Founding of the Commonwealth 03 – Diuturnity’s Dawn – Foster, Alan Dean

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.