few people
ever gave a thought to the fact that the time-proven, complex, fire-fighting
chemicals used to put out unwanted blazes were composed of a precise chemical
mixture that could also, in combination with certain laboriously engineered
additional elements, stimulate instead of suffocate the very flames they were
designed to extinguish. The anticipated, indeed hoped-for, attempt of the local
emergency command to fight the blazes to be fomented by the Preservers would
result not in a smothering of those conflagrations, but in their enhancement.

Skettle smiled inwardly. The resulting chaos and confusion should contribute
nicely to the blossoming cataclysm.

Botha assured him that upon contact with the materials to be spread by the
multiple explosions, foams and liquids intended for combating out-of-control
blazes would themselves be turned into a substance suitable for supplementing
the very conflagrations they were designed to quench. By the time a sufficiency
of nonreactive chemical retardants and suppressants could be brought from Aurora

City, much of the glorious but debauched fair should be reduced to wind-blown
cinders among which would drift the carbonized components of as many baked bugs
as possible.

The consequent reaction among the human populace of this portion of the galaxy
upon learning that the destruction had been cosponsored by thranx opposed to any
deeper alliance among their respective species ought to put a clamp on any
enthusiastic treaty making for some time to come, Skettle knew. Which thranx?

Skettle’s associates back on Earth had spent much time devising a complete bug
terrorist hierarchy, the veracity of whichmight eventually be disproved. But by
that time, the delay in negotiations that would result would give him and the
rest of the Preservers ample time to spread their message to a more alerted
population. Relations between human and thranx would progress no farther than
humankind’s relations with any other intelligent species.

That was as things should be, he mused. But education required time. This they
would gain from the chaos that would be bought by the destruction of the fair.

It would have the added beneficial effect of destroying the viability of any
further such profane convocations. The Humanx Intercultural Fair on Dawn would
be the first and last of its kind.

The fire in his eyes and those of his companions was a precursor to the greater
conflagration that within a few days would engulf thousands of unsuspecting
visitors.

It was not a blaze that was amenable to reason.

3

Cullen Karasi stood on the edge of the spectacular escarpment that overlooked
the Mountain of the Mourners and reflected that he was a very long way from
home. Comagrave lay on the rim of the bubble of human exploration, more parsecs
from Earth than was comfortable to think about. If not for the well-established
colony in the nearby system of Repler and the discovery of valuable mineral
deposits on Burley, it was doubtful humankind would have pushed so far so
quickly into this section of the Arm. By KK drive, the capital of the AAnn

Empire, Blassussar, was closer than Terra.

This latter fact was not lost upon the AAnn, who freely coveted Comagrave. A
semidesert planet whose ecological parameters all fell near the center of their
habitable paradigms, it was ideally suited to their kind. To survive on its
surface, humans had to exercise caution. In this regard, however, it was no
worse than many desertified parts of Earth itself and was more accommodating
than others. Survey after survey revealed a wealth of mineral and biological
potentiality—not to mention additional archeological treasures yet to be
unearthed. With proper preparation and development, humans would do well enough
here.

Humankind’s claim was clear, indisputable, and grudgingly recognized by the

AAnn. In return for permission to establish a limited number of observational
outposts, strictly for purposes of study and education, the reluctant reptiloids
had offered to put their knowledge and expertise at the service of the
colonists. Despite certain reservations within the Terran government, it was an
offer that could not be denied. The AAnn had forgotten more about surviving on
desert-type worlds than humans had ever known, and the government on Earth was
far, far away.

Certainly, Cullen reflected, the assistance his team had so far received from
the AAnn had been a great help. It was they who had provided material aid when
funds from his supporting foundation had been temporarily reduced. It was they
who had saved thousands of credits by knowing the best places to establish safe
camps. AAnn geologists invariably knew where to locate the deep wells that were
necessary to tap Comagrave’s elusive aquifers, which made settlement expansion
as well as long-term scientific work in the field possible. And it was his AAnn
peer, the scientist Riimadu CRRYNN, who had been the first to descry the secret
of the Mourners.

That was why a base camp had been set up near the edge of the great escarpment.

Below him, the sheer sandstone wall fell away more than a thousand meters to the
flat valley floor below. Only the narrow and intermittent River Failings
meandered through this desiccated vale, an echo of the immense watercourse that
had once dominated this part of the continent. Already, field teams had gathered
ample evidence that Comagrave had once enjoyed a much wetter and greener past.

Whether this was the reason, or one of the reasons, for the demise of the

Comagravian civilization and the highly advanced people who had called
themselves the Sauun had yet to be determined.

Already, human exoarcheologists had accomplished much. Ruins of sizable cities
were to be found on every continent. There was evidence of extensive
agriculture, mining, and manufacturing—all the detritus of an advanced culture.

And yet, tens of thousands of years ago, it had all perished. Nor was there any
proof that the Sauun had achieved more than rudimentary space travel.

Preliminary surveys of the planet’s three moons revealed the ruins of only
automatic stations, with no provision for habitation or development.

This did not jibe with the level of scientific achievement visible in their
abandoned cities. There were gaps in technological evolvement where none ought
to exist. It was the presence of such gaps in the Comagravian historical record
and the desire to fill them in that drew researchers like Cullen to a world so
distant.

Behind him, portative digging equipment hummed softly as fellow team members and
advanced students strove to bring to the light the answers that hopefully lay
buried beneath the hard, rocky surface of the escarpment. A vanager cried as it
dipped and soared above the valley floor. With a leathery wingspan equal to that
of a small aircraft, the indigenous scavenger could stay aloft indefinitely,
carrying its two offspring in a pouch beneath its neck. Vanagers lived in the
clouds, mated while aloft, and raised their progeny without ever touching the
ground. To feed, they dove and plucked what they could from the surface or
snatched it out of the air. Long ago they had lost all but rudimentary evidence
of legs and feet. A vanager caught on the ground could only flop about clumsily,
its great wings useless until a gust of wind sent it aloft once more. Or so the
biologists insisted.

Far across the valley, the Mountain of the Mourners stared back at him.

Literally. Hewn from the solid green-black diorite of the mountain from which
they seemed to be emerging, the Twelve Mourners were at eye level with the top
of the escarpment. Counting elaborate headdresses whose significance had yet to
be interpreted, they averaged some fifteen hundred meters in height. How they
had been carved, when and with what tools, was another of the many mysteries
that Comagrave proffered in abundance.

With such gigantic representations of their kind available for study, there was
no wondering what the Sauun had looked like. Tall and slim, with long, humanoid
faces and horizontally slitted eyes, the colossal carvings were clad in flowing
robes embellished with elaborate decorations and intricate designs. Despite
their immense size, the Twelve had been depicted with extraordinary care and
detail. Who they had been, no one yet knew. Knowing that the Sauun had
progressed beyond kingdoms to a modern, planetwide government, all manner of
possibilities had been proposed. The Twelve could be famous artists, or
scientists, or the carvers themselves. Or politicians, or criminals, or
individuals chosen at random, or composites of a theoretical species ideal.

Cullen and his colleagues did not know, and they burned to find out. On one
verity they were pretty much agreed: It seemed unlikely any civilization would
go to the trouble of chiseling fifteen-hundred-meter-high images out of solid
rock, finishing and polishing them with extraordinary care, to perpetuate the
memory of a dozen nonentities. Whoever the Twelve were, they represented
personages of some importance in the history of Comagrave.

It was the AAnn Riimadu who had first noticed that the enormous, solemn eyes of
the graven icons were aligned on a level with the top of the escarpment. It was
he who had theorized that the pupilless orbs were each and every pair subtly
positioned so that they all focused on approximately the same spot—the one where

Cullen’s crew was presently engaged in exploration. Cullen owed the AAnn a debt
that would be hard to repay. At the very least, they would share in the
subsequent fame and profit of any discovery.

Riimadu was the only AAnn attached to the project. When he was not on site,

Cullen missed the alien’s expertise. Like all his kind, the AAnn exoarcheologist
displayed an instinctive feel for the makeup of the ground. Adopting his
suggestions had already saved the team days of hard work. With most of the busy
crew untroubled by the AAnn scientist’s presence from the start, one concern of

Cullen’s had been removed early in the process of excavation.

He did have to be careful to keep Riimadu and Pilwondepat apart. Though
diplomacy was not a province of his expertise, Cullen knew enough of the
traditional enmity that existed between AAnn and thranx to see to it that the
two resident alien researchers encountered one another as infrequently as
possible. Unlike the AAnn, who took an active part in the excavation,

Pilwondepat was present as an observer only, on behalf of several thranx
institutes. They had as much interest in ancient races as did humankind, but

Comagrave was not to their liking. Though humans could survive and even prosper
on a desert world, to the thranx it was an exceedingly uncomfortable place to
be.

While humans had to worry only about sunburn because of Comagrave’s
comparatively thin atmosphere and take an occasional slug from a bottle of
supplemental oxygen, and while Riimadu strolled around in perfect comfort, poor

Pilwondepat lumbered about burdened by all manner of gear designed to supply him
with the extra oxygen thranx required, as well as special equipment to keep his
body properly moist. To a creature who thrived in high heat and even higher
humidity, the climate of Comagrave was withering. Unprotected and unequipped, a
thranx like Pilwondepat would perish within a few days, shriveled like an old
apple. That was assuming it could keep warm at night, when surface temperatures
dropped to a level tolerable to both humans and AAnn but positively deadly to a
thranx.

So Pilwondepat was not comfortable with his assignment. He kept to his specially
equipped portable dome as much as possible and only emerged to take recordings
and make notes. When he spoke, it was with difficulty, through a special unit
that covered his mandibles and moistened the air that flowed down his throat.

Cullen felt sorry for him. The eight-limbed exoarcheologist must have done
something unpopular to have come to a world so disagreeable to his kind.

As he turned to head back to camp, Cullen could feel the immense green-black
bulges of the eyes of the Twelve drilling into the back of his neck. If only
they could speak, he thought. If only they were not made of stone. And if only
the Sauun had left some surviving record of what had happened to their
civilization. It was such riddles that drove curious men and women to willingly
endure harsh conditions on isolated outpost worlds. It was what had driven

Cullen Karasi from a successful family business to the study of ancient alien
civilizations.

The resolution to all the great unanswered questions lay somewhere on Comagrave,
he was certain: buried in an abandoned city, secreted within a protected metal
vesicle, locked in the overlying lines of incredibly complex Sauun code that

Cullen’s colleagues working elsewhere on the planet had not been able to fully
decipher. The first requirement of a good archeologist was curiosity, but the
second was patience. Just as one could not hurry history, so too could the
unveiling of its mysteries not be rushed.

But waiting for the key was hell.

Meanwhile, each individual science team hoped theirs would be the one to bring
to light the Rosetta that would unlock the enigma of the Sauun. While Cullen’s
hopes were as high as those of any of his colleagues, realistically he knew he
was not likely to be the one to make the meaningful breakthrough. As others
labored to interpret the riddles of the abandoned Sauun cities, he was stuck on
a distant plateau whose isolation was notable even for an empty world like

Comagrave. More than he cared to admit, he was relying for direction on the
unofficial counsel and expertise of a visiting alien.

“I would not sstep there.” As he spoke, Riimadu underscored his words with a
second-degree gesture of admonition.

The AAnn’s Terranglo was remarkably proficient. Seeing nothing but a few bumps
in the ground ahead of him, Cullen nonetheless eased to his left before resuming
his advance. He had come to trust the alien’s instincts.

“I don’t see anything,” he commented as soon as he had drawn alongside the other
biped. Unlike the insectoid thranx, the anatomy of the scaled, sharp-eyed AAnn
was fairly similar to that of humans. The AAnn had evolved from a reptilelike
ancestor, and they shared with humans the same upright bisymmetrical build and
the same large single-lensed eyes, though their hands and feet each boasted one
less digit than their human equivalents. They had no external ears, vertical
pupils like cats, and highly flexible, prominent tails that they used to
supplement their serpentine, courtly language of gestures. But for these details
of design, and the bright, iridescent scales that covered their bodies, they
might pass at a distance for wandering bald primates. In build they were slim,
slightly shorter on average than humans, and muscular. Sexual dimorphism was
more subtle than in primates, so that Cullen had to be certain who he was
talking to before addressing individuals of the species as male or female.

Riimadu had established himself as male from the day he had first been allowed
to visit and conduct observations of the human archeological team. Now he
unslung a small, painstakingly embossed leather pouch from around his neck and
right shoulder. Despite the dry heat that radiated from the rocks atop the
plateau, he was not panting, and AAnn did not sweat. While Cullen and his
coworkers perspired profusely, Riimadu was very much at home in the hot, arid
climate.

“Look and learn,” the alien hissed softly as he tossed the pouch.

It landed atop one of the slight bumps in the ground. Soundlessly, it was jolted
half a dozen centimeters into the air, fell to the ground nearby, and lay
motionless. Striding forward, his limber tail flicking from side to side,

Riimadu recovered the pouch. Cullen noted that this time the AAnn handled it
with extra care.

Bringing it back, he held it out for the human to inspect. Three small brown
spines had pierced the bottom of the pouch. One went all the way through the
fine leather to emerge from the other side.

“Defenssive mechanissm for an endemic ssoil-browsser. Not a predator.” Using his
clawed fingers, Riimadu slowly extracted one of the spines from the pouch. Its
tip was so sharp it seemed to narrow down to nothingness.

“Poisonous?” Cullen examined the needlelike implement respectfully.

“Analyssiss will be required. With your permission.” Removing the other pair of
spines one by one, the AAnn carefully placed them within the pouch’s padded
interior.

“I wonder if they would have gone through the sole of my boot.” Turning away
from the no-longer-innocuous, quiescent mounds, Cullen continued back toward the
site.

“While I am a firm believer in dynamic experimentation in the field,” Riimadu
responded, “I did not feel it would be entirely ethical to utilize you for ssuch
a purposse without firsst sseeking your conssent.” He hissed softly, an
exhalation that Cullen had come to recognize as AAnn laughter. While the
reptiloids were by nature more solemn than the thranx, and positively wooden
alongside the Quillp, that they possessed and displayed a sense of humor could
not be denied. It was the subject matter that was occasionally off-putting.

“I appreciate the consideration,” he told the alien dryly. “My feet hurt plenty
as it is.” The AAnn did not react, taking the comment at face value. Well,

Cullen mused, one couldn’t expect every witticism to make the whimsical jump
between species.

The ability to espy hazardous camouflaged fauna was something he had come to
expect from Riimadu. He told the AAnn so as he thanked him more directly.

“You humanss are alwayss looking up, or ahead,” the exoarcheologist commented.

“Anywhere but where you sshould. On a world like Vussussica you need to keep
your attention focussed much more often on the ground in front of you.”

Vussussica was the name the AAnn had given to Comagrave. It was rumored that
certain elements among the Imperial survey services had never fully relinquished
their claim to the distant world humans had begun to explore long before the
first AAnn ships had arrived in orbit around its sun. Subsequent to the
conclusive imprinting by both sides of the formal agreements regarding

Comagrave’s future status, it was presumed that these dissident elements had
been suppressed. Certainly no one had mentioned them to Cullen or to any of his
staff. To Riimadu they were of no consequence. “A hisstorical footnote,” he had
called them when asked to expound his own feelings on the matter.

On an entirely practical level, Cullen did not know what he would have done
without the AAnn’s help. It was Riimadu who had suspected that the eyes of the

Mourners held a secret, and it was he who had triangulated the gazes of the
twelve monoliths and chosen this site for excavation. That they had so far
failed to find evidence of anything more significant than local subsurface
life-forms like the spine shooter did not mean the site was barren of potential
discovery, only that they had more work to do and deeper to dig. Certainly the
preliminary subterranean scan had generated some interesting anomalies highly
suggestive of the presence of unnatural stratification. Digging proceeded by
hand only to protect the topmost layer of whatever they might uncover.

Thereafter, once they knew what they were dealing with, more advanced excavation
tools could be brought into play according to the fragility of the site. They
knew they were ontosomething . They just did not, as yet, know what.

Patience, he reminded himself.

A thickly bundled figure was lurching clumsily along the western edge of the
main excavation. Setting his hopes of discovery aside, Cullen spared a brief
rush of sympathy for the awkwardly garbed Pilwondepat.

Despite making use of all six legs for locomotion, the thranx scientist was
still tottering. The humidifier that was wrapped around his b-thorax covered his
breathing spicules completely. It was not quite silent and made him sound like
he was wheezing even though the source of the sound was entirely mechanical.

Though the device drew moisture from the air, there was not enough in the
atmosphere of Comagrave to satisfy even the hardiest thranx. The humidifier’s
draw had to be supplemented by the contents of a lightweight bottle that rode on
the scientist’s back. Coupled with leg and body wraps that helped to retain body
moisture, Pilwondepat resembled a child’s toy engaged in a clumsy and
ineffectual attempt to break free of its packaging.

Only the scientist’s head was completely unprotected, allowing him to observe
without obstruction. The chafing of his chitin from the dryness of the air was
plain to see, even though Cullen knew the exoarcheologist employed several
specially formulated creams to maintain his exoskeleton’s shine and character.

The site administrator had often wondered what awful blunder the thranx had

committed to get himself assigned to Comagrave. He had been shocked to
eventually learn that Pilwondepat had actually requested the assignment.

“What are you?” he had asked in an unguarded moment. “Some kind of masochist?”

Pilwondepat had clicked to the contrary. “The love of self-suffering is a human
trait. I simply felt the opportunities here too intriguing to eschew. Like you,

I want to know what happened to these people—to their cities, and to their dream
of space travel that was never fulfilled despite their having apparently
achieved an equivalent level of technology in all other aspects of science.”

“But to volunteer for duty on a world so blatantly inhospitable to your kind . .

. ,” Cullen had continued.

The visiting scientist had responded with a cryptic gesture the human had been
unable to access in his pictionary of thranx gestures. “This is the world where
the Sauun lived. As a field researcher, you must know yourself that recordings
and records are no substitute for working on site.”

Cullen recalled the brief but instructive conversation as he watched the thranx
totter to the edge of the excavation. If the eight-limbed academic’s dedication
did not exceed his own, it certainly matched it. Despite the appalling
conditions, his hard-shelled counterpart rarely complained. As he put it, the
fascination of the Sauun enigma helped to moisten more than his curiosity.

Advancing in front of Cullen, Riimadu approached the thranx from behind and
addressed the scientist in his own language. “Srr!iik,you musst be careful here,
or you will fall in.”

Pilwondepat looked back and up at the AAnn, who loomed over him, though not by
as much as would the average human. “I have six legs. Have a care for your own
footing, and don’t worry about mine.”

“I worry about everyone’ss footing on thiss world.” Leaning forward, Riimadu
peered into the excavation. Neatly partitioned with cubing beams of light, the
hole was now some thirty meters in diameter and seven deep. At the bottom,
humans labored in thin, lightweight clothing, exuding salt-laden body water as
they worked. Their skins, in a variety of colors, rippled unsettlingly in the
light of Vussussica’s midday sun. Unlike AAnn or thranx, their epidermal layers
were incredibly fragile. Why, even a feeble thranx could split them from neck to
ankle with a single sharpened claw!

They were very quick, though. Agility was their compensation for lack of
external toughness. To an AAnn or thranx, the human body seemed composed of
lumps of malleable material, stretching and squashing unpleasantly in response
to the slightest muscular twitch. Their anatomy had no gravity, no deliberation.

The AAnn would have found them amusing, had they not been both gifted and
prolific. And dangerous. The Pitarian War had revealed their true capabilities.

To the AAnn, who had remained neutral throughout the conflict, the war had been
exceedingly instructive.

Lurching forward, he leaned his body weight against the thranx’s right side.

Pilwondepat’s foothands slid over the edge of the excavation, dirt and gravel
sliding away beneath them as he scrambled to retain a foothold. Under such
pressure, a biped would have taken a serious tumble into the open excavation.

The thranx’s four trulegs kept him from falling.

Turning his head sharply, the thranx’s compound eyes glared up at the AAnn.

“That was deliberate!”

“I kiss the ssand beneath your feet if it wass sso.” Gesturing apologetically,
the AAnn exoarcheologist stepped back. Sharp teeth flashed between powerful,
scaly jaws. “Why would I do ssuch a thing? Esspecially to a fellow sstudent of
the unknown.”

“Why do the AAnn strike and retreat, hit and retire?” As he regained his
composure, Pilwondepat held his ground, determined not to give the AAnn the
satisfaction of seeing him flee. “Always testing, your kind. Always probing for
weaknesses—not only of individuals, but of worlds and alliances.” The thranx
gestured with a truhand. “I don’t even blame you, Riimadu. You can’t help
yourself—it’s your nature. But don’t push me again. I may not be as strong, but

I have better leverage than you.”

The AAnn was visibly amused. “Colleague, are you challenging me to a fight?”

“Don’t be absurd. We are both here as guests and on sufferance of the human
establishment,crrllk . They are not fond of either of us, and must regard our
presence here as an imposition and distraction from their work.”

“Not the human Cullen.” With the tip of his highly flexible tail, the AAnn
gestured to where the human in charge was descending the earthen steps that had
been cut into the side of the excavation. “He knowss that it wass I who found
thiss ssite, and I can assure you that he iss properly grateful.”

Pilwondepat turned away. He knew the AAnn was right. The human Cullen Karasi
owed the AAnn his gratitude. Pilwondepat possessed no such leverage with the
human, or with any of his coworkers. Stumbling to and fro among them, weighed
down by the humidifying equipment that kept him alive if not entirely
comfortable, he noted their sideways stares and heard their murmurings of
disapproval. The archeological team represented a cross section of humanity,
though a well-educated one. There were among them some who actively espoused
closer ties with the thranx. They were opposed by those who fervently desired
that the two dissimilar species keep their distance from one another. The
majority listened to the diverse arguments of their fellows and tried to make up
their as-yet-undecided minds. Pilwondepat feared that his personal comportment
under trying circumstances was insufficient to elevate the status of his people
in the humans’ eyes. At every opportunity, he did his best to counteract the
sorry image he was certain he was presenting.

If only he could get rid of the awkward, encumbering survival gear! Within his
private dome he could do so, and actually relax. But those few humans curious
enough to pay him a visit did not linger. Coupled with the temperature on the
plateau, the 96 percent humidity Pilwondepat favored within his living quarters
soon drove them out. There was nothing he could do about it. If he lowered the
humidity in the dome to a level humans would find comfortable, that would leave
him miserable all of the time, instead of just when he was working outside.

So he tried to learn their language, a form of communication as slippery and
fluid as their bodies, and make friends where he could. Meanwhile he was forced
to watch as Riimadu strolled freely about the site, interacting effortlessly
with the humans, sharing the same basic body structure and single-lensed eyes,
and positively luxuriating in what for the AAnn was an ideal climate.

Hadthe reptiloid deliberately nudged him in an attempt to send him tumbling over
the edge into the excavation, or had it been an accident? One could never be
sure of anything except their innate cunning where the AAnn were concerned. They
would gesture first-degree humor while cutting the ground out from beneath you.

Yet he could not complain. The humans, who had far less experience of the AAnn
than did the thranx, continued to remain ambivalent in their attitude toward
them. Humans, Pilwondepat had noted in the course of his studies, had a tendency
to react against assertions they themselves had not proven. Accuse the AAnn,
insult them, insist on their intrinsic perfidy, and well-meaning humans were
likely to leap to their defense.

It was infuriating. The thranx knew the AAnn, knew what they were capable of.

Humans did not want to hear it. So the insectoids had to proceed discreetly in
all matters involving the scaled ones, whether in personal relationships or at
the diplomatic level. Humans would have to learn the truth about the AAnn by
themselves. Like others of his kind, Pilwondepat only hoped this education would
not prove too painful.

For their part, the AAnn were being more patient and proceeding more slowly in
their developing relations with humankind than the thranx had ever known them to
do with any newly contacted species. This knowledge allowed Pilwondepat to smile
internally. Having to proceed with such unaccustomed caution must be causing the

AAnn Imperial hierarchy a great deal of discomfort. He certainly hoped so.

Meanwhile, he was but one representative of his family, clan, and hive, isolated
on a world of great mysteries, dependent on the unpredictable humans for
continued permission to work among them and, indeed, for his very survival. That
many of them viewed his presence among them with suspicion and xenophobia he
could not help. He could only do his work and try, when the opportunity
presented itself, to make friends. For some reason he enjoyed greater sympathy
from human females than from the males. This, he had been told before embarking
on his assignment, was a likely possibility, and he should be prepared to take
advantage of it.

It had to do, he had been informed, with the thranx body odor, which nearly all
primates found exceedingly pleasant. More than once, human workers had commented
upon it, and he had been forced to resort to his translator to ascertain the
meaning of strangely emollient words likejasmine andfrangipani .

With a sigh, he started around the edge of the excavation. It was time to do
some work among the human field staff. That meant making his way to the bottom
of the excavation. In the absence of a familiar ramp, he would have to cope with
human-fashioned “steps.” It was uncivilized and awkward, but he dared not ask
for help. Special treatment was the one thing he was determined not to request.

Many humans did not realize that thranx, built low to the ground, were terrible
climbers despite boasting the use of eight limbs.

A young worker named Kwase saw the scientist struggling at the top of the first
step. Putting down his soil evaporator, the young man turned and vaulted up the
earthen staircase to confront the alien. Smiling encouragingly, he made a cup of
both hands in front of his own legs. Quickly discerning the sturdy biped’s
intent, Pilwondepat gratefully dipped both antennae in the mammal’s direction
before carefully placing one foothand in the proffered fleshy stirrup and
resuming his descent.

Brr!!asc—we make progress! he told himself with satisfaction. The annoyed look
on Riimadu’s glistening face as he observed the human voluntarily assisting the
thranx was even worth a few deep breaths of inadequate, desiccated air.

The bottom of the excavation was no familiar homeworld burrow, he mused when he
finally hopped down off the last step, but it was far more calming than the
wind-blown, lonely surface.

4

Fanielle watched the Hysingrausen Wall slide past beneath the aircar’s wings.

Running east to west across this portion of the central continent, the immense,
forest-fringed limestone rampart was interrupted only by a succession of
enormous waterfalls that spilled over the three-thousand-meter rim. Despite the
heavy flow, most evaporated before they reached the ground. Only a very few, the
offspring of mighty rivers that arose in the northern mountains beyond the

Mediterranea Plateau, thundered against rocks at the base of the wall.

The majestic geologic feature had kept the thranx from making anything more than
cursory explorations of the high tableland. Humans were delighted to be allowed
to establish themselves in a sizable region the thranx had ignored, and many
thranx were pleased to see humans making use of an uplifted portion of their
planet that was to them the perfect picture of a half-frozen hell.

She sealed her field jacket as the aircar, once clear of the strong downdrafts
that raked the wall, commenced a gradual descent. The afternoon temperature at

Azerick Station was sixteen degrees C. Bracing to a human, unbearably frigid and
dry to a thranx. Azerick did not receive many visitors from the heavily
populated lowlands. Most of the thranx who were assigned to help facilitate the
station’s development stayed down in Chitteranx, in the rain forest, where the
humidity and heat were pleasantly overpowering. A few unlucky souls were
assigned permanently to the human outpost. Being thranx, they rarely gave voice
to their displeasure. Only someone like Anjou, who had learned to interpret many
of their gestures, could tell how unhappy they were.

In less than two weeks she would have her meeting with the eint. She intended to
be forceful but congenial. There were years worth of particulars that needed to
be discussed, lists of individual items that needed to be addressed in detail.

She would have to pick and choose carefully so as not to offend, or bore, or
isolate her estimable audience. Haflunormet was a good soul, but during the time
they had worked with each other he had been able to offer little more than
sympathetic encouragement on issues of real import. Working at last with someone
who could actually make decisions promised to be enlightening as well as
effective.

There was so much to prepare. She worried about overwhelming the eint with
minutiae before paradigms could be agreed upon.

The aircar set down gently amid the quasi-coniferous forest that covered the
plateau. While the trees resembled nothing arboreal on Earth, at least they were
green. Jeremy was waiting for her. They embraced decorously. Other moves would
have to wait for greater privacy.

He took her bag as they walked through the terminal. “I hear you finally got
your meeting with a higher-up. Some of us were beginning to wonder if any of the
diplomatic staff here ever would.”

“You know the thranx.” They turned a corner, squeezing past chattering travelers
outbound on the aircar that had just arrived. “Caution in everything.”

He made a rude noise. “It’s more than that. It’s deliberate. They’re trying to
stay friends, close friends, without committing themselves to anything definite.

The Pitarian War was an exception, brought on by exceptional circumstances. Now
they’ve reverted to the hive norm.” Outside, he placed her bag in the transport
capsule. In seconds, they were racing along a grassy trail split by the
glistening metallic strip of a powerguide.

“I don’t think that’s the case at all, Jeremy.” Leaning back in the seat, she
watched the forest whiz past. At this speed, details vanished in a green blur,
and travelers could almost imagine they were speeding through the far more
familiar woods of Canada or Siberia.

He shrugged diffidently. “Well, if anybody should know, it’s you, Fannie. You’ve
spent more time among them than anyone else on staff. Personally, I don’t see
how you stand the climate and the crowding inside their hives.” Reaching out, he
took one of her hands in his and with a fingertip began to trace abstract
designs on the back. “I’d rather have you spend more time here, you know. It’s
not real great for my ego to think that you prefer a bug’s company to mine.”

She smiled and let him toy with her hand and fingers. Little sparks seemed to
materialize with each contact. “Unfortunately, while humankind has conquered
deep space, cured the most serious primitive diseases, and spread itself across
a small portion of one galactic arm, we have yet to solve the unfathomable
complexities of the male ego.”

His fingers jetéed up her arm. “Chaos theory. That’s the ticket.”

The darkened capsule arrived at Azerick with both passengers considerably
relaxed in mind and body. Jeremy bid her a reluctant farewell, leaving her to
compose the report she would present in person to the ambassador. Upgrading the
embassy here to full settlement status was one item on the crowded agenda. The
humans wanted it—for one thing, it would mean promotions all around—but the
thranx were reluctant. Granting such status implied recognition of a condition
existing between the two species that they were not sure they were prepared to
acknowledge.

She showered and redressed, leaving off the field jacket since the station was
heated to an Earth-ideal standard of twenty-two degrees, with humidity to match.

Ambassador Toroni was anxious to hear her preliminary report. Details could come
later.

Smiles and congratulations awaited her in the main conference room. Outside, the
forest of the Mediterranea Plateau, as the resident humans had come to call it,
marched away toward distant high mountains. A smattering of applause greeted her
rising. She did not blush, was not uncomfortable. The acclaim had been earned.

Spreading a brace of viewers out before her, she folded her hands and waited as
the ambassador rose. There were eight other people in the room, most of whom she
knew well. Living in an outpost on an alien world left little room for people to
be strangers.

“First,” he said, “I want to extend my personal congratulations to Fanielle

Anjou for securing what we had come to believe might never come to pass: an
appointment to discuss, and to present, multiple items of diplomatic importance
on which we have all been working for years. While the method of finally
obtaining this long-sought-after meeting may have been unorthodox, I think I can
say safely that no strenuous objections will be raised at higher levels.”

“Especially since ‘higher levels’ have no idea what a Bryn’ja request is,” Gail

Hwang observed tartly.

“Funny, you don’t look pregnant.” From his seat next to the ambassador, Jorge

Sertoa grinned down at her. “Who’s the father?”

“Probably that thranx she’s been seeing so much of,” someone else put in
quickly. Laughter rolled the length of the table.

“I don’t think so.” Aram Mieleski pursed his lips as he rested his chin
thoughtfully on the tips of his fingers. “The delivery mechanism involved is so
different that . . .”

“Oh, shut up, Aram,” Gail chided him. “I swear, if ever anybody needed a humor
transplant . . .”

“Emotional conditions cannot be transferred between individuals,” an unruffled

Mieleski calmly observed, by his words confirming the necessity of her
observation.

“What will you do,” Enrique Thorvald asked seriously, “if the thranx continue to
inquire as to your condition?”

“They’ll be informed that I lost the multiple larvae prior to giving birth.”

Anjou held one of her readers before her. “I’ve worked it all out. If anything,
that should gain me even more sympathy. And it doesn’t hurt that Eint

Carwenduved, with whom I am to meet, is female.”

“Yeah,” Sertoa muttered. “You can compare the glaze on your ovipositors.” While
basically a good guy, Jorge Sertoa was among several outspoken members of the
outpost staff who were less than enthusiastic about cementing deeper relations
with their hosts.

“And I bet you’d like to be there to see that.” Her rejoinder prompted more
laughter and defused what could have been an awkward moment. Putting the jovial
banter to rest, she hefted the reader and commenced delivering her formal
report. They would all receive copies in due course, but this way questions
could be asked as soon as they were formulated. Ambassador Toroni was a firm
believer in encouraging staff interaction.

When she concluded, less than an hour later, there were fewer queries than she
had anticipated. Her accomplishment in securing the official meeting was duly
applauded once again, but most of the questions thrown her way concerned
maintaining the security of the ruse she had invented to gain the appointment
rather than what she was actually going to discuss when it finally came to
fruition.

“It all depends,” she commented by way of summation, “on how much authority I’m
given going into the meeting.”

All eyes shifted to Toroni. Running a hand through his shock of white hair, he
leaned back in his chair and considered. For an ambassador appointed to what was
arguably the most important nonhuman populated world known, he was casual in
manner and laid-back in his work habits. It was an attitude much appreciated by
those who labored under him. Azerick was a lonely enough place to be stationed
without being forced to toil for some inflexible martinet.

“If it were up to me, Fanielle, I’d give you permission to vet and sign
treaties. But you know I can’t do that. I don’t have that capability myself. As
soon as we adjourn here, I’ll get on the deep-space communicator and find out
just how far the authorities on Earth are prepared to let you go. One thing you
can be sure of: You won’t be allowed to negotiate anything controversial.”

“I already know that,” she responded.

“But we might be able to procure more authority for you than you think, by
trumpeting the importance of this meeting, how it’s likely not to be repeated
for some time, the sensitive nature of relations between you and this Eint

Carwenduved—I intend to call in every favor and promise I’ve been stockpiling.”

He leaned forward. “I want you to have as much autonomy going in as we can
manage. This is the first real breakthrough we’ve had in months, and I don’t
want to squander it.”

“Even so, sir,” Sertoa began, “we don’t want Fanielle to agree to anything
hasty.” He smiled deferentially at her. “Careful perusal and dissection of any
potential covenant is demanded before the authority to sign can be conferred.”

“Loosen up, Jorge,” she told him. “No matter what I manage to get the eint to
agree to, I don’t think you have to worry about some thranx sharing your
bathroom anytime soon.”

It was an exceedingly mild put-down, but whether for that reason or one unknown,

Sertoa said nothing more for the duration of the meeting.

“I’ve been working on proceeding to the next step in securing a stronger
alliance among our respective species.” Holding up her reader, she touched a
contact and waited the couple of seconds necessary to transfer the relevant
documentation to everyone else’s handheld. “If the eint doesn’t dismiss it out
of hand, I intend to at least broach a number of possibilities for future
discussion.”

“Such as what?” Hwang asked with obvious interest.

“A lasting, permanent alliance. Nothing held back. Military presence on one
another’s worlds, mutual command of tactics and weaponry, joint colonization of
which this plateau and the Amazon Basin are only the most preliminary sorties.”

Someone whistled.

“You don’t want much, do you, Fanielle?” Genna Erlich observed.

“You’re talking about the kind of treaty that would require not only a vote of
the full Terran Congress, but approval by majorities on all the settled worlds.”

Mieleski’s tone was somber. “It’s a very adventurous program.”

“What are we here for, if not to press for closer relations?” Toroni smiled
paternally. “Though you’ve certainly chosen an ambitious agenda for yourself,

Fanielle.”

“Everything depends on the eint’s reaction to my prefatory suggestions,” she
replied a bit defensively. “Depending on how things go, I might not even have
the chance to make known my more elaborate proposals.”

“Quite right.” Rising, Toroni indicated that the conference was at an end. “I
look forward to reading all the details of your report, Fanielle. With luck, we
should within a couple of days have some guidelines from Earth detailing how you
will be allowed to proceed. I myself am optimistic, and intend to frame the
request for those guidelines in the most anxious manner possible.

“In the meantime, we all of us have much to study, and to digest. I take it you
are amenable to criticisms and suggestions, Ms. Anjou?”

“Always,” she replied, at the same time hoping there would not be too many.

Putting what had previously been an informal succession of guidelines into
presentation format was going to take most of the time she had remaining until
her meeting with the eint. The last thing she needed was a flood of well meaning
but essentially superfluous advice.

Only when word came back from Earth that she was to have essentially a free hand
in making proposals—though she could not commit to anything more significant
than, for example, the Intercultural Fair about to get under way on the colony
world of Dawn—did she realize how truly important the encounter would be. Though
usually an island of calm amid her often frazzled colleagues, she finally had to
take some minor medication to still her nerves.

I am going to go in there, she told herself, as the chosen representative of my
entire species, knowing that I have gained that access on the back of a lie. But
while the burden was making her increasingly uneasy, she would not have turned
the meeting over to one of her colleagues for all the suor melt on Barabbas.

As the time for her to return to Daret drew near, she found herself relying more
than ever on Jeremy’s strong, self-assured presence. A microbiologist, he had no
diplomatic ax to grind, nothing of a professional nature to gain from her
success or failure. He was interested only in her and their future together; not
in her mission. It was a gratifying change from the characteristic infighting
and arguing that took place within the highly competitive diplomatic hierarchy.

When the day scheduled for departure finally did arrive and she had little to
take with her but her hopes and anxieties, he took time off from his lab work to
join her for the brief journey in the transport capsule that would convey her to
the settlement airport.

Once more, the great green forest of the Mediterranea Plateau was rushing past
outside the transport’s port. To the thranx, it was their deepest jungle, the
most biologically mysterious region left on their homeworld. Visiting human
researchers, strolling about comfortably in pants and shirts, were making
valuable reports and passing on the results of their research to their thranx
counterparts, who would have required special gear and attire simply to survive
in the temperate-cool lower oxygen environment humans found perfectly amenable.

Similar revelations were being made by thranx researchers stationed in the deep

Amazon and Congo Basins on Earth. Of such serendipitous exchanges of data and
knowledge were scientific alliances, if not diplomatic ones, strengthened.

During the high-speed commute they held hands and talked. Jeremy’s research was
going exceptionally well, and everyone at the outpost was talking about

Fanielle’s breakthrough in securing a meeting with a thranx who ranked high
enough to actually make decisions as well as recommendations.

“I’m not going to be able to get near you when you get back,” he told her
teasingly. “You’ll be blanketed by representatives of the media.”

“If this visit is a success,” she reminded him.

“There are noifs where you’re concerned, lady-mine.”

“Maybe not where I’m concerned, but diplomacy is something else again.” Why, she
wondered, did someone who was perfectly comfortable trolling the corridors of
interstellar power suddenly and so frequently in this man’s presence devolve to
the maturity level of a sixteen-year-old? She had long ago become convinced it
was due to a recessive gene on the Y chromosome.

“Just like you’re something else again.” Leaning forward, he kissed her as
passionately as the time remaining to the airport conveniently allowed, then
rose. “I could use something to drink. Do you want anything before—?”

She became aware of the pain as vision returned. It seemed to increase in
proportion to the intensity of the light that splashed across her retinas.

Memory loaded in increasingly large chunks: who she was, where she ought to be,
what she was supposed to be doing. Too much of it failed to jibe with what she
was feeling and seeing. Though the first words she heard were in themselves
entirely innocent, their import was uncompromisingly ominous.

“She’s awake.”

She recognized the voice. Ambassador Toroni had a distinctive, measured way of
speaking, slightly nasal but memorable. It matched his face, which moments later
was smiling down into her own. There was relief in his countenance, but no
humor.

A voice she did not recognize said, “I’ll leave you alone with her for a while.

Her vitals are fine, but she’s liable to be less than completely coherent until
the comprehensive neural block has fully worn off. The aerogels will keep her
comfortable. If anything untoward occurs, or something doesn’t look right, just
hit the alert.”

“Thank you, nurse.”

Nurse.Anjou liked the sound of that even less than the absence of humor in her
superior’s expression. She struggled to sit up. Reading the relevant cerebral
commands from the patch fastened to the back of her skull and ascertaining that
rising did not contradict her medical profile, the bed complied.

Sitting up, she found that the light did not hurt as much. In addition to

Toroni, Sertoa was also present. He did not even try to fake a smile. “Hello,

Fanielle. How—how are you feeling?”

“Sleepy. Confused. Something hurts. No,” she corrected herself, “everything
hurts, but something is muting it.” Looking past them, searching the hospital
room, she did not see a third face. Especially not the one she sought. “I’ve
been in an accident.”

Toroni nodded, very slowly. “What’s the last thing you remember, my dear?”

“Packing to go to Daret. No,” she corrected herself quickly, inspired perhaps by
their stricken looks. “I was already on my way there. On the transport to the
airport. With—” She looked past them again. “—Jeremy Hyguens.”

“He was a good friend of yours,” Sertoa commented softly.

“Yes. We are—” She broke off as Toroni threw the other man a look of quiet
exasperation.

He was. That was what Sertoa had said.He was. She sank back into the cushioning
aerogel, wishing it was solid enough to smother her. When she had finished
crying, when the tears had subsided enough for her to form words again, she
believed that she heard herself whispering, “What . . . happened?”

Bernard Toroni sat down on the edge of the bed, the transparent aerogel dimpling
under his extra weight. He wanted to take this exceptional young woman’s hand,
to hold it tightly, to make things better. But that was not a procedure allowed
for in the diplomatic syllabus, and circumstances dictated that he keep a
certain distance. He did not want to keep his distance, though. He wanted to
hold her the way he had once held his own children back on Earth, before he had
begun to receive assignments to other worlds.

“You were on a transport capsule in line for the airport. There was an empty
cargo carrier on the strip ahead of you. No one knows exactly how it happened,
but there was a program failure. The cargo unit’s drive field reversed. The two
capsules hit very hard.”

“The kinetic energy released—” Sertoa started to say before a look from Toroni
silenced him.

“Once engaged, transport capsule fields don’t ‘reverse.’ The programs are
designed to be fail-safe. At worst, onboard in-line safeties should have cut its
drive. Had that happened, your capsule’s onboard sensors would have had time to
detect the failure ahead and bring it to a stop prior to impact.” He paused for
reflection. “There were a total of twelve people on board the capsule you were
traveling in. You and a fellow named Muu Nulofa from Engineering were the only
survivors.”

“Jeremy—” She did not swallow particularly hard, but her throat was on fire.

Toroni shifted his position on the edge of the bed. No one else had been willing
to pay this first visit. “The lifesavers who extricated you from what was left
of the capsule found his body sprawled across yours. They theorize that the
extra . . . padding . . . is what saved your chest from being crushed when the
front wall of your cubicle caved in. There was nothing they could do for him.

Cerebral and internal hemorrhaging.” He hesitated. “I did not know the man, but

I have since spoken to some of his colleagues. They all describe him as a fine
human being who was dedicated to his work. And to . . . other things.”

Her eyes rose to meet his. He did not enjoy the experience, but he respected the
woman in the bed far too much to look away. “Did they also tell you we had been
discussing marriage?”

“No.” The ambassador’s lips tightened. “No, nobody mentioned that to me.”

She relieved him by turning her head to one side, letting the warm aerogel
supply the support her muscles no longer cared to provide. “We didn’t talk about
it much except among ourselves. There were too many other distractions.

Professional—” She choked softly on the word.

It was quiet in the room. No one spoke for many minutes: the two men remaining
silent out of respect, the woman because she no longer had anything to say.

Behind her eyes, something had gone away.

“It’s very interesting,” Toroni finally murmured. When she failed to react, he
added, “Unprecedented, certainly.”

Moving with a slowness that had as its source something deeper and more profound
than medication, she rolled her head back in his direction. “What is?”

“The expression of concern. On a personal level. From our hosts.”

She frowned ever so slightly. “I don’t understand.”

“Some of the recently communicated terminology is unique to our translator’s
experience. I am told there are nuances involved they have never before seen
expressed.” He mustered a fatherly smile. “There are several from your contact

Haflunormet, as well as from other contacts you have made among the locals. Of
particular note is the one from Eint Carwenduved. Not only are deepest regrets
expressed, but she wishes to assure us that as soon as you are able to resume
work, she looks forward now more than ever to making your acquaintance.”

“Your meeting is still on.” Sertoa looked pleased. “You’ll carry into it with
you the extra benefit of added sympathy.”

Her mind stirred, roiled, thoughts and emotions crashing into one another before
slipping away in opposing directions. “No I won’t,” she responded tersely.

Toroni blinked. “I’m sorry, my dear?”

The look in her eyes was very different from the one that had commanded her
countenance only moments earlier. “I won’t be carrying sympathy or anything else
into that meeting because I’m not going to be in attendance. I’m not going,

Bernard. I’m finished here. Finished with Hivehom, finished with the bu—with the
thranx, finished with everything.” She turned away, until all she could see was
the aerogel support. The portion in front of her face opaqued when she closed
her eyes. “I want—I need to go home.”

The ambassador considered. In the course of his distinguished career he had been
faced with similar situations before. Some had even been inflected with highly
emotional overtones. But never before anything like this. Never. That did not
keep him from pressing forward as he knew he must.

“Fanielle,” he told her as tenderly as he could, “youhave to do this. No one
else here at the mission has managed to achieve as intimate a rapport with our
hosts. No one else is as facilely comfortable with their ways, with their habits
or mannerisms.You are the best qualified to take this meeting. That’s why you
were given the assignment of trying to secure it in the first place. It’s your
moment of triumph. You have to take it.”

From the vicinity of the aerogel came the agonizingly stillborn response. “I
don’t want it anymore.”

Hating himself, Toroni refused to let it, or her, go. Both were too important.

“It’s not a question of you wanting or not wanting it. You have to do it because
no one else can do it as well. This is a highly sensitive moment in the
development of relations between our species and the thranx. Perhaps even a
milestone. We won’t know until we see the fruits of our labors begin to blossom.

The fruits of your labors, Fanielle. Do you really want to cast aside everything
you’ve worked for here?”

“I’ve already cast it, Bernard. Find somebody else to go. Find somebody else to
take my place.”

Swallowing determinedly, he leaned toward her, careful not to initiate a
significant disturbance within the highly responsive aerogel. “Don’t you think,

Fanielle, that if I felt someone, anyone else, was sufficiently qualified I
would have assigned them to the task already? Before coming here to see you?”

Deep within, a certain component of her shattered self was pleased by the
sincere words of a man she greatly respected. But like so much else that was

Fanielle Anjou, that part of her was hiding now, isolated and shunted aside by
the nightmare that had overwhelmed her life.

“I told you, Bernard. I don’t care. It’s not important anymore.”

He nodded slowly, even though she was not looking at him. Or at anything else.

The ensuing silence lasted longer than its predecessor. Once again, it was the
ambassador who broke it.

“Program failure. Transport capsule drive fields just don’t go into reverse. The
system is replete with fail-safes—every one of which failed. The engineers are
working on it, working hard. They’re good people, but they’re baffled. They
cannot afford to be, because we must know what caused the accident. If we don’t
know, then we cannot with any certainty prevent a repetition. Of the accident.

If,” he concluded concisely, “it was an accident.”

It was enough to turn her head. “Bernard?”

Sertoa took his turn. “Fanielle, you know as well as any of us that there are
elements, some of them with substantial backing, both among the thranx and our
own kind who will do anything to prevent the kind of union between our species
that the enlightened among us seek. I’m not talking about the great mass of
undecideds on both sides. I’m talking about the kind of blatant, old-fashioned
fanaticism we thought we had evolved beyond.”

Slowly, she digested what her colleague was saying. Contemplated it from an
assortment of viewpoints. In the end, every one of them was equally ugly.

“You think someone deliberately reprogrammed that cargo capsule to reverse and
smash into the one that was taking me to the airport?”

“We don’t know that.” Toroni was relieved to see some small flicker of alertness
return to his junior colleague’s expression, even if it was thus far focused
entirely on concern for something unconnected to professional interests. “At
this point it is only speculation. But I am not the only one to have considered
it. Azerick Authority is pondering the possibility with utmost seriousness. If,
and I caution if, the hypothesis should turn out to have any basis in fact, it
would mean that our entire modus here will have to undergo the most strict
review. We will continue to press forward with our work, of course. More
fiercely than ever. But we will have to do many things differently.”

She heard everything he said, but in manner muted. Her own thoughts were
churning. “Somebody would kill a dozen innocent people just to get to me, to
keep me from a stupid meeting?”

“Not stupid.” The strength of her response allowed the ambassador to employ a
stronger tone of his own. “Highly important. Possible milestone.”

“And maybe it wasn’t someone,” Sertoa added. “Maybe it was some thing.” He eyed
her sternly. “The thranx have their own fanatics, remember.”

“But to resort to killing a diplomat . . .” Her voice trailed away into
disbelief.

“Why not?” Turning, Sertoa began pacing slowly, waving his hands to emphasize
his words. “If successful, they set back our efforts until we can find someone
else capable of achieving your kind of personal rapport with their kind. If
discovered, word reaches Earth that thranx have carried out a mass killing of
humans here on Hivehom. Either way, they achieve at least one of their ends.”

“Which is why,” Toroni went on, “no word of our suspicions is being allowed to
go beyond Azerick. Officially, there was a programming failure. A transport
accident. Nothing more. Unofficially, desperate unease is being bounced between
worlds at high speed and without regard to the cost.”

She was silent for a moment, wrapped in a cocoon of conflicting concerns. “What
will you do if the investigating authorities determine that the crash was no
accident, and that thranx were responsible?”

Bernard Toroni had been in the service all his professional life, had ridden the
currents of diplomatic ebb and flow until all the rough edges had been knocked
off him long ago, leaving him polished and smooth. Nothing surprised him;
nothing could crack his learned demeanor; nothing could get a grip on his
emotions. For the first time since he could remember, maybe for the first time
ever, he was shaken.

“I don’t know, Fanielle. I don’t think anybody does. The reaction on Earth,
among the colonies . . .” He swallowed hard. “It would result in . . . a
setback.”

She nodded, the movement a barely perceptible stirring against the aerogel. “If
it’s true, then someone—” She glared disapprovingly at Sertoa. “—someone, will
go to any length to keep me from meeting with Eint Carwenduved.”

Toroni’s face betrayed nothing. “To keep you from doing so, yes. You
specifically, Fanielle.”

She gazed back at him evenly, more awake now than at any time since the two men
had first entered the room. “You’re a very cunning man, Bernard Toroni.”

He shrugged, his face a perfect blank. “I’m a professional in the diplomatic
service, Fanielle. Nothing more.”

She turned her gaze to the ceiling. It displayed a soundless, peaceful holo of
drifting clouds. In the distance was a small rainbow. She did not see it, just
as she no longer saw peace. That had been taken from her. Forever? She chose not
to think about it. Forever was a very long time.

“How soon will they let me out of here?”

The ambassador’s tone was glib, controlled. “In a day or two, if you like. Then
there will need to be a period of rest. You are one bipedal contusion from head
to toe. But nothing significant was damaged. Nothing was broken.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she whispered wearily. “So . . . I will follow through
with the lie, and make the meeting. You must be pleased, Bernard.” Seeing the
look on his face finally gave her the means to again consider the feelings of
others. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He rose from the side of the bed. “I’m used to it. It’s
part of my job.” He hesitated briefly before continuing. Noting his superior’s
expression, Sertoa nodded solemnly and left the room. “There is one other thing.

At least you will no longer have to worry about lying when you refer to the

Bryn’ja request.”

She did not reply: just stared up at him.

“The staff here knows nothing is broken or damaged because when you were brought
in from the wreck you underwent the most thorough medical scan the facilities
here are capable of rendering. I am more sorry than I can ever say, Fanielle,
but there is no point in keeping it from you. Truth always seems to emerge
before it is convenient for us to have it do so. When you meet with Eint

Carwenduved you will be able to do so as someone who has not obtained an
encounter on the basis of a prevarication.”

She examined the implications of his words from a distance. It only made her
that much more determined to confound those who might have done this to her. To
her, and to one other, and to a future that now would never have the chance to
be.

Her voice as taut as duralloy stressed to the point of destruction, she gazed up
from the bed out of damp eyes and asked him softly, “Do they know how long I’ve
been pregnant?”

5

It certainly was a lovely world, Elkannah Skettle reflected as he and Botha took
their ease along the shore of City Lake. New pathways had been laid to
accommodate the anticipated tide of guests. Transparent lobes thrust out over
the lake’s surface so that visiting children could experience the illusion of
walking on water while delighting in the play of native and introduced aquatics
swimming just beneath their feet. A multitude of chromatic-winged flyers swooped
and darted above the shimmering splay of water, making fearless dives to pluck
small, wriggling creatures from the depths. They filled the air with an
unexpectedly sonorous honking, surprisingly tolerant of the increasing numbers
of visitors who had begun to throng the lakeshore prior to the official opening
of the fair.

Too bad it all had to be marred by the presence of thranx.

For all that he had devoted much of the previous decades to decrying humankind’s
intensifying relationship with the insectoids and then taking his philosophy and
intentions underground, Skettle had seen very few thranx in person. Observing
them on the tridee was no longer a problem. The disgusting creatures were all
over the media. You could hardly find one delivery source out of the thousands
available where they were not eventually to be encountered; all bulging compound
eyes, wriggly antennae, and obscene multiple mouthparts. If anything, meeting
them in person was even worse.

He could sense the same robust revulsion in the shorter, darker man who matched
him stride for stride. Botha was not especially talkative, ill at ease in
get-togethers even of his own kind. But there was nothing subdued about his
dislike of the bugs. Equipped with poor social skills, he had to be watched over
constantly lest his deeply felt feelings manifest themselves in ways that could
be dangerous to his friends as well as to himself. Skettle had taken it upon
himself to do this, which was why he had insisted that the engineer be paired
off with him today. Hatred is healthy, he had assured Botha on more than one
occasion. But it must be moderated by wisdom. To be effective, ruthlessness must
be appropriately timed.

So when they passed a mated pair of the creatures, all suffocating scents and
pearly aquamarine exoskeletons, he shifted his weight just enough to nudge Botha
off stride. Wearing a hurt look, the stumpy engineer blinked up at him in
confusion.

“What was that about, Elkannah?”

“Keep walking. Keep looking at the wildlife on the lake. That’s better.” When he
was certain they were well out of earshot of any other visitor, and after
checking to make sure that his individual privacy field was at full strength,

Skettle absently placed an open palm in front of his face to confound any
possible distant lip-readers and proceeded to explain.

“How often must I remind you, friend Botha, to conceal your true feelings toward
the bugs?”

The smaller man’s expression changed to one of honest surprise. “I wasn’t! . . .

Was I?”

“Your face is pure plastic, Piet.” The older man stroked his beard. “I at least
can rely on these long gray whiskers to hide emotions that might otherwise
escape. If you will persist in using a biannual depilatory, you must be prepared
to monitor every wrinkle of your lips, every arch of your brow, every twitch of
your cheek muscles.”

Botha replied while considering something on the ground—which also allowed him
to conceal his lip movements from potential far-seeing viewers. “I’m sorry.

You’re right—I need to be more aware. Especially now, when we are so close to
accomplishing something really important. But is it really necessary to be so
careful, every minute? We’ve both seen non-Preservers who obviously feel as we
do yet aren’t afraid to express themselves visually.”

“That’s because it doesn’t matter if somebody confronts them, or questions
them.” Raising a hand, Skettle waved at a passing couple. Charming little girls
they had with them, too. “Without appearing effusive, we must seem to be among
those in favor of closer, not more distant, ties to these bug beings. We must
not merely deflect suspicion; we must embrace it, engulf it. Then it can be
safely disposed of, the way targeted eukocytes kill cancer cells.”

Botha nodded understandingly. Except for the thranx presence, which would not
begin to become truly onerous for another day or two until the full panoply of
the fair was thrown open to the public, he was quite pleased with how things had
been going. The weather, the freshness of the unspoiled atmosphere, the subtle
tingling tastes and aromas of a new world: all were meant to be enjoyed.

Several times that day they tarried to eat something, or sit and have a drink.

These many pauses allowed time for reflection. They also allowed Botha, through
the sophisticated instrumentation woven into his attire, to coordinate the
actual final layout of the fairgrounds with the multiple schematics he had spent
nearly a year preparing. The inconspicuous display that occasionally flashed
onto the organic readout that floated atop his left pupil would have gone
utterly unnoticed by anyone but a very attentive lover.

By late afternoon they had covered a good deal of ground. Having studied stolen
diagrams of the grounds for months prior to actually arriving on Dawn, they were
able to avoid dead ends and cover only those areas it was absolutely necessary
for them to visit and confirm in person.

“We could do another quadrant.” Botha had perfected the art of reading the
optical display without squinting. “They won’t close for another hour yet.” When
the fair opened officially, they both knew, the grounds would remain accessible
to visitors around the clock. This was very convenient for their own purposes,
which did not include nocturnal sight-seeing.

“No need to rush things.” Skettle was sitting in a chair floating above a small
pond. Trained leeshkats, local amphibians, popped up in cleverly choreographed
rhyme-time to spit sparkling fountains into the air. Despite the seeming
randomness of their alien exertions, not a drop of water fell on giggling,
appreciative patrons of the small snack bar. Flowers flush with streaks of pink
and vermilion swayed atop flexible aqueous roots. “We’ll come back and finish up
tomorrow.”

“Fine with me. Everything matches up with the charts we’ve been using. I haven’t
seen anything yet that will complicate our planting of charges.” Frowning
abruptly, Botha spun in his seat. His chair rocked playfully with the sharp
movement. “What is that awful screeching?”

“Poetry reading.” As he pointed with one hand, Skettle took a sip from the
self-chilling glass of his tall, teal fruit drink. “Watch your expression,

Piet.”

From atop a rotating mobile platform drawn by picture-perfect simulacra of
eight-leggedcovuk!k from Willow-Wane, an ornately attired thranx was declaiming
melodiously. Enchanted by his exotic appearance, quaint mode of transportation,
silvery clicks and whistles, and a wafting fragrance redolent of crushed
orchids, a sizable crowd trailed behind. They hung on the poet’s every gesture
and sound. Though the majority of the entranced entourage was human and could
understand little of the actual meaning of what was being said, they were
fascinated nonetheless. The few thranx tourists in the procession endeavored to
translate as best they could, and to convey some sense of the trenchant artistry
that underlay the courtly performance.

“Look at those people, slavishly hanging on that filthy bug’s wretched
croakings!” Botha had to turn away from the noisome spectacle, so repellent did
he find it. “What’s wrong with them?”

“They have not been educated.” Far more in control of himself than his companion
was, Skettle took a longer swallow of his drink, then eyed the nearly empty
glass appreciatively. “This is very good. We will have to try and take some
concentrate back with us. It is the task of such as ourselves, Piet, to educate
them. That is why we are here.” He listened for another moment as the procession
wandered out of earshot. “Desvendapur.”

“What?” Botha blinked at him.

“That was the thranx poet who escaped from their treacherous outpost in the
western Amazon. Before your time, really—but I remember it quite well. I spent
more time than it was worth trying to see what even a few disoriented, misguided
humans found in his so-called poetic random barks and gargles. None of it ever
made the least sense to me. Absolutely worthless drivel.”

“Apparently not to a bug,” Botha commented.

Skettle emancipated his empty glass, watched as it carefully negotiated a path
between diners and drinkers on its way back to the kitchen. “Who knows what a
bug thinks? Who cares? Let’s get back to the hotel and find out how the others
did.”

Botha slipped out of his chair. It rocked briefly in his absence, then steadied
to await the next set of perambulating buttocks. “Hopefully, Pierrot hasn’t
blown up anything prematurely.”

“If she has, she better have included herself.” Skettle did not look in Botha’s
direction, for which the smaller man was grateful. He admired, even revered,

Elkannah Skettle as much as any member of the cause. But the old man could scare
you sometimes, without even intending to. Something in his manner, in his mental
makeup, was skewed: a powerful ego skimming swiftly across the ice of the mind
on skates fashioned of parallel psychoses.

That did not make him any less of a leader in Botha’s eyes. You just had to be
wary of his occasional . . . moods.

Like his companions, Beskodnebwyl found Dawn unappealing. Had the authorities in
charge not decided to hold this misconceived melange of a fair in the middle of
the hottest month on the northern continent of the colony, he did not think he
could have stood being outside for very long without proper survival gear. The
idea of spending a winter on such a world . . .

As it was, it was near noon and he was still chilly. Afternoon would be better.

The local temperature tended to reach its most intense just before sunset.

Nothing could be done about the dryness of the atmosphere, however. Like the
temperature, the local humidity fell just within the limits of what was
tolerable. He felt some sympathy for the thranx who were actually participating
in the fair. They did not have his flexibility, could not always come and go
when the weather suited them best.

It was not enough sympathy to keep him from watching them die, however.

Flanked by Sijnilarget, Meuvonpehif, and Tioparquevekk, he wandered in
apparently incessant spirals that in fact were designed to carry him and his
square of four to a specific destination. Not one of the many clever amusements
that had been constructed by the resident humans, nor any of the engagingly
familiar displays that had been erected by the invited thranx, distracted the

Bwyl from their chosen course. The four resisted all such blandishments,
ignoring lights and music, recitations and performances, disdaining to sample
even the finest examples of thranx foodstuffs imported by invitees from Hivehom,

Willow-Wane, Eurmet, and elsewhere. They had no time to partake of such
diversions. The truly dedicated are not easily swayed from their intendment.

The closer they got to their destination, the more edgy they became. It was not
necessary to conceal the emotions running through them, however, because certain
movements of limbs and antennae that would have been highly suggestive to
another thranx meant nothing to the humans among whom they passed, and all other
thranx were busy operating exhibits. The fair infrastructure had been designed,
laid out, and was being run solely by the hosting humans of Dawn.

Even if they were confronted at the wrong time or in the wrong place,

Beskodnebwyl knew, they could easily plead ignorance.

No one challenged them as they reached the building that had been constructed on
the shore. A large portion of it extended out over the lake. This bulky
apparatus was to be expected, since the building’s task was to integrate
communications within the fairgrounds, both private and public. Concessions,
restaurants, exhibits, and most of all, Security—all depended on the gleaming
new transmission and relay system to supply their needs. This it did admirably,
in manner mostly automated.

Working with data extracted from restricted reports, a mated pair of renegade
scientists sympathetic to the Bwyl cause had developed a wonderful set of
miniaturized explosives easily deliverable by hand. At their chamber in the
temporary hivelike structure the humans and their thranx advisors had built to
provide comfortable climate-controlled lodgings for thranx visitors to and
workers at the fair, the Bwyl had left a small packing case containing an
assortment of favorite drinks. One drink container held enough of the explosives
to kill a significant number of people.

Utilized throughout the fair, they would quickly cause widespread havoc. When
the source of the havoc was identified as thranx, it should not be enough to
start a war, but should prove more than sufficient to place a freeze on the
upgrading of diplomatic relations that would last for years at a minimum.

They located and memorized several entrances to the structure, which was to be
one of their principal targets. All were secured, as Beskodnebwyl and his
companions knew they would be. Beskodnebwyl and Tioparquevekk kept watch while

Sijnilarget and Meuvonpehif inspected the security arrangements.

“Difficulties?” Beskodnebwyl asked as soon as they returned. Few humans had
passed their way. Those that glanced in the direction of the four thranx had
assumed they were part of the fair maintenance staff. A reasonable, if totally
incorrect, assumption.

“Not many.” Sijnilarget was peering through a device that no human would have
recognized. “Though important to the smooth functioning of the fair, this is not
a military installation. I would estimate less than ten time-parts to gain entry
without setting off any alarms. Admittedly, I have not had as much time as I
would like to study human designs of this nature, but I see nothing
insurmountable. Regardless of the sentient species that designs them, security
systems for oxygen breathers adhere to certain fundamental patterns.”

Beskodnebwyl gestured his understanding. “Gaining entrance is the difficult
part. Once inside, it becomes a simple matter of setting and timing a couple of
containers. In the absence of communications, the chaos we will create will only
be magnified.”

“There may be human guards inside,” Tioparquevekk cautioned. “Or at least
maintenance workers we may have to deal with.”

Meuvonpehif flicked her truhands sharply forward, producing a small cracking
sound as chitin snapped against chitin. “You concern yourself with getting us
in. The rest of us will handle matters should any unfortunate humans decide to
try and intercede.”

“Anyone observing our activities must be silenced.” Sijnilarget deliberately
spoke in Low Thranx to emphasize the crudity of his response. “They must not be
allowed to raise the alarm.”

“We don’t even know if there will be any humans to be encountered in what must
surely be a largely automatic operation.” Beskodnebwyl continued to shield

Tioparquevekk’s instrumentation with his body. “No one enters a strange burrow
looking for trouble. How are you coming?”

“Almost finished.” Tioparquevekk hovered over his equipment. “I have analyzed
and ascertained the requisite patterns. All that remains is to record them and
then run a phantom, to ensure that everything will work on the day we choose to
act.” He went silent, busy with all four hands and sixteen digits.

“Hey!”

Beskodnebwyl, whose knowledge of human speech forms verged on fluency,
recognized the word as an exclamation of accusation. What mattered, he knew from
his painstaking studies, was the intensity with which it was delivered, and
whether querulousness was implied. It struck him that in this instance all the
relevant ingredients were involved.

“What are you doing there?” The human who had spoken now adopted a tone more
belligerent than curious. Beskodnebwyl did not panic. There were only two of the
bipeds, and they were not clad in the attire of the several maintenance teams
that serviced the fair. That meant they were only casual fair-goers, not unlike
himself and his three companions. Behind him, he could sense Tioparquevekk
concluding his work and hastily downpacking his equipment. Despite a rising
sense of anxiety, the other three thranx worked smoothly and efficiently. With
four hands, they were not prone to fumbling.

If this human did not occupy an official position, what right did it have to
bark accusingly at Beskodnebwyl and his companions? Assuming a defensive stance,
he moved forward to confront the human. It was rangy, even for its kind.

Standing tall on his four trulegs, Beskodnebwyl could not have raised his head
to the level of the biped’s chest. Nonetheless, he was not intimidated.

Proximity to the lumbering, lurching mammal brought on feelings of disgust and
mild nausea, not fear.

“I will tell you as soon as you have shown me your license.”

Looking bemused, the two men halted. The taller one continued to do all the
talking. “What license?”

“The one that gives you the authority to challenge peaceful visitors to this
fair.” Behind him, Beskodnebwyl sensed his companions shifting their stances to
form the rest of a traditional defensive four-headed square. Whatever happened
now must be resolved quietly, he knew, lest the confrontation draw unwanted
attention.

The smaller of the pair spoke up, speaking to his friend. “Not only talkative
bugs, but sarcastic ones.” His hand, Beskodnebwyl noted, was hovering over a
slight bulge in the garment that covered his lower body. The Bwyl was not
worried. If the human flourished a weapon, Sijnilarget, Meuvonpehif, and

Tioparquevekk would be ready to respond with firepower of their own. Though
differing greatly from thranx in their physical makeup, human bodies reacted
similarly to an encounter with high-velocity explosive pellets.

The taller one’s tone became slightly less combative. “I asked you what you were
doing here.” His head bobbed in a gesture Beskodnebwyl knew was meant to
indicate the building behind them. “This isn’t part of the fair exhibit. There’s
nothing here for the public to see.”

“We know,” Meuvonpehif commented readily in her heavily accented Terranglo.

“It’s the central communications facility.”

Beskodnebwyl was furious enough to reach back and snap one of the female’s
antennae. By her physical reaction, he could see that she recognized her error
almost as soon as she made it. Perhaps, he hoped agitatedly, the humans would
find the comment innocuous.

They did not.

The tall man chose to continue to direct his words to Beskodnebwyl. “Is it
really? That’s interesting. How do you know that? It isn’t marked as such on the
outside.”

“It’s function is quite obvious,” Beskodnebwyl replied a bit too quickly. “The
necessary apparatus for the transmission of information dominates the roofline.”

The human nodded again. Beskodnebwyl thought his expression now indicated
thoughtfulness, but it was difficult to tell. Mastering the range of human
facial expressions took time and patience. “So you’ve been studying the
communications center from other vantage points besides this one. That’s even
more interesting. I wonder what the Dawn police would make of your interest?”

The biped was preternaturally perceptive, Beskodnebwyl thought tightly. This was
threatening to get out of hand. He could feel his companions shifting their
stances behind him, preparatory to . . .

He was contemplating how best to dispose of the humans’ bodies when the short
human appeared to lose control of himself. Drawing the bulge from his shirt, he
aimed a device that was as lethal-looking as it was compact directly at

Beskodnebwyl’s head.

“Goddamn dirty bugs want to get their filthy claws on everything!”

Reacting almost instantaneously, the trio of thranx behind Beskodnebwyl
extracted from their thorax pouches weapons of their own. Confronted
unexpectedly by thrice his number, the stocky biped hesitated, unsure now how to
proceed, his initial bravado much reduced by the revelation that his intended
victims were armed. He stared at them, glanced up at his companion, then back at
the thranx. Like the rest of him, the muzzle of his weapon wavered.

Admirably calm, the tall human stepped between his friend and the armed
defensive square. “Now, this I would not have expected. Piet is quite right: It
is unthinkable to have disgusting, germ-ridden quasi-insects such as yourselves
stumbling about this close to a vital human installation. It inevitably raises
the question of why you would want to do so. The presence of concealed weapons
at a peaceable venue like this fair greatly enhances those questions. As does
the undeniable skill and readiness with which they have just now been deployed.

Yet you are not members of an officially recognized organization.”

“I dispute nothing you say, but what does it prove save that thranx are always
ready to defend themselves from reasonless attack?” Beskodnebwyl was watching
the tall human carefully. The man’s stocky companion he had already dismissed as
unimportant, despite the fact that he was the one holding the weapon.

“It may prove a very odd thing indeed.” The human smiled, fully exposing his
teeth. Beskodnebwyl had to force himself not to turn away from the distasteful
sight. “It suggests that you and I may be here for the same purpose.”

Beskodnebwyl had nothing to frown with, and the human could not understand the
thranx’s gestures. It was left to inadequate words to convey subtleties of
meaning. “And what purpose could that possibly be?”

“Elkannah?” the shorter man murmured uneasily. “Are you sure about this?”

“I always trust my instincts, Piet. If there’s another explanation, we’ll divine
it in short order.” Turning his attention back to Beskodnebwyl, he continued as
calmly as if requesting a change of shuttle seat assignment. “You and your
dirt-dwelling friends are here to disrupt this fair, aren’t you? You’re planning
to do something to, or with, local communications. You are here to cause
trouble.”

This was it, Beskodnebwyl reflected. They would have to kill both bipeds, and
kill them quickly. All it would take would be a gesture from him. The humans
would not recognize it, and so the one holding the gun would not have time to
react. But . . . he was curious.

“That’s the kind of observation that could get an individual killed. Why
shouldn’t it?”

“Because my friends and I are here for the same reason. From civility, we plan
to bring forth chaos. We don’t like your kind, you see. Among us are many, too
many I fear, misguided people who think we should cuddle up to you bugs, make
you part of our cultural and political lives, let you set up your teeming,
odious colonies on our own worlds. That sort of thing is reprehensible,
unnatural, and must be prevented at all costs.” He stopped, waiting while the
bugs digested his words.

“How very astonishing.” At a gesture, the trio behind him lowered, but did not
put up, their weapons. Somewhat reluctantly, the shorter human did likewise.

“Your speech is admirable, except that for sake of veracity the word phrase
forstinking soft flesh should be substituted for the derogatory termbugs .”

The biped smiled again. Beskodnebwyl found he was better able to tolerate it
this time. “I think we may be able to come to an understanding. If we do not
cooperate, our natural antipathies will surely undo our respective plans. Ours
do not especially involve the communications facility. Your plan is just to
destroy it?”

“Yes,” Meuvonpehif replied before Beskodnebwyl could silence her.

The biped looked in her direction. “You are lying. Such as you would not come
all this way, smuggling in weapons as well as intentions, just to render the
visitors to and promoters of this abomination of a fair unable to communicate
with one another. You must have something more extensive planned.” He returned
his gaze to Beskodnebwyl. “I will reiterate: If we do not cooperate, we will end
up at cross-purposes, when what we both want is the same result.”

Beskodnebwyl nodded, an absurdly easy human gesture to imitate. “We intend to
set off explosives not only here but throughout the length and breadth of the
depravity.” Behind him, he heard Tioparquevekk and Sijnilarget inhale sharply in
disbelief. “The more fair-goers—human and thranx alike—that we can kill or
incapacitate, the stronger will be the reaction among your kind.”

Again the human nodded—approvingly, Beskodnebwyl thought. “We plan to make use
of some custom-built explosive devices. As I understand it, the more creative
types we execute, the angrier will be the response from your infernal hives.”

“Quite correct.” Beskodnebwyl found himself staring up at the human. Used to
dwelling underground, the human’s greater physical stature did not intimidate
him. That sort of psychological positioning was for open-air dwellers only. “You
confirm what we already believe: that your kind are inherently violent and
murderous, and must be kept as far away as possible from a truly civilized
society such as our own.”

“We want nothing less. Back on Earth, you know, we step on bugs all the time.

Have been doing so since the beginning of our recorded history.”

“What more can be expected,” Beskodnebwyl responded, “from a species that flops
about like ambulatory sacks of iron-based blood and loose meat?”

Skettle’s smile faded slightly. “We understand each other, then. We will not
interfere with whatever it is you intend to do, and you will not interfere with
us. Working separately but with the same goal in mind, we will with our
endeavors here succeed in putting relations between our species where they
belong: at a distance sufficient to ensure that we have to do no more than
tolerate your presence in the same galactic arm as ourselves.”

“I could have put it better,” Beskodnebwyl replied, “but your words will do. It
may even be that we will, over the next several days, find reason to cooperate
more closely in carrying out our respective efforts, and might even try to
synchronize our operations in hopes of achieving maximum outcome.”

“That’s a fine idea.” Skettle started to retrace his steps. At no time did he
turn his back on the bugs. “We should arrange for some of us to meet daily to
continue this exchange of information. How about at the Syxbex Restaurant, on
the lakeshore?”

“That location will be eminently satisfactory.” Beskodnebwyl maintained the
defensive square, watching as the pair of bipeds retreated. “We want to be sure
to avoid any misunderstandings.”

When we have done what we came for, he mused, we will also find a way to kill
you. Loose antennae could not be allowed to flutter about. Besides, it would
give him pleasure to preside over the demise of so forthrightly antagonistic a
human. He raised a foothand in the human gesture of farewell.

Skettle waved back, thinking as he and Botha turned the first available
sheltering corner that he was going to delight in seeing this particular bug’s
skull cracked and its brains oozing out over the colorful pavement that had been
laid down for the fair.

There is nothing in art, in philosophy, or in politics to match the fervor of
mutual cooperation among discordant bands of fanatics.

6

The supply station had a spectacular setting. Located on a low rise overlooking
a vast salt pan smoking with geysers, mud pools, and hot lakes, it doubled as a
geothermal research station for the score of scientists and their support teams
studying the wonderfully bewildering variety of silicate and sulfuric minerals
that gushed forth from the bowels of the planet. These often differed markedly
from their terrestrial analogs. Every week of exploration, sometimes every day,
elicited new cries of discovery from delighted geologists.

In addition to being crammed full of mineralogical revelations, the thermal
wilderness was awash in beauty. While yellow and its variations were the
predominant colors, there were also rich varieties of blue, green, and red
thanks to the presence of the tough, active, endemic bacteria that thrived in
the thermal pools. Occasionally, a brisk south wind would sweep through the
valley, brushing away the clouds of steam to expose kilometer after kilometer of
roaring geysers, gurgling hot springs, plopping mud holes, and steaming rivers.

A certain species of thermotropic eel-like creature nearly two meters long had
biologists almost coming to blows over its taxonomy. Was it a highly advanced
worm or an exceedingly primitive fish? Or something entirely new to science?

On the rare occasions when it rained, the combination of steam, fog, and drizzle
made it impossible to see more than a meter in front of one’s face even at high
noon. At such times fieldwork was restricted. Unseen, the tentative network of
hastily laid prefab pathways could not be negotiated in safety, and even aircar
work was halted. The resident scientists would cluster in frustrated,
argumentative knots inside the air-conditioned labs and living quarters, anxious
to be released from regulations even though they knew these had been drawn up
with their own safety in mind. But when was there ever a scientist who paid
proper attention to personal safety when a host of new discoveries lay close at
hand?

Brockton was working on a robot probe designed to take samples from the hottest
vents when he felt the first vibration. It was accompanied by a muted rumble, as
if one of the back doors had been opened. A glance showed that both of the big
service bay barriers were still shut. With a shrug, he returned to his work. He
was alone in the shop except for the automatics, Norquist and Oppervann having
decided to take a long lunch. They did not have many opportunities to interact
with the scientific staff and took every chance to do so. To improve their
education, both men insisted. To try to put the make on one of several
attractive unattached ladies among the staff, Brockton knew.

Nothing more than casual flirting for him. He had a wife and two kids on Tharce

IV. He was here because he didn’t mind the desert, and because in a year on

Comagrave he could make the equivalent of three years’ salary back home. His
family understood. When his contract was up, he would be able to take a whole
year off doing nothing but watching his kids grow.

Though considered a party-killer, he got along well with his workmates. His
skills, honed through fifteen years of experience, were greatly appreciated by
both his colleagues and his employers, and he did not try to play the
disapproving father figure to his predominantly younger coworkers. Removing his
hands from the interior of the probe, he shut the access panel, picked up the
nearby magnetic welder, and began to reverse the polarity on the interior
latches. Once flopped, they would hold the panel shut as securely as if it had
been melted into place.

There it was again. A second tremor, stronger than the first. He had picked up
enough geology from hanging around the station’s scientists to know that where
geysers and thermal pools are present, stronger seismic activity was to be
expected. But this didn’t feel like one of the numerous minor temblors he had
experienced many times during the preceding months. It had a different feel to
it—more of a bump than a rumble.

The station was constructed on a flexor foundation that was designed to
distribute any shock evenly across its base. Anything short of a tectonic
convulsion would be dissipated by the integrated flexors before it could cause
any damage. The contractors had known what they were doing. Though he had not
worked in construction, Brockton had seen enough to know good work from bad.

Upon arriving, he had taken an off day to make his own inspection of the station
and its outlying structures. Everything had looked reassuringly solid.

That was when the ground fell away and the roof started to come down on top of
him.

The roar that accompanied the collapse was frightful, a caustic clamor in the
ears that masked the screams of those crowded into the central dining area for
lunch. Feeling the floor fall away beneath him, he grabbed wildly for the probe.

It was plunging downward as well, until he managed to hit the open programming
panel. Bluish light emerging from its flat underside, the probe rose and
steadied on its tiny repulsion field. Brockton’s terrifyingly rapid descent
slowed. Kicking the field up to full power, he found that the probe could muster
just enough lift to keep them both aloft. For how long he did not know.

Then the rest of the roof came down.

Guiding the probe, he made a mad dash for the nearest crumpled doorway. He just
did manage to slip through a rip in the crumpling, warping fabric. Outside in
the glare and steam of the day, he turned his head to look back in the direction
of the station. Keeping both arms and legs wrapped tightly around the laboring
device, he tried to make some sense of what he was seeing.

The entire station—central hub, communications tower, living quarters, lab
modules, service departments, hygienics plant—was collapsing in upon itself. No,
not upon itself, he saw through the rising, swirling mists. Into a gaping
cauldron. A roaring river of boiling water had suddenly manifested itself
directly beneath the station. With nothing to support it, the advanced flexor
foundation was no more useful than a row of wooden pilings.

Despite the damp heat, he was having chills. Rising above the groans and
grindings of imploding buildings were the screams of those trapped inside. A few
who had been near the front exits had tried to escape that way, only to find
there was no place to escape to. Like those they had left behind, they died
before they could reach solid ground, crushed beneath the subsiding structures
or boiled alive in the torrent that had burst forth beneath their feet.

In less than an hour there was nothing left of the supply station. It had been
swept away, down the steaming cataract that now gushed from the side of the rise
and into the nearest expanse of hot lake. A couple who had been out all morning
studying cyanotic bacteria returned in their aircar and pried his cramped arms
and legs off the probe that had saved his life. Another researcher returned
later that evening. He was accompanied by the resident AAnn advisor. Decamping
on a mound of solid, well-vegetated ground half a kilometer away, the numbed
survivors tried to make sense of what had happened.

Brockton knew what had happened. He had survived to feel his wife next to him
once more, and to hold his children. As soon as rescue teams arrived, he was
putting in for a pysch dismissal. He doubted he would have any trouble getting
one. Not after what he had seen.

Norquist, Oppervann, all those other fine men and women—all gone. If the rescue
teams were really lucky, they might be able to recover some bones. Sitting on
the ground beneath an orgthic bush, he hardly heard what the others were saying.

It was starting to get dark, and he was cold. Surrounded by hell, he was cold.

Of everything his fellow survivors said prior to the angelic arrival of the
first rescue craft, only a few words of the AAnn, speaking in clumsy Terranglo,
remained forever stuck in his memory.

“Ssstt, we told your engineerss not to build on that ssite!”

The stitcher’s harpoon struck the underside of the aircar with a familiar
shrillthwack . Leaning cautiously over the side, Elrosa saw it wriggle out from
under the sand, all three of its protruding, bulbous eyes triangulating on him,
their intended prey. He wondered what, if anything, the voracious alien mind
behind them was thinking. As he thrust his scanner over the side of the vehicle,
he watched as the meter-long harpoon was slowly retracted. The stitchers learned
quickly: It would not expend its killing mechanism on the armored underbelly of
the aircar again.

So powerful was the expelled harpoon of a stitcher that it could penetrate the
underside of a normal vehicle. Elrosa and Lu’s aircar was not normal. It had
been given a ventral sheathing of glistening golden percote that would have been
more appropriate to a military transport. Nothing merely organic could penetrate
that layer of sprayed-on armor. It reduced the aircar’s speed and range, but not
significantly. And it allowed the two biologists to proceed in comparative
safety with their study of several varieties of desert-dwelling predator.

Another hopefulthwack . Another subsurface hunter disappointed. This was turning
out to be an excellent study area.

The stitchers were one of several unique carnivores that lived and hunted
beneath Dawn’s scattered sand seas. They impaled their prey on long, sharp
harpoons built up of concentric layers of hardened calcium carbonate. It was as
if a human had learned how to sharpen a femur, spear it into prey, and reel the
resultant kill back in by means of the ligaments still attached to the bone.

Since no one had yet dissected a stitcher, the means by which their harpoons
were propelled at such remarkable velocity remained open to explication. Elrosa
favored compressed air as a nontoxic and readily renewable means of propulsion.

Lu came down on behalf of those who postulated the existence of multiple knots
of rapid-twitch muscle fibers.

They were not out today to catch and dismember—only to take measurements. Elrosa
was duly excited by the work they had accomplished over the past several days.

There were more stitchers per cubic kilometer of sand sea in this area than
anyone had previously encountered anywhere else. Lu thought it might be a mating
territory. Stitchers mating—now that would be a ripe subject for a monograph!

Another lacklusterthunk sounded as a harpoon struck the impenetrable underside
of the aircar. He smiled to himself. It would be useful to know if the stitchers
considered the low-flying intruder a threat or a possible meal. Perhaps both, he
mused. Previous fieldwork indicated that the predators sometimes appeared to
hunt in tandem, or even in small groups. He and Lu had seen no evidence of pack
hunting thus far, but like everything else on Comagrave, organic or otherwise,
very little was known with assurance.

Behind him, his partner shouted a verbal command to the aircar console. It
complied, and they found themselves jetting silently forward, leaving frustrated
stitchers goggling in their wake. Only the predators’ eyes and expended harpoons
were visible above the surface of the dune.

Another sand-filled depression beckoned. With luck, they might find a line or
two of migrating geulons, or a new species. So recently arrived were humans on

Comagrave’s surface that it was the unfortunate biologist indeed who did not
return from a field trip without at least several new species to record.

Taxonomy was almost as exciting as actually encountering the creatures in
question.

Leaning over the open side of the car, careful to keep himself as small a target
as possible for anything inimical that might be lying camouflaged under the
sand, he directed Lu to shift them another ten meters northward.

“That’s good!” He gestured with his upraised right hand. “This looks like a
promising spot.”

His assumption was correct. Every day, they grew more skilled at predicting the
movements of the planet’s endemic wildlife. No sooner had the aircar hummed to a
halt than not one but three loudthwack s, one after another like shots from a
gun, rapped on the underside of the vehicle.

Lu joined his friend at the edge. The air suspension craft hovered effortlessly
some three meters above the sand. “There!” Lu pointed to where a brace of
eyeballs, like pale white melons, protruded from the sand. Recorders were
brought into play.

As they clicked away, Elrosa heard a decidedly different kind ofthunk . It was
higher in pitch, more immediate, and sharper of sonic detail. Turning, his eyes
widened slightly as he saw the meter-long calcareous lance quivering upright in
the deck. It had penetrated the plastic sheeting to a depth of a fifth of a
meter. As he stared, a soft whistling sound drew his gaze upward.

“Look out!” Throwing himself to the side, he just did avoid the descending tip
of the stitcher harpoon. It slammed into the deck centimeters from his
scrambling right foot.

Rolling over, Lu stared in astonishment at the impressive weapon. “They know
that there’s food up here—us—that they can’t get at from below. So they’ve
started firing into the air, hoping to impale us on the way down. Amazing!”

The aircar was equipped with a retractable cover, but one designed to offer
protection only from the weather. A harpoon would go through it like a
vibrablade through gelatin. As Elrosa climbed to his feet and took a step toward
the control console, a vast whistling suddenly filled the air, as of an
approaching dustdevil. Lu let out an inarticulate cry and dove for the open
hatch that led to the tiny, enclosed head.

He didn’t make it.

Assembling silently beneath the sand, the pack of stitchers must have fired at
least fifty harpoons.

Though its power pack was approaching empty, the aircar was still hovering in
place when one of the several search teams sent out to look for the two
biologists finally found it. Of the two biologists who had been aboard, there
remained only bloodstains on the deck, and on the side where their
harpoon-impaled bodies had been dragged from within by the hungry stitchers.

Studying the scene of quiet butchery, the newcomers conversed in subdued
whispers interrupted only by the occasionalthwack s of harpoons striking their
craft’s underside and armored roof.

When the sole AAnn aboard suggested that perhaps she and her kind should take
over field study of the stitchers, or at least supervise the work, the human in
charge readily agreed. If the AAnn wanted to deal with such cunning carnivores
until such time as enough was known about them to work their territories in
comparative safety, he saw no reason to argue. Let the reptiloids be the ones to
put their lives at risk.

“There will be less rissk for uss,” the AAnn assured him sympathetically. “We
are ussed to living in the ssandss, among thosse kindss of creaturess that make
their homes thussly. You will, of coursse, receive copiess of all reportss as
they are prepared, and will be kept fully up to date on all our progress.”

“Fieldwork is usually better carried out by the many than by the few,” the
dejected human supervisor concluded. Another time, under different
circumstances, he might have felt otherwise, but he was distraught over the
unexpected loss of two of his colleagues. Besides, where was the harm in sharing
field assignments with the willing AAnn? They were more at home in this kind of
country than any human, and their willingness to share data had already been
demonstrated. Let them do some of the hard work. With an entire new world to
study, catalog, analyze, and report on, his staff was already stretched thin.

They could find plenty to occupy themselves besides stitchers.

“I don’t understand.” Hibbing stood by the side of the glassine tower and stared
dubiously at the readouts embedded in its smooth, curving side. “Everything was
fine as of this time yesterday.” Nearby, Tyree and Souvingnon were examining the
contents of the relay box that hugged the side of the tower close to the ground.

Tyree glanced up. “Everything’s working, sir. The extractors just aren’t pulling
any water.”

Turning, Hibbing saw his eyewrap darken as he gazed eastward. The site that had
been chosen for the main settlement on Comagrave commanded a sweeping view of
the spectacular Carmine Cliffs, a geologic upthrust averaging a thousand meters
in height that ran for hundreds of kilometers from north to south. Below and to
the west were the Bergemon Salt Flats, a perfectly flat pan devoid of
vegetation, subsurface liquids, or tectonic instabilities. To the north lay the
maze of narrow canyons known as the Fingerlings. One of the most biologically
rich areas on the planet, it was but a short journey from the outskirts of

Comabraeth community.

Beneath the settlement site, hydrologists had located a sizable prehistoric
aquifer big enough to provide a six-hundred-year supply for a city of half a
million. A better place to establish the colonial capital of Comagrave could not
be found on the planet. There was water in abundance, more than ample landing
space for shuttles and aircraft out on the pan, biological and geological riches
practically within walking distance. Months had passed without a hint of
trouble, during which time the village had grown into a thriving small town of
more than ten thousand. There was talk of formalizing it as the capital of the
incipient colony.

And now the water, every million acre-feet of it, was gone. Or so his hydrotechs
were telling him.

Reluctantly, he lowered his gaze from the glorious, multihued vista spread out
before him. Comagrave was not yet developed enough to be able to accommodate
tourists, and his position never allowed him longer than a minute or two to be
one himself. “How could this happen?”

Souvingnon rose to confront the administrator. At his feet, Tyree continued to
fiddle with instrumentation, as if by so doing he could somehow will the water
to return. “There are possibilities. Since the original discovery dated the top
layer of water to several hundreds of thousands of T-standard years ago, it
seems pretty clear to me that the only way it would suddenly vanish is if some
radical new regional development did something to affect the underground
geology.”

Hibbing nodded slowly. “And the only new regional development is us.”

Souvingnon gestured in the direction of the extraction tower and the attached
processing and filtration plant. “Everything above ground is working perfectly.

So we have to assume that the problem is subterranean in nature. Personally,

I’ve never heard of an aquifer that big disappearing this fast. But this is a
new world. Geology isn’t even a perfect science on Earth.” He turned thoughtful.

“This region might not be as seismically stable as the original surveyors first
assumed. There might have been a catastrophic collapse in the shale strata
underlying the aquiferic sands. It could have been set off by the continual
vibrations of shuttlecraft landing and, especially, taking off.”

“That doesn’t sound very reasonable.”

Souvingnon sighed. “Since we don’t have a reasonable explanation for what’s
happening, I’m starting a search for unreasonable ones. The aquifer is broad,
but not deep. Realistically, a subterranean collapse on such a scale is
unlikely. Theoretically, it’s possible.”

“What can we do?” Hibbing turned back in the direction of the town. “I’ve
already activated emergency rationing procedures. I’m responsible for the health
and well-being of nearly fifteen thousand people, Souvingnon, every one of whom
needs to drink and occasionally to wash. We don’t have a waste problem—the
solid-waste decomposing system needs no water—but I’m going to have to start
having supplies tanked in from the Broughlach River. That’s three hundred k’s
from here. A couple of months of that will bankrupt our municipal operating
budget. As you know, initial planetary R and D stopped supplementing that over a
year ago.”

And I’ll be replaced, he thought to himself. They’ll send me somewhere quiet and
out of the way to decompose, just like the town’s solid waste. Hibbing did not
want to be replaced. He liked his job, liked the beauty and solitude that

Comagrave could boast in plenty. It was why he had applied for the position of
colonial administrator in the first place.

“We can drill elsewhere.” Souvingnon pointed across the valley, to the colorful
crimson rampart. “Maybe at the base of the cliffs.”

“Maybe.” Hibbing was dubious. “But the initial hydro surveys chose this spot
because there was water in plenty here. And if the shuttle landings are
responsible for what has happened, who’s to say the underground water table
hasn’t been collapsed everywhere in the vicinity?”

Tyree finally rose from his inspection, brushing dust from his hands. “We could
ask the AAnn.”

The AAnn had a very small deeded scientific outpost to the west of the town,
near the edge of the salt pan. They had no view of multihued cliffs, no easy
access to the valleys of the Fingerlings. As Hibbing understood it, there were
no more than forty individuals working at the reptiloids’ outpost at any one
time. Insofar as he knew, they had their own water supply. An emergency line
could be laid across the pancake-flat edge of the pan from the alien outpost to
the town in a fraction of the time and cost it would take to build one to the

Broughlach River.

Ifthe AAnn had water to spare, and if they were so inclined.

Hibbing considered. Town storage was at 80 percent of capacity. Within a few
days, like it or not, they would be tanking in water from the distant

Broughlach.

“Let’s pay our scaly neighbors a visit,” he told his engineers softly.

Coblaath SSCDDG met them outside. Standing at the entrance to the AAnn outpost,
it was difficult to tell that there was any kind of installation at the edge of
the pan at all. That was because, in keeping with AAnn preference and design,
the great majority of it was located underground.

“Very hot insside for humanss,” the outpost commander informed them. “You like
it warm. We like it hot.”

That was an understatement, Hibbing knew. Vacationing AAnn would have no
compunctions at setting up sand baths and scale scratchers inside a working
oven. And they liked even less moisture in the air than did humans.

“I appreciate your concern for our welfare.” Hibbing was new to this. He was an
administrator, not a diplomat. But having explained the dire situation to his
superiors via deep-space beam, he had been given emergency leave to do whatever
he thought necessary and best to alleviate the situation.

“You heard what has happened to our water supply?”

The AAnn executed a gesture of third-degree commiseration coupled with
fourth-degree understanding, all of which looked like nothing more than
gratuitous hand waving to Hibbing. “A terrible missfortune. Who can explain
ssuch a thing? We have never encountered ssuch a phenomenon oursselves, and we
have ssettled many worldss very ssimilar to Vussussica.”

Hibbing ignored the use of the AAnn cognomen. He was not here to argue the fine
points of diplomatic terminology. He had come for help.

“You heard what my engineers have theorized.”

Coblaath gestured, then nodded. “Thiss head movement iss the correct one, yess?”

Hibbing smiled broadly. “That’s correct, yes.”

The AAnn commander drew himself up proudly. “I have been practissing. My people
perussed your hydrology report. Your engineerss appear to have analyzed the
ssituation mosst thoroughly. We ssurmise that there iss at leasst one, perhapss
sseveral vertical upthrusstss of impermeable rock between here and your
sstation. Thiss accident of geology keepss our aquifer sseparate from yourss.”

“And you still have plenty of water?” Hibbing tried not to show too much
interest, wondering in the midst of his caution if the vertical-pupiled,
lizardlike alien would recognize such concern even if it was manifested.

“Truly ample. The equal of what ussed to lie beneath your own esstablishment, I
am told.” As the pointed tongue flicked in Hibbing’s direction, the
administrator tried not to flinch. “Enough to sspare whatever you need, perhapss
even on a permanent bassiss.” He gestured reassurance. “After all, we have only
a tiny outposst here, and require very little water for our own needss. Why
sshould you, our friendss, not make good usse of it?”

Hibbing was taken aback. The period of difficult, extended negotiations he had
been prepared to embark upon in order to secure the minimal amount necessary to
keep the station going had not only not materialized, but here was the AAnn
commander offering him all the water he needed—and for an unlimited, or at least
unspecified, time into the future. The money alone that would be saved . . .

“I hardly know what to say, Commander Coblaath. I had not expected such a
generous offer.”

The AAnn’s tail switched sideways in yet another gesture of significance Hibbing
was unable to interpret. “While it ssleepss underground, the water doess no one
any good. We can help you with the engineering. If we begin a pumping sstation
here while your people lay pipe from your end, it will sshorten the time until
you can receive our water.”

“Yes, of course it would.” Hibbing had gone from being apprehensive to feeling
positively buoyant. But while he had seemingly achieved all he had come for, and
much more, the negotiations were not yet completed. “What would you require in
the way of payment? My staff and I don’t expect you to give us access to this
water out of the goodness of your hearts.”

“But that iss why we are doing thiss.” Coblaath managed to sound, if not look,
surprised. “We would not let our good friendss want for water. We assk only one
thing.”

Hibbing waited, trying to hide his unease. “What might that be, Commander?”

“We wissh only to be accorded equal sstatuss in thiss region. To be free to go
where we wissh, to do our own sscientific work without having firsst to ssubmit
it for approval to your ressearch authority, to move about as we require. A
little freedom of action, that iss all. Iss not too much to assk in return for
ssaving your largesst community on Vussussica—your pardon, on Comagrave. Iss
it?”

Hibbing hesitated. Did he have that kind of authority? The AAnn wasn’t asking
for equal colony status, or control over anything. Simply the ability to cut out
the red tape that hampered the free movement of his own staff. What harm could
there be in acceding? It wasn’t as if Comagrave was home to military secrets
that needed to be protected. The money this would save . . .

And he had been given the authority to deal with the emergency as best he saw
fit, hadn’t he? If the authorities back on Earth didn’t like it, they could deal
with the agreement after the fact. Meanwhile, the station would have all the
water it needed, and the AAnn would have a reason to continue to maintain
cordial relations with the staff and inhabitants. If anything, Hibbing felt, in
agreeing he was doing something to promote better interspecies relations.

“I think I can safely say there will be no problem in getting my people to agree
to such a simple and straightforward request. That’s really all you want in
return?”

“That iss all.” The commander extended a hand in imitation of the human gesture.

“Thiss is the proper indication, iss it not?”

Hibbing took the proffered hand. The three fingers and opposable thumb were
tipped with sharp claws that had been painted with colorful whorls. He felt hard
scales slide against his own soft flesh. The sensation was not unpleasant. He
was charmed by the AAnn’s effort to mimic human ways.

“Indeed it is. I extend my thanks and that of my entire staff, not to mention
those of everyone resident in the town.”

“Tell them on behalf of mysself and the Imperial Board of Intersspeciess

Relationss that I am mosst delighted we were able to help. Truly.”

Like everyone else on Comagrave, Pilwondepat kept abreast—or more
properly,athorax —of weekly happenings through reports that were freely
available via the planetary net. Not only did it help him to stay well informed
and aid him in his own research, but it was an excellent way to practice his

Terranglo. The only information available in Low or High Thranx came via sealed
communiqués or direct orders from the tiny thranx complement living on
sufferance at Comabraeth community. During the past months he had become used
not only to speaking in Terranglo, but to thinking in it. It made him less
thranx, but not necessarily more human.

Presently, he was perusing a seemingly minor account about a poisoning that had
occurred in the Talathropic Pond ecosystem. The Talathropics lay nearly a
thousand miles from Comabraeth. A human resources-analysis team had been
following up a stock satellite report, prospecting on the ground for possible
ore bodies of certain metals, when one of their number had been bitten by a
local arthropod. The man’s circulatory system had reacted severely—so much so
that he had not been expected to live. The site was too far from Comabraeth for
help to reach the afflicted in time.

Only the presence in the same area of an AAnn troika that was taking mineral
samples made the difference, as the AAnn possessed on their craft a small lab
for synthesizing regenerative proteins. Ratiocination of the toxin’s molecular
structure allowed them to concoct a crude antidote that saved the man’s life. As
the report detailed, his friends were effusively grateful for the reptiloids’

swift and efficacious intervention.

By itself, the article was a mere annoyance. While happy that the human who had
been bitten had survived, Pilwondepat was irritated that it was the AAnn who had
received gratitude for the deed. Then he began to think. Probably, he decided,
the only problem was that, isolated in his self-contained chamber on the edge of
the escarpment, he had too much time to think. But . . .

Wasn’t it odd that a human should be bitten by a viperous indigene far from any
human assistance, only to encounter AAnn working the same vicinity who just
happened to have among their mineralogical gear a fully equipped portable lab
for doing organic chemical synthesis that included among its research files
sufficient data and material for calibrating human as well as AAnn biologenes?

Was it more than odd, or did he need to turn the chamber’s humidifier up yet
another notch?

Something else pricked at his mind. Resetting the viewer, he began searching for
similar articles, or even dissimilar ones that might involve human-AAnn
interactions. Anything so long as it smacked of oddness.

Gradually, as the night wore on and everyone else in the camp slowly slipped
into deep, relaxing sleep, what he began to find were examples of something more
than apparently unrelated oddities, the least of which smelled even stronger
than the most odoriferous of his human associates.

And much more ominous.

7

It was a part of Daret she had never seen before, that no human had seen before,
and it was spectacular. Accustomed to the crowded warrens of the capital hive,
the last thing Anjou had expected to find was open space underground.

She felt as if she were walking in a park lifted from some elegant imperial past
on Earth. To be sure, the scattered furnishings and artwork were utterly alien,
and the botanical decor was unfamiliar; but the sense of luxury and good taste
was apparent everywhere, even to a visiting human. Small waterfalls cascaded
down slopes that had been sculpted from the raw rock out of which the high-domed
chamber had been hollowed, their flow vanishing into the myriad conduits that
were the lifeblood of the hive. The arching ceiling glowed with yellow-and-blue
light supplied not by artificial lights but by hundreds of transplanted fungi.

Mist swirled gracefully, only to be caught and borne away by concealed fans to
be recycled through hidden ducts.

A smallmyrk peeped out from beneath spatulate, blue-veined leaves. Crouching,

Fanielle extended a hand, and the palm-sized creature crept hesitantly over to
her, ambulating on four legs nearly hidden by its dense coat of black-and-blue
fur. It had the huge eyes and sensitive nostrils of an animal accustomed to
living underground. As it sniffed cautiously of her open hand and then moved
close so she could scratch it, she reflected that these were the kinds of furred
creatures the thranx were used to dealing with: tiny, harmless, mewling things
that had shared their hives and tunnels for millennia. It cooed delightedly and
pressed up against her caressing fingertips.

In another part of the Arm, the tiny balls of fluff had stood up, shed most of
their fur, and achieved a level of technology equal to that of any other
space-traversing species. This was difficult for many thranx to accept. One
shooed furry creatures out of the way, or paused to observe their strange
behavior. One did not converse with or enter into treaties with them. One
especially did not sign agreements that could be construed as even a partial
surrendering of sovereignty.

Yet that was the ultimate end to which Anjou and those of like mind within the
diplomatic corps strove. It was proving an uphill battle on both sides, against
superstition, fear, prejudice, uncertainty, and inertia. She thought of Jeremy
and imagined him waiting for her back in Azerick. Jeremy, with his quiet,
confident smile and the way his face would light up at the news that another new
kind of spore had been discovered. Jeremy, with his enveloping, comforting arms,
and soft lips. Jeremy, with . . .

Jeremy was no more, and there was to be no more of him. She shuddered violently,
uncontrollably, and angrily shoved the back of a hand against her moistening
right eye.

“Are you feeling unwell,crr!!kk ?”

Whirling, she found herself gazing into the face of the oldest thranx she had
ever seen. Even the venerable female’s ovipositors had turned a dark purple. Her
chitin was the color of raw amethyst, the glow of her great golden compound eyes
was significantly dimmed, and her antennae hung forward in limp arcs. At least
two trulegs gleamed more brightly than their counterparts, showing that they had
undergone forced regeneration, and one truhand was purple composite, suggestive
of injury so severe it could not be regrown and had been replaced with a
prosthesis. But the voice, though muted, was strong, and the concern it
reflected genuine.

“I’m all right, thanks.” Though she stood straighter, she still found herself at
eye level with the sage. Most humans towered over the arthropods: not Fanielle.

Whether they appreciated having a diplomat to deal with who came down to their
level physically she did not know. Haflunormet had never commented on her
height.

“You are the attaché who sought this appointment, are you not?” The
valentine-shaped head cocked slightly to one side.

“I am Fanielle Anjou, yes. You are Eint Carwenduved?” A simple gesture on the
part of the elderly thranx was confirmation enough. “I very badly want to talk
to you about—”

The venerable eint interrupted, pointing with the artificial truhand. “Let us go
and sit by theprolerea , and listen to the music of the waters singing. We can
talk there.”

The thranx moved slowly and with deliberation, picking her steps as if each one
might be her last. She did not appear to be that feeble, Anjou reflected.

Ancient, to be sure, but still capable of flexibility and movement. The human
hoped her host’s mind had the same capacity.

They paused at a little alcove close by one of the many small waterfalls. This
one tumbled and tinkled over a succession of metal leaves, each droplet
generating a musical tone. Looming above was a bush with a thick trunk that
threw out great splays of bright pink-and-black flowers. The fragrance from so
many blossoms reeking of cinnamon and honey was almost overpowering.

Reaching up, the eint plucked one and pressed it to her face. Anjou could see
the multiple mouthparts working as the thranx devoured the center of the bloom.

When it was half consumed, she extended the remainder to Anjou.

“I am told that your people can safely ingest this. Would you care to try it?”

Anjou did not, but diplomats are often called upon to extend themselves in
peculiar ways on behalf of their profession. Accepting the remnant, she saw
several centimeter-long structures protruding from its underside. Plucking one,
she showed it to the thranx, who gestured encouragingly. Popping the alien
pistil into her mouth, she bit down tentatively.

Flavor and a sugary sensation exploded across her suspicious taste buds. The
pulp was so sweet it almost hurt her teeth. As she passed the blossom back, she
needed no encouragement to finish what she had been given. It was superb.

“Very nutritious.” Finishing off the remaining pistils, the eint set the bloom
casually aside. In a subterranean garden as immaculate and ornate as this, Anjou
doubted the debris would remain unattended to for very long.

“About the proposed treaty details,” she began, the lingering sweetness still
effervescing throughout the inside of her mouth, “have you had time to
scrutinize the details?”

“Sssllcci,I have done little else these past major time-parts.” Reaching out
with a longer foothand, the eint put four hard-shelled fingers against the
human’s belly. “I cannot imagine what it must feel like to give live birth. I am
told it is painful, and can well imagine it.”

“It’s not comfortable.” Anjou was not pleased by the rapid change of subject,
but did not try to force the conversation. “In ancient times, I’m told it was
often fatal.”

The eint gestured restrained disbelief. “Eggs are better. They do not kick. Now
then, about this treaty of yours. It’s very substantial. Mere translation took a
goodly amount of time.”

“A treaty is not a poem,” Anjou admitted. “Nothing must be left open to
misinterpretation.”

“I assure you it was not. The entire series of documents was vetted most
thoroughly.”

“I know that you are in a position to make real decisions.” Anjou leaned
forward, trying to suppress her excitement. “That you can recommend directly to
the Grand Council. What do you think of the proposals?”

The distinguished female caressed a blossom bud with tru- and foothand, bending
the petals back ever so gently. “I love these flowers. I love the look of them,
and the smell, and especially the taste.” Dimmed but far from dead eyes regarded
the watching human. “If you bring the plant into your sleeping chamber, it fills
it with perfume—but only for a few days. Then it withers and dies. I would hate
to see the very good relationship that presently exists between our species
perish from too much contiguity.”

Anjou was not put off. “That won’t happen.”

“Is that so?” The distinguished female set the barren bloom aside. “So in
addition to giving birth to this document, you can also predict the future?”

“No, no, of course not. I’m just saying that safeguards will be put in place to
ensure that we don’t intrude on each other. Close friends don’t have to live
together under the same roof.”

Antennae bobbed and dipped. “That is what the council will say. I can tell you
right now what the response will be if I propose your treaties for ratification.

I don’t have to tell you, of course, but I rather like you, Fanielle Anjou. And
not simply because you are eggfull.” A truhand reached out to stroke the woman’s
forearm. The superannuated chitin was still smooth and cool to the touch.

“You obviously believe deeply in these proposals on a personal as well as a
professional level.”

“I am not alone,” she responded. “There are many who believe as strongly in the
interdependent future of our two species as do I.”

“And it is not to be denied that there are those in the hives who feel
similarly, and who are not hesitant to express themselves in the strongest
terms.” The matriarch’s essence filled the air, stronger even than the
surrounding, lovingly tended flowers. “But they are not a majority. Nor are
those who angrily oppose any contact with your kind beyond that which is
absolutely necessary. The bulk of the Greater Hive remains undecided. The words
in your proposal are reassuring, and well thought out, but they are not wholly
convincing. Furthermore, they are only words.” Reaching back, she removed a
small tube from the embroidered pack on her thorax and sniffed deeply of one end
by holding it flush against first one set of breathing spicules, then the other.

“We have to start with words.” Anjou shifted her seat. “When we have agreed on
certain words, then relevant deeds can be implemented. But treaties must come
before action.” Am I getting through to this ancient? she wondered. What was the
eint thinking? Unlike face-to-face negotiations with another human, there was no
way to tell from simply looking at the eint what was going through her mind. The
chitinous countenance was inflexible.

“You speak well for your proposals, you and those who side with you. As for
myself, I belong to that great, surging, heaving mass of egg-layers and tenders
that has not yet made up its mind.” A truhand wagged in Anjou’s direction, and
she did not need a visual guide to interpret its significance. “Push us too
hard, young female, and we will wall up our tunnels away from you. You will not
be able to reach us.”

Anjou struggled to remain confident. It wasn’t easy; the eint was offering
little in the way of encouragement. “Then as they are written, you disagree with
the basic tenets of the covenants?”

“I did not say that.” Plucking a smaller, darker branch from the nearby foliage,
the eint munched contentedly on azure petals. Her mouthparts made fastidious
grinding noises as they masticated the succulent herbage. “What I think, what
the majority of those I represent and those I deal with daily in council think,
is that your kind and mine have a perfectly good relationship right now. There
is no need to extend it further, except insofar as concerns the AAnn.”

Anjou watched something small and metallic flit through the surrounding
undergrowth. “We have no quarrel with the AAnn. Therefore we can’t promise you
any more assistance as regards them than what already exists. If they were to
make some kind of serious frontal attack on a thranx world, that would be
different. We would be bound, even in the absence of a formal military treaty,
to render aid because of the help you gave us during the Pitarian War.”

“Would you, my dear?” Carwenduved studied the human closely, wishing she
understood the meaning of those remarkable twists and contortions that flowed
through the biped’s flexible epidermis. “There is no formal reciprocation. You
are not obligated to assist us, just as we were not obligated to help you
against the Pitar. There is no treaty, no pact that requires you to provide such
military assistance. We helped you against the Pitar because we thought it was
the right thing to do. In the event we are assaulted by the AAnn, will your
people believe similarly?”

Diplomat though she was, it was too big a lie for Anjou to countenance. Besides,
the eint probably knew in detail whereof she spoke. “I can’t answer that,

Carwenduved. It would depend on the circumstances. I can tell you that humans
have always stood up against injustice, no matter where it has occurred.”

“That is good to know. Is it so even among those of you who refer to us as

‘bugs,’ and would like to squash us underfoot like our tiny namesakes that
occupy your worlds?”

“Shapeism is conspicuous among the thranx as well as among my people. It is a
primitive animosity that will eventually die out.”

“As it must also among my kind.” The eint sighed, her b-thorax expanding and
contracting sharply. “But for now, it exists, and must be dealt with.” She
stirred on her bench. “Although I admit there are those on the council who would
like to forge a tighter relationship with your kind, they are outnumbered by the
many who believe that the present situation is perfectly satisfactory. They see
no need to dig the two burrows closer together. You have your worlds; we have
ours. While we can share the same environments, we have different preferences.

We like hot, humid worlds with a higher oxygen content than yourselves. From our
point of view, you like to live in dry, cold places where no thranx would be
comfortable for very long, and where depending on the relevant extremes we need
special equipment to survive. There is no direct competition. Therefore, there
is no need to modify the formalities that presently exist between us. The galaxy
is a big place, and our explorations and exploitations need never overlap.”

Anjou could not hide her disappointment. She had worked so hard to secure this
meeting, and except for some casual, albeit friendly, chitchat, it was going
nowhere. The eint was polite, but firm. “It could be so much more. The way our
species worked together during the Pitarian War showed that.”

“More than what,yrriik ? What more could we wish for than what we already have?

Trade proceeds as trade always does, according to the benefits that accrue to
those participating. There is mutual respect, and even a certain degree of
sometimes grudging mutual admiration for each other’s unique qualities. There is
even beginning to be appreciation on a deeper level, as witness occasional
events like this intercultural fair on your new colony world of Pawn.”

“ ‘Dawn,’ “ Anjou politely corrected her. “But it’s not the same. It’s not what
it could be.” Held in check since she had arrived, excitement finally overcame
her professional equivocation. “We’ve never encountered anyone like the thranx.

Physically, socially, you’re completely different from us. Yet we enjoy so many
of the same things. Not only art, but even humor. I don’t know anyone who has
spent time among you who has not made a permanent friendship or two.”

She was waving her arms about now. Instead of alarming the elderly eint, it
relaxed the alien. Speaking frequently as they did with their four arms, it was
a pleasure for a thranx to see a human similarly utilizing her limbs.

Carwenduved studied the movements with interest, wondering at the meaning of
each individual gesture. She would have been disappointed to learn that nearly
all served only to emphasize and did not carry specific meanings of their own.

“Friendship is a fine thing,” the eint declared when Anjou finally ran down.

“But you speak as one who has spent more time among us than most of your kind.

Others are not so sanguine. What is to say that a closer, tighter association
might not harm rather than help relations between our kinds? In the absence of
proof, continued caution would seem to be the best course.”

Here, at least, was a line of objection Anjou had anticipated and prepared for.

“There are the outposts here, at Azerick, and in the Amazon Basin on Earth. In
both places, humans and thranx have developed a working relationship that goes
beyond the formal. Everyone gets along. There have been just one or two reported
incidents of violent conflict between settlers, scientists, and locals. The more
time our people spend in one another’s company, the closer grows the bond
between them. We have seen this happen over and over again. There is
occasionally some mutual distaste involving appearance, but this soon passes as
everyone gets to know everyone else.” She nodded at the eint. “Your own reports,

I am sure, show similar maturation.”

“No one disputes that our species can get along, or that individuals can become
fond of one another.” Reaching out with a foothand, she ran the two center
fingers down Anjou’s arm. “Iam growing fond ofyou . Your persistence gains you
merit. And I must confess that I myself . . .” She looked away—or at least,

Anjou thought that she did. With those compound eyes, it was hard to tell. “I am
inclined to think that the proposals you set forth in these documents should be
given serious consideration.”

Anjou contained herself. Out of the cool, calm resistance of the conversation
had come the first glimmer of hope. “It would be,” she replied with as much
gravity as her small voice could muster, “the greatest thing to happen to our
two species since each of us independently detected the presence of intelligent
life beyond our respective homeworlds. Think of it! An alliance between two
different intelligences that for the first time in this part of the galaxy
advanced beyond the usual agreements on trade and culture. Thranx would be able
to visit any human world they wished, at any time. Humans would gain reciprocity
of movement with the Greater Hive. We would share government, thus reducing many
large expenses. And no potentially antagonistic species would dare to threaten
so powerful a regional alliance. You would be safe forever from possible
depredations on the part of the AAnn.”

“Don’t underestimate the determination and capability of the AAnn.” The eint
gestured first-degree vigilance. “They are afraid of nothing. Cautious, yes.

Deliberate and calculating, yes. But afraid, no. You are right, of course. Such
an all-encompassing alliance would give them considerable pause, and would
therefore be to our great advantage. But it goes beyond the military commitment
the Great Hive seeks.”

Anjou sat back. “I don’t see you ever acquiring the one without the other.” It
was time for bluntness, no matter how unpleasant. “Despite what I said earlier,

I personally don’t see the great mass of humankind going to war to save the
thranx. To save a human-thranx society, or humanx as some of us have taken to
calling it, that would happen without debate.”

“And I don’t see the council moving in the direction of sharing government and
dissolving at one dig all the usual barriers that stand between us.”

Anjou wished there was another representative she could caucus with, someone
else she could turn to for advice on how to proceed. But there was not. She was
alone. The eint had agreed to see her, and only her, because of the Bryn’ja.

There were at present no other diplomats serving at Azerick who happened to be
pregnant.

“Will you at least present the formal proposal to the other members of the
council?”

“They have much to occupy their time, and are very busy. Not only are they
responsible for the stable operation of government here on Hivehom; they must
consider progress and development on our own colony worlds.”

“And wouldn’t those functions be easier if they could be shared?”

The eint whistled quiet amusement. “You are righteously dedicated in this
matter, I see.”

“I, and those who think like me, dearly desire what we believe to be best for
both our peoples.”

“Well, the Pitarian War certainly gave a boost to your aspirations. There are
those among the thranx who would sign such a treaty tomorrow. Unfortunately,
they do not lie in council. But yes, I will present the relevant documents for
consideration.”

Anjou’s heart leaped. It was not everything she had hoped for, but it was
realistically as much as she could have expected from the visit.

“And now, enough of interstellar diplomacy, of debating the fate of worlds.”

Rising from her supportive bench, the rickety eint clasped Anjou’s right hand in
a foothand. “Such softness! One cannot only feel the warmth, but see blood
vessels beneath the skin. I marvel that it does not tear as easily as a leaf.”

Anjou let her hand lie freely in the hard chitinous grasp. It was like holding
hands with a crab. “Amazing stuff, human skin. I’m afraid we don’t take care of
it the way we should.”

“Yet if torn, it bleeds more slowly than do we.” Antennae dipped forward,
stroking the human’s exposed arm. “And this business of exuding salt water
through your epidermal layer. Most bizarre.”

“No less strange than breathing through one’s neck,” Anjou responded. “Or
employing a set of limbs alternately as hands or feet. Or smelling through
feathers that stick out of one’s head.”

“You speak querulously of normal things.” Tugging gently, the eint drew Anjou
away from the bower where they had been talking to lead her down another garden
path. “Not being a biologist, I take it you have never seen a nursery, or
visited a pupation station.”

“No,” Anjou admitted. At the eint’s words, images swam in her mind of glistening
larvae and newly matured adult thranx bursting forth from swollen body cases.

“Srr!!lpp,if you’re going to speak of merging our civilizations, our cultures,
you need to know more than what they show you at formal briefings.” The two
fingers and two thumbs that had been holding Anjou’s hand moved around to her
lower back and pressed, urging her forward.

“You will come with me now, Fanielle Anjou. It’s time you met the kids.”

8

“Maman, look at the funny-looking man walking the big bug!”

The well-dressed woman leaned over and whispered urgently to the little girl,
who looked to be about seven. “Hush now, Iolette. It’s not polite to call
someone funny-looking. It’s only his clothes that are different. And he’s not
walking the big bug; they’re walking together. That’s a thranx, sweetheart.

They’re not really bugs. They just look a lot like bugs.”

From the other side of the seven-year-old, her father bent over to speak. “A bug
is an insect, sweetheart. The thranx are not insects. They’re people, just like
you and me, and they’re supposed to be very smart.”

The little girl’s black ringlets hovered about her forehead as she looked
sharply up at her father. “Can we go meet them, Dadan? Can we say hello?”

Mother and father exchanged a glance. “I don’t know, sweetheart,” the mother
murmured. “Are you sure you really want to? I thought you told me that bugs were
yucky.”

The girl was insistent. Perhaps it was the play of color of the thranx’s
iridescent blue-green exoskeleton, or the flash of light from the red-banded
golden compound eyes. Something drew her in its direction. “But Dadan says
thranx are not bugs. Please, Maman, please!”

The woman hesitated, but her husband was encouraging. “This is supposed to be an
intercultural fair, Peal. It would give her something to talk about in her next
age-group mixer back home. I’ll bet none of her friends have ever met a thranx
in person.”

“They haven’t, Dadan.” Ringlets and wide blue eyes swung around on the reluctant
mother. “Please, Maman!”

“What can it hurt, Peal?” the husband wondered aloud. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind
face-to-facing one of the things myself. And if that guy at its side isn’t
walking it, maybe he’s some kind of handler or something. See, they’re wearing
similar symbols. I’m sure it’s safe.” A sudden thought made him smile. “I know!

It’s some kind of wandering exhibit, as opposed to all the static displays we’ve
been seeing on stages and in tubes.”

Under assault from two sources, the woman finally relented. “Well, if you’re
certain it’s safe . . .” Making sure her daughter’s fingers were grasped firmly
within her own, she glanced down one last time. “You stay close to Maman,

Iolette.”

“That larva has been staring at me for some time.” Twikanrozex gestured with
antennae and truhand in the direction of the dark-haired little girl who was
eagerly leading her parents toward him and his companion.

“Girl,” Briann corrected his friend. “It’s a little girl, not a larva. I know
that for you they amount to the same thing, but I promise you no human parent
wants its offspring, however cute, referred to as a larva. The word brings up
unpleasant atavistic racial memories.”

“Little girl.I will remember. But I thinklarva is a better description.

Compact.”

“I won’t argue with you.” Glancing down at himself, Briann made sure his robe
was straight. As always, he wanted to make a good impression. Good impressions
first, they had been told. Conversions later.

The approaching adults looked uncomfortable. The woman, Briann noted, studiously
avoided looking directly at Twikanrozex. “Hello,” the man began, “I hope you
don’t mind, but my daughter expressed a desire to . . .”

“Can I touch it, Dadan. Can I touch it?” Wide-eyed, the little girl was bouncing
up and down with barely repressed energy and excitement.

“You have to excuse our daughter,” the woman began apologetically. “She’s never
seen a thranx before. We come from New Riviera, and we’ve only seen thranx there
on the tridee. So you can understand that—” She broke off abruptly, clearly
distracted by something unexpected. “What is thatexquisite fragrance?”

Briann repressed a smile. It was always the women who noticed it first. “I think
you’re probably referring to the body odor of my companion.” He indicated

Twikanrozex, who stood patiently. The sensitivity of humans to thranx body scent
was no mystery to him. One had only to breathe in that of humans to understand
the attraction.

“Really?” The woman had come unglued. Her eyelids were fluttering as she inhaled
deeply. “I’ve heard about it, read about it, but it’s not the same. Words just
don’t—they don’t . . .”

“Peal, control yourself.” The man breathed in and did smile. “I can’t quite
place it myself. Attar of plumeria? Essence of protea?”

“Everyone responds a little differently because of subtle variations in the
neural connection between their olfactory nerve endings and the brain. And no
two thranx seem to smell exactly alike.” Briann was always gratified when the
hesitant and sometimes openly hostile drew near enough to get a whiff of his
friend. Twikanrozex’s personal perfume was a better introduction to his species
than any carefully scripted salutation.

As her mother stood swaying slightly, her eyes half closed in a private ecstasy
of olfaction, the little girl broke free of the woman’s diminished grip and
rushed forward. Twikanrozex recoiled ever so slightly. Remembering the
eighty-fourth maxim propounded by the founders Shanvordesep and Cirey Pyreau
allowed him to relax and accept the assault. Human offspring, he had been told,
were by nature far more physically forward and demonstrative than their thranx
counterparts, not least because they already had arms and legs since they did
not experience pupation. So when the girl reached out to lightly touch his
thorax, he did not flinch.

“Iolette.” The woman was coming out of her fragrance-suffused haze. “Maybe you
shouldn’t—”

“It’s all right,” Briann was quick to reassure her. “This is what the fair is
about, really. Not rides and exhibits and food.” He nodded to where the
wide-eyed girl was enthusiastically exploring his companion. “This.” When the
woman looked uncertain, her husband put a reassuring arm around her.

Dropping to all sixes to bring himself closer to the young biped’s level,

Twikanrozex dipped his head in her direction. “Would you like to feel my
antennae? That’s what we smell with.”

Reaching out and up, the girl gently let the feathery projections slide through
her small fingers. “They’re soft! Like feathers.” She looked the alien directly
in the eyes, utterly unafraid of its proximity. “You people smell really nice,
but you sure are funny-looking!”

“And you are funny-looking to us, child,” Twikanrozex replied without
hesitation. The young one had said “people” instead of “bugs.” Of such tiny
steps were enduring relationships forged. “We can’t imagine smelling the world
through holes in the middle of our faces.”

Giggling, the girl put a finger to the tip of her nose and pushed it first to
one side, then the other. In response, Twikanrozex wriggled his antennae. This
led to further giggling and brought forth a smile on the woman’s face that was
wondrous to behold. For the first time since her daughter had insisted on the
confrontation, the mother looked relaxed.

“How about,” Twikanrozex suggested, “a buggy-back ride?”

“Oh yes, ohyesohyes!” The angelic countenance whirled on her parents. “Maman?”

“I don’t know . . .” The broad smile faded slightly, but did not disappear.

“It’s perfectly safe, madam,” Briann assured her. “Twikanrozex is quite used to
humans. He’s done this before. He enjoys it.” That was only partially true,

Briann knew, but Twikanrozex had offered. It was part of their calling. Briann
was only sorry that he could not reciprocate, because thranx larvae had no arms
or legs with which to hold on.

His reassurance was good enough for the girl. Without waiting for formal
consent—or further objection—from her mother, the girl scrambled around to the
back of the alien. Kneeling, Twikanrozex instructed her to climb up onto the
upper part of his abdomen. Once she was seated comfortably on his upper wing
cases, he told her to hold on by putting her arms around his thorax, but to be
careful not to cover any of the eight breathing spicules located there. That led
to a discussion of whether it was better to breathe through holes in one’s face
or at the base of one’s neck. Confident the girl was secure, the thranx started
off, utilizing all six legs to support her properly. Once, he stood back on his
four trulegs only, rising a little higher and making her shriek with delight as
she was forced to hang on to keep from sliding off his smooth back and wing
cases. Twikanrozex’s aquamarine backpack, b-thorax muffler, and leg warmers did
not get tangled in her limbs.

Looking on, the husband murmured to Briann. “They really are remarkable
creatures. I mean, once you get past their unsettling physical appearance,
they’re quite likeable.”

“It depends on how badly you’re afraid of insects.” Briann stood watching with
arms crossed. Choosing not to chat, the woman had eyes only for her daughter.

The longer the interaction went on, the louder her daughter screamed with
delight, the more she mellowed. “Some humans have no trouble with it at all.

Others are . . . Well, there are xenophobes among most intelligent species. The
important thing to always keep in mind is that the thranx are not Terran
insects. They’re not related to the much smaller arthropods that we’ve been
battling since we came down out of the trees. Appearance-wise, it’s a pure case
of convergent evolution.”

The husband nodded slowly. “Not to mention that they helped save our butts at

Pitar.”

“There is that, too. But they would rather be known for their art and philosophy
than their military prowess. As would we. At least, as most of us would.”

They were silent for a while, watching and delighting in the sight of human
child and thranx adult gamboling freely in one corner of the expansive
fairgrounds. Then the father indicated Briann’s garb.

“Interesting raiment you’re wearing. I notice that it’s the same color and shows
the same symbols as that decorating your many-limbed companion. Is it
significant of something more than friendship?”

The moment had arrived. As was proper, it was the attendee who had brought it
up. As acolytes, Briann and Twikanrozex were discouraged from broaching the
subject directly. “The United Church settled on aquamarine as its color
designate because it is the predominant coloration among adult thranx as well as
representing the bountiful and prominent oceans of Earth.”

The man frowned. “United Church? Never heard of it.” His expression mutated.

“You’re not going to ask me for money, are you?”

“No. We’re not allowed to do that. One of the basic tenets of the church is that
it never asks for donations. From the beginning, the idea was that it was to be
entirely self-supporting.”

The man relaxed, albeit not completely. “By charging for buggy-back rides?”

It was Briann’s turn to smile. Not everyone he and Twikanrozex had encountered
since arriving to work the fair had shown a sense of humor. “There is a set
schedule of fees for services. You must request them. Nothing is proffered.”

“Glad to hear it. If you’re looking for converts, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.

I’m Catholic, and my wife is Fifth-Term Shiite Zoroastrian.”

“We never look for converts. Though you could remain as you are and still enjoy
the fruits of the Church.”

The man was intrigued in spite of himself. “How can you belong to your church
without converting?”

“It’s simpler than you might think. The Church extends itself to everyone: other
believers, atheists, agnostics, aliens. Everyone. One of the first things you
learn is that to belong, you don’t have to believe in anything. No deity, no
special books, nothing. We minister to that part of sapience that is not
entirely satisfied by logic and reason. It exists. We don’t try to deny it.”

“Sounds like a pretty weird outfit to me.” When Briann did not reply or comment,
the man continued. “Well? Aren’t you going to offer me some free literature or
something?”

The padre shook his head. “Reams of printout tend to intimidate people, or make
them feel uncomfortable. The Church wants people to feel comfortable in its
presence. We have a small display here—one among hundreds. If you’re interested
in learning more, or asking additional questions, you can find it on your
fairgrounds readout. The display is unstaffed. Everything is automated. No one
will try to talk your ear off.”

“Even weirder. Not that Peal and I need anything like this. We’re both perfectly
happy the way we are. So is Iolette.”

Briann nodded. “She seems a wonderfully well-adjusted child, with equally
well-adjusted parents. I think you’re right: You probably don’t need any of the

Church’s services. But you might want to read more about it, just to satisfy the
curiosity I see written on your face. You can have a good laugh about it with
your friends when you get home. Another amusing anecdote from the fair on
distant Dawn.”

The husband eyed Briann uncertainly. “Are you serious about this Church
business? This isn’t some sort of wandering comedy routine sanctioned by the
fair programmers? You’re not a performer?”

“I am a true acolyte of the United Church. I can recite to you its founding
principles as well as all the One Hundred and Five Maxims of Indifferent

Contentment. I am qualified to minister in a number of specialties. But why
should I bore you with that which you have not requested? Go and have a read
about it if you’re curious, or pull up the general literature on your personal
communicator. Code MT-DF-186. You don’t have to visit the display. You can also
access the same information when you get home.”

“So you’re already on New Riviera, too?” The man was quietly impressed.

“The Church suffers from increasing popularity. We try to keep a low profile.

Here comes your daughter.”

“I hope she didn’t wear your friend out.” The man hesitated. “I’ve never heard
of a Church that extends to all species. How do you manage it?”

Briann leaned close and whispered. “We proceed from the notion that good ideas
know no shape. Then we’re careful not to take any of it too seriously.”

Uncertain whether to smile or not, the man settled on a half grin. Then he
walked over to join his wife in assisting their daughter in her dismount.

“Careful of my spicules—that’s it, there.” As soon as the girl was off his back,

Twikanrozex turned and preened an antenna. “Did you have fun, little one?”

“Ohyesohyesohyes! Let’s do it again!”

Her mother bent to place a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Don’t you think Mr.

Twikel . . . Mr. Twiken . . .”

“Twikanrozex,” the thranx said, enunciating it slowly for her.

She smiled gratefully at him. “Don’t you think Mr. Twikanrozex might be a little
tired? Maybe he needs to rest.”

“For a little while,crr!!ckk .” Briann could see that Twikanrozex was breathing
hard but was far from exhausted. Clearly, the little girl would have been happy
to bounce along on his back all day.

“Say thank you to Mr. Twikanrozex,” her father ordered.

Walking up to the thranx, the girl extended a hand. Instead of proffering one of
his own, Twikanrozex leaned forward and brushed her open palm with the tips of
both antennae. She clutched at her hand, giggling.

“That tickles!”

“A last smile.” The thranx stepped back. “Perhaps I’ll see you again before the
fair is over, little one.”

“I hope so, Mr. Twikanrozex. Thank you for the buggy ride.” Turning, she placed
her right hand in her mother’s and looked up. “Can we get ice cream now? I’m
hungry!”

“I’m sure you are, after all that hopping around.” The woman looked back at

Twikanrozex and beamed. There was no trace of the uncertainty and hesitation
that had marked her initial approach. It was utterly gone. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Raising a truhand and a foothand, Twikanrozex imitated the
simplistic human gesture of farewelling. “Another time.” As soon as the couple
and their daughter were out of earshot, he turned to his companion.

“How did it go?”

“The seed is well planted. Like most, he tried to affect disinterest. And like
most who take the time to ask questions and to listen, he’s interested. Maybe
not today, or tomorrow, or even until he’s back home months from now, but he’ll
definitely research the Church.” Briann chuckled. “Nothing like telling them you
don’t want their money to pique their interest.”

“That’s good. The larv—the little girl was fun. Human children are so full of
energy.”

“That’s a difference between us. Thranx larvae think before they act. Human
children act before they think. Of course, being hatched with functional limbs
has a lot to do with it.”

“Yes.” Twikanrozex sighed softly. “Many’s the time I remember lying in the
nursery longing for the day when I would be able to pupate and emerge with arms
and legs. Your kind is fortunate in that fashion.”

“It does make us more impulsive, though.” Together, they resumed their walk.

Briann badly wanted to see the demonstration of thranx acrobatic music, while

Twikanrozex was fascinated by everything around them. Simply being on a
human-colonized world was entertainment enough for him.

They had come prepared to deal with all manner of possible problems, of protests
and objections. But the last thing they expected to have to deal with was
competition.

They did not think of it that way, of course, but the cluster of well-dressed
young humans who surrounded them in front of one of the numerous water
sculptures contributed by the thranx hydrosculptors of Willow-Wane felt
otherwise.

“We’ve been hearing about you.” The young man who spoke was tall, slim,
handsome, and syrupy of voice.

“Already?” Briann glanced at Twikanrozex, who could not disguise his
apprehension at being surrounded by so many exceedingly intent, larger humans.

“And we decided we had to do something about it.” The woman wore her hair
cropped short, like her syllables. “Before it got out of hand.”

Briann was not yet ready to begin looking for fair security personnel, but the
idea that he might have to do so had crept rapidly to the forefront of his
thoughts. “That sounds ominous. Who are you, and what do you want?”

Members of the enclosing circle looked at one another in apparent disbelief
before their spokesman turned back to Briann. “You don’t recognize our garments?

The white suits and dresses, the decorations of virtuous gold?”

“I’m afraid we don’t.”

It was the woman’s turn. “We represent the Unity of Traditional Religions, Dawn
branch. We were informed that an odd pair, consisting of human and thranx, were
proselytizing here at the fair on behalf of some new cult. As representatives of
the old beliefs carried out from Earth, we felt it incumbent on us to seek you
out, and to appraise your message.”

Another woman spoke up. “You understand, there are a lot of children here.”

“The United Church makes no distinction between children and adults,” Briann
explained. “Only between intelligence and nonintelligence. The two do not always
evolve in parallel.” It would have been an excellent moment to eye the young
leader of the white-clad group meaningfully, but Church protocol strictly
forbade the application of sarcasm at the personal level.

“Or between humans and aliens?” another woman wondered aloud.

Briann nodded in Twikanrozex’s direction. “My thranx friend is not an alien; he
is only nonhuman. Again, we clearly differ in some of our definitions.”

“There’s no provision in terrestrial theology for sentients that are not created
in God’s image,” another man declared with complete conviction.

“Many of us feel similarly,” Twikanrozex replied calmly.

That put a momentary halt to the questioning as the assembled devoted murmured
among themselves. The two representatives of the United Church waited patiently.

Patience was among the first qualities they were taught. It was becoming clear
that these young folk meant no physical harm. They wanted only to assure
themselves that the eccentric couple were not bent on seducing human children to
the ways of evil. Briann and Twikanrozex could deal with that. The United Church
had firm ideas of its own about evil: It was against it.

“How can you offer to minister to something that looks like that?” The woman who
had first spoken stared unashamedly at Twikanrozex. “That aroma, though . . .”

“Shapeism is to be abhorred in all things,” Briann pointed out. “Intelligence
marked by understanding and compassion are the hallmarks of a spiritual being.

We don’t go into specifics. Every species seeks the answers to the ultimate
questions in its own way. The Church doesn’t attempt to define them, or to
restrict them.”

“Then how,” another man wondered, “can you offer solace?” His friend tried to
interrupt, but the younger man, now curious, shrugged him off.

Twikanrozex gestured with all four hands, wondering if any of the humans would
respond in kind. They did not, but neither were they visibly repulsed. He was
encouraged. “Sympathy does not demand to be underwritten by dogma. Pain is a
universal constant that may be assuaged by any concern irrespective of source.”

“We don’t feel the need to speak a lot of mumbo jumbo to help someone feel
better,” Briann added.

Several among the white-clad looked upset. “You speak blasphemy,” one insisted.

“Fluently,” Briann assured her. “Our organization has no truck with archaic
attempts to help people by filling them up with guilt. Ample guilt is acquired
soon enough, through the mere process of living. The last thing any sentient
needs is the unrequested addition of external culpability. How many of you feel
guilty about something?”

The several expressions of concern that appeared in reaction to Briann’s
question were drowned out by the loud words of the young spokesman. “Look here,
we’re the ones asking the questions! We’re the ones who’ll determine whether
you’ll be allowed to continue to work this fair or not.”

“Firstly,ci!!llp ,” Twikanrozex began, “we are not ‘working’ this fair. We
confront no one, pressure no one, seek out neither individuals nor families nor
groups. We only respond to questions freely directed at us. The UC does not seek
converts. There is nothing to convert people to. We have nothing like official
membership. The Church and its services are freely available to anyone who is
interested.”

“What happens,” another woman demanded to know as she pushed her way forward,

“if someone chooses to participate in your church? What happens to their former
religion?”

“Annamarie,” the man next to her began warningly. She ignored him.

“Whatever you wish to happen.” Briann was warming to the discussion, now that it
had turned into a discussion and away from unfounded accusations. “You may
continue to practice as you did before encountering our organization. There are
participants in the United Church who practice many religions, and participants
who espouse none at all. We are very undemanding.”

“How can someone belong to two churches and champion two different beliefs?” the
woman persisted.

“Beliefs?” Twikanrozex waved his truhands in her direction. “We don’t require
that you believe in anything.”

The spokesman’s brows drew together. “What kind of a church is it that doesn’t
require belief?”

Briann smiled invitingly. “A new kind. Try it and see. You’ll find it remarkably
liberating. Most who come to us do.”

The young man drew himself up. “I’m already liberated—by the knowledge that I am
following the one true path.”

“Of course you are!” Briann responded exuberantly. “All of you are, no matter
what your particular individual belief. Realizing that allows you to participate
freely in the UC.”

One heavyset fellow on the edge of the group was nodding knowingly. “I
understand now.” He smiled at his associates. “We have nothing to fear from
these people, or from their establishment—because they’re crazy. They argue in
circles.”

“That is it!” Twikanrozex gestured vigorously. “We argue in circles, just like
the universe. In the same fashion as a gravitational lens bends light so that
you can see behind large stellar objects, the United Church bends reason so that
you can see the truths that hide behind reality.”

“We’re wasting our time here.” The spokesman, now satisfied that the two robed
preachers, or whatever they were, represented no threat to the established
theological order, turned away. “The girot mimes from Coolangatta are starting
their show soon. We still have time to hop a transport and get there before the
opening.”

The white-clad gathering began to fall away—but not quite all of them. A pair
lingered: the woman Annamarie and a male friend. Ignoring the admonishments of
their companions, they remained behind. They were curious, which is the first
step toward enlightenment. Briann and Twikanrozex were delighted to accommodate
their many questions. The man went so far as to buy Briann a cup of mochoka and

Twikanrozex a helix ofcherel!l tea. The four of them sat sipping and chatting
for several hours. When the conversation was finally brought to an end by the
woman named Annamarie, the two priestly acolytes watched the young humans depart
still deep in conversation.

“There are good folk here.” Twikanrozex sucked the last liquid from the bottom
of his nearly empty turbinate. “People willing to listen.”

“Yes.” Briann scanned the milling crowds. “I would have wished for more thranx,
though.”

“The larger contingents will not be arriving for a day or two yet,” Twikanrozex
pointed out. “All have to come from offworld, and only the boldest will consider
attending a function on a human-settled colony. But they will come, rest
assured. My people are irresistibly drawn to the neoteric.”

“;I hope I can meet some and convince them of the kindly nature of my species,”

Briann murmured. “I’ve lost weight specifically for that purpose.”

“It was a good thing for you to do,” Twikanrozex told him. “Too much jiggling of
loose human flesh can nauseate even the most courteous and well-disposed thranx.

It is a reaction as unfortunate as it is involuntary.”

“Not to mention one that’s likely to put a damper on casual conversation,”

Briann noted dryly.

From time to time they would wander back to the automated display that had been
set up and activated on the first day of the fair, both to ensure that it was
functioning properly and to deal with individuals and sometimes small groups
that had gathered there. Accustomed after the first couple of days to all manner
of reactions, they encountered an entirely new one when, on the third morning,
they confronted a well-dressed man in his early forties who was viewing one of
the tridee hover messages while chuckling constantly.

“Usually,” Briann offered by way of greeting, “our presentation meets with
skepticism, or open hostility, or indifference, or interest. You’re the first
person we’ve met whose primary reaction has been laughter.”

“Oh, hello.” Turning, the man grinned at Briann, eyed Twikanrozex with more than
casual interest, and reached up to dab at his face with an absorptive pad. “I
didn’t mean any disrespect.”

“None taken,” Twikanrozex clicked. His response intrigued the man even more.

“So you’re a thranx. I’ve seen a number wandering about the fair, but mostly
they’re working displays and performances. It’s nice to finally meet one of you
in person.”

“The touch be mine.” Twikanrozex extended a truhand, which gesture humans found
less alien than the caress of feathery antennae. The man took it, was surprised
to find his own gently shaken, and withdrew his fingers thoughtfully.

“The actual contact is warmer than I thought it would be. Not crustaceanlike at
all. Do you see multiple images of me out of those compound eyes?”

“While multiple images are perceived,” Twikanrozex replied, “they are linked in
my mind to create a single image. Our eyes are more advanced than those of the
terrestrial insects whom you are utilizing for reference.”

“Not from Earth, myself.” The man shrugged. “New Paris, actually.” He indicated
the lively display. “Your church sounds interesting. Complete waste of time, of
course.”

“In what way?” Briann was silently disconcerted by the casual dismissal from so
obviously intelligent and interested an observer.

“Too many religions already. Humankind’s got a house full of ‘em. Always has.

Every year, every month, it seems like a new fad pops up, attracts a horde of
eager adherents, and then just as quickly fades away. At best, that’s what
you’re looking at.” He smiled approvingly at Twikanrozex. “Although with the
thranx involved you certainly have real novelty value going for you.”

Briann could tell from the man’s tone and attitude that he was in no way trying
to be offensive. He was simply stating his mind.

“We who believe think that you’re wrong.” Twikanrozex added a whistle of
conviction.

“Well, without a doubt you would.” The man’s good nature continued to shine
through his disparaging words. “But I’ve spent some years in the business of
fads, done pretty well out of it, and I know whereof I speak. Just a friendly
warning: Make sure you have some kind of professional position to fall back on
when it all goes flat. How are you doing here, by the way?” Briann mentioned a
number. The man was suitably impressed.

“You’ve been quiet about it, anyway.”

“We don’t believe in trumpeting our accomplishments.”

Their visitor chuckled anew. “Believers in word-of-mouth, eh? Can’t say as I
blame you. It’s the best advertising no matter what you’re selling.”

“We are not ‘selling’ anything,” Twikanrozex corrected him. The thranx was
growing irritated with this self-assured human.

“Sure, sure.” The visitor spoke as if humoring a child. “That’s the baseline
every religion has used since the beginning of time. Well, how do I join?”

Briann frowned. They had finally encountered someone for whom their training had
not prepared them. “You mean, after all that cynicism you’re still interested in
joining the Church?”

“Why not? I’m always in need of fresh amusement. In my work I have access to the
latest stimsims, tridee plays, prose, you name it. So I’m highly cultured but
easily bored. Your church will be a diversion, a lark, a fashionable fancy. My
friends are very big on one-upmanship, but I don’t know a single one who can
claim to have worshiped alongside a bug. Your pardon, sir or whatever—a thranx.

When I’m bored again, I’ll move on to something else.” He spread his arms wide.

“Meanwhile, your organization will have gained another new, albeit transient,
neophyte.”

Recovering nicely, Briann extended a hand. Shaking it, the other man seemed to
lose just a hint of his astonishing self-assurance. “You’re going to accept me
in spite of my avowed lack of expectation?”

“The United Church turns no one down. There is room within for all,” Briann
affirmed. “Even the incredulous.”

“Well, that’s mighty obliging of you! I look forward to reading your source
materials, and to having a good laugh at their expense.”

Twikanrozex saw to it that the visitor’s communicator accepted the information
transfer before congratulating him in turn. “If you gain a few days’ amusement
from all that we have given you, that will be reward enough. An amused species
is a contented species.”

“Glad to know that you bu—thranx have a sense of humor.”

“You will learn more about us from the Church materials,” Twikanrozex informed
him. “The UC was formed by a human and a thranx working in concert. It is an
entirely new idea in interspecies relations.”

“And one that neatly sidesteps the current controversies raging between our
respective governments.” Exaggerating the gesture, the man put a finger to his
lips. “You’re very clever, you people are, but it won’t make any difference in
the end.”

“We think it will,” Briann replied. “Enjoy your literature.”

“So I will; so I will. It’ll give me something to wade through in space-plus, on
the way back to New Paris.” With that he departed, tucking his communicator back
into his shirt pocket.

“What do you make of our chances with that one?” Twikanrozex tracked the human’s
progress across the strip of fairgrounds pavement, which looked and felt exactly
like grass except that it was impervious to both footwear and the elements and
needed neither light nor water to maintain its springiness and color.

“He’s intelligent.” Briann turned back to their display, wondering if he ought
to switch the order of presentation to present a new field of images to
first-time viewers who happened to be passing by. “But I have yet to meet the
individual who was so smart they could keep from fooling themselves. If he
reads, and doesn’t just delete the load you gave him, I think he very well might
choose to partake. I’d much rather try to convince an intelligent cynic than a
willing ignoramus.”

“Maxim forty-seven.” Twikanrozex shuffled around to the back of the display
tower. “Let’s put the site selection first for a while. Looking at your
equatorial lands helps to take the chill out of this air for me. Mentally, at
least.”

“Sorry you’re cold. As soon as we’re done here, we’ll go spend some time in the

Willow-Wane pavilion.”

“Srr!rrt—ah, for the feel of real air in my lungs! You’ll be all right there,

Brother Briann?”

The human nodded. “I don’t mind sweating in the service of the Church—or for my
friends.”

9

The more Pilwondepat thought about it in the days that followed, the more the
affair nagged at him. Probably he was obsessing on nothing, haunted by matters
of no real consequence, simply because he was personally irritated at what was
happening on Comagrave. It detracted from his work, and he knew it. But he could
not stop himself. He had always been afflicted with something of a suspicious
nature, and as an exoarcheologist he was trained to draw substantiative
conclusions from dozens, often hundreds, of miniscule, seemingly unrelated
sources.

It wasn’t just the circumstance of the unfortunate human who had been bitten by
a native arthropod only to be saved by the extraordinarily fortuitous proximity
of an AAnn mineralogical sampling team. That was what had sparked his
imagination, true, but reports of other incidents had been festering in his mind
for many weeks now. Festering, until the occasion of the arthropod bite had
caused all of it to burst forth in the full flower of anxiety.

Too many bad things were happening. Surely, Comagrave was a dangerous place,
newly discovered and barely explored. Trouble was to be expected, even the
occasional disaster, but there were no hostile native sentients to fear, no
overwhelming profligacy of inimical life-forms. Either the humans who had come
to study and explore were an exceedingly inept bunch, or else too many of them
had been born in the hive of the unlucky. From personal experience, Pilwondepat
knew the former to be untrue, and he did not believe in the latter.

Therefore, something else was going on.

He was circumspect in his investigation. It was not his province to ask personal
questions of individuals from various camps and outposts, though he had the
means to do so. Drawing together individual recollections of seemingly unrelated
incidents might have enabled him to come to a conclusion more swiftly. But it
would also have drawn attention to him. He did not fear such attention from the
humans themselves. It was the presence of so many AAnn “observers” on the planet
that induced him to keep a low profile.

While he could only exchange communications with the occasional human, there was
nothing to prevent him from examining the contents of every unrestricted report
that was being filed or sent offworld. These were available to all at the touch
of the right button. Electronic translation supplemented his growing knowledge
of Terranglo, enabling him to inspect the relevant correspondence as rapidly as
any other potential reader. And the more he read, the more convinced he became
of the correctness of his suppositions.

They were very clever. Not every catastrophe was on the order of the complete
destruction of the thermal supply depot and research station. The multitude of
incidents varied in degree between that and the bite that had nearly killed a
single researcher. Some of the details were almost amusing in their
resourcefulness. A case of food poisoning at one paleontological camp, for
example, resulted in not a single fatality. But once again, it was the AAnn who
were conveniently positioned to provide the fresh fruit that cured the humans’

digestive upsets. Studying the information, Pilwondepat stridulated
involuntarily. Though they shared the omnivorous appetites of most intelligent
species, AAnn appetites fell decidedly on the carnivorous side of the food
spectrum. How convenient of them to have fresh fruit at their disposal! How
implausible. And just the right sort of fruit to cure a digestive disorder
within the human system, too.

An aircar carrying a quartet of avian researchers went down in a deep canyon.

With human help already on the way, an AAnn craft in the vicinity arrived first
to render assistance and effect the needed repairs. A lone prospector—half
geologist, half entrepreneur—was found dead in the wildly eroded territory human
cartographers had named the Bacunin Badlands. Cause of death: a bad fall. No

AAnn available to recover the body, Pilwondepat read. He made a mental note to
suggest that a larger, better equipped expedition explore the region. If the

AAnn were responsible, as he was beginning to suspect they were in the majority
of such unexplained incidences, it was because they wanted to prevent the
humans, or in this case one solitary adventurer, from finding something.

Pilwondepat was willing to bet a case of goldelsurr!onyy from Trix that the

Bacunin Badlands hid mineral deposits of some value.

Considered individually, the incidents he waded through would not have drawn
more than passing commiserations from those who scrutinized them. Assessed
together, they comprised a litany of AAnn involvement in human misery and
misfortune on Comagrave that could hardly count as coincidence. But who could he
lay his case before? The few other thranx on the planet were wholly immersed in
their own activities. Sending his conclusions offworld might eventually bring a
response, but without any hive authority on the human colony world, he would be
left to implement any decision all by himself. And he was a scientist, not a
soldier.

He was left to ponder who best among the human population to present with his
findings. He knew none of the planetary authority personnel individually.

Handing the information to a skeptical official might have any number of
consequences, many of which could be bad. They might laugh at him or dismiss his
allegations out of hand. Swamped by the difficulties of supervising the
exploration and development of a complex new world, the authorities were likely
to have little time to spare for the complaints of their own kind, much less for
the wild inferences of a visiting alien. Worse yet, the AAnn might be
monitoring, officially or otherwise, all such planetary transmissions. If he did
not proceed with care and caution, he might well find himself the victim of
still another of the inexplicable accidents that up to now had plagued only the
resident humans.

Who could he talk to? Who could he converse with who would not treat him as a
bug afflicted with paranoia? If it could not be an outsider, then it would have
to be a colleague, and one with enough authority to make recommendations that
would be listened to. His choices were very limited.

The following morning was bright and clear. The desiccating wind that
perpetually scoured the crest of the escarpment was blissfully subdued, and
there were even a few dark clouds marring the cerulean blue of the sky. His
lungs sucked at the distant suggestions of humidity like a drowning man gasping
for any hint of oxygen. Busy, energetic humans crawled over the excavation site,
resembling more than they knew the terrestrial insects they professed to loathe.

He was pleased to find Cullen in his portable, prefab living chamber.

Confronting him outside, where someone else might overhear, was best avoided.

Not that Pilwondepat worried about the energetic bipeds who were laboring on the
site, but there was always the possibility that anything said out in the open
might get back to Riimadu. That was the one consequence Pilwondepat knew had to
be avoided.

As soon as he descried his visitor, Cullen immediately shut off the chamber’s
air-conditioning. No thranx could take more than a few minutes of the dry,
refrigerated air without passing out. Setting aside the viewer and spheres he
was working with, he greeted the insectoid with a nod.

“Morning, Pilwondepat. You look tired.”

“You’ve grown perceptive in my company.” Unable to use any of the furniture in
the chamber, Pilwondepat sagged into a six-legged stance opposite the desk. Thus
positioned, he could barely see over it. “Most humans would not have noticed.”

Putting his hands behind his head, Cullen leaned back in the chair. “I do
occasionally look up instead of down.” He gestured past his guest. “Work’s going
well. The clouds will cut the heat today.”

“I welcome the clouds for the moisture they contain, but lament the lowering of
the temperature. As your kind are wont to say, in this place I am
climatologically damned if it does and damned if it doesn’t.” Edging forward, he
reached up to grasp the edge of the lightweight desk with both truhands. His
blue-green exoskeleton gleamed in the filtered light that poured through the
integrated skylight. “If something isn’t done, I think the human presence on

Comagrave is damned as well.”

Blinking, Cullen sat forward. “I thought you seemed awfully preoccupied these
past couple of weeks, but I couldn’t be sure.” Reaching up, he tugged playfully
at the corners of his mouth with both index fingers. “Your people are the
original poker faces.”

Pilwondepat gestured with a truhand. “I am not familiar with the reference.”

“It means someone can’t tell what you’re thinking just by looking at your
expression.”

“Because we have no expressions, due to the inflexible nature of our
countenances. Now I understand. A good joke. As I said before, you are
perceptive. And correct. I have been very much preoccupied, to the detriment of
my work here, I fear. But what I have learned is of far greater importance.”

Cullen checked the chamber’s climate control one more time to make certain the
air-conditioning was off. “And what have you learned, my friend?”

Pilwondepat wished for a greater mastery of Terranglo: for the ability to speak
smoothly as if burbling, for the talent to convey overtones of meaning without
the use of moving limbs. “That the AAnn are working to actively eradicate the
human presence on Vussussica, as they so indifferently call it.”

“Everyone knows they’d like to have this world.” Cullen was rocking gently back
and forth in his chair. The silent floating support conformed to and tried to
anticipate the twitching of his muscles. “It suits them perfectly. But it does
just fine for us, too, and we were here first. As they have acknowledged—rather
gracefully, some of my colleagues feel.”

“AAnn ‘grace’ is a cover for their natural cunning. They are very shrewd, are
the AAnn. They want you off this world, and they mean to have it.” Pilwondepat
was gesturing with all four hands now; he couldn’t help it. “They are not so
foolish as to challenge you openly, or to attempt to take Comagrave by force.

Though they could do so easily, ever since the war with the Pitar they have a
healthy respect for human military power. Overrunning this world with ships and
soldiers would only bring inevitable retribution down upon them.”

“Damn right it would.” Cullen had work to do, but the thranx’s energy was
infectious, even if his message was nonsensical.

“So they work slowly, with great subtlety. Instead of attempting to throw you
off this world, or negotiate you off, they are working hard to see to it that
you choose to depart voluntarily. They don’t want you to surrender Comagrave to
them. They hope to induce you to cede it gladly.” Reaching back into a thorax
pouch, the exoarcheologist withdrew a small mollysphere.

“This is one of your storage devices. In the time I have spent among your kind,

I have learned how to manipulate and make use of many such moderately ingenious
devices. I used one of your own recording appliances instead of mine so that
copies could be easily made, transshipped, or otherwise passed along.” He laid
the molly on Karasi’s desk. “It contains exhaustive documentation of the kinds
of incidents I have been examining.”

For the first time, Cullen’s curiosity surpassed his sense of courtesy. “What
incidents?”

“Almost from the day humans claimed Comagrave and began to establish a presence
here, there have been a disturbing number of fatal accidents and
confrontations.”

Cullen was solemn, but not particularly impressed. “Exploration and development
of a new world invariably entails sacrifices. And Comagrave is no New Paris or

New Riviera—or Willow-Wane, for that matter. If not unreservedly hostile, the
environment here can be difficult. So can the flora and fauna.”

Pilwondepat gestured impatiently, not even bothering to wonder if the human
exoarcheologist understood any of the elaborate hand movements. “All that is
true, but it does not explain the consistency of catastrophe you have been
experiencing.” He indicated the molly. “I have taken the liberty of putting
together several mathematical models based on my studies that I think your
people will find interesting.”

“Why?” Cullen challenged him politely. “Because they’ll show that Comagrave is a
little more dangerous than most? We know that already.”

Pilwondepat’s frustration continued to grow. By now, his antennae were bobbing
and weaving wildly. “It’s not that! Far too many times, when misfortune has
struck, the AAnn have been right there, either with assistance or advice.”

Cullen pursed his lips. “Some people might think that was good of them.”

“There is on Hivehom a class of scavengers who invariably materialize at the
scene of a catastrophe, as if they can smell death. Unchallenged, they will
immediately start to consume the dead. No one thinks that is especially good of
them.” He thrust the tips of both antennae in the human’s direction. “The AAnn
are too often present at the finish of assorted tragedies, like unsought
punctuation at the end of a statement.” A chitinous blue-green finger nudged the
molly. “Go on, Cullen. See for yourself. Nearly every ‘accident’ reported
therein coincides with a concurrent episode of AAnn ‘helpfulness.’ “

“I’m still not sure what you’re trying to say,” the exoarcheologist replied
softly.

The thranx sat back on four trulegs. “That almost without exception, whenever
some tragedy has befallen your people on this world, AAnn have followed close,
too close, behind. That in these matters they are being proactive and not
reactive.”

Cullen’s attention was now fully engaged. “You’re trying to tell me that they’re
not responding to these mishaps, but that they’re causing them?”

Taking no chances, Pilwondepat did not rely on strong gesticulations to convey
his response. “That is exactly what I am saying.”

“But . . . why?”

“To convince you that Comagrave is not worth the grief it can cause you. To
persuade your government, or at the very least your public opinion, that human
interests in this part of the Arm would be better served by turning
administration and development of this particular planet over to the Empire. And
they will accomplish this, I fear, if your people are not enlightened as to what
is taking place under their very olfactory organs, and do not become alert to
the scaled ones’ calculating machinations.”

The chief scientist was silent for a long moment. Rising from his contemplation,
he regarded the gleaming being who waited patiently on the other side of the
desk.

“That’s quite an accusation, Pilwondepat.”

“I assure you, my friend, that it is not made lightly.”

Cullen nodded, more to himself than to the thranx. “I hardly know what to say.

I’m an exoarcheologist. I’m someone who’s at home below ground level, not in the
rarified atmosphere of interstellar intrigue.”

“Say that you’ll study the recording device, and consider its contents.” To his
satisfaction, Pilwondepat saw that the biped was doing that already. “And you
must not discuss this meeting with Riimadu, or let on in any way that we have
talked about such things.”

“I won’t. I promise. Just for the sake of discussion, though—why not? You don’t
think he’d do anything, do you? He’s an exoarcheologist, just like you and me.

He’s completely absorbed in the excavation we’re undertaking here atop this
escarpment.”

“Riimadu is AAnn. He is absorbed in promoting himself foremost, yes, but he is
also part of the web that his kind are attempting to weave around this world.

Step lightly in his presence, and have a care you are not unwittingly caught in
that snare.” One more time, Pilwondepat indicated the sphere. “There are already
enough unpleasant statistics recorded on that device. I would hate to see you,
my friend, become another.”

“Now you’re being overly dramatic.”

“Am I,chirritt ? Peruse the molly. Then decide.”

Cullen looked unhappy. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, Pilwondepat. Not without
having a look at that molly. But a conspiracy on that scale is hard to
envision.”

“The AAnn would not say conspiracy. They would say ‘diplomacy.’ Their
definitions are somewhat rougher than yours or ours.”

The exoarcheologist rose from behind his desk and began pacing parallel to the
back wall of the room. “For the sake of discussion, let’s say there’s something
to your assertions. What am I supposed to do with Riimadu? I can’t just kick him
off the dig. His government expects him to be here, recording and observing. He
has authorization.”

Pilwondepat gestured with both truhands. “You are in charge of the project.

Exercise that authority. Find an excuse. Say that it’s for his own benefit. Or
propose that he enjoy the break from work that his hard labor has earned him.

There are ways.”

“I know; I know.” Cullen’s discomfort level was rising with every moment. “But
it’s going to be difficult. If not for his suggestions, we wouldn’t even be
digging here.” He halted suddenly to stare down at the thranx. “How about that,

Pilwondepat? If there’s some widespread intrigue on the part of the AAnn, why
would one of them point out what could prove to be an important archeological
site? Why not direct us elsewhere and keep the site discovery quiet until they
can excavate on their own?”

Air whistled softly through Pilwondepat’s spicules. It was important to be
patient with this human, he reminded himself. Sometimes they failed to make out
certain aspects of the world around them until it landed on their heads. And
they had experienced only a comparatively few years of contact with the AAnn, as
opposed to the hundreds the thranx had been compelled to endure. They could not
be expected to understand right away.

But somehow, he had to make at least one of them in a position of some
importance learn tosee . For a number of reasons, not least that he knew and
worked with him, he had chosen the one called Cullen Karasi.

“Why not let you provide the muscle power and equipment and do the work for
them? If their ultimate aim is to ease you off the planet, what you do here will
not matter. It’s not as if you are attempting to ascertain the existence of an
enormous body of valuable ore. It’s only pure science. From my studies, I
believe that pure science does not command many votes on your world council.”

“You’re quite the cynic, Pilwondepat.”

Antennae bobbed. “All thranx are realists, Cullen. When you come from a society
where in primitive times every individual knew their entire life’s work from
birth, you have no choices.”

The human nodded slowly, another gesture Pilwondepat recognized. Humans
preferred broad, easy-to-read gestures that rarely displayed the subtlety of the

AAnn. There was not much there to admire, but it made for ready understanding.

Ceasing his pacing, Cullen resumed his seat behind the field desk. “All right.

Let’s have a look at this accumulated ‘evidence’ of yours.” Picking up the
molly, he dropped it into the appropriate receptacle on top of his desk reader.

Images appeared in the air in front of him.

Though he wanted to comment on every picture, every article, Pilwondepat forced
himself to hold his peace. Interrupting the already skeptical Cullen would break
the human’s concentration and prevent him from absorbing the full impact of the
thranx’s research. It was important that the man not blindly accept

Pilwondepat’s accusations, but that he draw his own conclusions directly from
the available evidence. So Pilwondepat sat in silence, not moving except for the
familiar involuntary weaving of his antennae, and tried not to stare.

Half an hour later, Cullen switched off the viewer and sat back in his chair.

“It’s disturbing. I’ll give you that. Some of it is unsettling, even. But it’s
not conclusive.”

“Will you at least agree that it is worthy of further examination?”

Cullen might be skeptical, but he was not stupid. A trained scientist, he could
not ignore evidence when it was laid out before him. “Yes, I’m afraid that it
is. I just don’t think I’m the one to pursue it.” He indicated the viewer. “This
sort of thing needs to be distributed to the supervising colonial authority, not
somebody involved in research, like myself. Why did you show it to me instead of
taking it directly to them?” he finished curiously.

“Because it will have more force coming from you,” Pilwondepat explained. “Too
many of your people shy away from contact with my kind. Others are instinctively
suspicious, and there are also those who are openly hostile. Had I been the one
to lay this evidence directly before the most relevant human authority, I might
well have been dismissed without a hearing. Or I might have been received
politely, only to have the data tossed into the nearest disposal as soon as I
departed. But if you, a recognized figure of some stature within your chosen
specialty, make a presentation on its behalf, you will be listened to; and the
documentation, if not instantly acknowledged, will at least be discussed.” He
dropped to all sixes again. “You will make such a presentation, Cullen? I did
not invent the collusions you just viewed. They are as real as the rock we are
standing upon. As are the intentions of the AAnn.”

The human scratched at the back of his head. “You’re putting me in a very
awkward position, Pilwondepat. Especially as regards Riimadu’s continued
presence on the site. There are a lot more AAnn on Comagrave than there are
thranx.”

“A consequence of an unfortunate climate, but I sympathize with your
circumstances. Consider that being dead would put you in a much more difficult
position.”

“Regardless of what his Imperial brethren may be up to, I’m not sure I can
accept your portrait of Riimadu. He’s been nothing but helpful ever since he was
attached to the project. We talk science all the time, and I really do see him
as a kindred spirit, albeit one covered with scales. It’s very hard for me to
envision him participating in some kind of hostile activity, much less one that
might prove antiscientific.”

Pilwondepat executed a complicated gesture that Cullen did not understand, which
was probably just as well. “Whatever you think, whatever occurs in his presence,
all I ask is that you never forget that he is AAnn.Yi!mt, he is a
scientist.Yi!mt, he has been helpful. But if the appropriate situation presents
itself, I can assure you from the bottom of my individual and racial hearts that
he will put a weapon to the side of your skull and without a second thought,
blow your brains out through your opposite ear.”

He’d gone a little too far, Pilwondepat saw. In his anxiety to persuade his
friend of the danger he had uncovered, he had stepped beyond the bounds of
courtesy and diplomacy that Cullen was willing to accept. It was as visible in
the human’s rubbery face as if it had been written there with an antique stylus.

“Do this, then,” he added quickly. “Leave Riimadu alone. Let him do his work.

I’ll watch him myself. I do it anyway, out of a historical sense of
self-preservation. But convey my findings to the appropriate planetary
authority. Relate what I have concluded, give your own opinion, and let them
view the facts that are known. If you will do that much, I will be able to sleep
a little easier knowing that something is being done.”

Cullen willingly agreed. “I’ll send off a copy of the information together with
my personal comments right away. Tonight, if you think it that important.”

“No, no!” Four hands waved frantically at the taller human. “Nothing can be sent
via the planetary communications net. I would bet my antennae that the AAnn have
been intercepting and monitoring all such transmissions ever since their
presence on the planet was allowed. I would not feel secure forwarding the data
under anything less than military-level encryption.”

Cullen shrugged apologetically. “This is only a scientific outpost. I don’t have
access to anything that hard.”

“I understand. Therefore, in order to ensure not only the security of the
findings but of your own self, you will have to deliver the information in
person.”

Cullen hesitated. For an awful moment Pilwondepat felt as if the human was going
to dismiss the entire matter. Then the senior scientist nodded once, slowly.

“All right, we’ll do it your way. The next regular supply flight will be in nine
days. I have a few things I’d like to do in town, and I’m overdue for a
scheduled break. In addition to making the necessary rounds, and enjoying a
little rest and relaxation, I’ll make an appointment with the highest-level
enforcement official who has time to spare, and I’ll present your report. I’ll
also relay your conclusions. Myself, I’m not quite ready to draw any. No final
ones, at least.”

Pilwondepat would have heaved a sigh of relief, except that thranx do not heave.

He did, however, exhale softly. “That will be most satisfactory, Cullen.

Meanwhile, I will keep track of the activities, both formal and otherwise, of
our mutual acquaintance Riimadu. The critical thing is not that action is taken
immediately, but that your authorities are made aware of what the AAnn are
doing. Alerted, they will be able to draw their own conclusions. Especially when
further incidents of the type I have compiled continue to recur. Your people
will then be able to view them with a different eye. I am satisfied.”

Cullen was relieved. “Then we can get back to the business of science?”

The thranx gestured straightforward agreement. “It will be a comfort to me,
though I will not be able to entirely relax until the last AAnn is expelled from
this world. Politely and diplomatically, or otherwise.”

Cullen tried to explain without dismissing. “You have to understand,

Pilwondepat, that in the absence of direct evidence of wrongdoing, human
authorities have a tendency to move with caution. Nothing’s likely to happen
right away.”

“It will come.” Pilwondepat was confident now. “The more unfortunate
coincidences involving the AAnn that occur, the more likely your people will be
to see that they are not coincidences at all. There will be an acceleration of
awareness.”

“Nine days.” Cullen came around from behind the desk to place a reassuring hand
on the thranx’s b-thorax. “Think you can stand working in Riimadu’s company that
long?”

“As long as should prove necessary.” The thranx swiveled his head almost 180
degrees. “It’s easier for me to watch my back than it is for you to guard
yours.”

At that point Therese Holoness burst into the chamber, nearly beating the
doorway’s announcing buzz. Her face was flushed and her eyes wide open and
alert. She glanced uncertainly at the thranx before settling her gaze on Cullen.

“Come quick, Mr. Karasi!”

Cullen’s eyes flicked in Pilwondepat’s direction before returning to the young
woman. “What is it, Therese? What’s wrong?”

She blinked in confusion. “Wrong? Nothing’s wrong, sir. Please, come with me.

You’re not going to believe what we’ve found.”

10

The humidity at Chitteranx Port hit Baron Preed NNXV like a grit-heavy
sandstorm. Gasping, he hastened to activate the dehumidifier strapped to his
snout. Immediately, air from which virtually every trace of moisture had been
removed flowed down his nasal passages and into his lungs. Relieved, he stepped
out into the otherwise amenable climate that filled the terminal. What he really
needed, he reflected, was the visual equivalent of a dehumidifier for his eyes.

Or more properly, a debugger.

The place was full of thranx. The insectoids were everywhere: operating greeting
stations, food and drink facilities, rushing to and fro in hideous numbers. That
was not surprising, since Chitteranx was a major port of arrival and embarkation
on this continent, and Hivehom was their homeworld. That did not make the place
any easier to tolerate. Like all his kind, Preed loathed the multilimbed,
hard-shelled creatures. What he wanted to do was wade into the seething mass and
start pulling off arms and legs and heads. Aside from the fact that he was more
than slightly outnumbered and such action would result in his own expeditious
demise, it would reflect badly on his mission.

Diplomats, he reminded himself, were to be discouraged from dismembering their
hosts.

It was not the thranx he had come to see, however. Had that been the case, he
would have landed at Daret and checked in with the official Imperial Embassy
there. His mission was rather more circumspect. The thranx had been reluctant to
allow it. But since no state of active hostilities existed between the Great

Hive and the Empire, they were unable to find a good reason to refuse the
official request. It was to be an informal visit, the AAnn officials in charge
of making the arrangements had insisted. Nothing conclusive was on order. As a
major power friendly to both sides, the AAnn simply wished to see how the humans
who had located on Hivehom were doing. The thranx didn’t like it, but could not
find a legitimate way to refuse without giving unnecessary offense.

Preed had been chosen because of his mastery of the humans’ language and a
tolerance for difficult conditions. He was flattered by the endorsement and
could not in any event have gracefully refused. So here he was, surrounded by
bugs, on his way to see spongy, soft-skinned mammals. The familiar comforts of

Blassussar seemed a very long way off indeed.

The heavy protective clothing he would need to tolerate the visit to the human
outpost was packed securely in the satchel he carried slung over his right
shoulder. Striding forward, the dehumidifier across his snout distorting his
otherwise courtly profile, he searched in vain for the tube that would take him
to the shuttle that would convey him to the Mediterranea Plateau, where the
humans had their settlement. His flight connection was deliberately scheduled
tight, so that he would not have to spend any more time in lowland Chitteranx
than was absolutely necessary. A check of his chronometer showed that he had no
time to linger. Growling deep in his throat, he realized that he was going to
have to ask directions.

Steeling himself, he used the general terminal guide to locate an information
kiosk. At least he would be spared direct contact with one of the bugs. The
kiosk was designed to be utilized by offworlders. As such, its instrumentation
was intuitive, and though it could not communicate in the Imperial Tongue, he
soon had his directions. Striding off in the indicated direction, he had to
struggle not to kick crowding thranx aside. Bipedal and as tall as the average
human, he towered over the milling natives. With their compound eyes, you could
not even tell if they were looking in your direction, but he knew that they were
staring. The presence of an AAnn on Hivehom, outside the diplomatic mission
located in the capital, was highly unusual. He fancied he could smell hatred and
fear emanating from them. A good feeling, it made him smile inside.

The aircraft that would carry him to the high plateau was specially retrofitted
to accommodate humans as well as thranx but was virtually empty. The few
insectoids aboard crowded as far forward as they could, maintaining as much
space as was practical between themselves and the unusual passenger. This suited

Preed well. As for his own perch, the AAnn found that while his legs bent in
places different from those of humans, he could still fit his backside into one
of the flight chairs that had been designed for them. The only difficulty lay
with his tail. While flexible, it still had to go somewhere. As there was no
proper slot in the rear of the seat, he was reduced to thrusting it off to one
side and over the rim of the chair for the duration of the flight. The resulting
contortion was uncomfortable, but not impossible. At least, he reflected, he was
not reduced to being strapped down like a piece of cargo.

The flight on the superswift craft carried him high above the clouds that
swathed the jungles, rain forest, plantations, and conurbations below. Once they
passed over the edge of the Hysingrausen Wall, the weather cleared above the
plateau. It would be refreshingly drier in the human settlement, he knew, but
also much colder. He would be compelled to swap the uncomfortable dehumidifier
on his snout for a bulky set of cold-wear gear. Such were the travails a
multispecies ambassador was expected to endure.

There were compensations. Preed’s ability to deal with an assortment of
sentients, plus his unusual linguistic gifts, had elevated him to rarified
status. Actually, his rank should have guaranteed him a home posting in a
comfortable villa, with perhaps a view of the Sandronds on Blassussar’s
southernmost continent. But his skills made him too valuable to keep at home. So
he had become a rover in the service of the Empire. The lifestyle suited his
temperament if not his liver.

From the air Azerick was unimpressive. He had not expected much. The human
outpost was still of comparatively recent vintage, both physically and
politically. It could not be allowed to grow rapidly for fear of unsettling the
locals. This was too bad. There was nothing Preed, or any other AAnn, enjoyed
more than seeing the multilimbed thranx unsettled.

Hence his visit.

His principal purpose was not to unnerve the thranx. That was only a side
benefit. He was here to talk with the resident humans, to ascertain a number of
possibilities, to formulate appraisals, and with luck to make more than
mischief. His hopes were high. Despite all the lies the thranx had told humans
about the AAnn, despite their unprecedented and unrepeated cooperation during
the course of the Pitarian War, relations between the two powerful entities were
still in a state of uneasy flux. Relations could evolve, or devolve, on the
basis of very small developments. It was these that Preed was on Hivehom to
influence. His energetic, mischief-making colleagues, he knew, were busy
elsewhere.

The dryness of the air that assailed his nostrils when he emerged from the
aircraft into the local terminal was a huge relief after trying to breathe the
damp mud that passed for atmosphere in Chitteranx. He immediately removed the
clumsy dehumidifier and stored it in his baggage. Finding a personal hygiene
chamber, he attended to necessary ablutions while donning the lightweight but
still unwieldy special garb that would keep the air next to his scales fifteen
degrees warmer than the ambient temperature outside. Only his head, tail, and
hands remained exposed to the chill air. When he emerged from the chamber, he
felt refreshed and ready to begin work.

A voice in halting Imperial hailed him as soon as he stepped outside. “Envoy

Preed! Over here, sir.”

Espying the only human who was both staring and gesticulating in his direction,

Preed approached the individual and replied in near-perfect Terranglo. The
language was easier on his larynx than either High or Low Thranx. Something
else, he mused, his people and these mammals had in common. Extending a hand, he
noted the human’s obvious surprise as the clawed fingers enveloped the mammal’s
soft skin and shook gently.

“You ssee?” the envoy informed his greeter. “No brushing of antennae. Your kind
have one digit too many, and your clawss are exceedingly inadequate, but
otherwisse there iss virtually no difference.”

Pleased by the flattering comparison, the human stepped back. “I’ll be your
principal contact during your visit to Azerick, Envoy Preed. Members of our
guest support staff will look after your daily needs. Whenever you are ready for
formal talks, just let me know. I can say that I personally have been looking
forward to them for some time.”

“A chance to sspeak with ssomething bessidess a bug?” Preed ventured.

Gratifyingly, the human essayed a half smile. “I didn’t say that.”

An excellent beginning, Preed decided. This human, an important member of the
local diplomatic staff, was already predisposed toward the AAnn and against his
hosts. With more such benign developments, much might be accomplished in the
coming days.

“May I carry your baggage, Envoy?” The human extended a helpful hand. To Preed,
it looked as if the straps on his case would cut right through the soft,
unprotected flesh. “By the way, my name is Jorge Sertoa.”

“Yess. I wass informed it would be you who would be meeting me. No thank you,
truly, Jorge. I prefer to carry my own gear. The exercisse iss a good thing for
me.”

Outside the little terminal, the all-pervasive green of the plateau forest made
him wince slightly. He longed for familiar earth tones: for yellows and reds,
burnished orange and fiery vermilion. Such hues were not to be found anywhere on

Hivehom, and certainly not here in the place of the humans’ choosing. Gasping as
the chill air entered his lungs, he bundled his weather suit tighter around his
neck, clasped his hands together, and paced the escorting human to the
impressive little high-speed transport. Within moments, they were racing
northward through the towering woods.

“This transport cabin is equipped with an individual climate control.” The human
was at pains to be accommodating. “Would you like me to turn up the heat?”

Diplomacy be strangled, Preed decided. “I would like that very much, truly. My
thankingss, Jorge.”

Within minutes the temperature inside the cabin had risen to nearly thirty-three
degrees. Though the human was starting to look uncomfortable, he did not ask to
reduce the temperature, and Preed gladly took advantage of the other’s obliging
nature.

They bantered inconsequentialities all the way to the outpost. There, Preed was
assigned quarters that had been hastily adapted for his arrival. There were
chairs with slots in the back for his tail. The high bed had been replaced with
a basin filled with sand, complete with a crude, hastily adapted, but
functionally adequate warmer. As with the cabin aboard the high-speed transport,
the room’s temperature could be individually regulated to suit its occupant.

Preed immediately pushed it to maximum without bothering to try to translate the
digits on the readout and without worrying about the possible consequences to
the room’s contents.

He spent the rest of the day relaxing as best he could amid the alien
surroundings and renewing his acquaintance with his recordings of human facial
expressions, which AAnn xenopsychs had discovered early on in the course of
formal exchanges were a vital key in understanding the mammals. Oftentimes they
would say one thing while their countenances would convey something entirely
different. The fact that the thranx were not yet very good at this business of
interpreting facial muscle positioning only inspired Preed’s people to try to
master it. No one could claim that ability yet, but among those assigned to
diplomatic posts especially, great progress had been made.

For example, his host, the human male Sertoa, had been politely neutral in his
greeting and conversation. But the subcutaneous flexing of his facial muscles
had suggested a warmer predisposition toward his AAnn guest. As time passed, if
his interpretation was further confirmed, Preed could play on that. Much good
could be done here. He reminded himself of that repeatedly, by way of
compensating himself for having to endure the frigid conditions atop the
plateau. At least the local humidity, while higher than any AAnn would choose,
was tolerable, as opposed to the simmering soup of an atmosphere that prevailed
in the bug-infested lowlands below.

“We have sso much more in common,” he hissed to his host the following day, as

Sertoa toured the visiting diplomat through the facility. “Physsically, we are
infinitely more alike than either of our resspective sspeciess are to the
bugss.” By way of demonstration, he reached out and put a four-fingered hand,
polished claws and all, on the human’s shoulder. The flesh was soft beneath the
thin garment, but Preed had expected and prepared for that.

“You ssee? We are on average nearly the ssame height, though your kind runss to
more extremess than mine. We are both bipedal, though you lack the
counterbalance of a tail. Internally, we are both bissymmetrical. Your earss are
rather prominently external, but our eyess are identically possitioned, though
your pupilss are round and ourss vertical. Your facess are pusshed in—excusse my
terminology, are flat—but when you look me in the eye and I look back, I see a
being that iss not sso very different from mysself.” He gestured southward,
toward the teeming lowlands. “When I look at a thranx, I ssee ssomething that
iss truly alien.”

“The thranx are as intelligent as you or I, and as deserving of respect,” the
human responded.

“Truly.” Had he overstepped his bounds? Preed wondered furiously. After all, the
humans were on this planet by the grace of their insectoid hosts. Had he misread
this mammal so badly? “I wass ssimply pointing out ssome interessting and
unavoidable ssimilarities. I did not mean any dissresspect to thosse who, after
all, are hosstss here to uss both.” Disrespect, he mused silently, could come
later.

“I understand.” The human directed his guest down a footpath paved with round
stepping-stones. Preed’s sandals clicked softly on the artificial rock, his feet
swathed in protective cold-resistant gear. Meanwhile, the human strolled about
virtually naked in the chill air of afternoon.

“We musst all get along in thiss tiny corner of a vasst galaxy. You know that
the emperor hass petitioned your government for the ssame ssettlement and
ssharing rightss that are pressently enjoyed by thesse thranx?”

Sertoa’s face revealed his surprise. “No, I didn’t know that. In what way?”

The AAnn diplomat explained. “As the thranx have esstablished ssmall hivess in
your Amazon and Congo Bassinss, and are conssidering another in your Ssepik

River region, my government hass requessted that we be allowed to consstruct a
tesst community in either the center of your Ssahara Desert or an alternate
region called the Ssonoran.”

“That’s exciting news.” Sertoa led the way into one of the complex’s sealed
structures. The air inside was slightly warmer than without, for which Preed was
inordinately grateful. “I hope it comes to pass.”

“You do?” Preed kept his tone subdued.

“Why, of course. I’ve always admired the accomplishments of the AAnn. At least,
what we know of them. No one looks forward to closer relations between our two
peoples more than I.”

Breakthrough. Though his scale-covered snout and face were far less flexible
than those of any human, they were still capable of movement. Lest the humans be
studying the expressions of the AAnn as intensely as his kind were scrutinizing
theirs, Preed struggled to hide the quiet exultation he felt at the human’s
response. This diplomat was not only friendly toward his kind: If his words
could be believed, he was positively enthusiastic.

There were a number of ways of checking.

“If you are interessted, I might perhapss be able to arrange a reciprocal vissit
to the Imperial capital at Blassussar, or at leasst to one of the principal

Imperial worldss.”

Sertoa’s expression brightened. “That would be wonderful! I’d enjoy that very
much.”

Confirmation of a quickly formed opinion, however casual, was always welcome.

Here, on the thranx homeworld, was a sympathetic if not openly biased human
diplomat. This was in itself enough to justify the discomfort of his trip, and
he had only just arrived.

“I have a surprise for you.” A grin, an expression that Preed recalled indicated
a combination of personal satisfaction and amusement, dominated the human’s
face. “I think you’ll like it.”

They entered a substantial edifice where Preed was startled to encounter humans
in various states of undress. If anything their naked bodies were, while of
scientific interest, more disconcerting than their clothed forms. Leading the
way deeper into the complex, Sertoa guided his guest to a windowless chamber.

The pair of humans there hurried their dressing when they discerned the nature
of the alien visitor.

“If you would kindly disrobe, sir. I know that your people do not suffer from
any nudity phobias.” As he ventured the suggestion, Sertoa had already begun the
process of removing his own clothing.

“That iss true, but I am not ssure thiss iss in accordance with proper
diplomatic procedure, my friend.” The AAnn eyed the human uncertainly.

“Trust me, Baron Preed.” By this time the human diplomat was nearly naked.

We must all make sacrifices for the Empire, Preed told himself. He began to
remove his decorative official garments.

When both were unclad, Sertoa led his guest to a smaller chamber. Preed did his
best to avoid gawking at the jiggling, pulpy body of his host. Sertoa opened a
door and stepped inside. Preed followed, only to find himself in—if not the
fabled nirvanic sands of Ss’ra’oun, at least a place where he could feel
comfortable. The small chamber was suffused, bathed, washed in perfectly dry
heat. It was almost, but not quite, a slice of home.

“Tanning room.” Sertoa sat down on a convenient bench. “To make sure we get our
proper bimonthly dose of the right kind of sunlight. I thought you’d be more
comfortable conversing here than anywhere else in the settlement.”

Embracing the arid, humidityless heat, Preed almost unbent. “I am more grateful
than I can ssay. Ssuch courtessy doess you proud, Jorge Ssertoa.”

The human shrugged off the compliment. “Just doing my job.” At his touch, a
concealed wall alcove disgorged a thin-walled metal container containing a mix
of both liquid and frozen water. Preed eyed it askance, hoping he would not be
asked to partake of the frigid concoction. When he found out he could request
uniced, room-temperature water, he relaxed once more.

“Now then.” Sertoa smiled at his reptilian guest. “If you’re reasonably at ease,
what would you like to talk about? What exactly is the purpose of your visit
here? Why aren’t you at the AAnn diplomatic mission in Daret?”

By shifting his tail to one side, Preed found he could repose quite comfortably
on the bench fashioned of native wooden slats. “There are a number of issuess
involving the relationsship between your people and the thranx that intimately
affect my kind. Given the natural biological ssimilaritiess between AAnn and
human, my ssuperiorss felt that thiss outposst of yourss might be an appropriate
place to broach them. Truly. Of coursse, we are alsso curiouss to ssee how you
have progressed and what you have accomplisshed here. Though but recently
arrived, I am already much impressed.”

“I’m listening. Go on.” Sertoa took a long swig of his water and Preed cringed
internally as he heard cubes of frozen water actually clink against the human’s
teeth.

“My government feelss sstrongly that you are devoting far too many ressourcess
to developing relationss with these bugss, when ssimilarr overturess between
alike ssentientss ssuch as humankind and AAnn could be of infinitely greater
benefit to both.”

Sertoa nodded, an easy gesture to recognize and interpret. “First let me say
that I couldn’t agree with you more. I think trying to develop anything beyond
standard diplomatic relations between humans and thranx, given the obvious
profound differences between our respective species, is a waste of time and
money. And I think the neglect of relations between your people and mine has
been shameful. The thranx, of course, feel otherwise.”

“That iss undersstandable.” Preed started to gesture, then remembered to dip his
head in the simple human nod. “As you may know, from the time of firsst contact,
relationss between my people and the thranx have been . . . awkward. No amount
of perssuassion and imploring on the part of my government hass ssucceeded in
altering their beliefss.” Luxuriating in the dry heat that saturated the
chamber, he leaned forward. Not too far, aware that proximity to sharp, curved

AAnn teeth had been known to unsettle an unwary human.

“Thiss need not affect in any way developing relationss between our resspective
sspeciess. It iss good to have come all thiss way and know that we have at
leasst one friend and ssympathizer among thosse of your kind empowered to make
the decissions affecting thosse relationss.”

Leaning back against the wall, his eyes half closed against the overhead tanning
lights, Sertoa replied quietly. “There are others. Some feel even more strongly
about this matter than I.”

Preed considered. It was silent in the chamber for several moments before he
made the decision to take a step that as recently as yesterday he had not
believed would be possible. “How sstrongly, my friend?”

The human turned toward him. “More strongly than I am at liberty to say.”

“That iss mosst encouraging. Truly. Perhapss before I depart I might be able to
meet ssome of thesse like thinkerss?”

“Perhaps,” Sertoa replied noncommittally. While willing to be obliging, Preed
noted, the human remained cautious. “Meanwhile, I consider this a promising vein
for further discussion, which I hope we may enlarge upon during the rest of your
visit.” He waved a hand, and Preed marveled at the sheer slackness of the
gesture. “When we happen to find ourselves in appropriate surroundings, of
course.”

“Truly,” Preed agreed. “Allow me, if you will, to detail ssome of the sspecific
ssuggestionss I am authorized to make, and to elaborate upon how they might be
implemented to our mutual advantage.”

“I would enjoy hearing them.” Smiling encouragingly, Sertoa turned fully toward
his reptilian guest, admiring the play of the tanning lights on the AAnn’s
gleaming, iridescent scales.

When in the course of the next morning’s casual conversation an acquaintance
happened to mention that Jorge Sertoa had spent the entire previous morning and
well on into the afternoon in the company of a visiting, high-ranking AAnn
envoy, Fanielle Anjou began a frantic search of the compound for the pair. She
was more than a little exhausted and out of breath when she was eventually
directed to the diplomatic compound’s gymnasium and health complex. At first
thought, it seemed an unlikely venue in which to pursue diplomacy between
differing species. It did have the virtue of comparative privacy, however. That
in itself conjured unwelcome possibilities she tried but was unable to put out
of her mind.

She thought about mentioning it to Toroni, but without anything more to go on
than suspicions of suspicions, she could hardly go barging into his office with
eyebrows raised and arms flailing. She would have to bring something more to
such a confrontational meeting than a personal dislike of the reptilian bipeds.

It was midafternoon when she found herself peeling off her clothes as she strode
determinedly through the changing room. A few users she knew spoke to her. She
returned their hellos and greetings as amiably as she could, even though her
mind was elsewhere.

It was almost worth forcing the encounter just to see the look on Sertoa’s face
when, as naked as anyone else in that end of the complex, she pushed her way
into the otherwise deserted tanning room to confront him and the AAnn envoy.

Ignoring her open-mouthed colleague, she directed her attention to the alien,
whose shimmering, leathery scales served to frame an otherwise interesting if
unremarkable anatomy.

“Fanielle . . .” More than a little nonplussed, the unabashedly uncomfortable

Sertoa struggled to keep his eyes on her face. Though she paid little attention
to him, his efforts to appear resolutely uninterested amused her. She was far
more interested in the AAnn. Seated on one of the long wooden benches, his tail
switching from floor to wall, the envoy regarded her with curiosity. That his
slitted eyes roved freely over her nude form unsettled her not a bit. Being
utterly nonhuman, there was nothing in his gaze to affect her.

Bypassing Sertoa, she approached the alien and extended a hand. Not as her
colleague had done, but with fingers upraised, crooked at both joints and
parted, nails pointing forward. The AAnn did not rise, but gracefully met her
gesture with his left hand. Their fingers interlocked, her soft ones separating
his tough, leathery digits. She felt the strength of the highly evolved
carnivore held in reserve. Then he released his grip. The not-unpleasant
sensation reminded her of letting go of the strap of a particularly well made
leather handbag. As he leaned back against the molded wall, she introduced
herself. Nearby, Sertoa was stammering something as he tried to regain control
of the situation. AAnn and female ignored him. For a brief moment, he was unsure
which of the two was the more alien.

“I am Fanielle Anjou, second assistant undersecretary for thranx affairs on

Hivehom.”

Slitted, reptilian eyes met her own. Neither pair fell; neither pair wavered. “I
am Baron Preed NNXV, sspecial envoy at large for his Imperial Majessty Hezenezzk

V. I greet you as an equal, and wissh you all the natural warmth that doess not
exisst in thiss place.” One clawed hand gestured second-degree irony. “Except in
thiss peculiar but mosst welcome inner chamber. While my quarterss are
ssatissfactory, if the facilitiess would allow it, I would gladly sspend the
remainder of my sstay right here.” Before Anjou could respond, he added, “Does
not thiss sstrong light burn your pale, unprotected sskin?”

“If one spends much time in here, yes, it does,” she admitted.

Double eyelids blinked. “But you come in here to do thiss voluntarily.”

“I already told you; it’s necessary for our health,” an increasingly impatient

Sertoa reminded his guest.

“Most remarkable.” The AAnn’s gaze traveled unapologetically up and down Anjou’s
nude form. Not only did it not trouble her, she found it instructive to
reciprocate the action. “I was enjoying a usseful chat with your good friend and
colleague here concerning the lamentable sstate of human-AAnn relationss, and
how it would be agreeable if more attention could be devoted to improving the
nasscent relationsship that pressently exisstss between our two peopless. But it
sseemss that certain of your associatess feel ssuch time iss better sspent
attempting to win over the affection of thesse reeking, sswarming bugss.”

“The government of Earth and its colonies manages the development of all
interspecies relationships with equal care and attention. I’m sorry if the AAnn
feel neglected.” Off to one side, Sertoa was looking unhappy.

Preed’s jaws parted, showing very sharp theropod-like teeth. “It iss not that we
feel neglected. Intersstellar, intersspeciess conssanguinity cannot be
fasshioned overnight. It iss merely that ssome of uss feel your people are
devoting overmuch in the way of diplomatic energiess to attempting to create
ssome kind of association with thesse hard-sshelled creaturess that goess beyond
the ussual diplomatic formalitiess. As you musst know, the Empire hass had ssome
ssmall differencess with the bugss in the passt. Therefore, it iss only natural
that we would pay sspecial attention to anything that would ssuggesst the bugss
are attempting to misslead another, powerful sspeciess ssuch as yoursselves as
to the true nature of our hisstorical relations.”

“I can assure you that is not the case.” Perspiration was beginning to pour in
tiny rivulets down her body: her cheeks, her shoulders and breasts, down her
belly and thighs and back. She ignored the damp stickiness. “My government
respects all sentients, and treats equally with all. As to any quarrels you and
the thranx may have had in the past, that is none of our business and does not
affect our relations with them or with you.”

Preed’s hands wove patterns in the superheated air, indicating contentment
and—something else she could not interpret. “It iss alwayss reassuring to hear
ssuch words, particularly from ssomeone sso clearly verssed in the realitiess of
intersstellar diplomacy as yoursself, Ms. Anjou. While I have time left here, I
would look forward to converssing with you at greater length on ssuch
interessting matterss.”

“So would I.” She blinked sweat from one eye. “Unfortunately, I have to travel
to Daret tomorrow.”

Sertoa frowned. “I don’t recall your being scheduled for a visit to the capital
this week.”

“You can’t know everything, Jorge. You know how these things come up. I’m not
happy about it myself.” She returned her attention to the AAnn diplomat. “I
regret that I will not be able to talk with you further, noble Preed.”

He gestured his disappointment. “We musst each of uss follow our directivess. My
own sschedule iss ssimilarly inflexible. I wissh you a ssafe journey. I
undersstand there wass a ssorrowfully fatal accident recently in your local
transsport ssytem that affected you perssonally.”

She stiffened slightly. “Yes, it did.”

He tilted his head to one side as he gestured balletically with his left hand.

“I would disslike hearing that a ssimilar fate had befallen one sso charming and
knowledgeable as yoursself.”

“I’ll be careful,” she assured him evenly. “As for you, have a care with your
room’s climate control. It can sometimes get quite chilly up here at night. And
chilly for us could mean forced enervation for you.” Somewhat against her better
judgment, she allowed herself a small smile. “I would dislike hearing that your
stiffened form had to be shipped back to Blassussar in a crate because you
forgot to check your room’s temperature settings.”

Again the AAnn’s head and hands danced in concert. This time she could not tell
what, if anything, he was gesturing. “I will remember your cautioning with
thankss.”

Turning, she exited purposefully from the tanning chamber. Sertoa watched her
for longer than he intended before resuming his interrupted dialogue with the

AAnn.

“I fear that where human-thranx versus human-AAnn relations are concerned, my
colleague is of a different mind than you or I. She has developed not only a
working relationship with the bugs, but something suspiciously like affection.

I’m afraid she’s allowed her admiration for the local culture to cloud her
professional judgment.” He resumed his seat on the wooden bench. “She and I
often find ourselves on opposite sides of discussions. It’s all very polite and
professional, of course, but each of us knows where the other stands.”

Swinging his long tail around, Preed used the tip to scratch under his left leg.

“It iss of no import. My government undersstands that opinion among your kind
iss sstrongly divided over how to proceed with human-thranx relationss. It iss
my tassk, and that of my compeerss operating on other worldss, to enssure that
human-AAnn relationss are not overlooked in thiss headlong russh that iss being
advocated by ssome of your people to erect an unnecessarily intimate association
with the bugss. In the coursse of normal negotationss it would be unreassonable
to expect that everyone in your diplomatic sservice would believe as ssenssibly
as yoursself. But that iss all right; that iss acceptable. We musst ssimply work
harder to convince Ms. Anjou of the right way of thinking.”

Sertoa let out a derisive laugh. “You’ve only just met Fanielle. You might as
well try to move the local star to another system as change her mind.”

Preed gestured, expanding to soak up the wonderful parching heat of the chamber.

“My people were engaged in the bussiness of intersstellar diplomacy long before
your kind took itss firsst tentative sstepss into deep sspace. We have made it,
if not a sscience, at leasst a very well honed tool. With great experience and
patience, many thingss originally thought impossible have come to pass. Perhapss
thesse achievementss might even extend to recruiting your redoubtable Ms. Anjou
to our way of thinking.” Lowering his spread arms and upraised tail, he settled
himself as best he could on the bench opposite the human.

“Now let uss sspeak of comely thingss, of what pleasses you and what pleasses
me, and for a while at leasst, talk no more of diplomacy and matterss
portentouss.”

But while Sertoa nattered on, a portion of the noble’s thoughts were devoted to
the female human who had so recently departed. She was bright, that one, and
determined. An unhealthy combination. Despite what he had told Sertoa about the
experience and expertise of the AAnn diplomatic service, and the skill of its
operatives, she would be difficult to convince of the right way of seeing
things. Procedures lined up in his mind like spikes in an advanced game
ofjyss-ul-nacch .

If she could not be convinced, she would have to be persuaded.

11

As the most populous of the thranx colonies and the first to be settled from

Hivehom, the prideful inhabitants of Willow-Wane had worked to conceive and
erect an exceptionally interesting pavilion for the fair on Dawn. Situated in
the northern section of the grounds, on a slight rise, it offered much to
interest both human and thranx visitors alike. Incidental to its design, its
builders had created a place where members of both species could relax in one
another’s company in ways only the most dedicated adherents of closer ties could
have envisioned years earlier.

The pavilion’s purpose was entirely nonpolitical. Its exhibits were intended to
entertain, amuse, and delight, not proselytize. That they had unintended effects
on their audiences, both mammalian and insectoid, might have been predicted but
was not considered. Certainly those families, groups, and individuals who found
themselves wandering among the displays were not conscious of being bombarded
with preconceived propaganda. Nevertheless, a number of innocuous messages
managed to manifest themselves amid the more immediate.

We can enjoy one another’s company,the several eating and drinking facilities
declared wordlessly.We can appreciate each other’s art, multiple slash
sculptures and background music insisted.We can band together to accomplish that
which we cannot do by ourselves, the build-and-climb exhibit demonstrated.

That there were differences could not be denied. For example, the pavilion
contained no playground for children, because thranx larvae existed in a state
of limbless attention. Their amusements were wholly nonphysical. As a result,
there were dozens of visual and aural displays entirely controlled by voice.

Larvae could speak, but were otherwise completely dependent on the resources of
the modern nursery.

This realization and the accompanying demonstrations had an unintended effect:

They generated immediate sympathy on the part of visiting human children for
their temporal thranx counterparts. Those larvae who had been chosen to
participate in the exhibition found themselves the recipients of sympathetic
attention from sad-eyed young bipeds who were already fully capable of movement.

Many of the subsequent discourses between the young of both species were
recorded for later study and proved highly revealing in the understanding of
future developments.

As for the incipient as well as the fully mature adults of both species, they
were enthralled by the excellence of the elaborate displays. One of the more
popular involved demonstrations of human martial arts and their thranx
equivalents. Both species had evolved from warlike ancestors. Humans who were
embarrassed by a past now seen to be irrational if inevitable were startled and
often overcome by the history display that showed entire hives of ancestral
thranx engaging in endless primitive warfare.

As for the martial artists, humans were larger and heavier, and faster over a
short distance. But thranx had more endurance and eight limbs to utilize in
fighting instead of four, although the delicate truhands were not of much use in
hand-to-hand combat and were usually kept folded close to the body and out of
the way. Still, clever and well-trained thranx could often hold their own
against combative humans. Built closer to the ground, they were harder to get
off their feet. A judo leg sweep was not of much use against an opponent who
could stand on six legs, and the bodies of the chitinous insectoids offered few
soft spots to attack.

Such demonstrations were carefully choreographed and all in good fun. At other
exhibits, the individual inclinations of humans contrasted sharply with the
thranx tendency to perform tasks through cooperation. Human gymnasts tended to
flip and fly by themselves, while their thranx counterparts built astonishingly
stable pyramids consisting of dozens of individuals interlocking their hands and
feet. These latter edifices were judged not only by their size and by the number
of thranx involved in each structure, but by the aesthetics of the completed
design.

But it was at the food stations where inhibitions really dropped away, as thranx
discovered numerous human foods they could consume and humans luxuriated in the
literally hundreds of new juices and soups concocted by thranx food preparators.

Great scientific discoveries interest people, as do entertaining new works of
art or exceptional demonstrations of physical skill, or ways to improve an
individual lifestyle. But nothing enthralls quite so homogeneously as a new
flavor.

Briann and Twikanrozex wandered through the pavilion, drawing fewer and briefer
stares than they had elsewhere. Everyone was too intent on the exhibits, or on
trying new foods and drinks, or on laughing at the wandering thranx sniggle
poets, to pay special attention to one roving human-thranx pair. As for the two
padres, they did not comment on the obvious lack of attention being paid them.

They were too used to each other’s company.

But they did observe, with pleasure, the unconscious ease with which their
respective species had begun to relax in one another’s presence. Seduced by the
exotic surroundings of the pavilion, by its engaging food and drink, marvelous
exhibits, unusual demonstrations, and the multitude of singular diversions set
before them, few visitors had any time left in which to remark unfavorably on
the mere physical differences between them.

“Observe,” Twikanrozex remarked, “how the essence of shapeism vanishes when
everyone involved is having a good time.”

Briann nodded. “It’s hard to hate when one is laughing too hard. Barring a very
few isolated incidents, everything I’ve seen so far at this fair bodes well for
better relations between our species. Amid such good feelings, the Church should
prosper.”

Twikanrozex indicated second-degree concurrence. “Criill,we need to nurture
these good feelings, and to be available to succor and assist those whose inner
emotions are conflicted. There is still an enormous amount of work to be done.”

They rounded a slowly rotating disc on which thranx body-poets were arranging
themselves in ever-more-complex patterns. Ancient traditions that had once been
employed in the service of constructing impressive underground chambers had been
transformed into a wondrously intricate kind of performance art human acrobats
could only hope to emulate, but never duplicate.

“Myself,” Briann declared, “I’ll know we’ve achieved our goals when I see a
human outside the Church consent to be ministered to by a thranx.”

With delicate movements of head and antennae as well as hands, Twikanrozex
insinuated a fusion of understanding and general bemusement. “It is a puzzle to
me how sentient beings can feel more relaxed in the presence of a hostile but
similar shape than in the company of a sympathetic but differently constructed
intelligence.”

Using their rigid exoskeletons like pieces of sculpture, the body-poets had
erected a complex geometric structure that reached almost to the polarized roof
of the pavilion. A mixed audience of complimentary thranx and perspiring humans
stridulated and cheered in unison. As always, the reaction of the human children
was particularly heartening. To them—to those children whose minds had not yet
been poisoned by prejudiced or chary parents, Briann reminded himself—the thranx
were a beautiful mystery, aromatic and alien, like oversized toys that could
talk back. As Twikanrozex had pointed out, there was much work to be done.

The Church intended to be in the forefront of such work. There was no place in
its self-deprecating structure or formal hierarchy for shapeism or any other
kind of species bigotry—only for souls. And as far as anyone had yet been able
to determine, scientifically or theologically, all souls had the same shape.

Exactly what the “soul” consisted of was a question both humans and thranx had
been dealing with for thousands of years. Despite enormous advances in the
technology of quantification, it remained an abstract, something that still
could not yet be measured or weighed. The taxonomy of metaphysics was still in
its infancy. In that sense it was akin to the never-ending search for the
ultimate building blocks of matter, which every fifty years or so seemed to
shrink a little farther in the direction of infinite smallness.

Briann did not worry overmuch about such matters. Or nonmatters, depending on
one’s point of view. He had joined the Church to help people, no matter their
shape. Thus far he had encountered nothing to make him second-guess his
decision. His family remained puzzled, but supportive. Interestingly,

Twikanrozex had encountered even more difficulty with his choice. Thranx society
was not as fluid as that of the humans. Radical changes in lifestyle and
direction were not as freely countenanced. Twikanrozex had been compelled to hoe
a harder row than his human companion.

Still, even though both considered themselves more sophisticated in matters of
interspecies relations and had prepared themselves for this occasion with much
serious study and preparation, the fair had already shown itself capable of
delivering an endless round of surprises. Presently, they were passing a lively
display devoted to illustrating the history of agriculture on Willow-Wane.

Virtual thranx drove virtual machines to the accompaniment of narration in both

Low Thranx and Terranglo. Appropriate odors suffused the area immediately around
the exhibition. Generating the story via tridee transducers allowed the thranx
producers to incorporate huge mechanicals and hundreds of workers without
overwhelming the individual display.

Passing by, a larger than usual human family paused briefly to gaze at the
roof-high exhibit, whereupon the smallest child in the group raised a hand and
pointed, yelling gleefully.

“Look, look—an ant farm!”

Briann felt his face flush slightly as he and Twikanrozex ambled on past the
thoroughly enchanted family. His reaction was not in response to the child’s
comment, but because Twikanrozex, overhearing, requested an explanation of the
term. When a slightly flustered Briann had finished elucidating, as
diplomatically as he was able, the thranx gestured reassurance.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed, my friend. Your native arthropods are not my
ancestors. Actually, I find the concept rather endearing.” Swiveling his head to
look directly back over his shoulder at the gawking family, he gestured with
both truhands. “Certainly it has proven useful, as the larvae in question show
no fear of my kind. Perhaps a general distribution of the educational toys to
which the youngest referred might be considered by the Church.”

“There are other concerns,” Briann endeavored to explain. “Although I have never
owned such a bio-apparatus myself, I believe that the resourceful little
arthropods in question have a tendency to escape their controlled environment,
to the annoyance of any resident adults. I think the Church is better to stick
with those visual aids that can provide instruction without the possibility of
accompanying infestation.”

Twikanrozex’s antennae drew together, showing that he was deep in thought.

Finally he responded. “Perhaps,sellicc, you are right. I don’t think
self-contained habitats holding miniature humans would be welcome in the private
chambers of many hives, either.” He glanced at his friend. “Assuming such a
contrivance could be constructed.”

“A people farm?” Briann pondered the notion. “I don’t think so. Although if you
offer humans enough monetary compensation, they’ll do just about anything. In
that respect, the thranx are more virtuous than my kind.”

“Not at all,” Twikanrozex demurred. “It is only that we are most of the time too
busy to be corrupted. When time exists for contemplation of possibilities, we
too can be persuaded to make fools of ourselves.”

“Another vinculum between our peoples.” Reassured by his friend’s reiteration of
the existence of mutual foolishness, Briann led the way out of the pavilion. All
the walking, not to mention all the talking, was making him hungry.

He shared the state of his stomach with his companion, who allowed as how he,
too, could stand some sustenance.

“What would you like?” Briann inquired. “We can go back inside, where the
climate is more to your liking, or continue wandering until we come across
something that appeals to both of us.”

“Let us wander.” Twikanrozex was enjoying himself hugely. “The air is a little
dry today, but not entirely intolerable.”

Briann hitched his sweat-dampened shirt higher on his shoulders and chose a
pedestrian walkway at random. There was no need to consult a fair directory. The

Church would guide them.

It did indeed, as they soon found themselves resting comfortably in an outdoor
venue that was raised slightly above ground level, giving the patrons a pleasant
view of the busy fairgrounds that stretched to the lake and the green-clad hills
beyond. Not for the first time, Briann reflected on what an excellent choice

Dawn had been for such an enterprise. The semitropical nature of the climate was
bearable to the thranx while not unduly uncomfortable for humans. Locating the
fair next to a large lake had the effect of injecting additional humidity into
the local atmosphere, thus pleasing the insectoids even further.

At the moment, one of those aliens was finding exceptional pleasure in a
mango-starfruit-guanabana crush, the terrestrial fruit juice drink being not
only acceptable to his system, but avidly welcomed. The only difference between
that and a similar beverage being enjoyed by Briann was that the thranx had
ordered it made with tepid water instead of pulverized ice, a request that had
left the perspiring human attendant shaking his head in silent disbelief. To the
thranx, the notion of a “cold drink” was an oxymoron.

Twikanrozex admired the flexibility of his friend’s prehensile lips as Briann
sipped easily at his own libation. With four opposing mandibles, the thranx
could make quicker work of solid food than any human, but liquids gave them
problems. Fluids had to be poured directly into the open mouth, or inhaled via
often elaborately swirled and decorated, narrow-spouted drinking utensils. Only
by inserting the tip of such a siphon partway down the insectoid throat could a
thranx generate enough esophageal vacuum to draw liquid from a container. In
contrast, the malleability of human flesh allowed someone like Briann to form an
airtight seal around the edge of an open container and pull fluids up and in.

There were advantages to having a ductile epidermis.

Of course, Twikanrozex mused, such abilities were more than offset by the
inherent aesthetic handicaps all humans suffered from. The thranx would not have
exchanged his burnished, gleaming, blue-green exoskeleton for all the
fluid-vacuuming abilities in the Arm. Slipping the drinking tip of his
siphon-cup between his parted mandibles, he luxuriated in the slippery, sugary
taste and feel of the exotic terrestrial refreshment as it coursed down his
throat.

“Ah, there you are!”

Briann looked up from his chair to see two men advancing toward him. Both were
older, one considerably so. Their eyes were intense, but not baleful. They were
neatly dressed. Excessively so, given the ambient temperature and humidity
within the pavilion.

“May we join you?” the younger of the two asked politely. “We’ve been searching
for you two ever since we came across your display.”

“We like to move around.” Briann set his drink aside. “You know: meet folks, see
the fair, try new experiences.”

“Well, you two are certainly a new experience for us. We’ve read about you, and
seen bits and pieces about your organization on the tridee. I am Father Joseph.”

He indicated the distinguished, white-haired senior who had settled into the
chair alongside him. “This is Father Jenakis. I am Twelfth Baptist, and he is

Orthodox Episcolic.”

Briann explained to his watchful companion. “Traditional human churches.”

Twikanrozex gestured welcome to the two men of the cloth. “I’m pleased to meet a
pair of fellow theologians.”

Joseph accepted the proffered chitinous hand tentatively. Making no move to
emulate the gesture, Father Jenakis maintained a respectful distance to go with
his thoughtful silence.

“We hadn’t expected you to be so fluent in our language.”

Twikanrozex dipped his antennae forward, keeping one truhand wrapped around his
drinking utensil. “I am conversant in several languages, including one that
involves only the use of gestures. If one has information to impart, one cannot
expect the audience to go to the trouble of learning the imparter’s tongue.”

Briann smiled pleasantly. “Twikanrozex doesn’t have a tongue, of course. The
thranx modulate sounds deep within their throats, by means of mechanisms that
would choke a human. That it comes out sounding so similar to us is as
remarkable as it is advantageous. I am Padre Briann and this is Padre

Twikanrozex.”

Father Jenakis snorted curtly. His younger associate winced ever so slightly
before resuming the conversation. “As you may know, a number of the established

Terran religions are having some trouble with this United Church of yours.”

“It’s yours, too,” Twikanrozex observed, managing to unsettle the earnest Father

Joseph in as few words as possible.

“No, not mine, I’m afraid. Some of my colleagues and I are concerned. At first,
no one paid much attention to your efforts.”

“No one paidany attention to our efforts,” Briann corrected him, still smiling.

Joseph had the grace to smile back. “But now your message, peculiar and
unconventional as it is, appears to be having some small effect. In particular,
you are making inroads among the young who dominate the upper intelligence
percentiles. This is not only disturbing, it is unprecedented.”

“Yes, we know.” Briann sat back in his chair. Around them, crowd sounds rose and
fell: laughter and squeals of delight and shouts of surprise. “Usually it’s the
other way around. It’s those in the lower percentiles who tend to be persuaded
first.”

“Dangerous nonsense!” the older man huffed, deigning to speak for the first
time.

“Not a bit of it.” Briann had heard it all before, though not usually from
official representatives of terrestrial churches. “We don’t proselytize. We
don’t try to convert anyone. We just put our creed out where it can be examined
by anyone who might be interested. We don’t push it. It’s a free society we live
in, in these days of open communications and galactic colonization. Anyone is
free to join any organization they wish, provided the tenets of that fraternity
do not impinge on the rights of others.” He spread his hands wide. “We don’t
even ask anyone who joins the UC to give up their previous religion, if they
have one, or stop going to that particular church, if they wish to continue to
do so.”

“So how can we be dangerous?” Twikanrozex finished for his friend.

“Your doctrine is seductive,” the older man growled, his true sentiments clearly
held in check by the admonitions of his own. “Worse than seductive, it mocks all
other religions. You worship nothing but irrelevancy!”

Twikanrozex motioned for understanding. “We don’t worship irrelevancy: We simply
recognize it. Weare irrelevant. All of us. I, my colleague Briann, you, everyone
in this pavilion, everyone on this planet. Our presence justifies nothing, and
signifies only the accidental evolution of some exceptionally active amino
acids. The results are admirable, even praiseworthy. But they are not relevant
to the evolvement of the universe. One of the core beliefs of the United Church
is that every sentient being should come to understand its place in the scheme
of things.”

“And what is that place?” Father Joseph ignored his senior’s look of
disapproval.

“A little to the left, we think.” Briann’s smile widened. “I’m sorry if that
sounds too irrelevant. You see, we are a dogma that is founded on full
comprehension of our own individual and collective insignificance. Having
accepted that, we can mature in comfort. I am quite content with who I am and
with my place in the cosmos. Likewise, Twikanrozex is content with his.”

“What about eternal damnation and salvation?” Father Jenakis looked as if he
wanted to thunder the question but, mindful of the many others seated nearby,
restrained himself.

“Questions we can’t answer,” Briann replied. “If they exist, we can’t do
anything about them. And if they don’t, why, we’d be wasting an awful lot of
otherwise productive lifetime agonizing over them.” He met the older man’s gaze
unflinchingly. “There are plenty of others willing to do the agonizing already,
and we have no desire to intrude on their territory.”

Joseph turned apologetic. “You know that there are proposals being put forth to
limit your activities.”

“Among my people, as well,” Twikanrozex felt compelled to point out.

Briann shrugged. “We don’t spill time worrying about that. It’s a matter for the
legal logisticians. Twikanrozex and I, we’re just two among many who have chosen
to help spread the message.” He sat forward. “Having been by our display, you
know that everything about the Church is available for the asking. Why don’t you
try reading the first forty maxims or so and their antecedents?”

Joseph replied with the confidence of the convicted. “I already have plenty to
read, both religious and otherwise.”

Briann sighed resignedly. “Too bad. They’d give you a couple of good laughs.

What is it you want from us? If it’s simply to discuss theology and the
economics of organized religion, we’re happy to oblige you. If there’s something
more . . .”

Father Jenakis looked as if he were about to rise from his seat. “We want you to
shut down that infernal display of yours and stop trying to convert people!

Especially young people.”

“But we have told you.” Twikanrozex responded with a four-handed gesture of some
directness. “We are not trying to convert anyone—much less anyone of a
particular age. I must add that in this respect I have already encountered such
a request. The fanciful situation to which you allude arouses even greater
passions among my people, since our children are incapable of moving about on
their own. There is much unreasoning talk of what you call, I believe, ‘captive
audiences.’ “

“Our display stays.” Though still conventionally courteous, Briann’s tone
hardened slightly. “We have the permit, and as much right to exhibit as any
other authorized vendor at this fair.”

“Vendor!” Father Jenakis shook his head slowly. “If you are willing to denigrate
your own beliefs so freely, how can you expect others to take them seriously?”

“We don’t,” Briann informed him. “That is, we don’t expect others to do
anything, except read what is on offer. And since we don’t expect others to take
us seriously, why should you? If we’re going to, as you put it, denigrate our
own beliefs, why should you take the trouble to do so when we’re doing it for
you?”

“We told you,” Joseph declared softly. “Because it’s that very irreverence that
appeals to intelligent youngsters. It intrigues them.”

“It also makes them laugh,” Briann could not keep from pointing out. “Nothing
like a lack of seriousness, of preaching, and of regulations to puzzle a clever
kid. Where is it writ that a religious organization can’t consecrate fun?” He
shook his head. “I won’t tell you from what particular theology I came to the

United Church, but suffice to say I never could understand how making you
continually feel bad was supposed to ultimately make you feel good.” He folded
his arms and radiated quiet contentment. “We have the same eventual end in mind
as do you. We’ve simply chosen to follow a path that cuts out all that
conflicting, confusing first step. We proceed directly to making people feel
good.”

“You will be stopped.” Father Jenakis was quite convinced. “Laws will be passed
to prevent you from doing any more harm. Furthermore, people will soon begin to
see through the insubstantialities of your clever but childish polemics. You are
a fad, gentlemen. Nothing more. I feel sorry for you, and will pray for your
souls.”

Briann maintained his maddening air of self-assurance. “As to the possibility of
restrictive laws being used against us, Father, only time will tell. I can tell
you that we have very good lawyers. As to people seeing through what the Church
propounds, we intend that they do so. That’s why we abjure complex dogma, and
try to keep things simple. When they see through our maxims, we hope that on the
other side they will find truth. That is all that we seek: truth and happiness.

The former to gratify the mind, the latter to satisfy the soul. And we thank you
for your offer to pray for us. We of the Church would never turn down such a
benevolent offer. ‘In a Universe vast with uncertainties, never turn down an
offer of expiation, no matter what the source.’ Maxim number sixty-eight, part
four.”

The older man rose precipitously. “You people are impudent and shameless!”

“I know,” Briann admitted, “but it keeps us smiling.”

Jenakis looked like a man ready to begin a sermon. Thinking better of it, he
reached down and put a hand on his younger associate’s shoulder. “Come, Father

Joseph. We can do nothing more here. One cannot reason with harlequins.”

His expression rueful, the younger man rose. “I’m sorry. We can’t help you if
you won’t let us. I will pray for you, too.”

“That’s very kind of you.” Leaning forward, Briann whispered conspiratorially,

“Remember—all our literature is easily mollyed right from our display tower!” As
the younger man turned to depart in the wake of his senior, Briann placed a
thumb in each ear, raised his hands, and wagged his fingers at the retreating
figures while simultaneously sticking out his tongue.

Twikanrozex eyed him with interest. “That is a gesture I do not recognize from
the Church canons.”

Looking content, Briann dropped his hands. “It’s decidedly nontheological in
origin. Among my people, an ancient and traditional folkloric form of farewell.”

“Very kinetic. Can you teach it to me?”

Briann considered. “You have no ears to stick thumbs into, but your ability to
make use of an extra pair of hands more than compensates. I think you’ll do well
with it—but you have to pick the operative situations carefully.”

“I know that you will instruct me properly.” Twikanrozex shifted his lower
abdomen on the padded straddle bench, eager to learn.

Padre Briann proceeded to enlighten him.

12

A breathless Therese Holoness led Cullen Karasi and Pilwondepat out of camp and
down the walking track that led to the primary excavation. Along the way they
passed the location of several other smaller digs begun in the hopes of finding
something interred in the hard-packed earth of the escarpment. Every one of
these was deserted; tools powered down, water bottles set aside, laser grids
shining unimpeded in the morning sun. When Pilwondepat remarked on the absence
of workers, Holoness pointed ahead.

“They’re all down at the main site. Everyone’s gathering there.” She hopped over
a narrow ravine. Cullen followed easily, while Pilwondepat had to pick his way.

He did not fall behind, but neither did he hop. Thranx were not very good
jumpers.

The truth of her words became clear as they neared the site. A large crowd had
assembled. As they drew nearer, Cullen saw that not only the exoarcheological
crew but a goodly portion of the camp’s nonscientific staff was also
congregating around the open pit. As he approached, he was recognized, and
murmuring onlookers moved aside to make room for him and Holoness. A few
less-than-friendly looks greeted the presence of the thranx in their midst, but
he was granted passage, as well, and no one said anything. At least, nothing
that could be overheard.

A number of Cullen’s people were clustered around something at the bottom of the
excavation, blocking it with their assembled bodies. Pilwondepat was
inordinately displeased to see Riimadu among them. The AAnn was standing
slightly to one side, tail switching back and forth in as transparent an
indication of excitement as if he had been hissing wildly and throwing his arms
in the air. Holoness led the way to the earthen staircase and then downward into
the depths. Around the rim of the hole in the ground, the crowd continued to
enlarge until it seemed to Pilwondepat that every worker on the site was
present.

Descending the steps cut into the hard-packed earth more slowly than his human
companions, he waited for the cluster of diggers to part. He thought Riimadu
might have glared once in his direction, but he could not be sure. In any event,
it didn’t matter, since he was soon as dumbstruck as everyone else by what the
excavators had uncovered.

It was a vitreous dark brown surface with a meter-wide dimple in the center.

That in itself was not especially striking, nor was the fact that they had
certainly uncovered an artifact. What was of far greater import was the
realization that the object was not made of stone, like the grand statues that
dominated the far side of the valley opposite the escarpment.

“It’s not metal.” Holoness started talking before anyone asked. “Or plastic. As
best we’ve been able to determine without knocking off a chunk for analysis,
it’s some kind of bonded ceramic.” Crouching over the depression, she used one
palm to brush at the sensuous alien curve. “See how it shines?”

Stepping forward, both Pilwondepat and Cullen made their own cursory examination
of the phenomenon. The thranx did not have to bend to do so. The unusual
material was slick to the touch and unexpectedly warm. He would have expected
something that had been buried at the top of the escarpment for untold eons to
be much colder, the temperature of the ground notwithstanding.

“Any ideas as to its function?” Straightening, Cullen kept his eyes on the
article of all their fascination.

Holoness shook her head. “It’s plenty solid, sir. Chenowitz took the liberty of
tapping gently on it with a rock, then harder. It’s not hollow.”

“Well, whatever it is, it’s different from anything anybody’s found on Comagrave
to date. We’ll be able to get a better idea of its intended purpose when we’ve
dug it out.”

That was the signal for the diggers to go back to work. Pilwondepat waited and
watched their laboring until the afternoon light began to wane. While the
falling temperature had no effect on the much more heat-tolerant humans and the
single AAnn in their midst, it soon drove him back to his quarters. There he
performed his regular evening ablutions while waiting for the excited call that
never came. Surely Cullen would not be so indifferent as to forget to notify him
when they finally freed the object from its stony matrix.

He was right. It was still there when he emerged the following morning, after
the sun was well up in the sky and the surrounding high desert had heated up
enough to accommodate him without danger of hypothermic paralysis.

His fixed compound eyes could not widen, the multiple lenses could not expand,
but his antennae stood straight up and his abdominal gaster contracted, letting
out an involuntary stridulation of surprise, when next he cast his gaze down
into the pit.

It had grown. Apparently, the humans had been sufficiently intrigued—or
perhapsastounded was the better description—to work on the site all through the
night. Holoness confirmed his supposition when he confronted her on the now
rapidly expanding rim.

“We thought we’d have it out, even if it was pretty big, by dinnertime last
night.” She was perfectly polite, but he noticed she consciously avoided contact
with him. As always, he let the implied slight pass without comment. “But the
more dirt and rock we cut away, the bigger it got.” She gestured into the hole.

“As far as anyone can tell, we’re still nowhere near reaching its limits.”

The excavation was now some twenty meters on a side and still expanding. Every
piece of heavy exhuming equipment in the camp had been brought into play within
the depths of the widening cavity. As laser drills sliced rock into manageable
chunks and sonic blasters shattered the larger boulders into powder that could
be easily vacuumed, the exoarcheological staff employed finer tools around the
edge of the artifact. Additional dimples had been revealed in the lustrous,
gently undulating surface. More significantly still, the succession of
concavities had given way on the eastern flank of the relic to a perfectly flat
surface devoid of indentations or any other blemish. A team of workers was
laboring relentlessly to extend this platform, or landing, or whatever it was,
in Pilwondepat and Holoness’s direction.

“If they don’t come to the end of it soon,” the female told him, “we’re going to
have to start thinking about moving camp.”

He gestured understanding, then remembered to add the easily mimicked human head
nod. “Has any further progress been made,sir!ilp, in identifying the material of
which it is made?”

“Actually, yes. Mr. Karasi gave permission last night for a sample to be taken
for analysis. It resisted like mad, until we finally got a laser tuned enough to
cut away a tiny piece. It’s a bonded ceramic, all right. Incredibly tough stuff.

The internal crystal lattice is unique, and the molecular structure designed, if
that’s the right word, to last pretty close to forever. It has a beryllium base,
and then it starts to get crazy with introduced metallic salts. Or so the
chemistry people tell me. You can’t get them to stop talking about it.”

Pilwondepat did not inquire about the artifact’s purpose. That was unlikely to
be ascertained until they had all of it exposed. “One presumes it’s of Sauun
manufacture, but without proof . . .”

“Mr. Karasi thinks he has that.” The admiration in her voice for the abilities
of the project’s leader bordered, Pilwondepat thought, on reverence. “There’s a
temple on the Coruumat Plain that has a couple of interior walls bearing the
same alternating dome-and-depression pattern. The concavities are even the same
size. But those on the plain are of stone.” She gestured down into the
excavation. “No one working on Comagrave has encountered anything like this
material before now.”

Pilwondepat watched the humans at work: energetic, capable, able to labor
efficiently in a climate so dry the thranx’s lungs would have shriveled to half
their size after less than a couple of days of exposure to such a desiccating
atmosphere. But they were not as precise in their movements as his kind. Still,
they were not excavating a pin-sized structure. There was margin for error with
hand pick or drill.

“What,” he wondered aloud, “if thereis no end to this expanding flat surface?”

“I don’t follow you.” She looked over at him curiously. “There has to be an
end.”

“Does there?” Seeking signs of an edge, a rim, to the steadily broadening
artifact, he saw none. “What if this object, whatever it is, has been built on
an order of magnitude comparable to the icons across the valley? What if it is
even larger?”

It took her only a moment to formulate a reply. “Why then, it will take a long
time to get there, but it will still have an end.”

“I wonder. Perhaps instead of trying to expose it all, we should be trying to
penetrate it.”

Now she laughed. “A lot of good that will do, if it’s as solid as a statue.”

“I am not saying that it is. Only that in light of its size, seeking an interior
or an underside is another option that should at least be considered.”

She suppressed her amusement. “Talk to Supervisor Karasi. He would be the one to
make that determination. If you’ll excuse me?” In the brusque manner of humans,
she started down into the pit without waiting to learn if he would.

Pilwondepat stood staring down into the rapidly expanding pit. Riimadu was
there, as usual: chatting with individual humans, gesturing suggestions,
frequently pausing to consult his communicator. Pilwondepat envied the AAnn
researcher his easy camaraderie with the mammals. Not only was their stature
similar; so were their movements. Upright bipeds, albeit one tailless, they
shared physical commonalties he could not hope, despite his best efforts, to
emulate. Certainly the reptiloids enjoyed advantages in establishing relations
with the humans that immediately put any hopeful thranx at a disadvantage.

It frightened him. It was bad enough that no human could follow the threatening
sequence of calamity that was being subtly propagated by the AAnn. That they
should become friends with the very people who sought their ultimate ouster from

Comagrave was worse than sinister: It was downright infuriating. He wanted to
grab Cullen or someone of equal authority with all four hands and shake them
until they began to molt. He did not only because he knew that they would react
defensively, and with even less interest in what he had to say than before.

At least Cullen had promised to convey Pilwondepat’s findings to the central
colonial administration. Another few days, and he could rest a little easier
knowing that his findings had been passed on to, hopefully, more perceptive
authorities. Until then, and until a reply was forthcoming, he could only
continue with his own research, while incidentally keeping a close watch on

Riimadu. That the AAnn appeared wholly engrossed in his fieldwork might deceive
the humans. It would never be so with a thranx. The two species knew each other
too well.

Cullen gave up on the horizontal dig two days later. By that time, the
excavation crew had exposed an area of glistening brown ceramic more than a
hundred meters square, lying an average depth of twelve meters. Nowhere could
the diggers discern an edge or a break in the material. Nor could they locate a
single seam, joint, nail, bolt, clip, or path. The mysterious material appeared
to have been poured whole and entire into a huge mold, like lava into a bowl. Of
dimples and ripples, of small protuberances and extensive flat surfaces, there
were plenty. Of indication as to dimensions, function, or age, there was none.

Brard Johannsen, the expedition’s chief geologist, chipped in with a report
stating that the location of the site, almost proximate to the rim of the
escarpment, exposed it to howling winds heavily laden with particulate matter.

As a consequence, erosion was considerably more active near the campsite than it
was farther inland. Preliminary dating of the rock and the packed earth layer
overlying the artifact suggested that it had originally been buried far deeper
beneath the surface, which had been worn down and carried away by untold
millennia of strong winds.

“There’s no question that it’s a significant relic, and not just because of its
fascinating composition.” Cullen had invited Pilwondepat to join him for midday
meal. They were seated away from the now quiescent excavation, on a little ridge
that provided a fine view over the great valley beyond. The human gnawed on a
stratified pulpy compaction called a sandwich, while Pilwondepat chewedjheru

-flavored food pellets and sipped from his turbinate juice bottle.

“That was suspected from the very beginning.” In the absence of teeth or
horn-covered maxilla, Pilwondepat’s four opposing mandibles worked against one
another to masticate his food. Since he breathed through the spicules on his
thorax, he did not suffer from a fear of choking on his food, as humans were
frequently wont to do. In a thranx, air and food took separate internal paths.

Raising a hand, Cullen pointed across the valley. There was no wind today, and
the air was absolutely still. The vast wild panorama possessed an absolute
clarity that stunned the eyes.

“It gains in significance every day. There’s nothing of importance behind the

Mountain of the Mourners. Similarly, only very minor discoveries have been made
to its north and south. Yet here, we find this boundless brown ceramic
enigma—right where the Mourners are staring.”

“As Riimadu originally pointed out.” Pilwondepat was surprised he could say it
without stridulating. “But what can it be?”

Cullen shook his head and took another bite of his sandwich. Pilwondepat would
have had no trouble digesting the human food, but the smell was not to his
liking. Anyway, the supervisor had not offered.

“Nobody has any idea yet. I suppose you’ve heard that we’re due to get the
results of the combined surveys back some time this evening?”

The thranx’s antennae twitched with agitation. “No, I had not.”

Rising, Cullen mashed the wrapping that had contained and warmed his sandwich
into a compact ball. Drawing back his arm, he flung it forward in a smooth,
arcing motion no thranx could duplicate. The ball sailed out over the edge of
the escarpment. By nightfall its transiently bonded organic components would
have disintegrated.

“Come by the presentation tent. I’d be interested in your opinion.”

“I would not miss it.” Tucking his drinking bottle neatly into his thorax pack,

Pilwondepat followed the human back toward the camp.

The double survey Cullen had authorized was intended to furnish some dimensions
for the object the team had unearthed. Any additional information gleaned in the
course of the survey would provide a welcome bonus. Riding in the camp’s two
aircars, separate teams had utilized a pair of sonic scanners to probe beneath
the barren Comagravian surface. Reflected back to the scanners’ receivers,
measured and recorded, these sonic echoes could be instantly analyzed by onboard
instruments to give a detailed picture of any buried artifact.

But not, it seemed, this one.

The inability of any of the scanners’ sensors to penetrate the ceramic material
was revealing in its inadequacy. It proved that the brown stratum was far
thicker, and denser, than anyone had previously imagined. Whatever lay beneath
the ceramic layer, it could not be perceived by the scanners. What the survey
teamswere able to do was to come up with an estimate of the layer’s horizontal
dimensions. These were sufficiently mind-boggling that both teams were compelled
to return to base to have their equipment rechecked, and then checked again.

Assured that everything was working properly, the team members returned to their
task. By nightfall this had not yet been concluded. Even so, the occupants of
both aircars voted to return to camp to present what findings they had managed
to accumulate.

At the same time, a third team dropped over the edge of the escarpment and
proceeded to perform a vertical scan, hovering above the valley floor while
traveling slowly back and forth along the sheer rock wall. With their sensors
aimed not down, but sideways, they hoped to obtain clues as to how deep the
ceramic layer ran. Information they gathered in abundance: They simply refused
to believe it.

Meanwhile, at Cullen’s request, the orbit of a mapping and climate-monitoring
satellite had been shifted slightly so it could take several high-resolution
vits of the dig site and the region immediately surrounding it. These proved to
be of little beyond aesthetic value. No underlying pattern of construction could
be distinguished from overhead. Geology had not masked from above what lay
hidden beneath the ground.

Following the informative presentation, Pilwondepat sought out Cullen. As soon
as they saw the thranx approaching, the human couple who had been conversing
with the supervisor found reasons to be elsewhere. Ordinarily, Pilwondepat might
have been mildly miffed at the slight. Tonight, he did not care.

“Hello, Pilwondepat.” A subdued Cullen peered down at the thranx. “What did you
think of the presentation?” Around them, site workers and scientists were taking
their flustered conversations and often wild suppositions out into the swiftly
cooling night. Pilwondepat knew he was in danger of freezing on the way back to
his chamber, but he didn’t care.

“Cwissk—we’re sitting atop a seamless layer of radical ceramic material that is,
according to the reports handed in by the survey teams, hundreds if not
thousands of square kilometers in area. One that also, according to the other
team, is at least as high as the escarpment itself. It is surely the single
largest artificial structure found to date on this world, easily dwarfing even
the icons comprising the Mountain of the Mourners.”

The human nodded. “Yet we’re no nearer to knowing its function than we were when

Verwoerd and Olsen exposed the first depression. If it is solid, then it is
certainly the biggest enigma we’ve yet uncovered here. If it’s hollow . . . If
it’s hollow, there’s no telling what it might contain.”

“Perhaps only dead air,” Pilwondepat ventured.

Cullen responded with an emphatic denial. “Nobody, no sentient species, builds a
box of these dimensions, if that is indeed what it is, to hold nothing.”

“It could be that it was intended to accommodate certain contents that never
arrived prior to the emptying of this world. It might also be designed not to
store something, but to hide it. To seal it up.”

The biped gazed back into enigmatic compound eyes. “Are all thranx as cheerfully
optimistic and reassuring as you, Pilwondepat?”

“Most of the time we tend to be . . .” Examining the human’s expressive face,
the thranx researcher terminated his intended reply. “Oh, I see. You are being
sarcastic. We regard ourselves as more than a little adept at the behavior
ourselves, you know.” He gestured repeatedly and eloquently with his truhands.

“I have been proposing for days that instead of expending time and resources in
trying to seek out an external boundary, your people make an effort to search
out an entrance to the hypothesized interior.”

Cullen let out a derisive grunt. “There are no seams, no doorjambs, no rills or
surface inclusions. Where do you propose that we start?”

Pilwondepat had prepared for the question. “At the bottom of one of the
innumerable concavities that dot the otherwise smooth surface. With cutting
lasers and other devices. Dampened shaped charges, if necessary.”

“What if the material is combustible? The use of either lasers or charges could
cause the entire structure to oxidize.” He chuckled humorlessly. “That would
make a fine headline in theJournal of Interstellar Archeology . ‘Comagrave Dig

Supervisor Discovers Greatest Single Artifact in North Arm. Promptly Burns It to
a Crisp.’ “

“You are being theatrical. Good material for ire-poetry; not for science. One
sample of the ceramic has already been subjected to thorough analysis. Others
can be taken from elsewhere and checked to ensure that such an explosive
reaction will not take place.”

“It’s going to take time,” Cullen warned him. “The stuff is incredibly tough.”

“But not impenetrable,” Pilwondepat reminded him.

“No,” the supervisor was forced to concede. “Probably not impenetrable. The
question remains, is there anything down there to penetrate?” Wearied from work
and worry, he reached up to rub the base of his neck. “If it’s an ancient floor,
we’re going to waste an awful lot of time digging our way through it just to
find more rock on the underside.”

“The alien ceramic protects the greatest treasure in the Arm,” the thranx
exoarcheologist countered. “All the knowledge and riches and wealth of the

Sauun, just waiting for someone to uncover it.”

Cullen’s gaze narrowed, a peculiar ability of humans. The AAnn could not do it,

Pilwondepat knew. “What evidence do you have to support such a claim?”

The thranx gestured elaborately. Sarcasm, indeed. “None whatsoever. But it is an
inspirational notion, is it not? And what are your alternatives? To keep
surveying and measuring, forever expanding the size of the mystery without ever
making an effort to solve it.” Stepping forward, he placed his left tru- and
foothand on the human’s lower arm.

“I know that your kind shares the same distinguishing characteristic of intense
curiosity as those of us who have been born to the Great Hive. You want to know
what lies beneath this outer layer of rigid matter as badly as do I.”

“Probably more layers of rigid matter,” Cullen muttered. “You’re right, of
course. We’ll get started tomorrow. I’ll authorize the necessary heavy
equipment—and attitude.”

“One more thing.” Pilwondepat spoke as the human had turned to depart. “It would
be salutary to keep the AAnn away from any discoveries that may appear. Can’t
you send him away somewhere while the penetration attempt is taking place? To
confer with his own legation in Comabraeth, perhaps, or on some superficially
significant field trip?”

Looking back, Cullen eyed the thranx pityingly. “You know I can’t order him to
do anything, unless it can be proven he has broken some colonial law, or flouted
scientific convention in the course of his work, or otherwise made his presence
here intolerable.” A small smile creased the supervisor’s face. “I’m afraid your
enduring dislike of him doesn’t qualify.”

“Then at least set a watch on him while the work is being carried out,”

Pilwondepat begged with his four-fingered hands as well as with his words. “If
something of real significance should be unearthed, he will report it to the

AAnn delegation immediately.” He hesitated, wondering how best to balance fact
and supposition.

“Sorry, Pilwondepat. This is yet another occasion on which I can’t indulge your
personal paranoias. I have more pressing concerns—like whether I’m about to
preside over the opening, or the destruction, of something of real importance.”

Turning on his sandaled foot, he exited from the large, seamless tent.

Pilwondepat stood, watching the human depart. Against his thorax, the backpack
humidifier hummed softly as it extracted moisture from the arid atmosphere and
supplied it to his lungs. Cullen Karasi, who had previously demonstrated at
least mild interest in the thranx exoarcheologist’s conclusions, was now
consumed by the need to comprehend what might prove to be the most important
find in the brief history of human exploration on Comagrave. He had no time to
devote to the fears of a double-antennaed, eight-limbed alien, however
insistent.

If humans knew the AAnn better, Pilwondepat brooded in frustration, he would not
be having this problem. He forced himself to stay calm. What mattered now was
that the supervisor convey Pilwondepat’s findings to the human authorities at
the capital. Would Cullen be too preoccupied with the unfolding discovery to do
so? Worse, would he postpone the journey altogether, perhaps assigning it to an
underling with no understanding of or interest in the succession of inimical
coincidences Pilwondepat had so painstakingly compiled?

He had no choice but to exercise patience. It was already apparent that if he
tried to force the issue, the human would react defensively and the vital
information would never reach the appropriate colonial authorities. Therefore

Pilwondepat would have to keep silent on the matter, at least until it was time
for the supervisor to make his excursion to the capital. Pilwondepat could
corner him then and remind him of the matter as forcefully as discretion
allowed.

Resigned but not content, he ambled out of the tent. He was as interested as
anyone else on the project to see what tomorrow’s digging might reveal. If only
he could bury his fears as easily as the ancient Sauun had inurned their
marvelous, enigmatic, sinuous layer of impermeable ceramic.

Asking for volunteers to run a night shift, Cullen had been overwhelmed with
offers. Quickly setting up lights, workers and machines continued to probe the
site all through the chill desert night and on into morning, when fresh laborers
took over. By the time Pilwondepat emerged from his sealed environment to check
on their progress, the sun was already high.

When next he strolled to the edge of the pit, he was astonished at the progress
that had been made while he slept. Utilizing every bit of the precision cutting
equipment at their disposal, the adrenaline-pumped staff had cut a circular
shaft into the cinnamon-hued ceramic to a depth of nearly ten meters. If the
extraordinary material was a foundation for a vanished building of some kind,
the thranx exoarcheologist reflected, it must have been a mighty structure
indeed. But why pour such a formidable base for so easily erodable an upper
edifice? As the shaft continued to deepen, the likelihood of Cullen’s comment
about the tough ceramic forming some kind of ancient floor seemed less and less
probable.

Then someone working in the depths of the excavation screamed, and Pilwondepat
felt himself running forward and down as fast as all six legs could carry him.

Cullen was not there. Nor, thankfully, was Riimadu. The senior overseer on the
site bridled slightly at Pilwondepat’s arrival but did not try to prevent the
thranx from advancing to the very edge of the excavation. Hearing the scream,
every member of the staff within earshot had clustered around the rim of the
opening. Anxious, sweaty humans pushed and shoved for the best view, unlike an
equivalent group of thranx who would have assembled in an orderly manner.

Simple ladders made of artificial fiber with sturdy plastic steps dangled over
the edge of the hole. Designed to accommodate human hands and feet as well as
the upright human form, Pilwondepat could not have mounted any of them had he
tried. To descend to the bottom of the shaft, he would have to use the single
power lift that had been hastily attached to the far side. As he peered over and
down, he had no fear of falling. Carrying the bulk of their bodies parallel to
the earth and with six strong legs to grip the ground, he was in less likelihood
of falling than any of the humans clustering around him.

Down at the bottom of the pit, two humans in shorts and shirts were beginning to
rise from their crouching positions. Pilwondepat’s interest, like those of the
others gathered around him, was not on the extraordinary flexibility of the two
men but on the figure they were slowly pulling upward. Ashen-faced, the young
woman had apparently fallen into a smaller hole that had been started at the
bottom of the main shaft.

As soon as they had the distraught woman safely clear, the site supervisor
looked up. Studying the faces arranged around the rim of the excavation, she
settled on the one Pilwondepat would have least expected: himself. Given that
she had been noticeably cool to him during their previous encounters, the thranx
was therefore surprised when Therese Holoness beckoned for him to come down.

A number of the assembled workers watched in surprise as he hurried to the power
lift and descended to the bottom of the excavation. By this time the shaken
young woman had been helped to the side of the dig. With her back against the
smooth, gleaming ceramic, she sipped cold sweetened tea from a dispenser cradled
in shaky hands.

“What happened?” Though she was addressing the three workers, Holoness’s gaze
was fixed on the central cavity that dominated the center of the main dig.

Looking up over her tea, the younger woman responded carefully. “I was working
the drill over the center of the next start hole when I heard a funny cracking
sound. It was different from the stuttering splits you get when you cut into the
ceramic. Then the surface collapsed under my feet, and I felt myself falling.”

She struggled to bring the rim of the container to her lips. Her hands were
shaking so badly that tea was flying out of the container. “I’m afraid I lost
the laser.”

“Never mind that.” Holoness glanced at the larger of the two men. “You caught
her.”

His expression drawn, the man nodded slowly. “Just barely. When I heard Miranda
scream, I was working a scooper. I dumped that and made a dive in the direction
of the center hole. Caught her right arm and held on tight.”

The other, smaller worker chimed in. “I managed to grab her left wrist.

Together, we pulled her out.”

The woman looked up again. “I don’t know how deep the fissure is. My feet never
touched bottom.”

Holoness considered, then glanced over at Pilwondepat. “Like to have a look?

Understand, I don’t particularly like you, or your kind, but I think it’s vital
when something like this happens to have the advantage of a completely different
point of view.”

Without commenting on her opinion of him, Pilwondepat gestured acknowledgment.

As the two men wrestled a pair of powerful lights toward the cavity, he walked
gingerly toward the dark aperture. To put as little pressure on the now
unpredictable surface as possible, Holoness approached from the other side.

The lights were gradually positioned until they were hanging directly over the
opening, with their beams aimed straight down. Remembering that he was a guest,

Pilwondepat gestured courteously in Holoness’s direction. “You first, if you
like,” he said.

Nodding, she dropped to all fours and crept to the edge of the dark cavity.

Pilwondepat was quietly amused at this human effort to imitate the more stable
thranx stance. Peering into the darkness, she gazed downward. She stared for a
long time, in fact, saying nothing. After several minutes of this Pilwondepat
felt he would not be breaching either personal or professional etiquette if he
joined her. Moving to the gap, secure in his six-footed stance, he tilted his
head forward.

A constant breeze was pouring out of the opening. It was cold with the echo of
ages past. Dipping his antennae into the hole, he tried to identify the strange
smell that rose upward on the steady wind. It reminded him of something
familiar. He pushed the thought aside. The eccentric efflux could be dealt with
later. Of much more immediate importance was the identification of what they
could not see, and why. Powerful as they were, the deeply penetrating survey
lights that were shining directly down into the black void revealed nothing.

Not because there was necessarily nothing to reveal, but because despite the
fact that their operators had them pushed to maximum, the powerful beams could
not reach bottom.

13

It was not to be an official excursion. Mindful of what had happened to her late
fiancé, and acutely conscious of the continued presence of the AAnn envoy Preed

NNXV at Azerick, her trip back to Daret was officially listed as a “vacation.”

She had ample off-time coming to her, and while some might have remarked on her
unusual choice of a destination at which to relax, there was nothing illicit
about it.

Had Toroni or anyone else known the real purpose of her visit, they would at the
least have been seriously upset. Technically, what she was about to do
constituted a clear case of ignoring the diplomatic chain of command, if not
directly undermining local authority. This was a risk she was prepared to take.

Issues of far greater import were at stake.

Diplomats, too, could belong to secret organizations.

She was especially careful to avoid the inquisitive Sertoa as she slipped out of
the settlement in the early hours of the morning. Always ready to disparage the
thranx in conference, he had been positively enamored of the AAnn envoy ever
since Preed had arrived at the settlement. She had no fear of her colleague,
whom she regarded as too irresolute to cause real trouble. The AAnn, however,
was another matter.

Acquiring a transfer from Chitteranx to Daret was no problem, but the comings
and goings of every human from Azerick and its vicinity was carefully monitored
by the settlement’s transportation staff. Therefore she made no advance
reservation, but instead appeared at the terminal hoping to secure a vacancy on
the next air shuttle. There were usually a number of empty seats, and this
morning was no exception. Unaccountably nervous during the tube journey from the
settlement to the shuttleport, she did not relax until the aircraft was airborne
and heading south toward the Hysingrausen Wall.

She was no longer surprised by how comfortable she felt in Daret. From the
shuttleport, one of eight enormous facilities that surrounded and served the
thranx capital, to the low-ceilinged transport shells that carried travelers
deep into the sprawling underground metropolis, to the tens of thousands of
crowded corridors packed with locals, she was utterly relaxed. There was crime
in Daret, for no civilized species seemed to have completely solved the problem
of how to wholly eliminate or integrate an antisocial underclass, but it was far
less than what one might expect to encounter in a human conurbation of similar
size and density. And as a human, she was virtually immune from such limited
threats as did exist. Not only would assaulting her possibly result in an
interstellar incident, she carried nothing the average thranx castoff would want
to steal.

Since she was not in the capital on official business, there was no reason for
her to revisit the burrow where the diplomatic service chambers were located.

Instead, she took lodging in one of the two establishments within the city that
specialized in catering to offworld travelers. Not only were individual quarters
equipped with instrumentation for adjusting the proportion of nitrogen, oxygen,
and trace gases within the sealed rooms, there were even provisions and
facilities for methane breathers, and for those two sentient species who
extracted their oxygen directly from liquid water. Light, temperature, and to a
certain extent gravity could also be tailored to suit individual requirements.

Best of all, more than half the rooms were located above ground, with views of
the domesticated jungle that grew atop the subterranean megalopolis like wild
green hair on a multileveled head. Her fluency in Low Thranx helped her to
secure lodgings on the top floor, with a superb view to the west. Native avians
and other rain forest dwellers occasionally appeared before her window,
indifferent to the presence just below the surface of some thirty-five million
industrious thranx.

She spent the first day of her holiday enjoying the room and the services
provided by the hotel, luxuriating in doing absolutely nothing, improving her
language skills by monitoring the local tridee equivalent, and indulging in a
positively hedonistic massage at the hands, or rather the tendrils, of an
exceptionally cosmopolitan Nevonian masseur. Employing six sensitive tentacles,
it somehow achieved the seemingly impossible task of relieving her of six months
of accumulated tension. She’d heard stories of the legendary Nevonian nerve and
muscle therapists, beings dedicated to mitigating the accrued stress of chaotic
civilized galactic life, but this was the first time she had been able to
experience their talents. Suffice to say that had she been a person of means,
she would have hired the quasi-cephalopodian away from the hotel so it could
attend to her on a daily basis.

It was thus relaxed in body if not entirely in mind that, by sheer designed
coincidence, while strolling through the rooftop garden and observation deck the
following morning, she encountered none other than Haflunormet. After exchanging
greetings that would have piqued the interest of no one—and were intended to do
precisely that—she agreed to accompany him to a place of exceptional natural
beauty located on the northern outskirts of the urban dominion.

On the way there they intentionally confined their conversation to small talk;

Anjou avowing as how she was doing as well as could be expected considering the
unexpected passing of her fiancé, Haflunormet responding with the mundane
details of the daily life of a minor thranx diplomat. She let him rest a truhand
on her belly, which was only just beginning to show. This prompted him to
observe that while the effort of passing objects through a pair of ovipositors
was a strain on the thranx female, at least eggs did not move on the way out.

When they arrived at the preserve, they took a circuitous path to the
destination Haflunormet had chosen. Despite her anxieties, Anjou could not help
but be enchanted by the silvered streams of the twin waterfalls that spilled
into a turquoise pool below, like rivers of mercury gushing from a gigantic
stone bottle. Built up over the millennia by the accumulation of red- and
yellow-tinted limestone, the rills that dammed the turquoise pool sparkled with
pockets of embedded calcite and selenite crystals.

Swooping and diving at the twin cascades, the pools, and the small river these
begat, hundreds ofpecrikks , looking like faceless chameleons sporting the most
marvelously stained butterfly wings, filled the heavy, humid air above the
glistening water. A few other visitors, thranx all, lounged among the striking
surroundings, boldly taking their ease above ground, away from the immense city
whose farthest reaches extended even beneath the wholly natural preserve. It was
doubtful that any of them had chosen to visit the place of exceptional beauty
because the splash and crash of the twin cataracts conveniently combined to do
an excellent job of masking their conversation.

“Has he arrived?” Calm and at ease as she was, Anjou could restrain herself no
longer.

“Not yet.” With multiple lenses, Haflunormet studied every tree and bush, every
lounging thranx and proximate creature. Espying nothing unnatural or out of
place, he continued. “His ship is due to arrive tomorrow, or possibly the
following day. I cannot check too often without incurring suspicion, or at least
questions I would rather not have to answer.”

Nodding, she bent slightly to study something like an animated ruby necklace
that was munching on a spatulate leaf. “I’m eager to hear the latest news. It’s
too bad we have to rely on couriers, but when you work for the government
there’s no such thing as a private space-minus communication.”

He gestured agreement mixed with understanding. “It’s always better to receive
vital information in person, and far easier than trying to carry on a
conversation between star systems. Not to mention infinitely less expensive.”

“Do you anticipate any difficulty in arranging our meeting?”

Haflunormet’s antennae had not stopped moving since they had arrived at the
pool. No thranx went too close to the water, of course. While they could admire
its beauty, they elected to keep well clear of its dangers. Had Anjou felt like
a swim, she would have had the warm, crystalline lagoon all to herself, and
would invariably have drawn an audience. Not only were the thranx prone to
drowning because of the location of their breathing orifices, they swam like
bricks.

“Everything is already in place. I will notify you with an invitation to attend
a musical performance that will give both time and place. You are familiar with
the applicable code. I also have, of course, the necessary means for contacting
your personal communicator directly, via closed transmission. If there are any
changes, rest assured you will be informed of them the instant they are
confirmed.” He touched one antenna to the skin of her right arm, bare below the
short sleeve of her blouse. “At this point, I foresee no problems.” Executing
the thranx gesture indicative of wry amusement, he simultaneously whistled
softly through his spicules. “After all, we are all three of us ‘on vacation.’ “

They wandered along the discreet path that bordered the turquoise pool, chatting
for a while about personal matters, before retracing their steps to halt close
by the base of the twin falls. Up close, the coupled cataracts were even more
beautiful than they were from a distance. Their thundering roar would also serve
to prevent anyone monitoring their stroll who happened to be equipped with
sophisticated eavesdropping apparatus from picking up the threads of their
conversation.

“Events are clearly moving toward a climax, though one whose eventual outcome
none can foresee.” With his superb natural peripheral vision, the thranx was
able to keep a sweeping watch on their surroundings. “I can tell you that there
is pressure within the Grand Council to do something definitive soon.”

Anjou kicked at the colored pebbles that lined the pathway. Though her specially
designed tropical clothing was not burdensome, she wanted to strip off every
hi-tech stitch and run splashing into the cool, inviting, pale blue pool. She
wanted to sink beneath the surface and let the pristine waters wash over her,
obscuring the alien world above and all the apprehension, strain, and tension
that seemed to control every one of her waking thoughts these days. But she
could not, of course.

As far as the pressure was concerned, she had no one to blame but herself. She
could have, she reflected, chosen a less stressful profession to enter. In
fairness, when she had decided to enter the diplomatic service, she had never
expected to find herself at the center of galactic politics, much less at a
flash point where the profound interests of not one but three burgeoning
civilizations were colliding. She had anticipated long days of shuffling
information, attending dull meetings, and filling out boring forms. Certainly
she had not foreseen her eventual membership on an “advisory” committee that was
semilegal at best. If her participation was discovered, she would be searching
for a new career soon enough. Haflunormet’s situation was no less ticklish than
her own.

“Whatis happening with the council?” she finally asked.

“Reactionary elements are working to abrogate many details of existing treaties,
and to prevent consideration of new ones. They are pushing to formalize a much
more conventional relationship between my people and yours. No more reciprocal
settlements. A limiting of cultural exchanges. A ban on the informal contacts
that are being instituted between individual organizations.” He looked up at
her. “There is talk of trying to halt any further expansion of Azerick, and the
placing of a permanent ban on any more human outposts on any of the thranx
worlds. All contact to be between formal diplomatic missions only,seelliik. ”

Her lips tightened. “That’s pretty much what the retrogressive fanatics among my
kind are up to. Their first order of business is to shut down the hives in the

Reserva Amazonia and the Congo.” She allowed herself a small smile. “The success
of both settlements, particularly the way in which they are successfully
integrating themselves into the local culture and economies, is driving some of
these regressives a little crazy. It’s a beautiful thing to see—or at least, to
hear about on the tridee.” Reaching out with cupped hands, she caught water from
a warbling rivulet and brought it to her lips. A taste of thranx homeworld, she
mused, quietly astonished at how rapidly she had come to feel at home in the
hothouse, alien civilization of Hivehom.

“They’re still in the minority,” she continued, “but like all radical minorities
they’re very vocal. They make irresistible media copy, especially on slow news
days, so their message is extensively disseminated and widely seen. They have
powerful friends whom members of our organization keep watch on, and more
sympathy in the Terran Congress than actual votes.” Splashing water on her face,
she blinked and shook droplets from her fingers as she turned back to

Haflunormet.

“The Pitarian War did more to mute their influence than all the logical and
reasoned argument that had gone before it. But good feelings fade, memories slip
into the past, and there is always a new generation of ignorant innocents
determined to overturn the carefully considered judgments of their wiser
elders.”

Haflunormet gestured a mix of sympathy and understanding. “So it is among any
sentients with typical life spans.” He edged closer to her, mandibles in motion,
unafraid of the water so long as there was solid ground underfoot. “There are
rumors of great resolutions astirring. I have not been able to verify their
nature. Presumably, they are among the details that our mutual friend is coming
to speak to us about.”

She nodded absently. “I hope so. I could use some good news.” Glancing down at
her belly, she wondered how much longer she would be able to devote her full
attention to such matters.

Four blue-green, chitinous fingers, each roughly a third shorter than their
human counterparts, rested lightly on her left forearm. Eyes composed of
multiple golden mirrors stared up into her own.

“Be of good hearts, Fanielle. Not for such as you and I the contentment of a
quiet burrow. We each of us do as we must, because we serve a higher cause.”

Reaching down, she placed the soft fingers of her right hand over his sleek,
harder ones. “Who would have thought that the forging of friendship among
sentients of like mind would entail so much personal anxiety?”

Feathery antennae waved at her. “Not all are of like mind,” he reminded her
somberly. “In our mutual racial immaturity, there still exist those who
seemingly employ no mind at all.”

They were quiet for a while then, each lost in thought, contemplating a future
neither of them could have anticipated when they were young. Around them, a few
other individuals and couples strolled, enjoying the peace and tranquility of
the park, the additional moisture diffused into the already saturated air by the
twin falls, and the free-roaming native fauna. Below their feet, an immense,
vibrant metropolis pulsed and surged with the activities of tens of millions of
intelligent beings, very few of whom were aware of the issues of great import
that were being decided by a comparatively small number of their own kind and a
comparable group of soft-skinned, fleshy, flexible-skinned mammalian bipeds from
a planet whose modest star was but one of thousands visible in the night sky.

“I am most concerned of all,” Haflunormet finally murmured after the long
silence, “about the possibility of violence.”

Anjou sighed heavily. “I also. I don’t know much about your radicals, but among
my kind, both on Earth and at least two of her major colonies, there are known
groups of hotheads who’ll do anything to prevent a deeper, more singular
relationship from developing between a ‘blinded’ humankind and a race of ‘bugs.’

We both know the specific incidents that have already occurred.” Kneeling, she
ran a hand through turquoise water, stirring memories of motherworld sky. “It’s
the groups we don’t know about and therefore cannot keep track of that have me
worried.”

“It’s easier for us.” He crouched to join her, bending all four trulegs beneath
him. “We are more organized than you, and so it is harder for splinter
organizations to form. Nonconformist individuals, however, are another matter.”

“If only they were all like Ryozenzuzex, or Desvendapur.”

He whistled soft laughter. “You speak of exceptional thranx. I could as soon
cite the intervention of noteworthy humans. Strange, is it not, how history
imprints itself so similarly on different minds?”

She put a comforting arm around his b-thorax. They stared at the rippling waters
together. “ ‘Intelligence and sentience share the same shape, and ignorance is
its own reward.’ “

His head swiveled to regard her thoughtfully. “I had not heard it put quite that
way before.”

She shrugged. “I’m quoting one of the wild new religious orders. This particular
one is fond of propounding a lot of irreverent maxims. You know the type: They
try to explain life and the meaning of everything in one sentence or less. It’s
almost frivolous, yet oddly engaging.” She straightened. “An intellectual
diversion. A friend back at Azerick passed the information on to me. This lot
seems to be the spiritual flavor-of-the-moment.”

“They seem to be well scribed. I would not mind skimming a little more of their
oratory myself. I could use some fresh entertainment. Do you think it will
last?”

“What, this ‘United Church’ bunch?” She replied with confidence and the
knowledge that history was on her side. “They never do.”

It was dark by the time she returned to her lodgings. Sealing the door behind
her, she walked to the window and gazed out at the surrounding jungle.

Transported directly to such a room without first transiting the city, no
traveler eying the verdant panorama could imagine that a nonhuman megalopolis of
tens of millions toiled and thrived beneath the surface. Like all other thranx
hives, Daret never slept. Accustomed to and comfortable with life beneath the
ground, day and night were discretional terms dictated only by classical thranx
custom. As such, their internal biological clocks were far more flexible than
those of humans, being unaffected by the presence or absence of daylight.

Fanielle was not thranx, however. Tired as she was, she was tempted to go down
with the sun. Contemplating the view, she considered opening the window to let
in fresh air and the night sounds of the alien rain forest. As that would have
meant trading the delightfully cool, drier atmosphere maintained by the room for
the hot, muggy air outside, she decided against it.

A bath, then, followed by perusal of her private notes, and a good night’s rest.

The meeting with Haflunormet had gone well. If their mutual friend arrived in
good order and on time tomorrow, she would have accomplished all she had come
for. Then she could embark sincerely upon the aboveboard portion of her
vacation.

“Sso very green, thiss world.Jississt, I do find it sso.”

She did not scream because her lungs were too busy sucking in her breath. By the
time she had whirled and focused on her unexpected visitor, that instinctive
urge had left her. Given her quarters’ special soundproofing attributes,
characteristic of every individual room in the establishment, it was moot
whether anyone would have heard her anyway.

Baron Preed NNXV made no attempt to conceal himself. He had been standing by the
entrance to the hygienic facilities. Engrossed in the view beyond the plasticine
transparency, she had walked right past him.

“I am ssorry.” He took a stride toward her. “Did I sstartle you?”

She took an equivalent step back, acutely aware that if the tentative dance were
to continue, she would be the one to eventually run out of maneuvering room. The

AAnn was not between her and the door, nor did he give any indication of
attempting to block her exit. But the reptiloids could move very fast. She
decided to save the proverbial mad dash to safety for a last resort.

His tone, if not his presence, was apologetic. As apologetic as an AAnn could
manage, she decided.

“What the hell are you doing here? How did you get into my room?”

She tracked him warily as he sidled slowly to his left—and sat down on the bed.

The juxtaposition was openly ludicrous: Had he been a human male, her anxiety
level would have gone up. The end of his tail flicked against one of the two
pillows, which she then and there irrationally determined not to use for
sleeping. The AAnn might be a pugnacious species, even as treacherous as

Haflunormet and his hive mates claimed, but they were exceedingly clean in their
personal habits.

“I have been unable to esscape the feeling that our previouss encounter went
badly, and ever ssince have ssought a meanss by which I might redress any
lingering awkwardnesses.” Reaching up, he scratched at an exfoliating neck scale
with the index claw of his right hand. “When I went looking for you to requesst
a ssecond meeting, I learned that you had departed the compound at Azerick.”

“Not through the usual channels, you didn’t.” Willing herself to relax, she
found that her muscles remained tight. Her specialist training proved unequal to
the task of countering the atavistic urge to retreat in the face of subdued
lighting, sharp teeth, and long claws—even though the latter belonged to an
educated, multilingual member of another species’ diplomatic corps.

“Truly.” The acknowledgment was accompanied by a second-degree indication of
recognition tempered with irony. The subtleties of the gesture were lost on

Fanielle. “It wass not difficult to learn where you had gone.” He indicated her
lodgings, a hand movement sufficiently obvious that it needed no translation.

“Or to bribe or force your way into my private quarters, evidently.” Along with
the fear, some of her initial fury was beginning to fade. That did not lead her
to unbend, or to relax her vigilance for a moment. She could not see a weapon or
other threatening device, but their visual absence was hardly conclusive. The
diplomat wore a standard-issue vest replete with pockets over the usual
loose-fitting swirls of feathery opaque material, sandals, and muted tail
makeup. Small pockets could conceal large surprises.

“Tsstt,”he admonished her. “I did no more than bend a few housse ruless, not
break them.” There was nothing reassuring in the diplomat’s expression. “That
iss no more than the nature of our profession, iss it not?”

She strove to establish some sort of command of the situation. “Good old Jorge.

I knew that he favored the AAnn above the thranx, but I never dreamed—”

“Do not be too hard on your colleague.” The smile widened. Sophisticated and
educated or not, the envoy’s teeth were very pointed, and very sharp. “He iss
compossed of lesser material than yoursself, and iss ssubject to flattery and
manipulation.”

“Don’t think you’re going to escape the consequences of this break-in with
flattery,” she warned him.

“I have already apologized.” Preed hesitated and gestured simultaneously for
emphasis. “For intruding upon your ‘vacation.’ “ The gesticulation that
accompanied his pronunciation of the last word was as sharp as it was
unmistakable. “A relaxing few dayss in the ssuccoring ressort city of Daret.

From what I know of your kind, thiss sstrikess me as a mosst peculiar choice of
desstinationss for taking one’ss easse.”

“I’m a peculiar sort of human,” she shot back.

He indicated comprehension. “Peculiaritiess can have their virtuess. I admired
your professional and intellectual qualitiess during our previouss meeting. I
ssit in praisse of them now. They are why I have gone to ssome painss to meet
with you in thiss fasshion.”

She considered. The route to the door remained unbarred, and the envoy was
seated with his legs facing in the opposite direction, watching her over his
left shoulder. How high could a middle-aged AAnn leap? How fast? She took a
couple of casual steps in the direction of the doorway. Preed did not move.

“All right. I won’t call for Security—yet. You certainly have gone to a lot of
trouble. Not to mention exposing yourself to possible prosecution, diplomatic
immunity notwithstanding. Say what you have to say.”

The AAnn responded with a gesture of unsurpassing elegance. “That iss very
politic of you. As I ssaid, I have admired your sskillss from the sstart. It
hass therefore been thrice disstressing to me that our earlier encounter ended
sso poorly. Even sso, it wass clear to me at the time that you are perhapss
immoderately fond of thesse thranx, and thuss inclined to take their sside in
all matterss, be they large or small. I would be grateful of the opportunity to
assk that you do no more than keep an open mind on the subject where my kind are
concerned. Someone of your sself-evident erudition musst perforce be aware that
a certain amount of hisstory exisstss between the bugss and my people, and that
not all of it iss pleassant. Thiss undersstandably colorss their ssentimentss
toward uss.”

Haflunormet was right, she reflected. An accomplished AAnn could make gravel
taste like butter. Preed was by far the suavest emissary she had ever
encountered, either in person or via tridee.

“Alsso,” he added while she mulled his words, “regardless of your perssonal
feelingss toward my kind, or toward me, you should resst assured that I intend
you no perssonal harm. Had that been my intention, I could have torn your
unprotected flesshy form to sshredss while you sstood unawaress, contemplating
the sstinking forest outsside.”

“Or maybe not,” she countered. “In tests comparing the respective physical
abilities of different sentient species, humans consistently surpass AAnn in
strength.”

His gesture she could not interpret. His words were quietly chilling. “Truly,
that iss sso. But the sscales comprissing your epidermal layer are ineffectual
in combat, your clawss are frail even when not overly trimmed, and your teeth
are dessigned for grinding and biting, not sshearing.” He had the grace, she
noted, not to smile when he said this.

“But why sspeak of unpleassantnesses that will not happen? Will you at leasst,
in the sspirit of fairness, impart ssome value to my wordss?”

She ought to order him out, she knew—if only to test the veracity of his
promise. She ought to make a break for the door, or shout aloud the personal
lodging code she had been given at check-in. The room’s sensors would pick it
up, relay it to the appropriate station, and Security would arrive on the run.

That she did not do this spoke more for an innate sense of tolerance than for
any feeling that this emissary or any other could convince her to change her
opinion of the thranx or the AAnn.

“All right. In the interests of impartiality, I promise to consider what you’ve
said. And as long as you’re here uninvited, why don’t you tell me what else the
emperor’s manifold cheerful subjects want from me?”

Either Preed did not detect her sarcasm, or else he tactfully chose to ignore
it. With an AAnn, it was always difficult to tell. She really did not expect the
envoy to reply at length, much less to provide specifics.

“All the People of the Ssand wissh from humankind and itss coloniess iss a
certain degree of resspect.”

Professional interest was beginning to supplement, although it could not
entirely replace, her initial fear. “You enjoy full diplomatic relations with
us. The Empire is treated on an equal basis with the two other major
interstellar powers we know: the thranx and the Quillp.”

“Truly.” Preed gestured acknowledgment. “Yet sstill we feel our petitioningss
diminisshed in the ssight of the bugss. We are concerned, and have been from the
time of firsst contactss, that your government continuess to favor them above
uss.”

For that complaint she had a ready rejoinder. “First of all, you’re wrong. My
government, and the average citizen of Earth and its colonies, does not prefer
the thranx to the AAnn. Indeed, among many of my kind, the reverse is true. This
despite the invaluable aid the thranx rendered to us in the Pitarian War.”

Slitted eyes blinked back at her, the double lids adding an oddly feminine
fluttering to the action. “You are accorded equal treatment, both formally and
otherwise.”

One clawed hand described an intricate succession of curves in the air. She
noted that the envoy was wearing no special supplemental attire. The
air-conditioning that kept the muggy Hivehom night at bay must be chilling him
to the bone. This realization did not upset her. Though she could have done so,
she made no move to adjust the temperature.

“Why then have our propossalss to esstablissh reciprocal ssettlementss in your

Ssonoran and Ssaharan desertss been refussed? You grant thiss intimate privilege
to the thranx but deny it to uss.”

“Truly,” she told him, utilizing the soft AAnn word, “I don’t know. Personally,
it strikes me as unfair, and contrary to the spirit of the treaties that exist
between our two peoples. But that is only my opinion. As a minor diplomat
assigned to this world, I have no voice in the making of policy.”

“But you would perssonally ssupport ssuch an exchange?” For a moment, his
interest struck her as going beyond the professional. Here was a matter in which
the AAnn envoy took a specific interest.

“Of course,” she lied facilely. “Why not? The regions you refer to are to this
day little utilized or visited. Whyshouldn’t the AAnn have the same rights of
reciprocal settlement as the thranx?”

His tail switched from side to side. “It sshortenss my journey to hear you ssay
that.” Had he believed her? She couldn’t tell. “Truly, if only your people would
recognize what to uss is sso blatantly obviouss. That we have far more in common
with one another, both in sshape and attitude, than your kind ever could with
thesse pesstilential bugss. That we sshare sso very many ultimate aimss and
interessts. That a closser alliance between our peopless would permit the
resultant political force to permanently dominate this one modesst portion of
the cossmoss, to our mutual benefit. Perhapss, with time, thiss may come to
pass.”

“Perhaps,” she responded noncommittally. It was not a lie. Who knew what the
future would bring? No one could predict the course of interstellar relations.

The way contact between humankind and the thranx had developed—accidentally,
unpredictably, and in defiance of careful diplomatic procedures—had already
proven as much. That she intended to do everything in her power to prevent the
scenario Preed had just laid before her from ever coming to fruition was
something she kept wholly to herself.

His unannounced nocturnal visit only served to confirm everything she already
knew or had ever heard about the AAnn. They were sly and cunning, skilled
sycophants, adept students of other cultures. All of which made perfect sense.

One did not have to be a professional diplomat to realize that if one species
wished to dominate another, learning everything there was to know about one’s
quarry was a prerequisite for ultimate success.

The AAnn were devoted scholars of other cultures. She had no doubt that Preed
was well versed in the fragmented, frequently unseemly history of humankind.

Like others of his kind, he would employ that learning to exploit any
discernible divisions within human government and society to the eventual
benefit of the People of the Sand. She did not condemn him for this. It was his
job as well as his nature. Feint and retreat, test and examine: That was how

Haflunormet and the other thranx diplomats she had spent time with had told her
the AAnn operated. That was the AAnn way. Avoid far-reaching, open
confrontation. Poke and probe and wait for the victim to bleed to death.

That was not going to happen to humankind, she knew. Any chance of that, any
naÏveté on the scale of interstellar relations, had vanished in the macabre
upheaval of the Pitarian War. What might have happened had her kind first
encountered the subtle, duplicitous AAnn and not the Pitar, she did not know.

The most dangerous, the most ominous explosives did not always produce large,
easily visible fireballs in space.

He was playing to her, ever the urbane and accomplished diplomat despite his
rather fearsome appearance. Gazing back at him, she did indeed see a being much
closer to her in appearance than any thranx. Only when one looked deeper did one
begin to discern the insidious nature and intent that lurked beneath every AAnn
and that, insofar as she had been able to discover, was absent among the thranx.

What was it the ancient writer Melville had written? “Better to sleep with a
sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.” In the context of future relations, of
humankind’s ultimate destiny, she had become convinced some time ago that the
interests of her kind would be far better served by lying down with oversized,
aromatic insectoids than upright, sharp-toothed reptiloids. If there was one
lesson her people should have learned since venturing into deep space and making
contact with other intelligent species, it was that physical appearance counted
for nothing.

But all too many of her kith and kin had not yet mastered that lesson. Hence the
continued need for diplomats, for subterfuges, and for the kinds of lies she was
all too often forced to live.

“I wonder,” he murmured, interrupting her thoughts. “I wonder truly how much of
what you have jusst told me you believe, and how much you have sscribed for my
benefit. Equivocation and invention iss, after all, your vocation.”

“As it is yours—truly.” She met his stare unwaveringly. Let him accuse her of
lying if he wished. He could prove nothing. Her only real fear was that, having
tracked her down with such apparent ease, he might somehow also have become
aware of the meeting she was due to have tomorrow with Haflunormet and their
arriving friend. Though he had given no indication of cognizance, she knew the
possibility would trouble her until the meeting was concluded.

Concentrate on the moment, she told herself. One small galactic step at a time.

For right now, it would be enough to get him out of her room.

“We undersstand one another, then.” Gesticulating gracefully with both hands, he
tilted his head down and slightly to one side. “As before, I sstand in
admiration of your sskillss, and can only hope that all you have told me arisses
from the inner depthss of your true sself.” Straightening, he approached until
he was standing closer to her than formal diplomatic protocol required. She held
her ground. Easier to do in the room than elsewhere, she reflected nervously,
since there was a wall not far behind her and she could not retreat anyway.

His bright yellow eyes with their vertical pupils peered down into her own. He
was of average height and build for an AAnn, slightly taller than she but not
proportionally as massive as a comparable human male. But there were those
teeth, bequeathed from a wholly carnivorous ancestry, and those hooked,
knifelike claws.

Reaching up, he let the sharp, pointed tip of one talon graze her right cheek.

His hissing voice was a singular whisper. “Sso profoundly, abssurdly pliant. It
is a curiossity to uss how your sspeciess ssurvived ssuch fragile integumentss
long enough to develop intelligence. Truly, the universse iss full of wonderss.”

To her considerable relief, he let the clawed hand drop, holding it in front of
his chest parallel to the other in the familiar resting position of his kind.

“I hope we can meet and talk like thiss again. I have already sspoken of you to
otherss of like mind. Their interesst matchess mine.”

“I have no objection to meeting with or talking to anyone,” she admitted
truthfully. “Provided that next time, certain minimal courtesies are observed.”

He acknowledged her outrage without argument as he backed toward the door.

“Truly. Until then, I wissh you, Fanielle Anjou of Earth and not of Hivehom,
ssafe sstriding and ssmooth ssurfacess under your feet.” As the door responded
to the shrouded covert electronics that had gained him entrance, he added, “And
may your pending offsspring emerge into the world sslick of sscale and free of
blemissh.”

He was out the door and gone before she could ask him how he knew of her
pregnancy. But of course, she realized when he had left, he could have found
that out from the garrulous Sertoa, or many others at Azerick Station. One hand
dropped unconsciously to her upper belly as she saw the door shut. She resecured
it as best she could. To her surprise, she found that her heart was racing and
her lungs were pounding against her chest. All the tension, all the pent-up
anxiety engendered by the AAnn’s unexpected appearance, now raced to the fore.

Stumbling into the bathroom, she rummaged through her gear until she found the
bottle she wanted. One—no, two—of the pills accompanied by hastily gulped water
slid down her throat. Leaning back against the glassy wall, she wondered if she
ought to change rooms. That would not be easy to do. Not in the middle of the
night, on a thranx world, in an establishment dedicated to providing adequate
accommodation not only to visiting humans but to representatives of many other
species who frequently had very different lodging requirements. Besides, if

Preed could gain entry to one room, there was no reason to assume entering
another would present him with any insurmountable obstacles.

In the end she settled for the bath that had been her initial goal. After a
while she managed to stop glancing in the direction of the outer room and the
doorway beyond. She needed to be rested and alert for the meeting tomorrow.

Haflunormet would want to know all about the intrusion, of course. Steps could
be taken to prevent a recurrence.

Raising a hand, she touched her cheek where the diplomat’s claw had lightly
depressed the flesh.Did rather well at that moment, she complimented herself.No
shuddering, no trembling. Toroni and the rest of her colleagues would have been
proud of her, standing up to a carnivorous AAnn like that, alone and unarmed.

She smiled hesitantly, relishing once more the memory of the small triumph.

Then it all hit her at once, and she finally began to shake.

14

“Don’t tell me—it is not possible.” The short, dark human was gazing at the two
padres with eyes that were a little too wide and muscles that were taut to the
point of twitching. His chest had begun to heave. “It is not bad enough to see
untainted humans congregating in this place and mixing together with filthy bugs
and dirty bug activities: Now you are trying to get people to worship with them!

What will come next? Bugs teaching human children? Preparing our food? Sleeping
in the same rooms with us?”

Briann listened in silence to the angry tirade, forbearing from interruption or
reply. Twikanrozex did his best to memorize it all, down to the last sputtering
slur. Neither man nor thranx was especially offended. They had heard it all
before, though usually couched in flaccid overtones of false civility.

Unusually, this human was unabashedly vociferous in his bigotry, not caring if
anyone overheard. It was possible, Briann mooted, that he wanted to be
overheard. Certainly those strollers within easy hearing distance, human and
thranx alike, turned to stare in the direction of the diatribe. To their credit,
most appeared embarrassed by the outburst of undisguised vitriol.

Her dark green hair cropped fashionably short, the ranter’s taller female
companion made an effort to calm her comrade. He would have none of it,
disdaining her murmured words and twice shaking her hand off his shoulder. When
neither of the targets of his interminable vehemence showed any signs of
reacting, either to his tone or to his words, he began to advance in their
direction.

“That’s close enough.” Briann’s tone was decidedly sharp, sufficiently so to
bring the man to a surprised halt. His countenance twisted into a perfect sneer.

“Why, Padre, or whatever it is you degenerates choose to call yourselves, that’s
hardly a spiritual attitude.”

“You’re wrong, visitor. The spirit takes many forms. Hallowed also is the spirit
of defiance.”

Looking decidedly uneasy, the woman continued to badger her companion from
behind. “That’s enough, Nevisrighne. We’ll be late for our . . . appointment.”

The man gestured in her direction, evidently enjoying himself. “No, no, Pierrot.

We have time. Time enough to instruct the degraded.” His attention shifted back
to the quietly watching Briann. “Why, I do believe, Padre, that if I were to
intrude too much on your personal space, you would physically push me away.”

“I might.” Briann’s tone had not changed.

“You might even take a swing at me.”

“In a universe of infinite possibilities, all things are possible,” Briann
admitted piously.

“In which case I would be forced to defend myself. While it is true that we
stand equal here in the number of witnesses, mine is human, whereas yours is
only a lowly bug.”

“Enough of this. Come away from here, Nevisrighne!” The woman was not
distraught, Briann noted, so much as she was enraged.

“Shut up, Pierrot.” The dark man’s sneer slipped smileward. “Just a quick
lesson. In possibilities.” His right hand slipped toward the inside of his open
shirt—and froze before the first finger could edge inside. His rage vanished,
subsumed by a look of total surprise. It was focused not on Briann, but behind
him.

Twikanrozex held a gun in each gleaming, chitinous hand. All four of them. Faced
with this entirely unexpected and formidable quadruple arsenal, the swarthy
fanatic slowly drew his one hand away from his chest and let it fall back to his
side. So shocked was he that it took him a moment to find his voice.

“Very spiritual,” he finally muttered uneasily to Briann without taking his eyes
off the unexpectedly heavily armed thranx. “Not only have you become personally
debased, whoever you are: Your so-called holy organization is founded on
hypocrisy.”

“Wrong again. This must be your day to wallow in wrongness, my friend.” Briann
did not have to look behind him to know what Twikanrozex had done. The thranx’s
actions were reflected in the shorter man’s reaction as clearly as if in a
mirror. “We who serve the United Church believe very strongly in always
maintaining a sound defense against any who would do us harm. It is one of the
fundamental tenets of our belief.”

“What about turning the other cheek?” The ranter had forgotten whatever lay
hidden against his left armpit. And wisely so.

“We are always willing to do that. Twikanrozex, turn the other cheek for this
man.” Behind him, the thranx obediently turned his head to the right. His
astonishing peripheral vision still allowed him to keep that now subdued
individual in view. At the same time, the muzzles of the four pistols did not
waver.

“An unsurpassed model of sarcastic religious miscegenation.” Retreating, the
speaker rejoined his plainly exasperated companion. “If the Fates so decree it,
we may meet again some day, Padre. I would enjoy having the chance to resume
your education.”

“And I yours, my friend. Enjoy the fair.”

“Indeed, I will. More than you can imagine.” With that he turned and stomped
off, making no effort to disguise his enduring furor, brushing aside the arm of
his annoyed companion.

Briann followed the curious pair until they passed out of sight behind a cluster
of bobbing, transparent spheres that periodically paused to engulf unsuspecting
passersby in an assortment of cleverly preprogrammed advertisements.

“That was unpleasant,” he observed.

“Yes.” Twikanrozex had slipped his quartet of weapons back into their respective
pouches. “I’m convinced that if I had not intervened, he might have tried to do
you an injury. A disappointing first for us.”

“Maybe more than that.” Briann’s thoughts were churning. “Unless you have a
specific destination or prospect in mind, I think I’d like to follow those two
for a while.”

Twikanrozex moved forward to join his friend. “Follow them? To what end?”

“I don’t know.” The human half of the team rubbed the damp back of his neck.

“That one was more than xenophobic. There was something in his gaze. Just a
little wildness, maybe. Or perhaps a little something more.”

“You are suggesting he is even more volatile than he appears?”

“I’m thinking that, at least when he was looking at you, he bordered on the
homicidal. I may be imagining things, but it wasn’t just him, either. The woman
he was with? The longer he rambled on, the more agitated she became. And it
wasn’t the kind of nervousness that someone exhibits when their companion is
making a fool of himself. It struck me as more profound than that.”

Reaching up, Twikanrozex touched his friend’s bare arm with a truhand. “Like
you, I have no agenda for the remainder of this day other than to wander, to
observe, to converse, and to learn.”

“Then let’s track those two for a while. If nothing else, it ought to be
educational.” He grinned over at his colleague. “While we’re at it, you can
still realize three out of four.”

It was not difficult to do. Outside the fairgrounds, their pairing would have
made them conspicuous. Strolling along the shore of the great lake would have
seen them stand out against the flat, unsparing surface. But lost among the
bustling crowds that had begun to swarm the exhibition in ever-increasing
numbers, they were able to blend in without being noticed. Acolytes of the

Church received training in how to be inconspicuous as well as obvious.

Though they spent some time wandering among the exhibits and made a show of
feigning interest in several, it was evident to the pair of trailing Church
representatives that neither the slim woman nor her excitable male companion
were much interested in the components of the fair. They spent a lot of time
looking around while expending a considerable effort not to be seen looking
around. Once, they disappeared into a public rest room and did not reemerge for
nearly thirty minutes, a visitation that suggested they were responding to a
call that came from someone other than Nature. Not once did they pause to eat,
drink, shop for souvenirs, ask questions, try out hands-on displays, participate
in a virtual, or otherwise indicate that they were somewhere besides an ordinary
city street.

“I can’t figure them out.” His face blocked by a large cerise blob of
calorie-free sugared air puff, Briann watched the peculiar pair pause in front
of an exhibit on the undersea life of Cachalot. They managed to look bored and
apprehensive at the same time. “If these are your standard-issue xenophobes,
then why are they spending any time at all in the thranx-built zones of the
fair? We’ve followed them through three already. Are they just eccentric, or is
there something to them we’re not seeing?”

Twikanrozex idly groomed an antenna, bending it forward and down with a foothand
until he could slide the plumed prominence between his mandibles. Unlike Briann,
he did not try to conceal his presence from the couple they were following.

There was no need. Except at the diplomatic and governmental level, contact
between humans and thranx was sufficiently infrequent that the majority of
humans were convinced that all thranx looked alike.

“I feel that I have spent enough time in the company of humans to know that the
behavior of this pair is most unusual,crr!ll . Their actions do not strike me as
those of a mated couple, yet that is the appearance they clearly are striving to
convey. We have already observed several instances of interaction suggesting
they do not especially even like one another.”

Briann inhaled a portion of his air puff. “Among humans, that does not
necessarily signify the absence of ceremonial union. But in this case, I happen
to agree with you. None of their actions seem normal. Still, while interesting
from an anthropological point of view, it’s not grounds for alerting the
authorities.” He glanced surreptitiously in the couple’s direction. They were
arguing again.

“Let’s give this another ten minutes or so. Then I suppose we should get back to
the tower and check its condition.”

Twikanrozex gestured agreement. Five minutes into Briann’s proposed ten,
something so extraordinary happened that all thoughts of abandoning the
unobtrusive stalk were forgotten.

Both padres saw the approaching thranx. One was especially large, with prominent
wing cases and a deep blue sheen to his exoskeleton. Except for a possible
passing glance of disgust from the humans, there was no reason to suppose the
two pairs would even acknowledge each other’s presence. Absolutely the last
thing Briann expected was for them to swerve toward one another. No, that was
not quite right, he corrected himself. That was the second last thing. The first
last thing occurred when they met in the middle of the busy pavilion walkway,
pointedly inspected their immediate surroundings, and then fell into what could
only be described even at a distance as casual conversation.

Not only was the rabid antithranx human male palavering with representatives of
the species he had a little while earlier professed to loathe, he was doing so
without any sign of distaste. His taller female companion likewise participated
in the conversation enthusiastically.

“These are not strangers talking.” Twikanrozex was as spellbound by the
unexpected tableau as was his soft-skinned friend. “They know one another.”

“Or of one another.” Shielding his face as best he could, Briann watched the
four-way conversation. “I am of the feeling that more than the preposterous
domesticity of our couple is on view here. But what, I can’t begin to imagine.”

“Nor I.” Twikanrozex inclined his antennae forward, but the voices of the
nattering quartet were drowned out by the shifting, swirling babble of the
crowd. “What can they possibly be talking about?”

“Whatever it is, they’ve finished.” Briann pointed. “The party is breaking up.”

As they looked on, the humans and thranx parted company. As if to cap the
unreality of the encounter, they exchanged formal farewells before heading off
in opposite directions. Twikanrozex started forward immediately.

“You want to keep following them?” Briann trailed his friend for a moment.

“Not them. It may be that we have,kuiit, learned all we can from the odd human
pairing. I think we should follow these new thranx that they met for a while.”

He glanced over at his brother-in-the-Church. “For reasons too convoluted to
explain in a short time, and because of regrettable omissions in your cultural
education, I must tell you that the two representatives of my kind are acting in
a manner as strange as the humans’. This bespeaks eccentricities that go beyond
individual iconoclastics. I should very much like to be enlightened.”

Of like mind even though he could not be sure of his colleague’s analysis of the
encounter they had just witnessed, Briann nodded and followed.

Since any meeting between a group of apprehensive humans and an equally large
clutch of edgy thranx was bound to attract the attention of curious fair-goers,

Skettle arranged to have only Martine accompany him to the final pre-Armageddon
rendezvous. Having been guided to the place chosen for the final meeting by

Skettle’s followers Nevisrighne and Pierrot, Beskodnebwyl met them attended by,
as agreed upon, one other single representative of his kind. On this, the fifth
day of the fair, the two humans and two thranx drew hardly a glance as they
convened in the farthest reaches of the joint human-thranx forestry pavilion.

Gianttceri!xx from Willow-Wane grew side by side with tall kauri from Earth.

Twisted kokerbooms shared the magnified heat of the day with lushgotulba from

Hivehom. There were sequoias andserypta ,volmats and ginkgo, diterocarps and the
famous floweringeryouou from Long Tunnel that grew only in perfect circles from
a common root.

In nature, none of these formidable growths grew together in the same ecozone,
and many of them came from different planets. As representative examples of
their kind, they had been selected for individual elegance and overall
appearance. Only through the application of advanced hydroponics could they
share the same ground. Each had been carefully sterilized prior to transport to
ensure that no unwanted fellow travelers accompanied them on their mission of
education. Each had been rendered incapable of reproduction to make certain no
seed or cone, no spore or shoot could take root in the untainted alien soil of

Dawn.

Into this impossible artificial forest, Beskodnebwyl and his companion wandered.

Near the back, in the farthest reaches of the soaring pavilion with its
transparent divisions, they found Elkannah Skettle sharing a hot drink with his
collaborator Martine. Thranx and humans greeted one another formally. While the
two leaders conversed, Martine and her thranx counterpart took up positions
between them and the pathway. Deep in apparent discourse, they were paying as
little attention to each other as possible while keeping their eyes on the
pavilion’s transient visitors. Though expecting neither trouble nor
interruption, they were fully prepared to deal with either.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” Skettle ventured conversationally. “That in this time
of instantaneous local and rapid interstellar communication we still find the
best way to assure a private conversation is to meet in person?”

Beskodnebwyl gestured agreement mixed with contempt, confident his human
counterpart was incompetent to detect the latter. It amused him to so denigrate
the unwitting biped. “Electronics are too easily intercepted, and voices
imitated. Better to meet face-to-face.”

“Even if you don’t have one.” Skettle smiled thinly. He was wonderfully content,
secure in the knowledge that by this same time tomorrow chaos would have paid
its long-planned visit to the fair, leaving death, destruction, and ravening
hatred for the thranx in its wake. No doubt this odoriferous pest with whom he
had agreed to temporarily cooperate felt similarly.

“At least I know my face.” Antennae and truhands waved in Skettle’s direction.

“It was thus when I was young, it will be the same tomorrow, and except for a
darkening of color will be unchanged when I am old. Whereas yours will shrink
and crumple like a fruit left too long in the sun, until it threatens to
disintegrate from its own rotting loathsomeness.”

Skettle’s smile slipped away. “I’m certain this happy little tryst is as
disagreeable to you as it is to me. Therefore let us do our business so we can
both be spared any unnecessary additional contact.” Glancing back the way he had
come, he proceeded only when Martine acknowledged his wordless inquiry with a
slight wave of one hand.

Clicking a button on his handheld, he projected into the air between himself and
a nearby tree a perfect miniature replication of the fairgrounds. There was no
one else around to see, the nearest tourists being some distance away from the
two alert scouts. As Skettle manipulated the elementary controls on the
handheld, portions of the projection lit up accordingly.

“My people will set to work where you see the red highlights.” As his fingers
moved, so did the responsive lights. “We’ll be starting fires in the most
vulnerable places. Each of my people has undergone extensive training and is
dedicated to the cause. In the event of unforeseen interruption or capture, they
are prepared to operate independently of one another. Their assignments are
overlapping, so that if one or more are intercepted or otherwise detained, any
other can strike their missed targets for them.” Using the controls, he rotated
the projection and expanded individual sections, finally settling on one
bordering the lake.

“I myself will be seeing to the interfair communications facilities, and then
sabotaging the relevant backup installation so that my original work will not be
detected.” His voice had taken on a biblical tone that was lost on the thranx.

“Deprived of a central command, the fair security personnel will be unable to
properly coordinate any reaction with one another. Separated and assailed on all
sides by both my people and yours, they will either flee in confusion or be cut
down should they attempt to interfere with us. Long before reinforcements can be
brought from Aurora, we will have completed our cycle of destruction.” He
offered the handheld to Beskodnebwyl, who took it in a truhand. Having paid
careful attention to the human’s hand movements, the thranx had no difficulty
operating the straightforward device.

“My followers will spread out from this central point.” Another bright light
appeared in the air before the conversants. “Each will be carrying a small
arsenal of compact high explosives as well as hand weapons with which to ward
off the curious security personnel to whom you have already referred. As you
have pointed out, by the time adequately armed forces can arrive from the city,
my people will also have finished their work. Weapons and any other
incriminating evidence will have been abandoned at preselected points, and my
clan mates will have rejoined the pitiful surviving remnants of the panicked
crowd. Any visiting thranx who happen to observe us at work will be killed. I am
not worried about surviving humans identifying us, since it is well known the
casual mammalian observer cannot tell individual thranx apart. In any event, the
turmoil and disorder should be enough to blind even the most heedful of your
kind.”

Skettle was nodding appreciatively. “Once their work is done, my people will
embark on a similar course of action, whereupon among the resulting turmoil and
confusion we can all go our separate ways, having accomplished far more together
than we ever could have hoped to working separately.” Except, he added to
himself, I’m going to try and kill you myself while Martine and Botha and

Pierrot and the others dismember the rest of your revolting entourage. And if
you and your disgusting fellows are entertaining similar thoughts in regard to
us, you’ll see why we humans didn’t really need your help at Pitar.

“Then all is in readiness.” Glistening compound eyes stared up at the tall
human. “This time tomorrow will see us putting a glorious end to any thoughts of
closer human-thranx contact while consigning them forever to the wholly
conventional level where they belong.”

Skettle voiced his agreement. He did not offer to shake hands with his
many-limbed fellow terrorist, and Beskodnebwyl was careful to keep his delicate
antennae as far from the foul-smelling human as possible. As soon as they had
rejoined their respective lookouts, the four parted company, striding
purposefully out of the pavilion.

Behind, they left only silent, imported trees to bear witness to the appalling
plan of mass murder they had agreed upon. Trees, and as unlikely a pair of
bystanders as were to be found promenading the fairgrounds.

As Briann helped his companion climb down out of the baobab, the padres
considered what they had just seen. Not even Twikanrozex, with his sensitive
antennae, could overhear conversation at such a distance. But he had been able
to follow the complementing hand gestures of his fellow thranx, while Briann was
an accomplished lip reader. Intervening vegetation and the need to avoid the
attentions of the two lookouts had conspired to interfere with their
observations, but they had seen and read enough to realize that something
monstrous had been planned for the following day.

“It is so sad.” Twikanrozex’s antennae were weaving alternately back and forth.

“To see humans and thranx working in concert together, only to discover that
they are doing so for all the wrong reasons.”

Briann let out a despondent sigh of resignation. “And to think I was worried
that the humans we followed for a while might go so far as to insult someone
else, or that the two thranx might be involved in creating an incident.”

“And so they are.” Truhands wove patterns in the air as the two padres exited
the pavilion. “An incident that beggars the imagination.”

“I wish we had been able to learn all the details of their plan.”

A truhand reached up to touch his shoulder. “We did well enough, Brother, and a
good thing we did, too, else thousands might have died.”

“Some might yet.” Briann raised his gaze. Around him music and gaiety, laughter
and contented clicking filled the bright blue of afternoon like birdwing
butterflies dancing above a tropical pool. “We don’t know where they’re staying,
or what the rest of them look like.”

“Steps can be taken. There may be some small disruption.”

Briann lengthened his stride, trying not to look at the children or the young
unmolted thranx among whom he and his friend were walking. “There will have to
be. The authorities can’t shut down the fair. If they do that, it will only help
to frighten these people offworld, human and thranx alike. Based on our
descriptions they might stop the four we saw at the shuttleport. Regardless,
their associates will be alerted and take care to slip quietly offworld. The
next time they strike, society might not be so fortunate. We have to catch them
all, every one of them, here and now.”

Twikanrozex whistled affirmation. “You’re right, Brother. To accomplish
everything, some risk will have to be taken. Some innocents may be hurt.”

His friend nodded. “Fortunately, the Church understands the necessity of
proportional sacrifice to achieve a greater goal. I hope the local authorities
will see it that way.”

“If not,” Twikanrozex observed as they turned a corner, heading for the
tasteful, sweeping structure that housed Fair Administration, “then we will have
to convince them.”

“It must be done the right way,” Briann concurred, “though it will not be easy.

The Church does not yet command immediate respect from secular authorities. It
will fall upon you and me as individuals rather than as Church representatives
to make the case for an immediate and discriminating response to this threat. We
will have to be direct and convincing. In this the Maxims are not likely to be
of much help to us. When it comes to matters of philosophical discourse, police
are notoriously indifferent.”

15

Due to the thickness and strength of the ceramic strata, it took several days to
enlarge the opening through which the unfortunate digger had almost fallen to
where it was wide enough to admit a small aircar. In that time, a laser
rangefinder had been lowered into the fissure to measure the distance from the
opening to the first surfaces below. The distances were not as great as first
supposed. Still, had anyone fallen through the gap, they would have suffered a
fatal plunge of several hundred feet into the lightless depths.

The laser and other scanning devices revealed the presence of nothing but empty
space. The brown ceramic appeared to form a roof above an artificial void. No
one in the camp accepted this conclusion. It would be a truly eccentric species
indeed that would go to so much trouble and expense to seal such a vast volume
of apparent nothingness away from the world. There had to be something more.

Given the extent of the disclosed subterranean space, an aircar equipped with
powerful lights and calibrating lasers would be the simplest, safest, and
quickest means of exploring the mysterious alien emptiness. Hand weapons were
also issued all around. On closer inspection, seemingly secure large underground
spaces often were not as hermetically sealed as initially supposed. Local fauna
might well have made use of so much protected, enclosed living space and needed
to be guarded against accordingly.

Cullen and Pilwondepat were accompanied by Holoness and an aircar operator named

Dik. To Pilwondepat’s barely concealed delight and in spite of energetic
protestations, Cullen insisted that Riimadu remain behind on the surface. The
thranx made an effort not to gloat over this decision.

Their vehicle was the smallest available to the exploration team, one intended
to be used for quick jaunts to outlying sites of interest. As Dik maneuvered it
over the edge of the much enlarged and thoroughly shored excavation, a crowd of
students and workers gathered to see the voyagers off. Pilwondepat forced
himself not to search among the gathering for the scaled face of the frustrated

AAnn representative.

Eager but restrained, Cullen was musing aloud as the craft began to descend
slowly into the pit. “Usually, archeologists crawl into ancient monuments and
mausoleums, or if they are lucky, walk. In all my experience I don’t know of any
expedition that uncovered an artifact large enough to fly into.”

“Personally,” Pilwondepat replied reflectively, “I happen to like crawling.”

“If I had six legs, so might I.” Cullen went quiet as the softly thrumming
aircar approached the augmented cavity.

Their driver maneuvered the compact craft into the opening, fixed for vertical
hover, and then dropped them through the cleft ceramic layer and down into the
alien void itself. “Lights,” an unintimidated Cullen snapped briskly. Instantly,
their immediate surroundings were illuminated by the spray of high-intensity
search beams that had been hastily attached to the vehicle. Recorders mounted
within the body of the craft switched on. Around them, all was blackness save
where the powerful beams penetrated.

Holoness activated the scanning laser. Utilizing its far greater throw range,
she played it across the western wall, a task for which it was not designed.

Beyond that bulwark of dark ceramic lay an unbroken rampart of metamorphic rock
and eventually, the outer wall of the escarpment.

“Turn.” Cullen was standing next to the driver. Everyone was too excited and
nervous to make use of the aircar’s available seats. Even had he wished to lie
down, the design of the seats rendered them useless to Pilwondepat. “Let’s have
a look at the opposite wall.” Dik complied, and the craft pivoted neatly on its
axis. As they came about, Holoness kept the ranging laser aimed parallel to the
vehicle’s keel. The bright beam revealed—nothing. The opposite wall was so
distant that even the laser’s tuned coherent beam could not illuminate it.

There was, however, a floor. Dropping down, the driver tentatively tested its
solidity. It appeared to be composed of the same cryptic ceramic material as the
ceiling. Against all reason, the vast chamber, of still unknown dimensions,
appeared to have been built to hold nothing but ancient air.

“This doesn’t make any sense.” So far apart were the walls that Cullen’s voice
produced no echo. The emptiness swallowed his emphasis. “There has to be
something more to it than this. No species goes to this much trouble just to
build an enormous empty box.”

“Who can quantify alien intentions?” In the dim glow of the aircar’s subdued
internal lights, the multiple lenses of Pilwondepat’s compound eyes sparkled
like mirrors tinted gold. “There are still many things humans do that strike my
people as having no basis in reason.”

“Many humans would agree with you on that.” Opening one of the two personnel
hatches in the transparent cab, Holoness started down the integrated steps
molded into the hull and put a tentative foot on the floor. It supported her
weight easily. “It’s solid enough.”

“As solid as the ceiling?” Tilting back his head, Cullen was able to make out
the narrow shaft of sunlight that marked the hole the digging team had drilled
in the rugged material. “All right: We’re in a big box with no visible internal
landmarks. Where do we go from here?”

“Over there, perhaps?” Pilwondepat was pointing with all four hands. “Creellt—I
think I see something.”

Dik swung a search beam in the indicated direction. Sure enough, the glossy
bulge of a small dome marred the otherwise perfect flatness of the floor. It was
about four meters in diameter and completely isolated. “Looks a lot like all
those decorative bulges we found on the outside of this roof.” He grunted.

“So it does.” Holoness was staring, shining her own hand beam in the direction
of the unassuming protrusion. “But why only one?”

“Get back aboard and we’ll go have a look,” Cullen told her.

Smacking the ceramic underfoot with her heel, she shook him off. “It’s solid as
a rock here. I’m going to walk.”

With the aircar paralleling her, she strolled over to the swelling protuberance.

It was a dark brown, the exact color as the rest of the ceramic material. Its
central apex rose no higher than her waist. Reaching down, she tapped it with
her light beam. The muted plasticene-on-ceramic clacking that resulted was not
nearly loud enough to produce an echo in the enormous chamber.

“Likewise solid.” She straightened. “Maybe these isolated domes have some
ceremonial significance. Let’s see if we can find some more.” She started to
walk around the wide, low protrusion.

When she was halfway around, something hissed imperceptibly, and the entire dome
began to slide in her direction.

Stumbling backward, she nearly fell as the massive convexity slid silently
toward her. The blast of incredibly frigid air that erupted from the opening the
dome had been covering might reasonably have been expected. The pale light that
accompanied it could not.

“Therese, get back in here!” Cullen was shouting at her through the open hatch.

His anxious urging was superfluous. She all but flew back aboard. As soon as she
was safely back inside, the exoarcheologist shut the hatch behind her. The icy
atmospheric swirl that accompanied her retreat did little more than briefly
chill the humans, but it threatened to freeze the moisture in Pilwondepat’s less
tolerant and unprotected lungs. Fortunately, the craft’s heater quickly brought
the internal temperature back up to human normal and thranx tolerable.

“What the hell happened there?” Cullen found himself gazing out through the
transparent cowl at a perfectly circular opening in the ceramic floor. The dome
that had blocked it lay to one side, apparently disinclined to move any farther.

“Maybe her walking on the floor has annoyed the gods.” Dik kept his hands on the
aircar’s controls, ready to boost ceilingward and take them out of the murky
chamber at an instant’s notice.

“Very funny.” As her breathing steadied, Holoness moved next to the cowl to
stare out at the aperture. It was perfectly round, with walls as sleek as the
floor beneath them. “Cold air I can understand—though maybe notthat cold. But
not light. Where can it be coming from, down here?”

“I expect,” Cullen responded, “we’d better go and see. Dik? Take it slow.”

The pilot nodded as he edged them toward the opening. The glow emerging from the
passage Holoness had inadvertently brought to light was not intense. It
dissipated long before reaching the ceiling of the vast, empty chamber.

Gingerly, Dik eased the aircar forward, positioned it carefully over the
opening, and then commenced a controlled descent.

The gap in the floor was wide enough to admit the craft, but with little margin
for error on any side. They descended five meters, ten, thirty, with no sign of
the walls surrounding them either opening up or contracting. As near as Cullen
could tell, the perfectly vertical shaft had been formed to tolerances of less
than a millimeter. Then, as abruptly as they had entered, they found themselves
floating free in another open chamber. According to the console instrumentation,
the temperature outside the aircar’s canopy was well below freezing. No one paid
much attention to the external temperature readout, or for that matter, any of
the others. They were too entranced by the light.

Tinted a pale green, it seemed to emanate from the floor overhead that had now
become another ceiling. Below, revealed by the ethereal yet extensive
illumination, was . . .

Pilwondepat uttered something in High Thranx that was incomprehensible to his
human companions. Dik cursed under his breath. Holoness just stared. Cullen,
their leader, mouthed the inaudible human equivalent of Pilwondepat’s whistling
and clicking.

They were in another room. Except thatroom was so inadequate a designation to
describe their surroundings that it did not bear audiblizing. Below them, rank
on rank, tier on tier, row on row, were thousands upon thousands of
teardrop-shaped cylinders. These stretched as far as the eye could see to north,
to south, and to the east. Only to the west could the possibility of a boundary
be faintly discerned. In that direction, Pilwondepat realized, lay the outside
wall of the escarpment.

Below the hovering aircar, the endless tiers of cylinders dropped away to
infinity. Searching for an end, for the bottom, brought only tears to the eyes
of straining observers, and no closure. Lying between each level of cylinders
were strips of gleaming metal and of plastic, and conduits of the ever-present
ceramic. Only here, the latter was present in a veritable rainbow array of hues.

The tiers were wrapped, crisscrossed, enveloped, in a web of lines and
connectors and ducts that looked to have been spun by the mad mother of all
spiders.

Gently swathing each cylinder, seemingly supported only by their flimsy,
deceptively fragile selves, were halos of filaments and fibers that pulsed with
a soft golden glow like the breath of babies become glass. So delicate were they
that they might have been spun instead of wired. A narrow strip of some
transparent substance ran the length of each cylinder, which themselves appeared
to be fashioned from some dark purple metallic substructure.

“What can they be?” Holoness was standing as close to the canopy as possible,
her nose pressed against the transparent plexalloy. “There must bemillions of
them.” She waved a benumbed hand in the pilot’s direction. “Dik, you’ve got to
let them know about this up top!”

Emerging from the same daydream into which all of them had been plunged, the
pilot nodded. After a couple of tries, he looked up and shook his head. “No can
do. Something in this ceramic sucks up even long-wave transmissions like a
sponge. I’ve lost the outpost’s carrier wave, too.”

Cullen swallowed hard, aware he was in the presence of something as exalted as
it was alien. “Can you get us any closer? We can’t go outside here without
environment suits.”

“No kidding.” The pilot manipulated controls. “At these temperatures I’m
surprised there’s no frost on anything.”

“No moisture.” Everyone turned to look in Pilwondepat’s direction. “Hot desert
above, cold desert below. No moisture. This place must be absolutely dry.” He
gesticulated irony seasoned with aversion even though he knew that his
companions would not be able to properly interpret the entire gesture.

“Temperature excepted, Riimadu would probably like it down here.”

Under Dik’s circumspect guidance, the aircar drifted over to the nearest rank of
cylinders. In the process, it passed above a narrow strip of metal, one of
uncounted thousands that crisscrossed the chamber like steel silk. They might be
walkways, Cullen reflected. If so, they had been designed for beings with far
more slender builds than humans or thranx. Beings who were also utterly unafraid
of heights. Despite omnipresent drops that could only be measured in the
hundreds of meters, there were no railings.

With practiced hands, Dik drew the skimmer closer to the uppermost row of
cylinders than Pilwondepat would have thought possible. While the pilot remained
in his seat and at the controls, everyone else moved to stand next to the
portside. From there they could look out and down at the first cylinder in the
row. It lay directly below the edge of their vehicle’s hull. The vitreous band
that ran down the center of the artifact was perfectly clear. Gazing through it,
they could see the cylinder’s contents clearly. These immediately and
unexpectedly supplied the answer to the main question that had plagued
exoarcheologists ever since they had first begun to explore the wilds of

Comagrave.

What had happened to the Sauun?

They had not expired of loneliness due to a failure to achieve space travel.

They had not perished of racial melancholia. They had not obliterated one
another in some undetected, undeclared war for which no evidence had yet been
found.

They were still here.

Cullen remembered to breathe. “Next cylinder,” he ordered Dik. “We have to
confirm similitude.”

“Okay, but this isn’t easy going. We’re in pretty tight quarters here.” As he
adjusted the controls and the aircar began to move again, he indicated the
pulsating nimbus that seemed to float just above each cylinder. “There’s a hell
of a lot of energy fluxing here, and I’d just as soon we don’t make contact with
any of these filaments, or whatever they are. Nonconductive hull
notwithstanding.”

“We just need to be able to look into a few more,” Cullen assured him. “Then I
think we can safely begin to hazard some preliminary extrapolations.”

Each cylinder, or pod, held a single Sauun. They were instantly recognizable as
such because their features were intimately familiar to the three awestruck
exoarcheologists—familiar from the graven faces of the Mourners, visible to
anyone who cared to gaze from the escarpment across the great valley. Here were
their living likenesses, held immobile in some kind of deepsleep. The same
narrowness of features, the same sorrowful countenance, the familiar long faces
that had been cut out of an entire mountainside—all were replicated in multiples
of individual detail within the cylindrical pods. Millions upon millions of
pods.

Pilwondepat had tried to count, multiply, and estimate, and had quickly given
up. Without knowing the dimensions of the chamber, any guess would invariably
fall short of the far more majestic reality. How many of the Sauun had sought
slumber in this place? A quarter of the planetary population? Half? All of it?

“This explains why they never expanded into space.” Holoness was staring down at
the dignified, composed alien visage sealed behind the transparency below. “They
were too busy expanding into this plateau. It must have taken the combined
energy and output of their entire civilization. But why?”

“Some kind of gel.” Cullen seemed not to hear her. “Probably heavily oxygenated,
temperature and greatly reduced nutrient level sustained by all this machinery,
which in turn has to be able to maintain itself.” He shook his head slowly.

“Incredible, just incredible.” Blinking, he summoned up a delayed reaction to
her question. “Why indeed? Perhaps they retreated here to escape some incurable
plague that was ravaging the surface. Or maybe this was once a much wetter
world. A long-term planetwide climate change could have threatened famine.” He
gestured at the row upon row of pods and their dreaming occupants. “Put everyone
in stasis, program appropriate instrumentation to awaken everyone when the rains
return, and sleep until the planet is receptive to large-scale agriculture
again.”

“No.”

Cullen frowned as he turned to regard the thranx. “No? Why ‘no’?”

Pilwondepat’s head swiveled to meet the human’s stare. “The technology we see
here exceeds the difficulties you hypothesize.” He gestured with both his right
truhand and foothand. “Any civilization capable of constructing a sleeping
sepulcher on this scale could surely have solved the problem of climate change
and potential famine. Or of a devastating pandemic. The time and physical
resources expended just do not resonate with your theorized causations.”

Had not Cullen Karasi’s skills as a scientist exceeded the demands of his ego,
he would never have been given charge of an expedition on a plum outpost like

Comagrave. “Granted, for the moment, your reasoning: What would you propose as a
motive?”

“Some external threat. Something they could not have anticipated, and therefore
not prepared for. Perhaps the spread and sweep of an interstellar conflict they
wished to avoid. Not the AAnn. I am willing to venture that neither the AAnn nor
for that matter the hives or your people had achieved even rudimentary space
travel by the time this place was finished and sealed.” He glanced upward. “The
chamber above us may be an airspace, intended to provide insulation—or a decoy
area, to distract any curiosity seekers. Or probers with less altruistic
motives.”

“You sound like a paranoid Quillp.” Moving away from the canopy, Holoness turned
her attention to the endless corridor that extended eastward into the
unfathomable distance. “Still, any and all theories are open to investigation.

What can’t be denied is the reality of this place, and the extraordinary effort
that went into its construction.”

“Certainly,” Cullen agreed, “something drove them to this. I find it hard to
imagine that all this—” He gestured with one hand at the immense enclosed
universe outside their craft. “—came about as the result of casual choice, or
boredom, or a desire simply to pass a few eons without dying.”

“Fear,” Pilwondepat observed quietly, “can drive people to greater heights than
aspiration.”

“Easy enough to find out.” Holoness turned to the senior scientist. “All we have
to do is wake one of them up and put the question to it.” She made no attempt to
mask her eagerness.

“In good time, that is precisely what we will try to do.” Cullen’s tone was
carefully neutral. “But killing a few of the Sauun would not be a good way to
endear ourselves to the rest of the survivors. We must be sure of what we’re
doing before we commence. That means study, plenty of preliminary work.” His
voice softened as he moved closer to her. Not for the first time, Pilwondepat
thought there might be something more to their relationship than supervisor to
subordinate.

“There’s work here for a thousand researchers for a dozen lifetimes. Much as I’d
like to know the answers to all the big questions, this is still a traditional
dig, and we have to proceed in accordance with traditional procedure. That means
measure and record, record and measure. Extrapolation with models will follow.

Only when we’re sure we know what we’re doing, or as sure as anyone can ever be
when something like this is encountered, will we advance to more dramatic
steps.” He pondered a new thought.

“If Pilwondepat is right, or even half right, and these people withdrew to this
place to escape some unknown threat, there might be more overt defenses in place
to deal with intruders than simply an empty decoy of a room. Maybe we should
count ourselves not only fortunate in making this discovery, but lucky that no
such devices have taken an interest in us—yet.” He turned back to the pilot.

“Dik, let’s take a look around. Keep it straight and simple. We don’t want to
get lost down here.”

Nodding, the pilot manipulated controls. Gingerly, he backed the craft away from
the row of pods they had been examining, pivoted the aircar on its axis, and
accelerated slowly, heading east and down. Pilwondepat stopped counting levels
at four hundred. No one tried to count the number of pods. The actual figure was
beyond casual estimation. Cullen had used the wordmillions when they had first
dropped into the deepsleep chamber. As they dove ever deeper into the dreaming
vastness, that began to seem a quaint underassessment.

“I’d like to know where the power to sustain all this comes from.” Away from the
rows of closely ranked tiers, Dik had time for musings of his own. The open
corridors between banks of pods were far more expansive than the narrow walkways
that linked them would have suggested. Support vehicles larger than their aircar
would have required access to every row, to each individual pod. “Sure as hell
there’s more than one central support facility. Wouldn’t make sense to
concentrate everything in one place. Me, I’d disperse backup capacity throughout
the project.”

Cullen was in agreement. “There are some clues in the abandoned Sauun cities on
the surface. That’s one of the reasons why nobody thus far has been able to
explain their failure to achieve space travel. They appeared to have all the
necessary technological capability. They simply chose not to develop it.”

“Maybe Pilwondepat’s right.” Holoness glanced over at the awestruck thranx.

“Maybe they didn’t have a choice.”

“What would impel an entire species to burrow underground and place themselves
in deepsleep, at the mercy of machines, to awaken at some far future time to
unfamiliar surroundings and an unpredictable fate?” Pilwondepat gestured with
both antennae. “With time to examine and reflect, we may find the answer.” He
looked back at her, his mandibles working. “Perhaps we may even be able to do so
without having to wake the Sauun.” Walking on only his four trulegs, he ambled
over to stand alongside Dik. The vacant seat next to the pilot was useless to
him. “We spoke earlier of defenses. Now I think there may be none.”

“Why not?” Unlike some humans, the pilot did not shy away from proximity to the
thranx.

“Any danger sufficiently profound to force the Sauun to resort to racial
deepsleep as a means of avoiding it would likely not be discouraged or deflected
by what weapons their technology suggests they were capable of constructing.”

“Certainly wouldn’t be of any use against plague or famine.” Cullen refused to
surrender so quickly his initial theses. “Take us back up, Dik. Everett, Bajji,
and the others will be in an agony of impatience wondering what’s happened to
us. Besides—” He smiled. “—I think we’ve accomplished quite enough for one
afternoon.”

Obediently, the pilot pirouetted the craft and began to retrace their course.

Endless rows of shimmering purple pods sped past on either side, rising to
imposing heights above and majestic depths below. Millions upon millions of
sentient beings, suspended in silence, each of them heir to a great and
tantalizing secret, silently tracked their progress. And across the great
valley, the statues of the Mourners stood gazing eternally in this direction,
the reason for their melancholy expressions now perfectly clear.

Did the Sauun raise this immense mausoleum first and then surround it with
masquerading stone, Pilwondepat wondered, or did they burrow into an already
existing plateau? If the former, it would explain why the edge of the escarpment
was so near to the entrance they had found. He tried to envision an entire race
striving mightily to prepare a vault of almost incalculable proportions, to
receive every one of them before something happened. Instead of choosing to
fight whatever it was that threatened them, they had elected to go into hiding.

Whatever that something might be, the Sauun had decided they could neither
confront it, nor negotiate with it, nor appease it. They had fled into
deepsleep, hoping to awaken to find that the threat, whatever it was, had gone,
had passed them by.

Plague, Cullen had suggested. Famine. To Pilwondepat such explanations seemed
wholly inadequate to the Sauun’s response. Even his own hypothesis, that some
as-yet-undocumented interstellar conflict had threatened them, was already
beginning to sound incommensurate. Whatever had driven an accomplished,
intelligent species to hide itself away like an estivatinghrulg grub surely was
of greater consequence than that.

While his human associates chattered around him, he tilted back his head to gaze
up and out through the skimmer’s transparent roof. Two hundred levels surpassed,
two hundred more to go. He found himself suddenly longing to be out of that
boundless, brooding place, away from those millions and millions of living
corpses. Checking the ascending craft’s chronometer, he saw that less time had
passed since they’d left the surface than he thought. They would emerge into
daylight. That meant he would not have to look up at the grim immensity of the
night sky and wonder at what might lie in hiding behind the stars.

16

When she awoke the next morning, Fanielle saw that she had overslept. The last
thing she wanted, after the menacing encounter of the night before, was to be
late for the rendezvous with Haflunormet and their mutual friend. As she
dressed, she found herself looking sharply in directions and at places that
would never have previously engaged her attention. With each mercifully
unrequited glance, she relaxed a little more. The Baron Preed NNXV was, as he
might have put it, truly gone. From her lodgings, if not from her thoughts.

She waited for Haflunormet at an eating establishment he favored, resting her
bifurcated behind on a padded bench designed for thranx to straddle. As the only
human in the underground insectoid bistro, her presence drew stares and remarks.

The looks were less direct than the comments, given the thranx mastery of
peripheral vision. Other patrons were quite capable of staringat her without
actually turning in her direction. After a while, the novelty of her silent
presence wore off, and they returned to their own conversations. The air around
her was filled with a harmonious cacophony of clicks, whistles, and words.

She was sucking on a domestic fruit juice blend that was more than palatable to
her digestive system when Haflunormet arrived. A prearranged glance and gesture
told her all she needed to know for the moment. “He’s here.” One of the few
humans on Hivehom with access to local methods of reimbursement, she paid for
her half-finished drink and followed the diplomat out into the bustling
corridor.

Roof over a New New York street to a height of ten meters or so and you would
have a good analog for the principal burrows of Daret. Still, it was not a place
for the claustrophobic, or for those who were uncomfortable in crowds.

From the burrow, they took public transport to an outer suburb. Yet again,

Fanielle was grateful for her petite frame. It allowed her to ride thranx
transportation without having to bend uncomfortably at the waist. Twenty minutes
later they exited the transport system and took a lift to the surface, where

Haflunormet had a private vehicle waiting. Following a preprogrammed course, the
small aircar rose and headed westward, flying above untouched savanna and
low-lying jungle. Several hours later it slowed as it approached a clearing at
the base of rolling, verdure-covered hills. Not far from this easily visible
landing site, enormous bulk carriers wound in procession past triple loaders,
grinding their ponderous way along the base of the nearest hill with cargoes of
recently extracted ore.

“Sat!wi!trare metals.” Haflunormet took manual control of the aircar and
directed it toward a covered parking area. “The mine’s owners are sympathetic to
our cause.” Multiple-lensed eyes looked over at her. “A more difficult place to
eavesdrop on a conversation I could not find. I was determined to arrange one
where after the unfortunate encounter in your room you would feel comfortable
about speaking freely.”

She gestured understanding and thanks, her two hands having to do the work of
four. That they would be rendezvousing in a mine did not trouble her. Its
interior could be no more confining than the side streets of Daret.

After securing the aircar, Haflunormet led the way past busy workers and
administrators. Fanielle drew more direct stares here than she had in the
cosmopolitan capital. Not all of them bespoke affection. She might well, she
reflected as she ignored some of the less-friendly gestures, be the first human
to visit this place, the first one many of the miners had ever seen in the
flesh.

At the entrance Haflunormet made contact with Security. Conversations were
exchanged via communicator, subsequent to which the two visitors were allowed to
enter. From time to time Haflunormet would pause to check directions on his
recorder. Unlike in the city, internal transportation here operated on an
irregular schedule. Twice, they had to wait for an automated conveyance to
arrive. A tall human, Fanielle reflected as they zoomed along one subterranean
track deep within the mountain, might easily have lost his head in such a place.

Within the tunnels and shafts there was very little overhead clearance.

From time to time they passed a bore or passageway where active mining was in
progress. Here was another justification for closer commercial, if not
political, contact, Fanielle saw. No human miner could compete with an equally
well-trained thranx, who was not only more comfortable beneath the surface than
above it, but enjoyed a greater tolerance for the heat that often turned mine
tunnels into sweltering saunas. A crew of these highly trained workers could
find top-salaried gainful employment at any tunneling mine on Earth or any of
its colonies.

The transport they were riding began to slow. As it did so, the narrow corridor
opened up to reveal a spacious underground rest area. Here miners could relax in
comfort, waiting for assignment to the far-flung reaches of the diggings. There
was illumination, and refreshment, and vit-style entertainment.

Haflunormet led her to a distant corner, where a single middle-aged thranx was
engrossed in the concealed readout of a personal recorder. Antennae rose in
their direction as they approached. As Haflunormet made the introduction, the
other thranx slid off the bench he had been straddling and dipped both antennae
forward. Fanielle brushed the feathery extremities with her fingertips, a
gesture that in the past couple of years had become more familiar to her than
the shaking of hands.

“I am Lyrkenparmew. Before we begin, I would like to wish you painless
deposition of your egg.”

Taking a seat on an empty bench, Fanielle glanced wryly in Haflunormet’s
direction. “Does everyone on this planet know that I’m pregnant?”

Where a human might have responded with something like “Good news travels fast,”

her fellow diplomat did not comment verbally. In place of words, Haflunormet
gestured ambiguousness leavened with gentle humor.

“Thank you,” she replied dryly. “However, I still feel compelled to point out
that we are not here to discuss my maternal condition.” By now used to thranx
benches that were devoid of back support, she found herself leaning forward
automatically as she addressed the new arrival. “Haflunormet has apprised you of
my recent difficulties here, and in Azerick?”

Lyrkenparmew gestured acknowledgment. “I’ve been briefed. I am sorry for the
many inconveniences you have suffered. I myself lost a close clan member three
years ago to the gentle ministrations of the AAnn.” He added a series of rapid
clicks that were shocking in their manifest obscenity. Fanielle decided she
liked him right away.

“What results can you report from your recent informal sojourn on Earth?”

Haflunormet’s antennae were aquiver with eagerness. “Deliberation still burrows
faithfully?”

“More than faithfully. Beneath the surface turmoil there is a newly dug tunnel
that runs straight to the light, with walls that have been burnished to an
unfolding glow by truth.” He paused to check his own recorder, which at present
was set not to record but to scan for others who might be recording. Assured
that their conversation was being monitored neither in person nor
electronically, he continued.

“It has been proposed, and preparations are being made to announce, a formal
union between our two governments. The resulting Grand Hive is to be known as
the Humanx Commonwealth. There is to be full integration of all administrative
functions, first on the interstellar level, later on the local. This is not an
alliance; it burrows far deeper.” Having delivered himself of this extraordinary
pronouncement, he took a sip of the sugary liquid that half filled the
translucent green container standing by his side. “Nothing else like it exists
in this part of the Arm. Once integration is complete, other species will be
invited to join. An official Commission of Interest to the Quillp has already
been drafted, though it is considered unlikely the ornithorps will wish to
confederate. Nevertheless, it will be extended out of courtesy.”

Haflunormet and Fanielle hardly knew how to react. Desiring to hear that
relations between their respective species were on the upswing, Lyrkenparmew had
unloaded on them the culmination of hopes that heretofore both diplomats had
only dared to dream about. Until now, neither of them had ever heard of a
proposed “Humanx Commonwealth.” Haflunormet said as much.

Lyrkenparmew gestured apologies. “As you know, the friends of the committee have
had to function on multiple levels in order to escape potentially injurious
scrutiny on all those worlds where we are active. I assure you, this is not some
wild rambling on the part of our mutual friends. It’s quite real. The details
have been carefully worked out, debated, refined, and prepared for general
dissemination on all thranx- and human-occupied worlds. A small band of
especially adept agents have been working on the minutiae ever since we entered
the Pitarian War on the human side.”

“I hardly know what to say.” Haflunormet’s antennae were waving about as if in a
dream. “This is more than I, than any of us here on Hivehom, dared to hope for.”

Fanielle scrutinized their surroundings. A few miners were staring in their
direction. In her direction, she corrected herself. But they appeared to be no
more than what they were, and after a while they departed aboard a battered
transport. She was determined not to let paranoia get the best of her. Not now,
after receiving news of such import.

“How is this proposal going to be presented to the public?” she finally managed
to ask their guest.

Lyrkenparmew employed all four hands for emphasis. “If the proponents did not do
it themselves, it would never be brought up for consideration by our respective
dominions. The intention is to spring it on both governments simultaneously, and
bring it to a vote in yours and to a mass closing in ours as quickly as
possible, thereby catching our xenophobic opponents by surprise. Continued
secrecy is obviously therefore of utmost importance.”

Haflunormet whistled for attention. “Presentation before council is one thing;
adoption something else entirely. Does this astounding concept have any real
chance of being affirmed?”

Now it was the otherwise academically inclined Lyrkenparmew’s turn to manifest
excitement. “In all seriousness, three cycles ago I would have laughed at such a
notion. Two cycles and I would have responded to you with an unequivocal no.

This last cycle past I might not have replied at all, foundering deep in
contemplation of the previously unthinkable. Tomorrow . . .” He finished with an
unexpectedly emphatic gesture and a particularly piercing click of his two
vertical mandibles.

“There has been a recent and unexpected upsurge of support on both sides from a
number of previously disinterested clans. Coupled with those important
individuals who have already previously espoused these sentiments—influential
politicians of Earth and tri-eints and others here on Hivehom—it is believed
that there may exist on both capital worlds sufficient votes to just barely pass
the proposal. I am also assured that we can count in council on the voting bloc
that dislikes humans but desperately wishes for such an alliance.”

Fanielle frowned. “Isn’t that a contradiction?”

Lyrkenparmew gestured ironic amusement. “Indeed—a very useful one. Among the
military, there are those who will agree to anything if it will secure the
promise of human intervention against the AAnn. These high-ranking eints have a
positive affection for humans as—what is your colorful term?—cannon fodder. They
seek allies who can be placed between the hive worlds and the Empire. If humans
desire to occupy such a position voluntarily, why, there are many semixenophobes
among my kind who are ready to welcome them.”

“Strange,” Haflunormet mused aloud. “To think that those who may support this
proposed Commonwealth the most enthusiastically may also intensely dislike the
people to whom they are about to surrender a portion of their sovereignty.”

“It’s not important.” Fanielle was confident in her reply. “All that matters is
the final, irrevocable cementing of relations and melding of our two societies.

In the service of that end, we’ll take what help we can get.”

“So we shall,” Lyrkenparmew agreed readily. “Once it becomes clear that
ratification is not only possible but probable, I have been assured that others
who would like to declare for a Commonwealth but who for reasons of provincial
politics or hive affiliation have not yet been able to do so will announce their
support.” He gesticulated urgency. “But the proposal must pass on the first
inclusive stridulating. After that, our opponents will be able to muster their
objections and quite likely defeat any reconsideration.”

“This is grand news.” Haflunormet was struggling to find something to do with
all his hands. “When you return to Earth, you may inform our mutual
acquaintances that their friends here in the capital will be ready to move the
instant their support is required.”

“I can’t vouch for what will happen in the Terran Congress,” Fanielle added,

“but as you know, I am not alone in my sympathies at Azerick Outpost. We’ll be
ready to offer what help we can from here.”

“As will your counterparts on your homeworld, in the Reserva Amazonia, and
elsewhere.” Having delivered himself of the most critical news, the envoy
finally began to relax. His trulegs were no longer clasped tensely against the
padded flanks of the bench he was straddling, and his antennae inclined forward
in a more natural resting position instead of being held vertically by the
muscles in his forehead.

“Everything—hopes, dreams, and much effort—is building to a peak. The timing has
been very carefully worked out. The sometimes bumpy relations between our
species are about to crest at a high point. There are at present no major
disagreements in dispute. The controversy over exploration rights on Comagrave
has been settled in return for reciprocal rights on Drax Four. Ongoing
commercial disputes of note have at last found a home in the binary-staffed
commission that has been designated to review and settle such matters. The
intercultural fair on the human colony world of Dawn is, by all accounts,
performing to large crowds and great acclaim among those of both our peoples who
have attended. Unless some unforeseen catastrophe of major proportions occurs
within the next several weeks, the relevant edicts should be presented and the
appropriate votes called for.” He took a long, throaty swig of his remaining
drink.

“This is a most momentous time in the history of our respective species. It will
go down as such in the history scrolls—or else be memorialized as one of the
great lost opportunities in this sentient part of the galaxy. Though you and I
are but insignificant players in the sublime drama, we must each of us strive at
the moment of truth to maximize our whistling.”

It was a fine sentiment, Fanielle felt. There was a nobility to it that calmed
her anxieties. Very rarely are individuals actually aware of balancing on the
crux of history. She hoped she would live long enough to see come to pass all
that the glittering-eyed Lyrkenparmew had described. For that matter, painfully
recalling what had happened to Jeremy, she hoped she would just live long enough
to see the actual voting on the proposal take place.

Lyrkenparmew had set his drinking utensil aside. His manner had grown more
somber. “There are other threats besides the declared intention of our opponents
on both councils to vote no on any such proposition. While our people have been
hard at work behind the scenes, lobbying human politicians and thranx eints
alike, the AAnn have not rested. They are ever active, making mischief.” He
glanced in Fanielle’s direction. “As I have been informed you know from more
than merely speculative experience.”

She nodded slowly, a gesture both thranx would recognize. “As you know, I lost .

. . I lost the father of my child.” She swallowed hard. Though she had been down
this road many times since Jeremy’s death, remembering was still agonizing. Only
her work, into which she had thrown herself with more intensity than ever, kept
her from seeing his face in familiar places and from crying uncontrollably.

Something hard and unyielding brushed softly against her right side. Eight of

Haflunormet’s fingers grazed her ribs in a particular ellipsoidal motion, a
soothing motion designed to show sympathy for both egg-layer and prospective
offspring. She sniffed only once as she returned his touch with a smile.

Surrounded though she was at residence and on the job by fellow humans, it took
a bug’s caress to put her at ease.

“Surely,” she observed, collecting herself, “the AAnn can’t hope to match this
flowering joint effort with one of their own?” Around them, clusters of miners
came and went, toiling at flexible shifts. Whenever a new group lay down on
benches nearby, the diplomats’ conversation shifted to innocuous, generalized
topics until the diggers departed. The information being discussed at the small
table in the back was too sensitive for general dissemination. It would have to
remain so until the grand proposition had been announced to the public.

Lyrkenparmew indicated mild distress. “They’ve been very busy, the scale-skinned
ones. In the area of commercial treaty making they have been especially active.

The accumulation of individual wealth occupies greater status among the AAnn and
humankind than it does among my people. This similar outlook affords a kind of
instant rapport among certain of your kind and many of the AAnn.” His truhands
were in constant motion, making it difficult for Fanielle to follow every subtle
overtone of the conversation.

“Many covenants have been proposed between AAnn and human, and several adopted,
but nothing like the Commonwealth. The AAnn would never contemplate such an
intimate union with anyone.” He let out a series of shrill clicks. “They are too
enamored of their own imagined destiny as rulers of this part of the galaxy to
ever surrender any real control to another species. But beyond that, they are
quite willing to consider all manner of agreements.”

“The problem,” Haflunormet continued, “is that too many humans are easily
blinded by promises of the riches to be gained from trade with the scaled ones,
who are not above bribing your people to secure support, special treatment, and
whatever other perks they believe they can so acquire.”

Fanielle was embarrassed for people she did not know and would never meet. “My
kind have come a long way from the time when we used to beat one another’s heads
in for the most insignificant reasons. But there still exist those who crawl
through life as ethical hemophiliacs.”

“What they don’t realize,” Lyrkenparmew went on solemnly, “is that opportunism
is ingrained in the AAnn social structure. They will treat fairly when it best
suits their needs, and break legs when it does not. The grief arises from their
skill. They have made a science of duplicity. I am not saying that humans are
naÏve, but there is no sentient in the known universe as crafty, sly, and
cunning as a mature, experienced AAnn.” He gestured mild apology of oversight.

“But then, there is no need for me to tell you this. You have already met one
such.”

She nodded. “The emissary in question could charm asifla out of itsmorgewout .

When not tearing out your throat.”

Haflunormet whistle-clicked concurrence. “His reputation spreads wider than does
his water.”

“I know he charmed a colleague of mine back at the compound.” She looked
straight at Haflunormet. “Mind the name ‘Jorge Sertoa.’ He’s a very clever
fellow, but a bit of cold plasma. Has dark matter in place of a backbone.” At
the dual gestures of bemusement from her companions, she hurried to modify the
simile. “Sorry—in place of his predominate dorsal chitin.” At this
clarification, they gesticulated knowingly.

“And he’s not alone in his sympathies for the AAnn. There are others at the
settlement who feel similarly, though I’m happy to say they’re in the minority.

When the proposal is announced, I think you’ll be able to count on the support
of the majority of the staff, diplomatic and support personnel alike, at

Azerick.” Her expression hardened. “I’ll arrange to keep an eye on Jorge and the
others so they don’t cause any trouble.”

Lyrkenparmew indicated understanding. “Everything is suddenly starting to move
very rapidly. There is a sense of great events having been set inexorably in
motion. I hardly need tell either of you that if this proposal goes down to
defeat, it could be fifty or a hundred cycles before anyone dares to bring it up
again. Failure carries with it the concurrent risk that the opponents of
unification, alarmed by the boldness of the proposition, will unite in even more
formidable leagues to oppose any reconsideration.” His voice lowered as his
clicking subsided to the intensity of pins landing on a metal sheet.

“I’m not trying to alarm you, but this is the way the gist is seen. Our first
chance may very well prove to be our best chance, if not necessarily our last.”

“I wonder if it’s too soon.” Fanielle almost leaned back on her bench before she
remembered that it had no back. “I wonder if we’re pushing too much too fast.”

The genial twisting of Lyrkenparmew’s truhands insinuated inevitability. “Those
in charge of making such decisions feel they have no choice but to press for the
establishment of the complete Commonwealth. Now that the concept has been
brokered, it has gained a momentum all its own. It is like entering into a
burrow that has been slimed. Once you’ve started downward, there’s no stopping
until you reach the bottom.”

Haflunormet drained the last of his drink. It was nearing time to leave, lest
they become too conspicuous. “This will be the cycle that the progeny of our
clans will venerate forever.”

“Ifour designs are fulfilled.” Lyrkenparmew slipped sideways off his bench while

Fanielle straightened and stretched. Her back was stiff from sitting so long in
one place without any support.

“I suppose I’ll be heading back to the plateau in a few days.” She checked her
comm unit. “They won’t be expecting me so early, but no one will question the
timing of my return.” She smiled wryly. “After all, what right-minded human
could stand more than a couple of days of vacation in a place like Daret?”

“We are all of us hoping,” Lyrkenparmew commented quietly as they left the table
behind and headed for the transport platform, “that it is individuals like
yourself who are the right-minded humans.”

Reaching out, she momentarily rested the flat of her hand against the back of
the envoy’s abdomen, feeling his upper set of wing cases vibrate against her
palm. “I’m not alone in liking your kind, Lyrkenparmew, and not just for the
ever-amazing variety of wonderful fragrances you emit, or for your aid in the

Pitarian War. There are plenty of us who are fond of thranx culture, and
philosophy, and your way of looking at the universe. It’s minds we seek in
common, not shapes.”

“How fortunate.” The widely spaced nerve endings in Lyrkenparmew’s exoskeleton
conveyed to him the warmth of the barely insulated mammalian flesh. Such a
strange sensation it was, to be accompanied by a creature that was little more
than a loose sack of fluids wrapped around a barely balanced upright bony
framework held together by fragile bonds of stretched protein. That this
female’s often erratic kind might be the ones to at last put an end to centuries
of AAnn depredations was scarce to be believed. Many thranx, in fact, would not
believe it.

They would have to be convinced.

17

Conversation in the room was subdued. Skettle let them talk. It helped to
relieve the tension. As Nevisrighne and Botha, Pierrot and Davies and the others
chatted quietly, the old man looked on with pride. In a stern, paternal fashion
he was as proud of them as if they were his real children. Very soon now they
would join gloriously together, patriarch and progeny, to sow destruction in
order to prevent an onslaught of racial commingling of a kind their virtuous
ancestors could never in their wildest dreams have imagined.

Walking over to where Botha was seated poring one last time over his beloved
charts, he put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “The special explosives are
ready?”

The other man adjusted his multifunction lenses and nodded. “It’s a shame we
couldn’t disguise them the way we did the smaller stuff and just bring them in
with us. I’d feel better knowing the full provenance of the ingredients.”

“I know. But even a couple of small tanks of highly sensitive reactant would
have set off alarms in customs. How fortunate that you and our other equally
brilliant technical people have been able to devise a liquid explosive that can
be produced from widely available materials.”

Botha allowed himself a rare grin. “Catalyzed right here in their own city, too.

Anyone reviewing the purchases would think one group was going to mix up some
lacquer to paint a house, and the other a few crates of home brew.”

“Home brew it is,” Skettle replied, “only this blend is not for drinking.” He
raised his gaze to the far corner of the hotel’s reserved and shielded
conference room. The pair of trivarium tanks standing upright on the floor near
the window—through which they could be hastily chucked in the event of a
lightning raid by the authorities—were small, light, exceptionally strong,
resistant to the caustic liquids they were originally designed to hold, and of a
familiar commercial design that would spark no alarms in the minds of anyone who
happened to see them. For all anyone espying them might know, they could easily
contain cold-drink concentrate destined for delivery to one of the fair’s
numerous food concessions.

Skettle would take charge of one, Martine the other, in the unlikely event
either of them should be stopped and questioned. The volatile contents of one
tank should be more than sufficient to blow the bulk of the fair’s central
communications facility halfway across City Lake. As a further security
precaution, they would take separate routes to the complex. Meeting there, they
would then make their way into the facility by a prearranged, rehearsed route.

Any security or communications personnel unlucky enough to encounter and query
them would be dealt with as necessary.

Once the explosives had been placed and set, the two would join their companions
in creating general havoc. Skettle was a tower of tranquility among his
associates, some of whom for the first time since they had arrived on Dawn were
beginning to exhibit the first understandable symptoms of agitation. Even the
righteous, he reflected calmly, could grow nervous on the eve of retribution.

He had boundless confidence in all of them. All of them, men and women alike,
had dedicated themselves to the cause of the Preservers. They were here to buy
time, to allow humankind to reflect upon the mad course of action a few species
traitors were hell-bent on pursuing. By tomorrow evening, the festering pace of
human-thranx relations would have come to a crashing halt. By the day after, he
and his companions would be safely on their way home, on separate KK-drive
ships, able to relax and reflect on the good work they had done.

Yes, some innocent humans would have to die. It was quite possible some of his

own people would also perish, although every precaution had been taken to ensure
their quiet and successful escape from the zone of carnage they intended to
enkindle. These unwitting tourists and visitors would go down as martyrs to the
cause of species purity. It would take time, but when humankind finally came to
its senses and realized the absurdity as well as the danger of trying to merge
with another species, the names of the dead would be remembered gratefully by
many millions more than the few relatives who would grieve over their loss next
week and next month.

When he raised his hands for quiet, the low buzz of conversation ceased. All
eyes—some anxious, some expectant, others alive with the anticipation of the
work to come—were on him.

“My friends, my good companions: We stand at the threshold of the greatest
calamity mankind has ever experienced. The uneducated and ill-informed gather in
mindless herds, ready to be pushed into oblivion by the traitorous politicians
and philosophers among them. Shall we who have taken the name Preservers allow
this to happen?”

The multitude of murmured “no”s that rose in response to his query were no less
bone-chilling for the restraint with which they were ululated.

Skettle’s jaws tightened. “Then let us go forth, comrades mine, and once and for
all put a stop to this murderous collision course on which the betrayers of our
own kind have set us.” He smiled at them, and though he was quite unaware of it,
it was a smile that would have set young children to running. “And while we are
doing so, let us be sure to kill as many worthy people as possible while taking
care to spare the visiting bugs.”

This last bit of carefully concocted perfidy would serve to further heighten the
suspicions of those humans who would rush to investigate the tragedy. There was
delicious irony in the knowledge that the ones the Preservers most wanted to
kill would, by surviving, serve to impair the cause of their own conciliators.

Beskodnebwyl’s coworkers would not be so lucky. Skettle had given his colleagues
free rein to shoot down as many of them as they could as they made their way
clear of the pandemonium. It was the ordinary, bewildered thranx they planned to
spare—to suffer the suspicions and outrage of the surviving humans.

As his people began to file out of the room, individually and in pairs so as not
to draw the attention of the hotel staff or anyone else to their departure,

Skettle paused to glance out the window. Across the great lake, shimmering like
a sheet of blue metal in the pellucid morning sunshine, the swooping, soaring
structure of the fairgrounds could just be seen in the distance. By this
evening, all of it would be in flames, cleansed and deserted, its name become
tragedy spread by space-minus communications throughout the civilized portions
of the Arm. Walking to the window, he picked up one of the two
inauspicious-looking tanks of liquid explosive. Martine had already left with
hers.

As the last one out of the conference room, he was careful to close the door
behind him. He would make his own separate way to the fair. There he would pause
for coffee and a quick meal, his attention on his own synchronized chronometer.

At exactly half past one, it would be time to start killing.

Nordelmatcen, one of the most able among the Bwyl, sidled up next to his clan
leader and touched the latter’s right antenna with one of his own. Beskodnebwyl
turned immediately.

“I don’t trust my own chronometer. How long until we induce permanent collapse
into this vile burrow?”

Around them, blissfully ignorant humans and thranx alike promenaded to and fro
throughout the fairgrounds. They had no reason to glance in the direction of the
three thranx who were quietly scrutinizing an exhibition of art especially
prepared for the fair by creative talents of both species working in tandem.

Nordelmatcen had taken one look at the prancing abominations and dismissed them
as obscene. Beskodnebwyl was too indifferent to be similarly enticed.

Had any curious passersby paused to stare in their direction, they might have
wondered at the extra layers of external sheathing that enclosed the trio of
insectoid males. Given the subtropical climate of the region in which Aurora had
been founded, these wrappings might have struck even another thranx as
excessive. Closer inspection, had it been allowed, would have revealed that the
innermost layer of covering consisted not of finely machined fabric from Drax IV
or special lightweight abdominal insulation from thesythmills of Amropolus, but
of self-propelled explosives and kindred virulent mechanisms.

“Patience,” Beskodnebwyl lectured his companions. “The time for dispensing
annihilation will come soon enough.”

Deimovjenbir whistled his displeasure. “I would have preferred that we proceed
with our intended business on our own, without having to rely on, of all things,
a group of contemptible if like-minded humans.”

Beskodnebwyl gestured to emphasize lofty thoughts. “But it is the fact that they
are like-minded that compels us to restrain ourselves. If we can make use of
some of the soft ones to triple the amount of chaos we can create, should we not
do so?”

“I did not say that.” With a series of deep clicks, Deimovjenbir mimicked a
disapproving human grumble.

“The humans of Skettle—I have still not been able to decide if that is properly
a family or clan designation—are convinced they are making use of us. We feel
the opposite is true. None of which matters. What is important is the result. It
doesn’t matter if the humans blame the thranx or the thranx blame the humans.

What is meaningful is that blame is ascribed.” He gestured with a truhand. “Are
you ready to kill some artists?”

“I am ready to kill anything that thinks it controls the destiny of my hive.

Artist, worker, prognosticator, musician, scientist—occupation is unimportant.

What matters is that we stop this unclean mixing before it has a chance to
fuse.” Reaching back with a foothand, he caressed a brace of the self-propelled
explosives that were bound to his abdomen. “I am anxious to spread the flowers
of destruction.”

“Soon.” Beskodnebwyl checked his own chronometer. “Within the current major
time-part.” Slipping a foothand into a thorax pouch, he removed a communicator.

Holding it in all four fingers, he used a truhand to activate the compact
device. “Time to make certain everyone else is in position.” Addressing the
pickup softly, he called to the team of Vedburankex and Hynwupletmer.

There was no answer.

He tried again, with the same result. Nordelmatcen’s attention was still
concentrated on the swirling, cheerful crowd. “Trouble with their units. Perhaps
they are in a location that restricts short-range, closed-beam communications.

Try Yiwespembor and Cuwenarfot.”

Beskodnebwyl did so, to another nonresponse. “Possibly there is something wrong
with my unit.” He extended a truhand. “Let me have yours.”

Nordelmatcen obediently passed over his own communicator. Beskodnebwyl first
tried Vedburankex and Hynwupletmur again, only to be rewarded with the same
pensive electronic silence. It was the same for Yiwespembor and Cuwenarfot, who
were supposed to be milling about among the largest of the eating pavilions that
had been built out into the shallows of the lake. If they were in position, as
they ought to already have been for several time-parts, there should be nothing
around to interfere with the receptiveness of their communicators.

Growing increasingly concerned, Beskodnebwyl proceeded to try to contact every
one of the widely scattered armed teams. It quickly became apparent that the
rest of the Bwyl either could not or would not respond. As for the possibility
that Nordelmatcen’s as well as his own communicator was defective, that was a
likelihood so unreasonable as to be beneath consideration. Designed to take a
lot of mistreatment, field communicators simply did not fail. The thought that
two could falter in such close proximity to one another was not to be believed.

Beskodnebwyl did not even bother to try Deimovjenbir’s unit.

They were standing on a raised platform that wound its way through the
interspecies exhibition of art. While it was conceivable that some of the larger
sculptures might block communication to and from the east, there was nothing to
divert beams being broadcast in the other three directions. Searching for an
explanation, Beskodnebwyl could conceive of none.

Then Nordelmatcen was striving to suppress an instinctive stridulation as he
tapped his mentor on the thorax and pointed sharply.

Beskodnebwyl recognized the strike team that was walking rapidly toward the art
exhibit. They had just appeared inside one of the entrances on the far side of
the pavilion. Sujbirwencex and Waspulnatun were looking around more than was
necessary, and their antennae were positively dancing. There appeared to be
nothing wrong with them, either physically or mentally. For the first time since
he had started scanning, Beskodnebwyl received an acknowledgment in response to
his query signal.

He was about to ask if the recently arrived team members were having similar
difficulties contacting other members of the group when Sujbirwencex and

Waspulnatun were abruptly swarmed by a collapsing ring of humans and thranx.

Shocked by the swiftness of the maneuver, Beskodnebwyl could only stare, one
finger still on thesend contact of his communicator. It was as if a portion of
the milling crowd had collapsed on top of the stunned pair. Neither had a chance
to fire a shot in their own defense, or even unlimber one of the many weapons
they carried. One time-part fraction they had been making straight for

Beskodnebwyl and Nordelmatcen; the next, both were in custody and in the process
of being disarmed.

Deimovjenbir benefited from a slightly different perspective on the calamity.

“Sujbirwencex and Waspulnatun have both been immobilized. Whether by fume,
shock, or other means I cannot say, but both are now lying on their sides and
offering no resistance.”

Beskodnebwyl’s colleague was not quite right. As the three dismayed thranx
looked on, Sujbirwencex managed to wrest free a small hand weapon not yet
confiscated by her attackers. She was immediately swarmed, but not before she
succeeded in getting off at least one shot. A few nearby wanderers looked on in
shock as the explosive shell blew one human patroller in half. In response, the
downed Sujbirwencex received half a dozen blasts of varying intensity from at
least three different kinds of weapons. The ferocious counterattack left little
behind suitable for future identification.

From the brief but lethal confrontation nary a sound was heard.

“Silencing sphere,” Nordelmatcen clicked unnecessarily. Whoever had ambushed the
two Bwyl carried equipment to ensure that whatever else resulted from any
confrontations and challenges, crowd panic would not be among them. The throng
of sightseers had been effectively and efficiently shielded from the unsettling
sounds of violent verbal and physical combat. One human and one Bwyl lay dead on
the pavilion floor, but only those visitors who had been close enough to observe
the challenge directly had any inkling that anything untoward had taken place in
their midst. It was all very slick and masterful. The actions of the ambushers
smacked of extensive training and ample rehearsal.

They suggested, inescapably, the participation of skilled professionals.

Deimovjenbir moved to discard his unnecessary outer garb, the better to access
his firepower. “We have been betrayed! The burrow where we have stored our
secrets has been breached!”

“No.” Though he disagreed with his clan mate’s appraisal of the situation,

Beskodnebwyl was also scrambling to unlimber his weapons. “The Skettle folk
would not do that. Revealing us would gain them nothing, since the first Bwyl to
be captured would immediately expose them in turn.”

Deimovjenbir almost had the streamlined launcher free and ready to lock in
position on Nordelmatcen’s back, where it could be clipped firmly to the other
thranx’s wing cases to provide an excellent mobile firing platform.

“But someonehas delivered us up to the Dawn authorities. I cannot envision who.

Somehow, somewhere, there must have been a fault in our planning. We will locate
it, however.”

“Srrillp!Yes we will!” Nordelmatcen avowed. He was fully alert now, alive with
anticipation as he prepared to join his honored mentor in blowing the
adulterated physical arts pavilion to splinters. “There is no reason to wait any
longer to begin what we came for.”

“No,crr!!t !” Deimovjenbir slipped a compressed charge into the launcher now
resting securely on his colleague’s back.

He was preparing to activate the firing sequence when a pair of very small
shells composed almost entirely of radioactively neutral depleted uranium passed
through his head, entering via the left compound eye and exiting at the back of
the skull. Barely slowed by the organic contact, they continued onward to pierce
the wall of the pavilion and eventually fall harmlessly into the lake. Slowly,
the four trulegs of the Bwyl gave way in response to an absence of instructions
from their controlling cerebrum, and the gleaming blue-green body slumped to the
floor. The extended truhand never came closer than half a meter to the firing
mechanism of the launcher fixed to Nordelmatcen’s back.

Emitting the sharpest, most piercing whistle of which he was capable,

Nordelmatcen sprang forward on all four trulegs, firing a pair of hand weapons
as he leaped. Undeadened by a silencing sphere, the racket his firearms made was
as loud as the death of his friend and colleague had been comparatively silent.

Humans scattered and let out satisfying screams. Less prone to panic, adult and
adolescent thranx nonetheless broke out in alarmed clicks and stridulations,
adding to the general confusion. Meanwhile, Beskodnebwyl used the diversion to
force his way in the opposite direction, finding a path through the forest of
sculptures. Human, thranx, and jointly conceived alike, the towering works of
art seemed to be leering down at him. Or worse, laughing.

The ensuing uproar lasted less than a couple of minutes. Firing madly,

Nordelmatcen brought down one human and one thranx patroller before he was
obliterated in a hail of gunfire as lethal as it was diverse. Alert for any
surprises, such as booby-trapped internal organs, plainclothes police surrounded
the shattered remnants of the insectoid terrorist. One kicked at the badly
burned head, which had been separated from the rest of the body.

“Stupid bug—pardon, thranx—bastard. What are they trying to accomplish with all
this?”

His female companion made a disgusted sound in her throat, behind her face
shield. “We’ll know when the psychs get to the live ones and their human cronies
who’ve already been taken into custody.” Raising her gaze, she stared hard at
the raised walkway from which the dead thranx had leaped. “There’s another dead
one up there. I thought I saw three.”

Her comrade pushed at the back of his slightly too-tight helmet. “Dunno. Must’ve
just been the two. We’ve been mostly picking ‘em up in twos.”

“I guess you’re right.” It was her turn to nudge the black-streaked insectoid
head with a booted foot. “Funny how the color drains out of the eyes when they
die. Their equivalent of a human closing her lids, I guess.”

Her fellow officer shrugged. “Dead is dead. Me, I leave the dirty details to the
biologists.” He brightened slightly. “Hey, you ought to join me and Vermenyarkex
one night.”

“Why? Is there such a thing as a thranx strip club?” she replied dryly.

“I wouldn’t know.” Her partner looked hurt. “He said something about sharing
some special hi-ups that work equally well on both our metabolisms.”

“Oh, that’s different, then.” Holstering her pistol in its hidden compartment
inside her casual tropical blouse, she turned to rejoin the rest of the covert
patrol. “Let’s make sure we’ve got the rest of this mess cleaned up, first.”

Lawlor and Rabukanu were getting nervous. Everything had gone according to plan:

their arrival at the fair, the gradual dispersal of the group, the casual stroll
to their assigned position. No one had contested their entrance or challenged
their presence. Uniformed security personnel had ignored them, treating them
like any other visitors. They had followed a memorized, circuitous route to the

Pavilion of Cooperative Science and remained there, wandering through and about
the exhibits until they were as sick of each and every one as they were of the
unrestrained fraternizing of thranx and human tourists. Still, they waited. And
waited.

They continued to wait, but with a growing sense of unease long months of
training could no longer dispel. Around them, the crowds thickened. There was no
indication anything was amiss at the fair.

Then Rabukanu frowned and pointed. “Isn’t that Botha and Marion?”

Lawlor strained to see past a drifting tactile holo that was entertaining a
clutch of delighted, laughing children. A pair of adolescent thranx, their
blue-green exoskeletons jewel-like with the freshness of recent emergence from
pupahood, looked on in silence, striving to puzzle out the attraction the
yellow-and-pink electronic apparition held for their human counterparts.

A well-dressed—indeed, overdressed—middle-aged couple had just entered the far
side of this quadrant of the extensive pavilion. Their constant glancing to
right and left betrayed no ulterior motives: Striving to see everything at once
was a common affliction among fairgoers. Then Marion happened to meet Lawlor’s
distant glance. Despite the range, she stared fixedly in his direction, as if
trying to impart a question through sheer force of expression.

“It’s them, for sure.” Lawlor blinked. “What are they doing in here? They’re
supposed to be working the health and gengineering displays.”

“She looks confused.” At a distance, Rabukanu’s eyesight was slightly sharper
than that of his companion. “Maybe you were right when you wondered a few
minutes ago if something’s gone wrong.”

“What about Botha?” After Skettle, the engineer was the most admired member of
the group.

Rabukanu fought to see through the noisy, milling throng. “Hard to say. He never
looks confused.”

“Well, something must be up for them to vacate their position.” Lawlor checked
his timer. “Elkannah’s late.”

The other man did not bother to corroborate. “There’s still plenty of time. More
accurate to say that he’s not early. Maybe he and Martine had to take a more
roundabout route to the communications center. Maybe they were delayed. It’s
plenty early. Relax.”

“Yar, surely I’ll relax.” Beneath his lightweight tropical jacket, strips of
explosive material vied for room with a brace of exceedingly stylized pistols.

The pockets of his pants held handfuls of tacnites. He forbore from
sarcastically pointing out to his companion that neither of them had come
dressed for leisure. “What are they doing?”

“Still coming this way.” The more laid-back Rabukanu shrugged. “Maybe they just
want to kill a few minutes.” He wore the unpleasant, sadistic smile of a
schoolteacher who enjoys humiliating his students. “As opposed to bugs. Or maybe
something’s rendered their assigned position untenable. You know that if that
happens we’re supposed to join up and share locations. A number of possible
developments might have forced them to make a move.”

Lawlor scanned the eddying herd of sightseers. “Yar, you’re right.” He could not
repress another quick glance at his timer. “I just wish Elkannah would do the
communications facilities so we can get to work.”

“Itchy to lay down a little arson?” Rabukanu’s smile vanished. “Me, too. Know
what a fried bug smells like?”

Lawlor did not reply. Rabukanu had an irritating tendency to repeat himself. It
was an old joke among the group, and he didn’t need any distractions right now.

Instead, he focused on their approaching collaborators, still wondering what had
driven them to abandon their assigned location. Rabukanu’s appraisal of the
situation had been reassuring, but a lingering concern continued to nag at him.

It all happened so fast he hardly had time to react. One minute, their
compatriots were strolling toward them; the next, they had been smothered by
more than a dozen tourists. Men, women, even a couple of teenage girls. Except
they were not tourists. Coagulating restraints glued Marion’s fingers together
and her hands to her sides, rendering her immediately helpless. Botha managed to
retreat a couple of steps before a shaped shot of soporific mist splashed his
wide-eyed face. One sniff, and he collapsed like a broken doll. Moving with far
more athletic grace and digital dexterity than any dozen tourists could muster,
the party of plainclothes agents wrapped up the two terrorists as efficiently as
a swarm of communal arachnids enwebbing a trapped moth.

Lawlor stood frozen where he had been standing. “How did they know?How did they
know? ”

Once more it was left to the sharp-eyed Rabukanu to explain what was happening.

“Weapons sensors. I think I can see the bulge of one under one woman’s jacket.”

He smiled faintly. “I thought she was awfully well equipped, but I had no clue.

Funny—if we were all carrying nothing but the components of the explosives, the
sensor probably wouldn’t pick anything up. Elkannah erred on that one.”

Lawlor found himself disagreeing as he reached inside his shirt and brought out
the three-thirds of an explosive whole. “We can’t wait for him and Martine
anymore. We can’t wait for anyone.” His eyes were blazing in advance of the
fires he was preparing to set.

His companion looked at him in alarm. “Hey, we can’t start anything on our own!

You know the rules. In the event of a general breakdown in planning, we’re
supposed to dispose of our materials and make our way out of here and offworld,
so we can strike again later somewhere else.”

“Distractions of evil. Suck bug blood!” Lawlor was backing away from his
colleague. “I didn’t spend a year busting my brain and my butt in training just
to walk away from this.” Pressing the three sections of the explosive components
together, he slapped the resultant compaction against a nearby pillar and doused
it with catalytic fluid. The three-centimeter square instantly began emitting
smoke. Reaching inside his jacket, he used one hand to draw a pistol while the
other fumbled frantically for more squares. While his words had been frenzied,
his expression fully reflected his inner zealotry. Catching sight of the pistol,
nearby visitors screamed and ducked or ran for cover.

With a curse, Rabukanu saw that several of the agents who had taken Botha and

Marion down were now looking in his direction, pointing and jabbering excitedly.

They’d probably already recorded his image, he thought helplessly. For better or
worse, the decision toact had been made. He hoped Skettle would not be too
upset. Maybe it would turn out to be a good thing. Timewas running.

As the wild-eyed Lawlor stumbled away from him, Rabukanu started digging for his
own carefully stored essentials. If they could just set off one or more
detonations, they might have a chance to slip away unscathed in the ensuing
turmoil. Already, there were indications of general panic among those tourists
who were close enough to see what was happening.

The catalyst would take several minutes to fully bind the tripartite ingredients
into an explosive whole. The delay was intended to allow those planting the
devices enough time to escape the blast zone, but not enough for possible
searchers to find the weapon.

If only, Rabukanu thought as he prepared a second explosive patch, Skettle could
take out the central communications facilities, the general chaos and
destruction they had come to Dawn to wreak would manifest itself fully, to the
greater glory and preservation of an unadulterated humankind. Fired with the
devotion that had led him to give his life to Elkannah Skettle and to the

Preservers, he prepared to apply the explosive patch to an exterior wall of the
pavilion. Around him, humans and a few thranx continued to scatter. Their
screams and stridulations melted together into a dull ache at the back of his
mind.

As if from far away, he heard Lawlor alternately howling defiance at the
onrushing agents and spewing frantic warnings into his communicator. Probably
trying to alert the others, Rabukanu knew. The crisp electricspang of the other
man’s pistol going off penetrated the general tumult like a sore-throated
trumpet criticizing a balm of violins. Then he smelled something sweet as
chocolate and stifling as a pillow. Reaching for a single tacnite, he managed to
drag a stiffening thumb down the short length of the electronic trigger.

The powerful little grenade was still clutched firmly in his fingers when it
went off.

As Lawlor’s crazed, bloodthirsty alert was received by those of his fellow

Preservers who were still at large, they quickly came to the shocked realization
that their purpose and presence had somehow been exposed to the authorities. One
couple was taken into custody even as they were preoccupied with listening to
the broadcast. Another pair were debating whether to try to flee the grounds or
proceed with their assignment when they were enveloped by a sphere of silence
and a strong dose of the same immobilizing gas that had toppled their comrade

Rabukanu.

Several, however, were able to set in motion fire and destruction, albeit on a
greatly degraded scale. Having heavily infiltrated the fairgrounds in response
to the padres’ advance warning, well-prepared local police equipped with
sensitive weapons sensors were able to pounce on the perpetrators even before
they could reveal themselves. Those few disturbances that did occur were
localized, explosive appliqués that were neutralized before they could go off,
and there was no widespread panic among the fair-goers. In the midst of rounding
up the last of the terrorists and their even more baffled thranx counterparts
the Bwyl, fair business proceeded as usual.

Beskodnebwyl’s two companions had reacted sharply to the approach of the human
and thranx agents. In the ensuing firefight, both had been slain before they
could make use of the heavy explosives they were carrying. The consequent
confusion had opened an almost imperceptible escape route for Beskodnebwyl, who
had seized upon it the instant it had revealed itself.

Now he found himself staggering through a service corridor, surrounded by the
portentous hum of machinery, bleeding green from one side. Both his left truarm
and foothand had been shot off, and he had only barely been able to slap a brace
of traumagulents over the gushing injuries, followed by strips of self-adhering
surgical chitin. Much more running threatened to reopen the life-threatening
wounds. If he was not to bleed to death, he needed to seek medical attention
soon.

Not a problem, he told himself sardonically as he skittered along down the dark,
conduit-strewn tunnel. He found comfort in its shadowy confines, a reminder of
more congenial burrows back home. All he had to do was present himself at the
nearest medical facility in Dawn, and they would fix him up. Him, a thranx,
obviously damaged by weaponry, on a day when the most important public activity
on the planet had been rent by a fusillade of gunfire. Not a problem at all.

It was over, all over. Everything he and the rest of the Bwyl had worked so long
and hard to achieve. Finished. When the mostly human authorities had begun
taking his compeers into custody, he had at first been bewildered, then
frustrated. That had long since given way to anger. Though the Bwyl’s human
counterparts were also being killed or captured, it was clear that somehow, the
local authorities had been alerted to their mutual presence and intent. Who
would do such a thing, and why? Not one of the Bwyl. There were no traitors
among his dedicated, adoptive clan.

No,crr!!k, it had to be someone with a thorough knowledge of the overall
strategy, someone who had access to both the Preservers and the Protectors as
well as the authorities. Someone who could be sure of a favorable, even
laudatory reception among the species traitors on both sides. Who? Who had not
yet been slain, or captured? Who had the wherewithal to call forth such a
general alert, and to possibly profit from it?

Skettle.

His now-deceased companions had been right to challenge his initial disbelief.

Weakened but resolved, Beskodnebwyl of the Bwyl knew he had one last duty to
carry out before he could begin to devote any time to the admittedly
increasingly remote possibility of preserving his own life.

18

In the short time people had spent on Comagrave, much progress had been made in
deciphering the elegant, elaborately ideographic Sauun script, though much
remained to be done before complex thoughts could be translated in detail. The
discovery of the gigantic mausoleum offered up thousands of new inscriptions for
study. Meanwhile, researchers utilizing the camp’s two smallest aircars
undertook to carry out a preliminary census of the silent sleepers. Preparing a
simple mathematical model based on dimensions and density observed within one
sizable portion of the crypt, they came up with an initial figure of between two
and five billions. If not the entire planetary population at the time of final
suspension, it was certainly a substantial portion of the total. And over every
new discovery, over each new revelation, hung one single foreboding, dominating
question.

Why?

Though he had been nominated to lead the expedition and oversee the excavation
because of his organizational and leadership skills, Cullen Karasi was also a
formidable analyst. Poring over raw data, dissecting and repositioning with the
aid of several exoarcheoanalytical programs he had helped develop himself, he
felt the key to the mystery of the mass Sauun deepsleep was not nearly as
problematic as initially believed. Given sufficient time in which to work, he
was confident he would have solved it already. But the need to supervise
everyone else’s labor slowed his own efforts significantly. He felt like a
sprinter forced to muddle along in the middle of the pack during an especially
dull marathon.

Even so, he was close to the answer. He knew it.

So when Riimadu volunteered the unpaid assistance of a professional,
well-trained crew of excavators, Cullen jumped at the offer. Though some of his
own people expressed hesitation at allowing the AAnn an intimate look at the
work in progress, Riimadu assured them that the crew would operate entirely
under human supervision and would strictly follow camp regulations. Furthermore,
they would do no work on their own or without first obtaining human
authorization. Besides which, there were only four of them. Eager to make as
much progress as possible as quickly as possible, the humans’ initial
uncertainty quickly vanished when they had the chance to observe the AAnn team
in operation.

As for Pilwondepat’s vociferous objections to the presence of still more AAnn at
the site, these were dismissed as without foundation. “I’d be just as happy to
have four, or forty, trained thranx assisting here, if they were made available
and were willing to work under the same guidelines,” Cullen told him. Needless
to say, the thranx exoarcheologist was less than delighted with this response,
but there was nothing more he could do.

With the aid of the skilled AAnn, exploration proceeded apace. Results were
passed along on a regular schedule to planetary administrative headquarters.

There they were compiled for forwarding to the specific Terran institutions that
were supporting the dig. Everything was going so smoothly that when Cullen’s
people began to fall sick around him, coughing and breaking out in red blotches
on their faces and upper bodies, he was particularly anguished. The more
everyone else’s work suffered, the more it slowed his own.

Bhasiram, the camp physician, diagnosed the rapidly spreading contagion as an
upper respiratory disease caused by exceedingly fine spores arising from the
excavation. Dust masks were of no use. Nothing in her arsenal of antibiotics had
any effect on the condition, which one camp wag christened “Sauunusitus.” While
not fatal, it was exceedingly debilitating and beyond the frustrated Bhasiram’s
ability to cure. Hospitalization was required to restore the strength of the
afflicted. Pilwondepat and the AAnn were not affected.

It was clear that work at the dig could not go on until a cure, or at least a
suitable prophylactic, was found for the spores. Working in sealed masks and
breathing canned air was a possibility, but the necessary equipment was not
available on Comagrave and would have to be imported. Neither solution was
satisfactory. It was therefore proposed that the AAnn, who were by now familiar
with the site, would remain to maintain it without in any way advancing the work
until their human supervisors could safely return. Though they expressed sorrow
at the need for the humans to temporarily leave the dig, the AAnn agreed to care
for it in their transitory absence. Riimadu CRRYNN would stay behind to oversee.

In the absence of any immediate availability of human vehicles, the AAnn also
thoughtfully offered to bring in several of their largest cargo carriers to
ferry the afflicted and their as-yet-uninfected companions on the long journey
back to Comabraeth.

As soon as he got wind of the proposal, Pilwondepat stormed into Cullen’s
quarters. It required a considerable effort on the thranx’s part not to
stridulate wildly as he entered. Even so, with antennae waving and mandibles
clacking, he still presented a highly agitated figure. An insectophobe would
have been intimidated. The head of the excavation team was not.

“Something I can do for you, Pilwondepat?” Cullen inquired pleasantly. Though he
had not yet succumbed to the insidious spores, the noticeable splotch of scarlet
that marred his left cheek was not a blush.

“Do for me? Do for me!Crllhht! ” The need to speak in Terranglo forced the
insectoid exoarcheologist to keep his thoughts as well as his words under
control. “I can’t believe you are going to turn this unprecedented scientific
discovery over to the AAnn!”

“We are not turning over anything to the AAnn.” Having previously experienced
the thranx’s ire, Cullen was not disturbed by Pilwondepat’s latest outburst. The
supervisor knew it was merely the latest in a long series of attempts to freeze

Riimadu out of the ongoing research. “Since arriving to assist us, they have
conducted themselves in an exemplary manner. They’ve done exactly as they were
told, and no more. Would that I had another dozen humans on staff who took
instructions as well.”

“That is precisely my point.” Antennae whipped forward. “Don’t you remember any
of our discussions? Have you forgotten all that I’ve told you about AAnn
methodology and technique? They rely foremost on cunning, and deception.” Both
antennae straightened. “It’s patent they have certainly deceived you.”

Cullen’s civility gave way to annoyance. “Until and unless they act in a
nonprofessional manner, neither I nor any of my people have any quarrel with
them.” He continued packing away his personal effects. These would remain behind
until he returned from Comabraeth, properly equipped to work among the drifting
spores. “Other than academically, I’m not interested in the personal animosities
that endure between your people and Riimadu’s. You’re both of you here thanks to
the magnanimity of the local government.” Setting aside a container of clothing,
he added pointedly, “That permission can be withdrawn at any time.”

Pilwondepat brushed off the quiet threat. “Would you say that infecting you and
every member of your team with imported bacteria designed to drive you away from
the site constituted acting in a nonprofessional manner?”

Cullen gaped. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

“Do I sound like I am jesting? Do I look like I am jesting?”

“I wouldn’t know, not being versed in the more subtle overtones of thranx
enunciation and gesture. You can’t be serious, Pilwondepat.”

The thranx exoarcheologist raised all four of his vestigial wing cases. Another
thranx would have recognized the action as expressive of the absolute utmost
seriousness. To Cullen, it was unfortunately only interesting from a
morphological point of view.

“Do you really think I would joke about such a thing? What has happened here, to
this expedition, fits with all that I have been telling you for many time-parts.

The AAnn want your kind off this world. To accomplish that they are willing to
do anything and everything to obstruct, inhibit, and damage your efforts here.

Even, should it prove necessary, to kill. These incidents are disguised, with
typical AAnn cunning and thoroughness, as accidents. When they occur, the AAnn
are always right there ready to assist in any way they can.” He paused, clicking
all four mandibles for effect.

“Consider, Cullen: You make a great discovery here. Word of what you have found
begins to leak out. Following the breakthrough and initial follow-up, your crew
begins to come down with a previously undetected ailment. Only nonhumans are
resistant. How convenient for the AAnn.”

“We’re not abandoning the site,” the human reminded his visitor. “Our departure
is only temporary, until suitable protection can be secured against the vector
of infection.” He continued with his packing, wishing the thranx would leave but
unwilling to order him out. Let him rant, the exoarcheologist mused. Soon enough
he’ll run down and depart of his own accord.

“ ‘Temporary,’z!!lnn ! While you are absent from this place, the AAnn will go
through it with an intensity they have so far barely managed to hold in check.

Anything of significance that they find, they will keep to themselves. Most
likely they have prepared other surprises, to keep you away from specific areas
below or even from the surface itself, until they have accomplished all that
they wish. Leave now, and your absence from the site will be as ‘temporary’ as
the AAnn desire.”

Unable to stand it any longer, Cullen put his packing aside and turned to
confront the agitated thranx. “Look, you’ve been bugging me”—the choice of verb
was inadvertent on the exoarcheologist’s part—“with your AAnn conspiracy
theories for weeks now. I said I would convey your concerns and your ‘findings’

to the proper authorities for further study, and that I’ll do. But as for
myself, I’m sick and tired of it, understand? From now on, you keep your
suspicions and your racial enmity to yourself.” He grunted testily. “As if I
didn’t have enough to worry about.”

“They’ll drive you off the planet.” Pilwondepat gestured desperately with all
four hands. “This is only one more in a long succession of incidents cleverly
designed by them with that end in mind. You must resist! And you must not give
them free and unsupervised access to this site. It is simply too significant.”

“And you are simply too paranoid.” Fed up, Cullen turned his back on the
distraught alien. Among the thranx, he knew, the gesture was even more final a
form of dismissal than it was among humans.

Remarkably, Pilwondepat persisted. “Then you will not order an end to the
evacuation, or at least assign a few of your healthiest people to remain until
the rest can return?”

“Absolutely not.” Resuming his packing, Cullen did not look back at the thranx.

“I won’t trifle with the health of my staff, and I have confidence in Riimadu.

You forget that I’ve worked with him even longer than I have worked with you.”

“Very well. I understand your position. I will trouble you about this matter no
more.”

When he finally looked around, Cullen saw that the thranx had left. It was sad,
he reflected, that two such admirable species as the thranx and the AAnn could
not settle such long-standing differences. That could not be allowed to affect
either human-thranx or human-AAnn relations, he knew. “ ‘Drive humans off the
planet.’ “ The exoarcheologist might not be politically sophisticated, but he
could recognize blatant propaganda when he heard it. He also knew what the
insectoid’s most recent visit was really all about.

Pilwondepat was afraid to remain behind in the company of five AAnn. That fear,
at least, was one that Cullen could accept. The thranx was welcome to join the
humans in their evacuation to Comabraeth. It would give the insectoid
exoarcheologist time to collate his own research.

All the rest of that day and into the night, Pilwondepat agonized over how to
proceed. The AAnn and their transports would arrive tomorrow morning. What,
after all, could he do to affect things in the limited time that remained? He
was but one of the family Won set down among many humans and AAnn. If the leader
of the humans would not listen to him, it did not matter if anyone else did. He
could envision Riimadu, grinning contentedly, his sharp carnivore’s teeth
glinting in the bright light of his quarters as he finalized strategy with his
quartet of “well-trained” colleagues. Who among them had brought along and
introduced the carefully cultivated spores into the excavation, there to fester
and multiply and spread until the unsuspecting mammals were infected? What
vital, important secrets had Riimadu inventoried that were to be accrued to the

AAnn alone as soon as the overseeing humans had been evacuated? Isolated in his
quarters, Pilwondepat sensed threat and smelled danger.

Very well—he was alone. Like a solitary male of ancient days, soaring high on
his single glorious but brief mating flight, he would have to act. If he did
not, others would, and his flight would be wasted. In response to a muted
mandibular click, a chronometer appeared briefly before him in the hot, humid
air of the room. He considered his options.

There was still time.

Along with everyone else in the camp except the seriously ailing, he was up
early the following morning. Despite a lack of sleep due to undertaking the task
he had set himself, he was alert and observant. He would sleep later, he knew.

Sleep soundly.

Activity was picking up throughout the site as the evacuation gathered steam.

Those too ill to walk were being assembled beneath a temporary field canopy that
had been erected to protect them from the wind and the sun. Nonmedical personnel
not assisting with the infirm were stacking individual baggage next to the
landing area’s service shed. These were minimal, since everyone fully expected
to return to work as soon as an appropriate treatment for the mysterious ailment
was devised. No one would bother personal effects left in the camp. Not out in
the middle of a place that ranked as nowhere even for a world as sparsely
populated as Comagrave.

Pilwondepat took in all the activity, occasionally pausing to converse briefly
with members of the staff he knew. He tried not to envision the dig where he and
everyone else had worked so hard to make the great discovery overrun with
gimlet-eyed AAnn.

He found Cullen Karasi in his quarters, packing a small travel bag with the
trivialities that humans seemed to deem necessary for even short-term travel.

Idly, he wasted a couple of moments attempting to identify the unfamiliar. The
function of many of the devices was known to him by now. His time spent among
the mammals had expanded his education.

“I came to ask you one last time to change your mind,cirraat .”

The supervisor glanced back and down at the hovering thranx. “Listen, I’m sorry
about the tone I used with you yesterday, Pilwondepat. I was tired, and
frustrated, and yes, angry. But not at you. At having to leave this place just
when I feel I’m on the verge of answering the biggest question of them all.”

“Why the Sauun sealed themselves away the way they did.”

Cullen nodded. “I’ll lay out my hypothesis for you when we’re back in

Comabraeth. I think you’ll find it interesting.” His thoughts wandered to
distant visions of academic glory and professional acclaim. “I promise that
everyone will find it interesting. But there’s no time now. According to

Riimadu, the AAnn transports will be here any minute.”

“ ‘According to Riimadu.’ I’m not going back to Comabraeth, Cullen.”

Curious, the senior exoarcheologist frowned at his visitor. “You’re not? I know
that, to all intents and purposes and everything the medical people have been
able to determine, your kind is immune to this infection. And I can understand
your not wanting to leave your work if you don’t have to. But I don’t see you
being very comfortable staying here among Riimadu and the rest of the AAnn
conservation staff.”

“You’re correct. I would not be comfortable. But neither am I going to the
settlement.” Without hurry, he reached back into the pouch slung against his
abdomen. “Nor are you.”

Cullen Karasi was not a man easily startled. He had spent too much time on other
worlds, working and surviving in alien environments, to be surprised by much of
anything. The gun that had appeared in the thranx exoarcheologist’s right
truhand surprised him. No, he corrected himself. It astonished him.

He was too dumbfounded to be frightened. “So that is what happens when a thranx
loses its mind. Very interesting. My first observation is that your people go
about slipping into the pool of insanity more peacefully than do mine.”

“I am not psychotic. I was awake all last night, and though tired, I assure you

I am in complete command of my mental and physical faculties. Would,sevvakk,
that it were otherwise.”

Placing his hands on his hips and tilting his head slightly to one side, the
unruffled scientist regarded his weapon-wielding caller. “What do you intend to
do with that firearm? It is a firearm, I presume, and not an ingredient in some
eccentric thranx ritual of which I am unaware?”

A steady thrumming noise was now audible off to the east. It grew steadily
louder, heralding its approach with a deep, mechanical hum. Gazing past his
deranged visitant, Cullen tried to see out the partially open doorway to the
distant landing site.

“That’s our transportation arriving. Go or stay, I don’t care, but make up your
mind. And put down that silly gun. I know everyone carries something when they
travel outside camp boundaries to protect themselves in the unlikely but
possible event of attack by one of the local inimical life-forms, but it hardly
becomes your academic standing.”

“I’m staying.” Mandibles closed, and a soft whistle emerged from between flinty
insectoid jaws. “So are you. Everyone is staying.”

Cullen inhaled deeply. “You realize that after this, there’s no way I can in
good conscience recommend extending your permit to work here?”

“Of course I understand. If our situations were reversed, I should act in
exactly the same fashion.” The thrum of heavy transports now permeated the walls
and floor of the prefabricated structure. “The point is, as you humans are fond
of saying, moot.” He repeated the word, savoring it. “Moot.” With a smallc!k on
the end, it could almost be a word in Low Thranx. “It is moot because of the
pending AAnn attack on your camp here.”

Cullen’s pitying aloofness quickly gave ground to sudden anxiety. “What kind of
nonsense are you talking? What AAnn attack? The AAnn are here to help us travel
to Comabraeth. Why on Earth or any other world of your choosing would they want
to attack an inoffensive, nonstrategic scientific site?”

Pilwondepat waved the gun with disarming indifference as to his surroundings.

“Why indeed? I am certain that very question is going to puzzle many who will
try to rationalize what is going to happen here. It would be interesting to be
able to examine some of the explanations. Unfortunately, that will in all
likelihood not be possible.”

The senior exoarcheologist’s gaze narrowed sharply. “What do you mean, ‘whatis
going to happen here’? What do you know?” Dawning realization began to transform
his expression. Color drained from his face. “Good God, Pilwondepat—what have
you done?”

The thranx gestured a first-degree expression of regret. It was heartfelt, and
very lissomely executed. “I believe too strongly in the importance of this
discovery to allow it to be turned over to the AAnn. I am convinced, without
having to hear your nascent theory, that something on this world holds the key
to matters of very great consequence. Too consequential to leave to the
discretion of the scaled ones. Casting about for a means with which to ensure
the continuation of the human presence on Comagrave and the possible expulsion
of the AAnn, I find myself caught in a noteworthy irony: To secure both, I must
make use of the techniques of the latter.”

The explosion that punctuated the thranx scientist’s somewhat cryptic
explanation caused the shelter to shudder on its foundation. Cullen had to catch
himself on a nearby cabinet to keep from stumbling as the earth heaved beneath
him. Standing firm and foursquare on his quartet of trulegs, Pilwondepat
experienced no such unsteadiness.

“That was satisfyingly loud,” he murmured softly. “More substantial than I had
hoped.”

“What? What are you jabbering about?”

“The first AAnn cargo carrier attempting to set down at the camp’s landing site
has been fired upon by the site’s occupants. A shocking and unprovoked attack.

The AAnn will react instinctively. Among the AAnn, this takes the form not of
query or discussion, but of returning fire immediately. Having been attacked in
turn, your people will struggle as best they can to defend themselves. They will
fail, of course.” He spoke so casually, so diffidently, that he might have been
relating a minor point of relic dating taken from a recent learned journal.

“The AAnn are used to and expect conflict. Your staff here is drawn from
scholars and students, not soldiers. They will all be killed. The only chance
the AAnn will have to explain away the frightful misadventure depends on there
being no human survivors to contradict whatever feeble story they will strive to
contrive.” He gestured again with the gun, making Cullen flinch. “It doesn’t
matter. Whatever fiction they fabricate will not be believed by your people.”

“How . . . ?” Cullen was struggling desperately to understand what was happening
around him. The first explosion had been followed by a second of lesser
magnitude, then a third. Shouts and screams in abundance could be heard echoing
throughout the camp. “How can you be so sure of that? If we all die . . .”

“I programmed my own communications unit to transmit an alert via the camp’s
automatic relay. It contains a full explanation of the treacherous assault by
the AAnn, which they have carried out under cover of evacuating innocent
personnel to Comabraeth.”

“What if they intercept it?” By now Cullen was too dazed to question anything
but the abject reality he was experiencing.

“They can’t intercept. The alert was programmed to send as soon as the AAnn
transports were detected approaching. It has already gone out.”

“Those explosions—can they really be firing on us?” Once more, the
exoarcheologist tried to see out the door. Cries of confusion and despair filled
the air outside with a general disharmony of desperation.

Pilwondepat’s sensitive antennae had twisted about to focus directly behind him.

“Not at first. They are now. I told you I did not sleep last night. The last two
detonations you heard were simple excavation charges, creatively positioned and
designed to go off subsequent to the first. That one required a good deal more
effort to get right. Shaped disinterring charges are not intended to be
retrofitted with proximity programming. It took several time-parts to modify the
instrumentation to where I was reasonably certain it would operate properly.

“The first vehicle attempting to set down at the landing site activated the
sensor attached to the charge. Though not as suitable as military munitions, I
suspect that the ensuing blast destroyed or damaged the alighting AAnn cargo
carrier and killed or seriously injured many if not all of its
occupants.Triillc, I certainly hope so.”

Wide-eyed now, but no longer with disbelief, Cullen started to push past his
former colleague. “Youare insane. You’d have everyone murdered, people you’ve
come to know, people who have learned to trust and even like you, just because
you want the AAnn off this world!”

“And humans to remain on it. Yes, that’s the intention. There are matters of
significance at stake here, Cullen.”

“Well, it won’t work.” The furious supervisor was almost to the doorway.

“There’s still time to put a stop to this madness. I’m going to find Riimadu.

Together, we’ll get on the camp communicator and issue a statement on all
frequencies explaining what has happened. With Riimadu translating, I’m sure we
can make the rest of the AAnn understand.”

“No, you won’t.” The muzzle of the gun in Pilwondepat’s truhand shifted slightly
to the right.

Cullen glared pityingly back at the ludicrous insectoid. “What are you going to
do, Pilwondepat? Shoot me in the back?” He turned to exit the shelter.

“I could not do that. It goes against everything my hive stands for,” the
sorrowful scientist confessed. “But an AAnn would.”

The very tiny shell made a very loud noise and a very large hole in the middle
of the stunned supervisor’s dorsal side, blowing a majority of his internal
organs out through his flaring ribs. Pilwondepat did not have the opportunity to
appraise the exoarcheologist’s final expression because the biped toppled
forward onto his front, facedown on the packed earth. No doubt his countenance
was as fully convulsed as the wonderfully expressive human face could manage.

“Primitive things, explosives.” Pilwondepat ambled past the wide splotch of
spreading redness as he exited the shelter. “They have the useful virtue of
being entirely non–species specific. As long as no identifying residue is left
behind, it is credible that any idiot intelligence can assume responsibility for
them going boom.” In Low Thranx, this concluding sentiment emerged as a long,
drawn-out whistle marked by a single intermediary sharp click.

“The AAnn are not the only sentients capable of cunning, Cullen. I did like you.

Very much. You forgot that for my kind, the safety and security of the hive
comes first. Even if it is not our hive, but one that is of potential importance
to us. Say for example,sr!iik, the human hive.” Dolefully, he ululated a final,
forlorn whistle of farewell. “You might be willing to relinquish Comagrave to
the care of the AAnn. We will not, I will not, the Great Hive will not let you.

Not even at the cost of all our lives.” Clutching the tiny but lethal firearm in
both truhands, he inclined forward to place his foothands on the ground.

Supported now by all six lower limbs, he exited the edifice and surveyed the
rising panic outside. He did not look back at the body lying on the ground
behind him. Unfortunately, the proper expiration formalities could not be
observed on behalf of his late colleague. There was simply no time for lengthy
lamentations. He regretted that, but knew he had no choice.

Not when there was an efficacious chaos in need of stoking.

For once, he was hardly noticed. Flames and smoke rose from the direction of the
landing site. In crashing, the AAnn cargo carrier had evidently sparked fires
among the assembled baggage and modest temporary buildings. Intended to advance
the cause of science, the explosives he had spent the night modifying and
setting into position had apparently performed better than expected in the
service of conspiracy.

Nearby, the crashed and burning transport’s two sister craft hovered ten meters
off the ground. A few desultory bursts of gunfire issued from one, while the
other was quiet. That would not do. Firing his weapon, he raced through the
encampment yelling at the top of his voice. It was weak compared to the deeper
intonations of humans. Clicks and whistles and stridulating would have reached
much farther, but were incomprehensible to the bewildered mammals stumbling all
around him.

“Defend yourselves! Shoot back—don’t let them kill you all!” All the long hours
practicing the difficult vowel sounds, the endless evenings spent listening to
human conversation, now paid off in what ironically was likely to prove to be an
elaborate and unrecognized epitaph. He could even manage the correct
inflections, as was shown by the alacrity with which the humans he encountered
responded to his shouts of alarm.

A number of those emerging from the camp’s shelters were doing as he hoped
without having to be prompted. As more and more small arms were brought into
play, their combined firepower began to inflict real damage on the nearer of the
two AAnn transports. Fired upon for what must have seemed to them to be no
reason, the AAnn finally responded in traditional fashion. One after another,
every camp structure was obliterated, though without the usual reptilian
efficiency. They were still confused.

Then someone aboard one of the surviving transports, probably a senior military
advisor, realized that the abrupt and unanticipated confrontation had passed a
political point of no return. Humans had been slain, in numbers too large to
explain away as the result of an accident. Having plunged too deeply into
slaughter, the visitors now had no choice, as Pilwondepat had surmised, but to
eliminate any possibility of contradiction in the hopes that a suitable
postmortem explanation could be concocted by their military psych specialists.

The much-vaunted AAnn martial methodology was applied to the scientific camp.

Moving off in different directions both to make a more difficult target for the
humans below and to enhance their operative efficiency, the two transports
positioned themselves to flank the camp and trap the remaining humans between
their combined fire. Pilwondepat agonized as he watched one dazed but defiant
human after another go down beneath the heavier firepower of the two cargo
carriers. It was doubly hard for him to look on knowing that those who were
sacrificing themselves for a greater cause had no inkling that they were doing
so.

He continued to take cover where possible and fire his own weapon. The handgun
could not bring down a vehicle as substantial as a cargo carrier, but with luck
he might penetrate its lateral edge and kill an AAnn or two. Sprinting on all
six legs from a large rounded boulder toward the still-standing communal eating
building, he found himself suddenly face-to-face with one figure that was
neither trying to flee nor fighting back. He slowed.

Slitted eyes flicked sideways in his direction, and the silky voice that had
been hissing harshly into a handheld communicator turned on him. “You.Fssst! You
have ssomething to do with thiss, thiss outrageouss happening. Thiss iss no
accident, inssect!”

“We are all of us accidents in the sight of the cosmos, scaled one,” Pilwondepat
declared humbly as he raised his gun and shot the surprised AAnn exoarcheologist
square between his glaring, accusing eyes. Peaceable soul that he was, the
action gave Pilwondepat more satisfaction than anything else he had done that
day. He did not wait for the body to hit the ground, but instead rushed toward
the still-standing structure to further incite those inside.

Battles that begin in confusion often end the same way. So it was with the
massacre at the camp. Without knowing exactly what had happened, the AAnn found
themselves presiding over a scene of complete devastation. One of their own
craft had been destroyed, and many of its crew killed or seriously injured. A
second transport was severely damaged but still capable of flight, albeit at a
greatly reduced speed. The deceitful humans had perished to the last, males and
females alike. So had the Empire’s sole representative in the camp, who had he
survived might have been able to shed some light on what was becoming an
increasingly disturbing and impenetrable conundrum. There was also one dead bug,
to whom the AAnn paid no attention.

Precisely why this had all taken place, in the space of less than an hour, no
one on the surviving AAnn craft could say. Hasty tight-beam communications were
exchanged with the AAnn consulate in Comabraeth. A frantic exchange of appalled
questions and choleric recriminations followed. Presented with a horrific fait
accompli, the ranking AAnn determined to contrive an elaborate explanation for
the tragedy that had devastated the human scientific outpost. This involved the
rapidly spreading disease to which many of the humans had previously succumbed,
consequent nervous disorders, a few cases of isolated madness and paranoia,
followed by something akin to mass hysteria.

Intruding with the best of intentions onto this psychochaos, the neighborly AAnn
had found many humans already dead at the hands of their fellows. Coming under
relentless and inexplicable attack, they had been forced to defend themselves
with no more than a minimal amount of firepower. Meanwhile, the crazed humans
had continued to go on about killing one another, much to the anguish of the
observing AAnn, who were powerless to stop the disease-induced madness.

An improbable story, it was the best the AAnn tacticians could devise while
operating under the press of time. It was not, however, inconceivable. Lending
support to the elaborate fabrication was the self-evident fact that there was no
reason, no reason whatsoever, for the AAnn to attack and annihilate a peaceful,
harmless scientific campsite. In the absence of motive, it was hard to see how
the humans could accuse the AAnn of anything more than a serious but not
malevolent lapse in judgment.

Therefore, Vaarbayel CCVT, senior consul for the Empire on Comagrave, was
feeling hopeful if not completely confident as she was admitted to the office of

Malor Narzaltan. The old human was disgustingly wrinkled and shamelessly
exhibited an unrepentant mane of white keratin that spilled down the back of his
head and neck. His eyes were small, sharp, blue, and seemed to take in tiny bits
of airborne debris the way a magnet attracts iron filings. Vaarbayel tried to
look at him without staring. Her tail switched lazily back and forth behind her,
a sign of patience.

“You requessted that I appear before you. I assume thiss iss not an informal
vissit.”

“It never is with your kind, is it?” Narzaltan was standing, not sitting, behind
his desk. It was a simple artifact, as were the remainder of the complementary
furnishings that filled the office. As an outpost world, Comagrave made do with
the hand-me-downs and leftovers of government.

She chose to ignore the query, which insofar as she could judge carried with it
some small suspicion of sarcasm. “Then everything will be recorded by mysself as
well, sso that there can be in the future no missundersstandings as to what wass
ssaid or disscussed.”

“No,” the human administrator agreed quietly, “we certainly wouldn’t want there
to be any misunderstandings. Not like the one that led to yesterday’s tragedy
near the Mountain of the Mourners.” Aged though they were, those tiny blue eyes
seemed lit from within. “I was hoping you could shed some light on the matter.”

“Having recently been given the opportunity to fully perusse the official report
on the distressing and tragic incident, I assure you I can do precissely that.”

She proceeded to give the AAnn version of the “grim misadventure,” concluding
that the eventual devastation was the result of terrible conditions on the
ground and consequent grave miscommunication between the humans at the site and
the AAnn who had been sent to ferry them back to the capital. This was followed
by a formal apology—even though, given the circumstances, one was technically
not required—and a conjoined offer to pay reparations. Within reason, of course.

She concluded by adding her personal, as opposed to official, condolences,
taking care to remind the furrow-faced old human with both word and gesture that
more than a few of her own kind had perished in the course of the incident.

Despite this, the AAnn took no offense. Such calamities were bound to occur in
the course of exploring unknown alien worlds. But among those who understood
such things, who were mature explorers of a threatening and oftentimes
bewildering firmament, they need not impair relations.

She felt she had done as best she could given the material the psychticians had
prepared for her. Now she stood in silence, only her tail moving metronomically
from side to side, waiting for the shriveled mammal to respond. After a long
pause he finally did, in language that was somewhat less than tastefully
diplomatic.

“You’re a liar.”

She blanched as much as an AAnn could. Anger rose in her throat. “You are
inssulting.”

“The truth is never insulting. You’re a big-mouthed, carrion-eating, earless,
bloodthirsty liar who probably shits where she eats. I’m starting to think
that’s true of all your kind. Like the rest of my people, I’ve been inclined to
usually give you the benefit of the doubt here on Comagrave, even if you persist
in your communications in referring to it as Vussussica. A recently viewed vit
changed my mind. It’s changed a lot of minds here. I expect that after it
receives wider dissemination, its mind-altering potential will expand
exponentially. Would you care to see it?”

Stunned beyond outrage, the AAnn representative could barely choke out a terse
affirmative. “I sshould like to ssee what hass prompted thiss unprecedented
outbursst of sslander, truly.”

Without replying, Narzaltan waved a hand over a proximity control. A holo image
appeared above his plain, unadorned desk. Vaarbayel recognized the restraining
boundaries of a satellite scan. Without input from the human, the view plunged
surfaceward until the slightly flickering but otherwise quite viewable image
froze at a high magnification.

She had only read the hastily compiled formal report and seen the follow-up.

Looked down on from above, the carnage took on a detached yet oddly
individualistic horror. There were the two surviving AAnn transports,
systematically sweeping the blazing encampment, the AAnn aboard utilizing their
aerial platforms to methodically shoot down every last remaining human.

Afterward, landing parties examined the camp, going through those structures
that were still standing—making sure of possible survivors. There were too many
details of the sweeping vit, too many peculiarly bloody episodes, that could not
be faked. She could not question what she was seeing.

The image evaporated like a bad dream in a sandstorm. “I do not know how to
properly resspond other than as I already have,” she finally hissed. “I wass not
there. I can only reference what I wass told, and explicate from thosse
materialss that I have been given.”

Narzaltan was nodding, a typically unsophisticated human gesture she readily
recognized. “I understand that. In retrospect, if not now, maybe you will
understand my bitterness. Not that I really care if you do. We’re both vessels,
you and I. Vessels and vassals, administrators and diplomats. We’re supposed to
transmit and forward, not think or feel. Right now I’m afraid I and everyone on
my staff is failing that mandate.

“You’re probably wondering how we came by that satellite imagery. Turns out the
local thranx consulate here in Comabraeth received a request to run a
high-magnification check on the campsite just as your people arrived. Standard
procedure. Our technicians complied. When they saw what was happening in real
time, they locked the satellite’s orbit to keep the high-def scanners on
location.” He gestured at the empty air above his desk. “You just saw the
result. If that particular request hadn’t arrived when it did, I might, just
might, have been willing to withhold judgment on your official story.” He
smiled, and although a human could not begin to match an AAnn for expanse of
exposed teeth, it was threatening enough. “Now you’ve gone and contradicted that
stinking small slice of reality. There will be consequences.”

The thranx! Vaarbayel thought ferociously. Whenever something untoward happened,
thegssrsst bugs seemed always to be found at the bottom of the contaminated
dune. “I am ssure that upon further reflection, the incidentss ssurrounding
thiss regrettable missundersstanding can be explained.”

Once more the human administrator responded with little more than that terse and
by now infuriating nod. “Until further notice, all AAnn on Comagrave are to
consider themselves under detention. No vehicles or other craft are to travel
beyond Comabraeth without permission from this office. Stellar proximity to the

Empire notwithstanding, this is an officially recognized colony of Earth. Your
people remain on this world on sufferance of my government and its colonies.”

“This is outrageouss. I musst regisster an official protesst.”

“You do that. You relay everything to Blassussar. I’ve already been in contact
with Earth via the space-minus bore. My actions have been cleared, and I’ve been
granted authority to augment however I see fit—short of shooting people. Further
communications between your government and mine are in the process of being
formulated.” He crossed his slim but wiry arms in front of his unimpressive
chest. As a gesture of dismissal and finality, it was oddly convincing.

“One last thing. If I were you, I’d start packing.”

19

Like everyone else in the vast underground burrow that contained the diplomatic
division serving the Great Hive, Haflunormet encountered the report from the
human outpost world of Comagrave in advance of the general populace. That he was
not the only one to respond with an involuntary stridulation of shock was shown
by the number of abrasive chirrups that echoed in close succession through the
various individual workstations. Staff rose from their positions to engage in
intense informal discussions of the report’s potential impact.

Haflunormet did not join them. While he was as stunned by the details as the
rest of his colleagues, they did not sit quite right in either of his guts.

Perhaps it was due to the increasing amount of contact he had been having with
humans themselves, and with one individual in particular. Whatever the reason,
he found himself impelled to dig deeper into the body of general information
contained in the horrific account.

These personal preoccupations in no way mitigated his sympathy for the doomed
humans of Comagrave or his outrage at the manner of their death. One could
expect no less from the deceitful AAnn. Here at last was proof of their
persistent perfidy so overwhelming that even those humans most favorably
disposed toward them could not ignore it. That the incident would give at least
a temporary, and perhaps a permanent, boost to the furthering of thranx-human
relations could not be denied. In the Pitarian War the collected hives had shown
themselves to be reliable allies. Now the AAnn had revealed the true nature of
their innate treachery. Among those members of the diplomatic staff who had
labored long and hard, suffering criticism and cynicism in tandem for their
efforts to bring the two species closer together, there was quiet jubilation.

The cautious and the outright dissenters were reduced to skritching their
mandibles in quiet frustration.

And yet—and yet . . . certain facts, assuming they had been correctly recorded,
continued to nag at him like the aggravatingsqik parasites that could infect an
ungroomed adult’s exfoliating integuments.

The deeper he probed, the more convinced he became that he was on the track of
uncomfortable truths. His colleagues in the section appeared to accept the
report and its attendant conclusions without question. A perfectly normal
reaction—but not for one who had spent time among humans. A little of their
tendency to question everything seemed to have rubbed off on him. Of course,
they also tended to suspect the obvious and the self-evident. This led to a
widespread wasting of time the thranx could not stomach. Somewhere in between
the two extremes, Haflunormet suspected, might lie the eventual path to a new
way of looking at the universe.

His present interests, however, were not half so exalted. Details, details—so
much of diplomacy was often in the details. When he finally stumbled over the
one he was looking for, self-congratulation escaped him. He was too shocked.

It was plain enough for anyone who knew the ways of the hive to see—if one had
the desire and determination to look for it. The contradictions lay in the
timing. How had this scientist managed to send a warning that the human
exoarcheological site was under attack several time-parts before the surveying
satellite provided the first confirmation that an attack was actually under way?

Haflunormet checked and rechecked the relevant chronologs. There was no mistake.

The warning had arrivedbefore the attack.

Then there were the many protests, all ignored, that had been raised by the

AAnn. That they had journeyed to the site with the declared intent of rescuing,
not exterminating, its occupants. That upon preparing to touch down, one of
their transports had been fired upon without warning and for no apparent reason.

That its destruction had been followed by an outbreak of small-arms fire from
the encampment, whereupon they had then, and only then, responded in kind. This
last assertion had been met with the contempt it deserved. By no method of
accounting could a defensive reaction “in kind” justify the complete
annihilation of all the camp’s inhabitants.

Delving ever deeper, Haflunormet noted that the initial blast that had crippled
the AAnn transport could not be explained in light of the encampment’s professed
lack of heavy weapons. If the humans on Comagrave were lying and the occupants
of the scientific camphad possessed such devices, why did they not use them on
the other two AAnn transports? Someone in the report had hypothesized about the
possibility of unstable explosives used for purposes of excavation having been
stored at the landing site. This conjecture was quickly dismissed. Scientific
teams did not make use of the risky or unstable. And why would humans fire on
supposedly friendly AAnn if they did not feel directly threatened?

Haflunormet focused every one of his lenses on the series of high-res satellite
images. Easy enough to see the AAnn transport crashing at the landing pad,
vomiting flames. Then the flare-up of small-arms fire. How ultimately detailed
was the imagery? He enhanced, zoomed, and enhanced again. At the maximum
augmented magnification possible, a single figure could be observed firing at
the incoming AAnn craft. A number of humans could be seen running, a couple
cowering together behind a temporary shelter, but none of them shooting at the

AAnn. Not yet. Haflunormet’s wing cases quivered.

There had been exactly one thranx working on the site at the time of the
tragedy. It was a thranx who had transmitted the very possibly premature report
of the AAnn attack. Now, in imagery freshly augmented, it was a thranx who could
be seen firing on the AAnn in advance of anyone else. Taken together, the
evidence seemed to point to more than mere reaction, more than just coincidence.

It was entirely possible, a stunned Haflunormet realized, that the respected
thranx exoarcheologist in question, a certain Pilwondepat, had not been reacting
to an AAnn attack, but had been working to provoke one.

The potential ramifications were explosive. Throughout the human sphere of
influence, outrage against the AAnn over the atrocity that had occurred on

Comagrave was spreading like an unstoppable contagion. If it was disclosed that
on this one exceptional occasion the AAnn were actually innocent, and that the
massacre had in fact been initiated by a thranx, the shift in human public
opinion could be devastating. What had possessed a respected scientist of the
hive to do such a thing Haflunormet could not begin to imagine. Certainly the
initial consequences were salutary, but the risk . . . !

He lay unmoving at his position, sprawled on his bench, until a neighboring
coworker thought to inquire after his health. Responding positively, and as
calmly as he could, Haflunormet realized that his long moments of contemplation
had led him to a decision. Whatever justification might have been claimed by the
perpetrator for provoking such a heinous incident had already been subsumed in
matters of far greater import. Though every particle of his being screamed at

Haflunormet to reveal the truth, he knew that he could not. To do so would be to
set thranx-human relations back to a point where even formal diplomatic
relations might be placed in jeopardy. As for any thought of forging stronger,
deeper bonds between the two species, they would evaporate like dripping water
on a hot rock.

But he could not keep the secret to himself. Others needed to know, deserved to
know, so that in the event someone besides himself happened to chance upon the
same conclusions, beings of like mind could be ready and prepared to deal with
the potentially damaging revelation.

First, he erased every trace of his activity. What he could not erase because it
had already been entered into general storage he buried as deeply and
innocuously as he could. Satisfied at last that someone would have to be either
very determined or very lucky to retrace his work, or to find the paths of
inquiry he had taken, he steeled himself to confide his findings in the one
other person he felt he could trust with so virulent a discovery.

But first he would have to find out where the human Fanielle Anjou was spending
the remainder of her actual vacation.

The thranx liked mountains, but only from the inside. Mountains tended to be
cold, or at least cool, dry places. Neither characteristic appealed to the heat-
and humidity-loving insectoids. So the resting place where Fanielle had chosen
to spend the remainder of her time away from Azerick lay at the upper limit of
the thranx comfort zone.

Overlooking the undulating jungle-carpeted plains, beneath which lay the
outermost suburbs of the city, the exclusive Retreat of Xer!kex featured
individual burrows with spectacular vistas. The contradiction inherent in
spending most of one’s leisure time ignoring the view outside in favor of
activities occurring deep within the mountainside was not lost on Fanielle. On
the contrary, she was delighted by this wholly thranxish choice. It left her
free to dawdle in the peculiar low-lying thranx version of a hammock, swinging
outside above an exposed slope, sipping chilled fruit juice while gazing
sleepily at the vast green panorama spread out before her.

Cool enough in its hillside location so that she felt comfortable in long pants
and long-sleeved shirt, her communal refuge received occasional visits from
other occupants of the retreat. They would click and whistle and chatter,
pointing out this or that distant landmark, before retiring to their assigned
burrows and away from the, to them, mountainside chill.

In the distance, the sporadic howl of a shuttle climbing heavenward rolled
across the plains. Not even the distant Xer!kex could entirely escape the
industrial-strength rumble and roar of the capital’s major shuttleports. Relaxed
and at ease, Fanielle viewed these isolated auditory interruptions with tolerant
indifference. So content was she with the amenities of the retreat that neither
shuttle yowls nor choruses of curious clicking could trouble her.

Among all the auditory distractions, the last thing she expected to hear was a
familiar voice.

“Found you at last,shleeck ! With only a handful of humans authorized to be in

Daret, one would think it would not have taken so long.”

Startled, she started to sit up, forgot where she was, and nearly ended as
tightly wrapped up in the exotic hammock as a fly in a spider’s shroud. Clearly
ill at ease so close to an exposed cliff face, Haflunormet was nonetheless
unabashedly pleased to see her.

“What are you doing here?” Carefully extracting herself from the hammocklike
contrivance lest it try to ambush her dignity again, Fanielle sat on the edge of
the low retaining wall that separated the scenic overlook from the jungle
directly below. “I thought we had concluded all the necessary business between
ourselves and our mutual friend.”

Twisting an antenna around to make sure no one was standing behind him and
listening, Haflunormet explained. “I came across a recent incident that in the
course of further investigation has given birth to some disquieting
conclusions.” He indicated their surroundings. “You’ve been out of touch, and I
presume you do not watch the local equivalent of your tridee broadcasts.”

“No,” she confessed. “I came up here looking for peace and quiet.”

“I am sorry to intrude, but this matter cannot wait. I must tell someone I can
trust, or I feel I will break into a premature molt. You’ve heard of Comagrave?”

She frowned, then brightened slightly. “Distant outpost world. Class X, I think.

I remember reading something about a long-extinct but quite advanced native
race. It’s close, in galactic terms, to the AAnn Empire. What about it?”

Haflunormet proceeded to enlighten her as to the recent tragic developments on
that world. When he had finished, she sat very still, digesting the scope of the
disaster—and its diplomatic import.

“This will make the AAnn look bad. Very bad. A terrible thing to have happen—but
perversely, it serves our ends.”

Haflunormet gestured second-degree concurrence displaced by distress. “All
true—except for my disquieting conclusions. They involve a respected
exoarcheologist of the hive Pat, clan De. In the course of my investigation I
researched this individual’s background thoroughly. There is nothing in it to
suggest a tendency to madness.”

“I don’t follow you, Haflunormet.”

“This Pilwondepat filed a thick report detailing a list of incidents on

Comagrave that he felt pointed to a methodical attempt on the part of the AAnn
to drive your people off the planet, despite the official recognition of your
suzerainty by the Empire. This report was filed the night before the event I
have alluded to previously.” He stridulated softly to emphasize his words. “That
shocking incident would seem to provide final proof of his thesis, except for
certain ambiguities that I have subsequently discovered.” He proceeded to detail
them for his friend.

She waited quietly until he was finished. “That’s monstrous!” She hardly knew
what to say to the quiet, expectant diplomat standing before her. “You’re
telling me that in order to back up his claims, this scientist provoked the AAnn
into attacking and slaughtering everyone at the archeological site where he had
been working?”

“Not sparing himself,” Haflunormet reminded her solemnly.

“If word of this got out to the media . . .” Her voice trailed away, lost in
hurried thought. “It would have exactly the opposite effect from what its
perpetrator intended.” She stared hard into those golden compound eyes.

“You’recertain of your findings?”

He gestured elaborately. “I wish it were otherwise. There are simply too many
coincidences that cannot be rationalized away. And there is sufficient visual
documentation to back up my conclusions, for any who happen to look in the right
places. As far as I know, I am the only one to have done so.” Both antennae had
been pointing in her direction for some minutes now. The diplomat did not want
to risk missing any critical nuances. “What do you think we should do?”

She started to reply. Before she could do so, they were interrupted by the
sudden appearance from the mouth of the access passageway of three thranx: two
males, and one female with particularly tightly coiled ovipositors. The younger
male and female deferred noticeably to the older male in their midst.

“You don’t have to decide.” Though not especially elderly in thranx terms, the
senior favored a noticeably gimpy right front truleg. “We will make the decision
on your behalf.”

Taken by surprise, Haflunormet whirled to confront the newcomers. Still seated
on the stone retaining wall, Fanielle tensed. “You were listening to us,” the
thranx diplomat asserted accusingly.

“Most certainly we were.” From a thorax pouch, the female removed a compact
weapon. She held it casually in a truhand, not aiming it in any particular
direction. Fanielle looked past the trio. In spreading out, they effectively
blocked the way back to the tunnel. She and Haflunormet were alone on the
outlook with the confrontational strangers. The female’s tone, insofar as

Fanielle could follow the stream of Low Thranx, was laced with contempt. “We
have been listening in on you for a long time while following your deviant
attempts to force thranx and humans obscenely closer together. To strive so hard
to achieve secretiveness and to fail so miserably gains you little merit.”

The elder in the middle spoke up, directing his words to Haflunormet. “The
solution to your dilemma is simple, diplomat of the hive. You are going to tell
the truth, difficult as that may be for one of your ilk. So . . . the AAnn are
not responsible for what happened on Comagrave. It was the work of a brave and
resourceful thranx determined to eliminate as many humans as possible. That, at
least, will be how our organization will tell it.”

Haflunormet’s valentine-shaped blue-green head swiveled to appraise each of the
intruders in turn. A sweeping gesture performed by both truhands underlined his
pithy response. “You three are crazier than the suicidal exoarcheologist was.”

“Who are you?” Handicapped by a lack of the requisite number of limbs, Fanielle
tried her best to underline her queries with the appropriate hand gestures. “Why
have you been following and listening to us?”

“We belong to a noble hiveless clan called the Bwyl,” the oldest one told her.

“We call ourselves the Protectors, and we work to preserve the purity of the

Great Hive, to keep it free from outside corruption and defilement.”

“Never heard of you.” Haflunormet’s words were cold, the verbal equivalent of
blocking off a burrow to visitors.

“You will,” the female assured him, waving her weapon around with blatant
disregard for everyone’s safety, including her own. “Very soon. Within a few
time-parts.” She whistled a terse tune of ironic humor. “A major element of our
group is even as we speak working hard to pull down this false bridge of
unwelcome conviviality that has been erected between the Great Hive and the
filthy soft-bodied bipeds.” Fanielle tensed, but said nothing.

“You are going to release your findings and all the evidence necessary to
support your clever and correct deductions as to the truth of what happened on

Comagrave.” The elder spoke with the confidence of one who is convinced of his
righteousness. “Both thranx and humans must know what happened on that world,
and why. It is knowledge that will serve to drive a most satisfactory wedge
between those misguided representatives of both species who seek a deeper and
unnatural degree of harmonization.” A soft whistle indicated a different kind of
humor.

“Imagine it, diplomat. A chance to tell the truth of a matter instead of having
to invent clever lies. Think of it as a novelty.” His younger companions
whistled and clicked approvingly.

“You can’t do this,” Haflunormet protested. “It will set back the course of
thranx-human relations for an untold number of birth cycles.”

“At the very least, one hopes,” the speaker declared with satisfaction. “We
don’t need you to do this,wirri!t . Though we don’t have access to your
materials, they can be tracked down and recovered readily enough. We could make
the announcement ourselves, but it will carry more weight if it comes from a
representative of the diplomatic section.” The confident male performed a hand
gesture Fanielle did not recognize, but it was sufficient to cause Haflunormet
to draw back slightly.

“If you refuse, you will be caught smothering the truth with the lie of
omission. Your career will be ruined, and you will be consigned to simple
information gathering and processing. Your family and clan will lose merit, and
your disgrace will be substantial. We are offering you the opportunity to avoid
all that. Indeed, by allowing you to reveal your discovery we give to you the
chance to enhance your reputation.”

“At the expense of seriously damaging thranx-human relations,” Haflunormet
responded.

Gesturing indifference, the younger male spoke for the first time. “We waste
burrow-time here. Get the apostate to commit, or to decline. I am anxious to
know of the success of Beskodnebwyl’s enterprise.”

“As are we all,” the elder agreed, by his gestures counseling patience.

“Beskodnebwyl works what he must, and we work what we do. No living chamber of
significance is completed in a single birth cycle.” He returned his attention to

Haflunormet. “In keeping with the great traditions, we give you this choice.

Make it now. By either means, the truth will become known.”

Feeling completely left out, Fanielle sat stiffly on the barrier as she
struggled to follow the conversation between the four thranx. The finely worked
black schist was warm against her legs and backside. Haflunormet could not
agree, of course. At the same time, how could he not? In her entire professional
life, she had never felt so helpless, so completely at a loss for options. She
was still agonizing over possibilities when Haflunormet stepped forward and
extended both foothands.

“Very well,sriippk . I disagree with you completely, but it is better to dig
through soft earth in the wrong direction than to break one’s digits against
solid rock in another.” Reaching out, he took the senior Bwyl’s foothands in his
own. “Let this grasping of work digits serve to emphasize the new bond between
us.”

The elder gestured gratification. “I am not surprised by your decision. Most
diplomats act in a sensible fashion when presented with clearly defined
parameters.” He grasped Haflunormet’s eight digits in his own.

Whereupon the diplomat bent and twisted with unexpected speed. The thranx
equivalent of jujitsu, involving as it did a maximum possible eight limbs, was
something to behold. The surprised Bwyl flew up and over Haflunormet’s abdomen,
past a shocked Fanielle—and over the retaining wall.

The dullthump humans make when they take a hard fall was in startling contrast
to the loudcrack of the thranx’s exoskeleton shattering as it struck the rocks
below.

Before the elder’s stunned companions could react, Haflunormet was on top of and
locked in a seemingly inextricable clinch with the younger male. Superior
knowledge and experience was matched against greater strength. The former was,
tragically, of no use whatsoever against even a very small gun.

Discharged by the female, it replaced the struggling diplomat’s left eye with a
large hole. Haflunormet’s limbs went limp, his antennae collapsed atop his head,
and the bright golden sheen of life began to fade almost immediately from his
remaining oculus. As the surviving male strove to shove the now slack body away
from his own, the female swung the deadly little weapon in Fanielle’s direction.

There is a time for diplomacy, and then there is a time for reverting to the
doctrines that have always preceded hopeless confrontations. Bringing her knees
up toward her chest, Fanielle spun on her tail end; swung her legs wide, high,
and wild to her right; and dropped over the outside of the overlook’s stone
wall. Faced with the gun, her reaction had been entirely instinctive. Several
thoughts collided for attention as she fell, with one uppermost in her mind.

Dear God, please—not my baby.

She landed in untouched jungle some five meters below, the thick undergrowth
helping to cushion her fall. Pain shot up her right leg, lingered for a
terrifying moment, and then began to diminish as rapidly as it had arrived. Her
hand went immediately to her slightly protruding belly. Everything felt normal,
unchanged. Healthy. Immensely relieved that her body had handled the drop so
well, she straightened, her mind taking inventory of her condition before she
had time to feel fear: She was not crippled; nothing was broken, maybe a slight
sprain. She could still walk, but could she run? Could she run for two? She had
no choice but to try.

As she started to push herself erect, her hand slipped against something thick
and wet. Less than a meter from her eyes, the broken face of the elder Bwyl
stared lifelessly back into her own. The stiff-limbed, stiff-bodied thranx had
not taken the fall half as well as the more flexible human.

Something burned the foliage to her left, and she immediately stumbled off in
the opposite direction, wiping her bloodstained hand against a leg of her pants.

Surely the surviving Bwyl could not see her, concealed as she was by the thick
rain forest vegetation. They were firing blindly, hoping to hit her. She had no
doubt that they would pursue. With her witness to them having killed

Haflunormet, they now had no choice. Despite their six legs, the thranx were not
good leapers. They would have to find another way down. That would buy her some
time.

She fought to remember everything she knew of thranx physiology. Over a short
sprint, a human’s longer legs would quickly outdistance them. But they had great
endurance. If she couldn’t lose them quickly in the forest, they would
eventually run her to ground. If only there were a river to cross, or a lake to
swim, she would be safe from them. But the steep hillside did not allow for the
deep pooling of water. There was something else, something more useful still . .

.

It flashed hot and bright in her mind. In addition to being weak jumpers, the
thranx were poor climbers. They would expect a fugitive to go downward in any
case. Angling more to her right, she struck off parallel to the slope. When she
felt she had traveled far enough to be beyond the farthest extent of the
retreat, she turned sharply and started upslope.

The grade was steep and the permanently damp ground underfoot slippery and
uncertain. She had been wearing air sandals while relaxing in the
pseudohammock—hardly the most appropriate gear for rain forest hiking. Their
feet naturally shod in tough chitin, the thranx needed no footwear. Nor would
the precipitous incline slow them down.

She found what she was looking for a short while later. The cliff face was
dizzying, but fractured with plenty of handholds. Taking care to avoid a slip on
the moist surface, a determined human would have no difficulty ascending. But
the vertical rock face would stop a thranx cold. The exposed granite extended as
far as she could see to right and left. With luck, her pursuers would give up
the chase, or at least lose track of her at the base of the moderate precipice.

At the very least, it would give her a chance to put some serious space between
herself and her pursuers.

Once, she lost her grip and nearly fell. Though in good physical shape and
something of an amateur athlete, she was no mountaineer. But by choosing her
route of ascent carefully and taking her time, she found herself sitting at the
top well before evening. That was important. Having evolved in a subterranean
civilization, the thranx possessed far better night vision than the average
human. It behooved her to find sanctuary, in one form or another, before
nightfall, when she would be at a disadvantage.

Which way to go? The unspoiled rain forest was still home to dangerous as well
as engaging creatures, the majority of which she had never encountered and knew
absolutely nothing about—another reason for avoiding any nocturnal rambling. If
the Bwyl were still on her trail, she might do well to try to circle back to the
retreat. Once back inside, she felt sure she could rely on the well-trained
staff to protect her until her pursuers gave up and departed.

Another, less acute slope lay before her. She would scale this final,
foliage-choked obstacle and then try to descend down to the retreat without
being observed. The last step up proving to be a bit of a reach for her, she
sought support from a nearby tree, taking a firm grip on the blue-barked bole
with her right hand. One strong pull, and she was up, gazing through an opening
in the bushes and trees that promised a few moments of easier hiking before she
had to start looking for a sheltered route across and down.

A quick glance behind showed no signs of pursuit. Either she had lost them, or
the Bwyl were struggling to find a way around the bluff she had surmounted. She
was breathing hard, but she was not exhausted. The knowledge that she had no
more climbing ahead of her gave strength to tired leg muscles and invigorated
her spirits. Thus renewed, and a little more confident of her chances, she
started down the irregular path through the trees.

The gun that appeared in front of her face was held tightly in the grasp of not
two, but four hands. Sixteen digits covered every possible switch and button,
slide and trigger. Downy antennae and bulging eyes swung immediately in her
direction as the muzzle of the rifle started to come around.

Of course. Her thoughts were oddly peaceful, and she found she was no longer
tired. How stupid of me. NaÏve and stupid. Forward thinkers like the Bwyl would
be likely to bring backup along to any potential confrontation. The rifle and
its handler both looked very efficient.

None of the armed patrollers who had been called out by the alarmed operators of
the retreat to search for the missing human had ever encountered one in person,
though they were familiar with the bipeds’ appearance from the numerous visual
displays that had played regularly ever since early contact. As to the murderous
intruders, the surviving pair had already been apprehended. The patroller who
encountered the human had, upon doing so, turned promptly to reassure her.

So, even though many aspects of human behavior were reputed to be strange and
incomprehensible, he was still taken aback when the hunted one’s single-lensed
eyes appeared to perform the astonishing feat of rolling back inside her skull;
her long, fleshy legs gave way; and without a word or gesture in his direction
she crumpled unconscious to the damp earth.

20

Monitoring his tracker while listening to the reports filtering in from the
other plainclothes police who had spread out to cover the fairgrounds, the
supervising officer managed to spare a moment or two to contemplate the pair of
peculiar padres chatting nearby. Though the purpose of the fair was to expose
humans to thranx culture and, to a lesser degree, thranx to human culture, this
association was sufficiently unusual to pique his normally pedestrian curiosity.

That they had also saved hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives rendered them that
much more interesting.

Representatives of something they called “the United Church,” they were.

Lieutenant Romero had never heard of it. His openly professed ignorance had
sparked a quiet but eager interest on their part to resolve it, to a degree that
had involved him in their disquisition despite his usual disdain for matters
theological.

Time enough for that later, after this unpleasant business of die-hard
terrorists had been concluded. Given the number of infiltrators, the police had
been unable to round them all up in time. A few small fires were burning around
the fairgrounds, but nothing, he had been assured by the relevant authorities,
that the on-grounds facilities could not handle. The most stubborn blazes were
already succumbing to flows of suppressant being pumped from the fair’s central
fire-control facility. Following a few anxious moments when the intruders’

strength was still uncertain, everything was now under control. It was merely a
matter of picking up those few remnant infiltrators who were still at large.

And best of all, he knew, it had not been necessary to close down or evacuate
the fair. The majority of attendees would never know how close they had come to
perishing in an orgy of deliberate, preconceived destruction.

For that, he, his department, and the people of Dawn had this oddly matched pair
of proselytizers to thank. Looking up from his tracker, he was reminded to do
so. It was the tenth or maybe the twelfth time he had given voice to his
gratitude.

Briann was not counting, but he was embarrassed. Incapable of blushing,

Twikanrozex was reduced to gesturing his discomfiture. “You have already thanked
us enough, Lieutenant.” As always, Romero was amazed at the thranx’s fluency in

Terranglo. There were a few words he did not recognize that the human padre had
identified as belonging to a new class of informal communication street folk
were calling symbospeech, but his unfamiliarity did not hinder his
understanding.

“I’ve already been told by the Auroran city council that you two are to have the
run of the city as well as the fair. Anything you want will be provided.”

Briann smiled graciously. “Our needs are simple. We ask only to be allowed to
continue in our work.” He glanced in the direction of his companion, presently
standing tall on four trulegs. “Our intentions in coming here were to operate
only during the fair, but since your superiors have extended so gracious a
welcome, it would be churlish of us to leave early.”

“We only did what anyone would have done,” Twikanrozex added.

Romero grunted softly. “Followed heavily armed outsiders to learn what they were
up to? I don’t think so.” A voice yammered in his cochlear implant, bringing a
taut look of satisfaction to his deeply tanned face. “Two more picked up. Thranx
this time. They don’t seem to be coordinating very well, these rogue antisocial
elements of respective species.”

Twikanrozex gestured with all four arms. While Romero had not a clue as to the
meaning of the complex hand movements, they were fascinating to watch. Graceful
creatures, these thranx, he thought. Wonder why I hadn’t noticed that before?

A different voice in his ear caused him to glance once again at his companions.

“They’ve located another weapons source.” He nodded to his right. “Not far from
here. Would you like to witness the arrest? Unless more of these fools are still
outside waiting to enter the fair, we’re running out of targets to pick up. My
people will wait for us before moving in to make the seizure.”

Briann responded for the both of them. “We might as well. If possible,

Twikanrozex and I would like to question one or two of the arraigned. There are
moral ambiguities in question we would like to establish, and perhaps help to
correct.”

Romero was firm in his reply. “That’s not up to me. The invaluable aid you’ve
rendered aside, you’re not law enforcement or legal. Your official status is as
ambiguous as those morals you’d like to investigate. But I’ll see what I can
do.” Following the directions displayed on his tracker, he led them in the
general direction of the lake. A red light blinked on the small readout,
indicating the location of an unauthorized weapon.

As the officer led the way, the two padres conversed energetically in his wake.

He wished he could make sense of what they were saying. What, for example, did
immortality have to do with the story of the baker’s wife and the two dwarves?

A most peculiar theology, indeed.

Elkannah Skettle was beyond apoplexy. The pressure of trying to keep calm and
inconspicuous while running from the law threatened to burst a blood vessel in
his forehead. Slipping out from behind one of several brightly colored pylons
supporting a children’s play area, he walked as rapidly as he dared toward the
pavilion exit. Would he be more or less vulnerable to detection outside than
within? Even that fragment of knowledge was denied him.

What had gone wrong? How had the authorities learned of the presence and plans
of the Preservers and their thranx comrades, the Bwyl? Every few moments for the
past hour, his communicator had informed him of the arrest of another one or two
of his people. Attempts to contact the thranx had been met with streams of abuse
in the coarse alien language, interspersed with a few crude bursts of Terranglo
that were enough to tell him that his insectoid counterparts were also suffering
the remorseless attentions of the authorities.

A year’s planning, a year of dreaming and working and rehearsing, was falling
apart all around him. A few fires had been set, a few bombs had been detonated,
shots had been fired, but for the most part, the fair continued to function as
smoothly and impassively as if Preserver and Bwyl had never set foot within its
expansive boundaries. Some of his best people, dedicated individuals he had
worked with for years and knew intimately, were dead or in custody. Botha and

Lawlor, gone. Nevisrighne and Stephens, gone. The damage to the movement was so
severe that it would take years to recover. Years during which, if something was
not done, the unclean bond between human and bug might be cemented beyond
sundering.

That could not be allowed to happen. Whatever happened to him now, or to any of
his followers, paled into insignificance. Those few explosions that his fellows
had succeeded in setting off held the key. If he could only follow through on
destroying the fair’s central communications facility, the consequences might be
sufficiently distracting and damaging to allow him and his surviving
collaborators to carry out at least a portion of what they had planned to do.

No one intercepted him as he strolled briskly, eyes darting constantly from left
to right, across the fake Dawnic turf toward the fair maintenance facilities.

Once, a child caught his eye, and he had to remind himself that police
authorities rarely employed children of such a tender age. Still, he was
relieved when the child’s parents finally hauled it from view.

Behind the gaily decorated fencing lay support facilities for much of the fair.

Food service, water, hygienics machinery, power distribution,
communications—much of it specially modified to serve thranx as well as human
needs. He did not need to check his communicator for the location of the
communications center, having memorized the entire layout of the fairgrounds
several months earlier.

Unusually, there was a live guard at the entrance. Short and burly, he looked
ineffably bored. As Skettle approached, the man barely bothered to look up. The
warm sun of Dawn was in his face, and he had to blink.

“Morning, visitor. Can I help you?”

“Yes, you can. Here is my identification.” Reaching into a pocket, Skettle drew
the compact pistol lying holstered and shoved it roughly against the other man’s
neck. With his free hand, he spun the startled attendant around. “I require
admittance to the maintenance area.”

Give the fellow credit; he tried. “You—you’re not authorized, whoever you are.

What is this?”

Skettle’s voice was strained, but as controlled as ever. “Epiphany, my friend.

Let us in, or I swear by every uncontaminated gene in your body, I’ll blow your
head right off its shoulders.”

With the muzzle of the pistol dimpling his neck, the guard hastened to comply.

“You won’t get away with this, you know.”

“Get away with what?” Skettle smiled humorlessly. “You have no idea what I’m
doing here. Maybe I just need to use a bathroom.”

The gate hummed to itself as it drew back. A second barrier lay beyond, which
the guard also activated. Standing among muted machinery and functional
buildings, unpolluted blue sky still visible overhead, Skettle felt he was at
last approaching a small part of the triumph he sought.

“Thank you for your help,” he told the guard as he fired. Contrary to his
threat, the shot did not blow the unfortunate man’s head off his shoulders.

Skettle disliked a mess that could be difficult to conceal. Gripping the body by
its sandaled feet, he dragged it behind a large pulsating tank and covered it
with one of several sheets of green patching fabric he found there. A quick
check to ensure that his actions had not been observed, and he resumed his
advance. With no one to witness his progress, he broke into a run.

Minutes later he found himself standing across a walkway from the central
communications facility. There were no guards here, deep within the restricted
area. It would be assumed that anyone present inside the fenced perimeter had a
reason to be where they were. Should he encounter any active personnel, he would
be able to rely on that assumption.

The tall double doors that led into the building were unlocked. Inside,
automated electronics and photonic circuitry filled the modest edifice with a
compact network of switching and transmission instrumentation. Loud humming
indicated that the facility was operating on a level higher than standby. That
was hardly surprising, given the volume of communications that were doubtless
flying not only at the fair but between the fairgrounds and the city.

With the internal schematic of the facility imprinted deeply on his memory, he
hurried down several passageways until he found himself standing before the
nexus he sought. Instrumentation mounted on a panel monitored the operational
status of this small but critical portion of the complex. In a pants pocket lay
the special key Botha had programmed to allow him to access the protected,
lightly armored panel. All he had to do was pop the seal, affix the cylinder
snugged against his chest to the internal components, activate the timer, and
get clear.

He envisioned the consequences: confident police unable to contact one another;
hasty attempts to relay all communications through distant city facilities; fair
workers incapable of coordinating fire-fighting efforts; medics cut off in the
process of receiving diagnostic and treatment information. Communicationswise,
the entire fair should be shut down for a minimum of several hours—long enough
for his surviving acolytes to wreak at least a portion of the havoc they had
planned. He wished he could be there to see it, but knew he would have to wait
to view the resultant catastrophe on the tridee. Human terrorists! the media
would scream. No, thranx saboteurs! another would cry. He smiled to himself. Let
the media apportion the responsibility however they wished. The resulting death
and destruction would give pause to anyone inclined to think that the two
species could enjoy closer relations than they did at present.

From his pocket he withdrew the key, then slapped the flexible circle of
integrated circuitry over the sealed lock. He was preparing to activate the
device and pop the covering panel when a voice commanded him to halt what he was
doing, put his hands over his head, and lie down on the floor. It did not, he
sensed despairingly, sound like the voice of a maintenance attendant, bored or
otherwise.

With the two padres looking on, Romero nodded to his people. Holding a brace of
body seals, one patroller advanced on the stunned Skettle while his two flanking
companions kept the muzzles of their handguns aimed unwaveringly at the

Preserver’s torso. There was nothing Skettle could do, not a thing. Even if he
disobeyed the command and activated Botha’s key, it would only open the panel.

The prospect that he would then have enough time to remove the key, detach the
still-concealed cylinder of explosive, affix it to the instrumentation, and
activate the trigger was nonexistent. It was all over. The traitors had won. The
contamination of human society by the intrusive, alien bugs would continue
unimpeded.

Something loud, threatening, and unseen resounded through the still air of the
facility. The sonic burst struck the nearest patroller in the back of his head.

Briann saw the man topple, the back of his skull caved in by the concussion. His
comrades tried to react, but they were caught out in the open while their
unknown assailants were firing from cover. Both Romero and the female officer
went down in quick succession. The lieutenant managed to get off one shot before
he, too, was felled. Whoever the attackers might be, Briann reflected tensely,
they were excellent shots. As a consequence, he kept his hands out in plain
sight, where they could be seen from a distance.

Both he and Twikanrozex were more than a little surprised when only a single
injured thranx hobbled out from behind a dividing wall. Unwilling to grant that
the assassin had acted by himself, Briann searched the shadows for others of his
kind.

“You are alone,” Twikanrozex declared in Low Thranx.

“It was not always so.” The wounded sharpshooter stood halfway between the two
padres and the perplexed Skettle. “I have been isolated by conspiracies, by
failings, and by circumstance.”

Skettle finally recognized the intruder. “Beskodnebwyl! Then not all of you bugs
have been taken by the authorities.”

“No,” the leader of the Bwyl replied in Terranglo. “Not all of us bugs.”

The Preserver promptly turned back to his work. As the key popped the seal on
the panel, he reached inside his shirt and pulled out the cylinder of volatile
solution. “We can still accomplish much of what we came for. Shoot these two and
come and help me.”

Twikanrozex performed a half bow in concert with a series of hand movements too
rapid for Briann to follow. “We are spiritual advisors. We carry no weapons.”

“That is unfortunate for you,” Beskodnebwyl declared, “since it prevents you
from defending yourselves.” The muzzle of his sonic projector came up. Briann
tensed.

“Come on; come on!” Skettle was struggling to affix the cylinder to the now
open, blinking interior. “Let’s do this and get out of here.” On the floor
nearby, the injured female officer moaned as she struggled to crawl toward the
exit. He ignored her.

Beskodnebwyl turned slowly. The great golden eyes were as expressionless as
ever, but the clipped thranx voice was not. “Are you giving me orders, you
sickening sack of slack slush?”

Skettle barely looked over from his efforts. “Not now, bug. We can discuss
species primacy another time. Come and help me.”

“Crr!!k, I will help you.” Whereupon he proceeded to shoot the leader of the

Preservers in his left thigh. The blast of highly focused sound waves smashed
into the thick quadriceps muscle and broke the bone within. Letting out a cry of
anguish, Skettle collapsed to the floor clutching at his crushed leg.

Advancing with deliberation, the Bwyl approached him. As the thranx changed his
focus, Briann considered reaching into his shirt’s inner pocket. A glance in

Twikanrozex’s direction showed that his companion felt this would be, at least
for the moment, a bad idea. Taking into consideration the Bwyl’s phenomenal
marksmanship with his frightening weapon, together with the usual exceptional
thranx peripheral vision, Briann kept his hands out in front of him. Alert but
cautious, the two padres waited to see what the other thranx would do.

“You cretinous insect!” Wincing in pain, Skettle was clutching his smashed leg.

“What did you do that for?” Indicating the cylinder of liquid explosive, which
was now securely fastened to the sensitive instrumentation and needed only to be
activated to disrupt communications throughout the fair, the Preserver tried to
pull himself back to the open panel, dragging his unusable leg behind him.

Beskodnebwyl calmly shot him in the other leg—the calf, this time.

Elkannah Skettle had been toughened, by work in the field and by philosophy
both, but this time he screamed. Very little blood leaked from his ruined limbs,
since the condensed burst of sound had compressed veins and arteries without
cutting them. Designed to shatter the resistive chitinous material that
comprised the thranx exoskeleton, the gun’s output passed comparatively
harmlessly through soft, spongy human flesh but was highly effective at breaking
human bones.

As the two padres looked on, the leader of the hiveless clan Bwyl stood staring
down at his whimpering human counterpart. “This is all your fault. If you people
had not come here, all would have gone as planned. Everything would have
transpired as set down in the burrow layout.”

“You’re out of your deranged bug mind!” Skettle tried to stand on his broken
right leg, only to have it collapse beneath him.

“You betrayed us.” Beskodnebwyl was quietly implacable. “Your clumsiness
revealed our presence to the local authorities.”

“Us!” Unable to walk or even to rise, Skettle was reduced to glaring murderously
at his tormentor. “Our security was airtight! My people were, to an individual,
highly trained and motivated. There were no breaches of security on our part.

Somehow, someone from outside must have learned of our presence here. I am not
accusing your kind directly, but—” He broke off unexpectedly.

An impatient Beskodnebwyl prodded the severely injured human with a foothand.

“What now,srrlkpp ? Finish your thought before I kill you.”

Skettle said nothing, but instead continued to stare. He was looking not at his
antagonist, but past him. Following his gaze—a simpler matter with humans than
with thranx, Beskodnebwyl reflected—the Bwyl turned his head in the same
direction to find himself gazing at the two beings who were still standing,
hands held inoffensively in front of them. At the two padres. Theologians, by
their dress and demeanor. Upholders of misplaced virtue and the wrong right.

That by itself was not enough to condemn them.

Their presence among the dead and wounded police, however, was rather more
suggestive.

“Yes, I will kill them,” the Bwyl finally declared. “It may be that they are not
responsible for this failure. But I am no longer willing to take chances, and
what compassion remained within my upper gut has died along with my friends and
companions.”

Skettle spoke through pain-clenched teeth. “About time you came to your senses.

We can still activate the explosive, still reduce this squalid convocation to
pandemonium. Still accomplish many if not all of our goals here.” He extended a
hand upward. “Help me to finish this.”

“I surely will do that,” Beskodnebwyl agreed. Raising the muzzle of his pistol,
he placed it against the top of the injured human’s skull. Briann flinched
inwardly, having already seen what the weapon could do to solid bone.

Screaming at the top of her lungs, Martine burst from the corridor behind the
two padres, rushed past them, and brought the cylinder of explosive she had been
carrying down with great force. The police trackers had never singled her out
since she was carrying only the cylinder and not a weapon. Espying her charge
without having to turn, Beskodnebwyl calmly fired in the wildly onrushing
biped’s direction.

The sonic burst struck the curved cylinder and glanced off, causing her to
stumble but not to slow her mad charge. Before the startled Bwyl could get off a
second shot, she brought the cylinder down on his V-shaped head as hard as she
could. There was a loud, sickening sound as the insectoid skull was split. Blood
and internal fluids gushed forth in a green fountain as the open circulatory
system was ruptured. Falling sideways, Beskodnebwyl fired one last time. Too
close to dodge, the woman caught the burst square in her chest. Fragments of
shattered sternum were blown into her lungs and heart.

Briann immediately started to reach for his own concealed handgun, only to find
himself restrained by his companion. Turning, he saw that Twikanrozex was
pointing with both truhands.

Using both arms, a determined Skettle had levered himself into position to reach
for and activate the cylinder of explosive. Neither padre knew what the slim
bottle contained, but if it was worth this many lives to attach it to the
appropriate instrumentation, then its contents would surely do the crowds of
unsuspecting visitors who were presently thronging the fair no good.

Nor was there time to call in a warning. As Twikanrozex let go of his friend’s
arm and rushed forward, Briann was right behind him. The biped’s greater speed
over a short distance enabled the human to reach Skettle and the open panel at
exactly the same time as his multilimbed companion.

Cursing defiance, Skettle mustered one last supreme effort. Pulling his useless
lower body upright, he threw himself forward. Both hands latched onto the
cylinder, one gripping it for support while the other stabbed at the softly
blinking contact that would activate its contents. At almost the same instant,
the leaping, stridulating Twikanrozex struck the larger biped with all six feet,
knocking him away from the exposed instrumentation. Briann launched himself at
the cylinder, grabbed hold, and twisted, throwing his whole body into the
maneuver. The tough sealant that had been incorporated by the deceased engineer

Botha to hold the cylinder against the panel’s interior snapped beneath the
padre’s weight an instant after the desperate Skettle succeeded in activating
it.

There was supposed to be a delay of several minutes between activation and
detonation to allow the bearer enough time to escape the blast perimeter.

Perspicacious terrorist that he was, however, the recently demised Botha had
assumed that once the cylinders of liquid explosive were emplaced, the only
individuals interested in removing them would be representatives of the
unwelcome authorities. He had therefore rigged the cylinders’ triggers to bypass
the programmed time lapse in the event of early dislodging.

A frantic Skettle was in the process of trying to deliver himself of this
explanation when the cylinder Briann and Twikanrozex were conveying as rapidly
as possible toward the exit supplied its own clarification.

Explosively.

21

It was a locality Lyrkenparmew never expected to have to visit. It was not
necessary that he do so now. Through the highly covert channels that were open
to him, he could have requested that the individual in question return to meet
with him, instead of him going to see her. But upon learning the details of what
had happened, and knowing the suffering she had already endured on behalf of
their mutual interests, he felt it was incumbent upon him to repay the honors.

Which was why he found himself, bundled and shivering beneath an overcast sky,
walking slowly through an open, neatly tended garden asprout with vegetables so
alien in shape and coloring he felt he might have fallen into the proverbial
pupae land of psychedelic metamorphosis. At the moment, there was only one biped
tending to the fantastic, exotic growths. She did so for purposes of therapy, he
had been informed. What benefit there was to be gained from attending to an
excrescence the shade and shape of agorn!eyak he could not imagine. Just looking
at it threatened to upset both his stomachs.

Fanielle glanced up at his approach. Rising, she wiped sweat from her forehead
and dirt from her gloved hands. It was a pleasant, cool day, but the thranx
envoy was obviously uncomfortable.

“No,yrr!kk, ” he replied when she suggested they go inside. “It is cold out
here, but private. Let your friends think we are discussing the merits of
rehabilitative agriculture.” He searched her face, trying to apply what
knowledge he had acquired of the multiple meanings conveyable by the wonderfully
flexible human countenance. Insofar as he could tell, he detected there neither
fear nor permanent damage. “I have seen the official report dealing with your
unfortunate encounter. While vacationing outside Daret you were accosted by
fanatical adherents of a xenophobically antihuman sect called the Bwyl. You
fled, were chased, and were rescued by local peace patrollers called by the
staff of the retreat, whereupon you lapsed into unconsciousness.” His tone was
candidly solicitous. “You suffered no permanent scarring, physical or
psychological?”

She managed a thin smile. “I retain my fondness for your people, if that’s what
you mean. Physically, I’m fine.” Her expression shifted as unpredictably as the
low clouds overhead. A captivated Lyrkenparmew looked closer.

“Fascinating. There appears to be saline fluid leaking from the sockets in which
your optics reside.”

Reaching up, she wiped at her eyes with the back of one hand. The gesture rubbed
a few grains of Hivehom soil into one eye, which resulted in an increased flow
of the liquid to which her visitor referred. While the agent looked on, she
fought to regain control of her emotions.

“It’s an involuntary expression of remorse,” she explained, seeking refuge in
biology. “Analogous to certain of your sorrowing gestures. We call itcrying .

I’m crying for Haflunormet.”

“A credit to his hive, his clan, and his family.” Lyrkenparmew gestured
appropriate melancholy. “Much merit did he bring to them.”

“You have no idea.” Putting down the nitrogen fixer, she settled herself into a
sitting position alongside the cucumbers. They thrived in the clean air and fine
soil of the Mediterranea Plateau, hundreds of parsecs from home. Responding to
her action, Lyrkenparmew folded his legs beneath him and settled on the ventral
side of his abdomen. She gazed evenly at her visitor.

“What do you know about a human outpost world called Comagrave?”

The agent gestured emphatically. “Until just recently,viyyrp, very little. A
small outpost world undergoing exploration by your kind. Apparently, some
serious unpleasantness occurred there recently that resulted in the expulsion of
all transient AAnn on the planet.” His next gesture probably should not have
been translated, but Fanielle recognized it anyway. “I can’t say that I, or
anyone else in my section, is disappointed by the news. There was talk of a
massacre perpetrated by the AAnn at a scientific site of considerable
importance.”

She nodded slowly, enveloped by the atavistic, loamy musk of freshly turned
earth. Something black and slinky slithered through the dirt by her legs.

Convergent evolution in earthworms, she thought as she watched its oily
progress: refuge for a mind overwhelmed by clashes on a galactic scale.

Nematodes crawling near her toes.

I’m getting silly, she told herself firmly, and this visit is serious.

“There’s more to it than that. Much more.” A glance showed that they were alone,
and the device she was wearing beneath her gardening dress would ensure their
privacy from any stray electronic pickups. “Haflunormet found out about it. In a
way, that information contributed to his death. He had just finished telling me
the details when we were attacked.”

Lyrkenparmew gestured second-degree empathy swirled with intense curiosity.

“Details of the incident were even then common knowledge. What about it was
there that could prompt a violent assault on your persons, even by extreme
xenophobes?”

She considered how best to tell him. “Insofar as Haflunormet was able to
determine from the available records, the AAnn on Comagrave had no intention of
attacking the archeological dig. Haflunormet became convinced they were provoked
into doing so.”

Unlike humans, Lyrkenparmew could not frown. But at the moment, he wished he
could. It was so much more economical than waving one’s limbs about. “Provoked?

By whom?”

“By a resident thranx exoarcheologist named Pilwondepat.” At the agent’s gesture
of disbelief, she added, “Haflunormet found proof. Enough to convince the
skeptical. I don’t know where it is now, or how he stored it, but without the
requisite commands I’m sure it would be extremely difficult to recover.” She put
her fixer aside and pushed back the brim of her shade hat. “However, from the
details he gave me, I’m sure thatI could reconstruct the necessary evidence.”

Lyrkenparmew was silent for a while, trying to comprehend the magnitude of what
the human female had told him. If true in all details, it was an exceedingly
dangerous bundle of knowledge. He eyed the biped closely. He liked a majority of
humans, and this one more than most. Besides, she wasBryn’ji! . All of which,
notwithstanding, did not prevent him from contemplating how best he might
execute her and still slip away from the human outpost unnoticed.

No, that would not be necessary, he told himself. If she had intended to release
the information, she would already have done so. And, she certainly wouldn’t be
sitting there in the dirt, relating it to someone she knew was likely to kill
her to prevent its release. It was sufficient to reaffirm what he already knew:

They were of different body, but like mind.

“If the substance of Haflunormet’s report was to achieve general dissemination,
it would rejuvenate human-AAnn relations while severely impacting those between
your kind and mine.” Feathery antennae waved gently. “I need not tell you that
those are presently entering a most sensitive stage.”

“No, you need not.” Idly, she contemplated an incipient radish. “We want the
same thing, Lyrkenparmew. You, I, poor Haflunormet, everyone who has worked so
hard and for so long to achieve our final goal.” Picking up a handful of alien
earth, she let it trickle out between her dirt-smudged fingers. “But we might
not have any choice. We may have to release the information and try to spin it
as best we can.”

“Why in the name of the Eight Original Great Hives would we want to do that?”

Lyrkenparmew’s disbelief was plain to see in his flowing gestures.

She swallowed hard. “Because others besides myself know the truth of what
happened on Comagrave. Those xenophobes who attacked me and Haflunormet, who
call themselves the hiveless clan Bwyl, are still in custody. I know—I’ve
checked. But they have been allowed outside communication. I don’t think there’s
any question but that they’ve passed the general thrust of Haflunormet’s story,
which they overheard that day on the lookout at the retreat, along to others of
their kind.” Her expression was stricken. “It’s too late, Lyrkenparmew. Too
late. By now the Bwyl have spread it to all their branches, possibly even off

Hivehom. So you see, we can’t bury it. All we can do is try to preempt their
disclosure.”

Lyrkenparmew considered a moment before gesturing with both right hands. “Is
that what is worrying you so? Let them disclose all they want. Their story will
not be believed.”

“You don’t understand.” Full of regret for the consequences she knew would ensue
the instant the story reached the unrestricted media, she looked at him
intently. “Details can be researched, traced, unearthed. The truth can be
reconstructed. Slowly, perhaps, but when the Bwyl release their version of what
happened on Comagrave, some dedicated pundit oblivious to the consequences will
find it intriguing enough to pursue.”;

“Girritt,that might have been the case a month or two ago, but no longer.” The
four delicate manipulative digits of a truhand reached out to brush against her
forearm. “You haven’t heard about what happened yesterday on Dawn?”

“Dawn?” Her expression twisted. “What has that colony got to do with what
happened on Comagrave?”

“Directly, nothing. Coincidentally, perhaps quite a good deal.” He gestured
meaningful apology. “The details will not arrive through regular diplomatic
channels until tomorrow morning, but I could not be certain of what you knew and
what you did not without asking.” He gestured meaningfully. “Our mutual
confidants have their own sources. Because of what happened on Dawn, the Bwyl
can now spew any tales they like. Whatever their superficial veracity, they will
not be believed. Dawn has destroyed their credibility as a responsible clan.

Anything they choose to say from now on will be regarded as a fabrication.”

Fanielle mined her memory. “I remember reading something about Dawn recently.

The usual mundane fodder that those of us in the diplomatic service are expected
to assimilate. Wasn’t some kind of elaborate seminar or multispecies conclave
going to be held there?”

“You are scurrying down the right burrow, but to the wrong destination,” he
corrected her with utmost finesse. “The term you are seeking in Low Thranx
isdrim!!ata .”

“Oh, that’s right.” She remembered now. “A fair. Something to promote
interspecies harmony and understanding while hopefully making a little money on
the side. It was to be quite a production, I recall now. The locals were putting
everything they could muster into the effort, hoping it would raise their
profile on the colonial scene. Planetary promotion, investment opportunities,
tourism—that sort of thing.”

Lyrkenparmew gesticulated sharp irony. “If it was attention they were seeking,
they more than achieved their objective. But not for the reasons you might
think.” Emphasizing the importance of what he was about to say, he switched
seamlessly to speaking in High Thranx. “Fan’l Anju, this has been an eventful
succession of correlative time-parts. It seems that elements of the very same
renegade clan that attacked you and Haflunormet at the Retreat of Xer!kex
planned to disrupt this fair, setting off bombs and shooting visitors
indiscriminately. By coincidence, the identical notion appears to have appealed
to a group of similarly xenophobic humans who call themselvesthe Preservers .”

He gestured confusion. “I am always astonished at the organizations and
individuals formed to promote destruction who identify themselves with names
likePreserver , orSavior , orRescuer , and the like.

“Unaware at first of each other’s existence and aims, these two groups
apparently learned of their parallel intentions and presence sometime before
attempting to carry them out. The scheme propounded by the human group was
particularly insidious.” He leaned toward her, bowing slightly from his thorax.

“That both of these antisocial organizations were found out and reported just in
time for the domestic patrollers to prevent widespread disaster was due to the
good work and intervention of a pair of theologians, or padres as they call
themselves, who notified the local authorities. As a consequence, many hundreds
of lives were saved and a diplomatic disaster was averted.” Lyrkenparmew
executed a gesture involving his entire upper body that Fanielle recognized as
indicative of extreme regret. “Unfortunately, both of these heroic ecclesiastics
perished in the course of the operation.”

“That’s too bad,” she remarked sincerely.

“For them, yes. And personally, I would prefer they had survived.” He
straightened. “But since they did not, their unintentional sacrifice, combined
with the debacle on Comagrave that has been ascribed to the AAnn, presents us
with an exceptional opportunity.”

She rested her hands in her lap. “I don’t follow you, Lyrkenparmew.”

Compound eyes glittered in the sun as the envoy drew his protective warming
garments tighter around him. “One of these ill-starred padres was thranx. His
companion was human. Don’t you see? Thranx and human give their lives to save
humans and thranx.” He gestured first-degree significance. “The cause of
unification has, inadvertently, acquired its first martyrs.”

She considered the possibilities. They were striking. “Did they intend to become
martyrs, these two?”

“Most probably not, but it will not matter to the general media that serve both
our kind. Among humans, they will be remembered as having given their lives to
save babies and innocents. Among my people, they will be thought of as two brave
soldiers who sacrificed their bodies to seal a critical opening into a
vulnerable burrow. It comes to the same thing. A report filed by two human
patrollers who barely survived the final encounter corroborates the details of
the matter.” He gestured diffidently.

“The fringe belief system to which this pair belonged calls itself the United

Church. A grandiose appellation,crrk!k, for so modest an organization—though I
am told it is gaining adherents at a surprisingly rapid rate. Despite the fact
that the sacrifice of their two disciples on Dawn will bring them a considerable
amount of beneficial publicity, the leaders of this religious order
interestingly want nothing to do with the promoting of it. They are sorry for
the death of two of their own, but their doctrine apparently does not believe in
or sanction the concept of martyrdom. They say there is no future in it.

“As long as they don’t directly oppose our efforts to promote or make use of
this sacrifice, be it intentional or otherwise, their indifference won’t affect
the results.” Much intrigued by everything Lyrkenparmew had told her, Fanielle’s
active brain was starting to rev with possibilities. “And with the Bwyl utterly
discredited, as you point out, by their actions, Haflunormet’s investigation of
the events on Comagrave becomes just one more apocryphal rant against closer
cooperation.” For the first time in many days, a smile began to spread across
her suntanned countenance.

“This is wonderful!”

“Yes,ri!t , wonderful it is, Fan’l.” Moving closer, he extended his b-thorax in
order to be able to reach and caress her forehead with both antennae. The touch
was so light as to be nearly imperceptible. “I have been in frantic consultation
with our supporters inside the Great Hive. They agree that now is the time to
make an all-out push for amalgamation. Our supporters on Earth concur. A formal
recommendation based on our earlier proposals is to be made in your government
sometime during the Second Season of Gathering, when the publicity from the
incidents on Dawn and Comagrave is predicted to have achieved maximum
visibility. Both political efforts will be closely coordinated.”

She was nodding understandingly, her face lit by rising excitement. “I’ll do
everything I can to help from my circumscribed position, of course.”

“It may not be so circumscribed as you think. You are to be elevated in status.

Raised to a higher level of significance within your profession.”

She eyed the insectoid uncertainly. “I’ve heard nothing about a promotion.”

“Sources,” the thranx explained with admirable tact. “Do not reject the
advancement. It will be useful to our mutual interests.”

“Of course,” she told him. Reaching over, she plucked a carrot from a row of
green sprouts and showed it to the agent. “You can digest some of our food just
as we can eat some of yours, so long as it’s plant-derived. Have you ever had a
carrot? Fresh grown. From my own little patch here.” She extended the vegetable.

Taking it in his truhands, Lyrkenparmew inspected the yellow spike uncertainly.

“How does one eat it?”

“Raw or cooked. Your mandibles will have no trouble with it. Go on,” she urged
him. “Try it. I know its composition lies well within the tolerances of your
internal chemistry. I wouldn’t offer it to you otherwise. Break off the root
first and eat it from the bottom.”

Hesitantly, the agent followed her instructions. Placing the end of the carrot
between his mandibles, he bit down with all four, snapping off a piece between
them. Having nothing to chew with, he had to wait for it to make the journey to
his upper, grinding gut. The release of exotic, alien juices followed.

“That is . . . delightful,” he finally was able to tell her. “A c’rt, you called
it?”

“Carrot,” she corrected him. If she could learn the two principal thranx
dialects, then the agent could master Terranglo. Althoughc’rt had a nice,
succinct ring to it. Perhaps the word could be compromised. Another addition to
that strange multispecies patois its adherents were calling symbospeech, she
decided absently.

“Whether it wants to or not, this United Church is going to gain a number of new
followers as a result of all the fanfare. I suppose I’m going to have to study
up on it further in case I’m asked to comment.” She let out a resigned sigh.

“These faddish creeds come and go, especially in an era of galactic
exploration.”

“Yes,” Lyrkenparmew agreed. “Such caprices are common among the thranx as well.

The great majority are inevitably defined by their transitory nature. I’m sure
that when the incident on Dawn becomes part of the public memory as opposed to
an item of current interest, the same fate will befall this sect as well.”

She nodded as she fondly surveyed the rest of the garden. “It certainly sounds
like an eccentric little philosophy. Maybe there will at least be a laugh or two
to be had from looking into it.”

“Hopefully,” Lyrkenparmew added. “For professional reasons only, of course.”

“Of course,” she agreed. “What else?”

From above, the benign sun of Hivehom shone down on their friendship, on the
little garden in the diplomat compound, on the rest of the human settlement
called Azerick, and on the dawning of a great many unknown but exhilarating
possibilities that were fraught with promise.

22

Lord Naasab IV was brooding in the gallery when Eiipul II approached him. Below,
the magnificent Great Hall of the People, the center of Blassussar and the locus
of the Empire, was clearing out, the crowd of notables apportioning a babble of
hissing conversation in their wake. The emperor himself had long since departed,
leaving his constituents in the form of their representative nobles to debate
and discuss any remaining business. It was the business that was not resolved,
that could not be resolved, that troubled Naasab and left him pensive and ill at
ease in mind and belly.

A gesture of greeting from Eiipul indicated that his fellow peer felt similarly.

As if to further confirm his visitor’s mind-set, one pair of eyelids remained
half closed as he spoke.

“I fear,rssst , that regarding a certain matter too many of our colleaguess
refusse to pull their headss out of the ssand.”

Naasab was glad to see that, if nothing else, he was not alone in his concern.

“We sspeak of the ssame certain matter, I am ssure.”

Eiipul gestured second-degree concurrence. “Many feel there iss nothing more we
can do, yet we cannot jusst ssprawl idly asside and concede to the inexorable.

My family did not reach itss pinnacle of prominence by ssquatting alongsside the
water hollowss and watching otherss catch the swimmerss.”

His counterpart gestured almost impertinently. Eiipul forgave the discourtesy
because he understood Naasab’s distress. It was no less than his own.

“Let the otherss vacillate and fight with wordss if that iss all they can do.

The emperor iss no fool. If we can proposse a coursse of action, he will ssee
that it iss implemented. What ideass have you?”

Eiipul slapped his stomach with the tip of his tail, a sharp, smacking sound
that did not travel far in the enormous, gold-toned gathering chamber. “Nothing
sspecific,gtssk . As you know, I am on the committee that iss trying to
undersstand what happened on Vussissica. We have yet to ressolve the many
contradicting reportss. Thuss far the one point that everyone can agree upon iss
that it hass been a complete and utter diplomatic dissaster. Chasstissement
sshould already have been meted out, but no one can agree on who iss
ressponssible for what. In every asspect, a truly unssettling epissode.”

Naasab gestured agreement, rapidly blinking both sets of double eyelids. “My
concern liess more with our notable failure on the disstant human world they
call Dawn. A continuing run of bad luck. If not for the intervention of the two
sstupid sspiritualisstss, all might have gone as planned. Now, that enterprisse
alsso liess in ruinss.” In his anger, he parted his jaws to show his tongue as
well as all his teeth. “The combined effect of thesse two recent dissasters hass
been to bring the bugss and the ssoftsskinss much closser together insstead of
driving them apart, as we dessired.”

Moving to the edge of the overlook, Eiipul gazed down at the now nearly empty
gathering chamber. Glorious episodes from the history of the AAnn—from the
race’s humble beginnings as barely organized bands fighting for control of herds
in the plains of Blassussar, to the wars of unification eventually won by

Keisscha the First, to the rapid rise of technology and the eventual expansion
of the Empire to other worlds—lined the walls in the form of mosaics fashioned
from gemstones and rare metals. Strong light illuminated every corner of the
impressive hall, and the sand that formed the floor was fashioned of specially
ground synthetic corundum that gave it the appearance of a single multifaceted
jewel. The dais where the emperor sat was as empty as the rows of individual
reporting stations, and no informative holos floated free in the dry, heated
air.

“Doess a closser union of the two lesser sspeciess really pose ssuch a threat?

Are we perhapss not overreacting, my friend, and thosse of our compeerss who
have jusst departed are the oness in the right?”

Naasab gestured his unhappiness. Was he about to lose his strongest ally among
the members of the Imperial Gathering? “No one sshould forget what happened to
the Pitar.”

“That sspeciess received what they desserved. I wass never comfortable
conssidering them as alliess. An unsstable race.”

“Agreed. And now they are no more—thankss to the effortss of humanss and thranx
fighting together. My greatesst fear, my friend, iss that thesse two sspeciess
cojoined may ressult in ssomething far more powerful than the ssum of their
individual partss.”

“I, too, am concerned, as you know. But it may be that this propossed union of
theirss, thiss Commonwealth, will be like a human mating: the living together
more contentiouss than the courtsship.”

Naasab gestured admiration for his counterpart’s knowledge. He would not have
suspected that the quiet Eiipul might be the master of arcane alien erudition.

It was often the quiet ones, he reflected, who hid in the sand to spring on the
unwary from behind. Henceforth, he would measure his comments with more care
lest he reveal something that in the future might prove personally damaging.

Eiipul would do no less, he knew. By such means did the ever-competitive AAnn
acquire status and gain advancement. For the moment, however, the truce
relationship between them was sound. As lords of the Empire, they could advance
no farther—at least until the emperor began to show signs of mental or physical
weakness.

“What of our dissappointing ssupporterss among the humanss?” Eiipul was asking.

Naasab hissed resignedly. “Many dead or captured on thiss Dawn world. Not all, I
am told, but enough to prevent them from attempting anything ssimilar in the
immediate future. I have taken sstepss to ssee to it that their organization
continuess to receive the necessary funds to susstain them. They will go to
ground until the furor over the incident on Dawn hass died down, then attempt to
ressume their activitiess on our behalf. As for their thranx equivalentss, you
know that we have no influence among them. No bug will accept assistance from an

AAnn. That doess not mean they will not be usseful to uss in the future; only
that we will, as alwayss, have no control over their actions.”

Eiipul gestured understanding. Though he had much work to do, he continued to
linger. Naasab always had interesting information to impart, and it was always
good to know what so resourceful a rival was up to. Besides which, they shared
many similar interests.

“If thiss union comess about, we will ssimply have to deal with it. It doess not
pressage the end of our expanssion. Nothing can prevent that.”

“Truly,” Naasab agreed, adding a gesture of first-degree assent. “But it could
make eassy thingss difficult, and ssimple undertakingss complex. Better to avoid
complication where possible. It certainly would make harder bringing the
obsstinate bugss to heel.”

“You will ssee.” Eiipul wished to depart on a positive note. “The bugss and the
humanss will not get along. They are too different, far more sso than the
humanss and oursselvess. Even if it should come to pass, this Commonwealth will
collapsse of itss own inherent contradictionss. I am confident in that.”

Wellness for you, Naasab thought. He wondered if he would live long enough to
see Eiipul’s prediction come to pass. He hoped so, because he sincerely feared
the consequences for the Empire if it did not.

Truly,fsssst . . .

There was so much to do. Integrating colonies was one thing. Merging two
entirely different political and social systems developed over thousands of
years by two very different species reduced the complexities of the former task
to insignificance.

Ordinary folk on both sides would notice no change for some time. Average
citizens did not travel between worlds, did not participate in interstellar
commerce or politics, and cared little for anything beyond the realm of their
daily lives that did not impact on them directly. Politicians would be affected,
and business folk, and of course the military. The latter would have perhaps the
easiest time of it. Not only did warriors of different species possess an innate
understanding of a profession whose basic tenets did not vary widely because of
mere shape, but they had already cooperated closely with one another during the

Pitarian War.

Changes would first manifest themselves in the largest, most cosmicpolitan
cities. Humans would be able to move freely through the teeming thranx burrows,
while their eight-limbed counterparts would no longer be restricted to a few
specific locations on Earth and a couple of its more populous colonies. Without
endless inspections and dozens of restrictions, trade would expand
exponentially. Cultural exchanges of the kind that had taken place on the world
of Dawn could proceed without reams of government paperwork, on scales both
larger and more intimate. Integration did not happen overnight, but happen it
would.

The announcement of the impending unification was greeted, except by those who
had opposed it for so long, with a mixture of excitement, anticipation, and
uncertainty. Since nothing like it had ever been tried before, no one was quite
sure how it was going to work, or what would happen from day to day. But both
sides went at it with a will.

The Terran government proceeded to orchestrate a number of grandiose
celebrations, with the largest taking place in or near the most impressive
cities; more modest festivities were contrived for smaller conurbations, and
local demonstrations occupied the time and attention of towns and country. Among
the thranx, the occasion was marked by congratulations on a much more individual
and personal level, following which everyone went back to work. Above it all
hovered a feeling of general satisfaction: The thranx had gotten what they
wanted, and the humans what they needed.

After weeks of speeches, parades, demonstrations, fireworks, feasts, gatherings
in stellar locations both astonishing and ordinary by the starships of both
civilizations, hours of reciprocal programming by the media of both species,
endlessly repetitive programs of the Why This Is Good For You kind, debates both
tumultuous and politic, and a good deal of soul-searching among ordinary
citizens, the public at large of both species discovered something else they had
in common: the ability to rapidly get fed up with self-appointed experts and
so-called specialists and zealous politicians who were determined to tell them
what they should be doing and why. So when the time arrived to actually
formalize the unification instead of simply praise or weigh it, the actual event
came as something of a blissful anticlimax that was ignored by most folk, who
were busy getting on with their lives.

The site chosen for the signing of the Articles of Amalgamation was as grand as
the canyon after which it was named. Not far from the small amphitheater chosen
for the official ceremony, moving walkways suspended from spidery supports
carried a steady stream of tourists from the rim and its spectacular perspective
to the surging, ice-cold river at the bottom. Most were intent on the scenery
and took no notice of the cluster of diplomats and media reporters milling about
nearby. A few thranx, Fanielle noted with satisfaction, were among the
continuous stream of gawkers descending into the ancient depths carved by the
river. In the heat of midafternoon they needed no supplemental attire, though
each wore a compact humidifier over their breathing spicules. Of such
incremental developments as mutual enjoyment of time’s wonders were unbreakable
bonds forged.

Stuck near the back of the gathering, but fortunate to have acquired an
invitation at that, she listened with interest to the speeches whose brevity
belied their significance. One by one, the various human and thranx dignitaries
mounted the temporary dais, their physiques if not their words much reduced in
perspective by the immense red rock panorama that filled the horizon behind
them. The ritual could as well have taken place on Hivehom, she knew, or some
neutral world, but the thranx had deferred to the wishes of their new human
consociates. Though equally as fond of pomp and ritual as the bipeds, albeit on
a much reduced scale, they were understanding when their mammalian counterparts
asked if the first signing could be held on Earth. A second, equivalent ceremony
would take place later in the high ceremonial burrows of Hivehom.

That kind of understanding, she reflected, was not only what was going to go a
long way toward making the new union work, it was something the pysch techs
insisted humankind had lacked, and had been looking for, ever since the species
had first come down from the trees millennia ago.

Eventually the speech making, with its simultaneous translation, lurched to an
end. Formal documents were signed, and initialed, and signed again, until there
was no more room on paper or plastic for markings of the duly appointed
representatives of either species. As each was completed, holos of the actual
documents appeared in the air before the audience. These were broadcast to
watchers whose distance from the site could sometimes be measured in kilometers
and sometimes in parsecs. As each instrument was completed, it was
simultaneously rendered in blocks of polished marble and sheets of anodized
titanium that would more readily memorialize the gravity of the occasion.

When it was over, there was much gratified shaking of hands and touching of
antennae. Fanielle was particularly struck by the moment when the current head
of the United Church, the Fourth Last Resort David Malkezinski, grasped a
truhand of the venerable Tri-eint Arlenduva while her antennae dipped forward to
make contact with his forehead. Far from vanishing as she had once imagined it
would, the still-evolving creed founded by a human minister and his thranx
counterpart had continued to expand, swiftly gaining new adherents among human
and thranx alike. If anything, its overall influence with the public at large
had expanded even faster.

Counted among its followers was the diplomat Fanielle Anjou, recently promoted
to assistant councilor for human affairs on Hivehom. It was about as significant
a post as there was to be had in the rapidly reorganizing and consolidating
governments.

As she stood chatting with friends and associates, doing her best to avoid the
media, a small hand tugged at her arm. Eric Haf-Lyr Anjou looked up at her out
of alert, anxious eyes that were largely indifferent to the import of the
ceremony that had just concluded.

“Mom, Mom—Barehtezen and Jacque want to hike down to Indian Gardens. Can I go?

Can I? Hey, did you know she smells like apple blossoms?”

She smiled down at him. “Of course you can go, Eric. Just make sure you and

Jacque keep a close eye on Bar. There are plenty of fountains along the trail,
and she’ll adore the fact that it gets hotter the deeper you descend, but you
know how quickly thranx can parch in this climate.” She indicated the high, dry
mountain country where they were standing.

“Aw, she’ll be all right. She’s wearing her humidifier, and she promised to use
all six legs at all times, even on the easy parts.”

“Make sure she keeps hydrated. Have a good time, and be back up here before
six.” She checked her chronometer. “We have to get up early tomorrow to catch
the transit to the shuttleport.”

He nodded, his words lost in the crowd as he yelled back at her while racing off
in the opposite direction. “I know. I can’t wait to get back to the burrow!”

Kids, she thought. Progeny. Offspring, with the emphasis onspring . Waking up to
a new universe every day. Only tomorrow, it would be more than an aphorism. It
would be for real. She wondered how it would all work out: the amalgamating of
two radically different species, an unprecedented fusion of arthropod and
anthropoid. Nothing like it had ever been attempted in the portion of the galaxy
humankind had come to know. Just how close, how intimate could it become? Would
the old adage “Don’t let the bedbugs bite” come to take on an entirely new
meaning? Or would it lead to, if not a golden age for humankind, at least a more
settled and confident one?

She was wandering, she knew, and when she let her mind wander, her thoughts
inevitably degenerated into flippancy. She wished she could live another couple
of hundred years or so, long enough for any lasting doubts to be resolved. That
was not possible. She let out a regretful sigh. We’re too transitory, she mused.

We don’t live long enough to really learn anything. I need another five
centuries.

It was not to be. Flesh is not so accommodating, and we all of us die just when
we’ve acquired the minimum necessary wisdom to graduate the first grade. The
universe belonged to her son now. To him, and to his new friends, even if they
did have two extra sets of limbs, bulging eyes, and feathery stalks growing out
of their foreheads.

To the universe of the Commonwealth.