Фостер Алан Дин

Phylogenesis

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Author: Alan Dean Foster

Title: Phylogenesis

Series: The Founding the Commonwealth

Series No: 01 0f 03

Original copyright year: 1999

Genre: Science Fiction

Date of e-text: 05/09/2001

Prepared by:

Last Revised: / /

Revised by:

Version: 1.0

Comments: Please correct any errors you find in this e-text,

update the txt file's version number and redistribute.

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By Alan Dean Foster :Published by Ballantine Books:

The Icenggger Trilogy

ICERIGGER

MISSION TO MOULOKIN

THE DELUGE DRIVERS

The Adventures of Flinx of the Commonwealth

FOR LOVE OF MOTHER-NOT

THE TAR-AIYM KRANG

ORPHAN STAR

THE END OF THE MATTER

FLINX IN FLUX

MID-FLINX

BLOODHYPE

THE HOWLING STONES

The Damned

Book One: A CALL TO ARMS

Book Two: THE FALSE MIRROR

Book Three: THE SPOILS OF WAR

THE BLACK HOLE CACHALOT

DARK STAR THE METROGNOME and Other Stories

MIDWORLD NOR CRYSTALTEARS

SENTENCED TO PRISM SPLINTER OF THE MIND'S EYE

STAR TREK@ LOGS ONE-TEN VOYAGE TO THE CITY OF THE DEAD

WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE . . ....WHO NEEDS ENEMIES?

MAD AMOS PARALLELITIES

PHYLOGENESIS DIRGE*

* forthcoming

Books published by The Ballantine Publishing Group are available at quantity discounts on bulk purchases for premium, educational, fund-raising, and special sales use. For details, please call 1-500-733-3000.

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Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as "unsold or destroyed" and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.

A Del Rey(r) Book Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group Copyright (c) 1999 by Thranx, Inc.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

http://www.randomhouse.com

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 00-190318

ISBN 0-345-41861-1

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Hardcover Edition: June 1999

First Mass Market Edition: July 2000

10 9 8 7 6 54

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For Michael Goodwin and Robert Teague,

First citizens of the Commonwealth.

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PROLOGUE

Chapter One Chapter Two

Chapter Three Chapter Four

Chapter Five Chapter Six

Chapter Seven Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenteone Chapter Twentytwo

Appendix

Classification Of Planets

Galographics

The AAnn Empire:

The Blight:

The Humanx Commonwealth:

Commonwealth Chronology

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PROLOGUE

Things have a way of working out, if not always as planned.So it was with the Amalgamation that marked the establishment of the sociopolitical organization that came to beknown as the Humanx Commonwealth. Contact having beenestablished and maintained for some sixteen years, it wasassumed by those advising both of the hesitant, uncertainspecies that procession to second-stage contact would takeplace within a predesignated time frame and would involvethe implementation of carefully considered procedures, intricately designed programs, and closely scrutinized agendas.

That it did not happen this way was no fault of thosecharged with implementing the voluminously compiled andmutually agreed-upon contact strategy. All those involved,thranx and human alike, had done their work conscientiously and well. It was simply that, as history shows, there are timeswhen events do not occur as planned. Physics included, theuniverse is not a perfectly predictable place. Action super-cedes fabrication. Stars that are not supposed to go nova for a billion years do. Flowers that are expected to blossom die.

Anticipated ambassadors did not have the opportunityto exchange formal greetings. Innumerable carefully drawncovenants withered for lack of execution, made superfluous by unexpected realities. Formal protocols were renderedextraneous. Thus are the ways of virtuous diplomacy foullyambushed.

Chance chose a poet as its champion, while coarse circumstance on its behalf conscripted a murderer.

Chapter One

No one saw the attack coming. Probably someone, or several someones, ought to have been blamed. Certainly therewas a convulsion of recriminations afterward. But since it isan unarguable fact that it is hard to apportion blame--or even to assign it--for something that is without precedent, nascentcalls for castigation of those responsible withered for lack ofsuitable subjects. Those who felt, rightly or wrongly, that theybore a share of the responsibility for what happened punishedthemselves far more severely than any traditional queen'scourt or council of peers would have.

For more than a hundred years, ever since there had beencontact between AAnn and thranx, animosity had festeredbetween the two species. Given such a fertile ground and sufficiency of time, mutual enmity had evolved to take manyforms. Manifesting themselves on a regular basis that varied greatly in degree, these were usually propagated by theAAnn. While a constant source of vexation to the ever-reasonable thranx, these provocations rarely exceeded thebounds of irritation. The AAnn would probe and threaten, advance and connive, until the thranx had had enough and werecompelled to react. When forcefully confronted, the AAnn would invariably pull back, give ground, retreat. The spiral arm that was shared by both heat-loving, oxygen-breathingspecies was big enough and rich enough in stars so that direct conflict, unless actively sought, could be avoided.

Habitable worlds, however, were scarcer. Where one ofthese was involved positions hardened, accusations flewmore sharply, meticulously worded phrases tended to biterather than soothe. Even so, the swift exchange of space-minus communications was always sufficient to dampen apotentially explosive confrontation. Until Willow-Wane. UntilPaszex.

Worvendapur bent his head and reached up with a truhand toclean his left eye. Out on the edge of the forest the windtended to kick up dust. Lowering the transparent, protective shield over his face, he reflexively extended his antennaethrough the slots provided for that purpose and moved on,striding forward on all six legs. Occasionally he would archhis back and advance only on his four trulegs, not becausehe needed the additional manipulative capacity his versatilefoothands could provide, but because it raised his body to itsmaximum standing height of slightly over a meter and a half and enabled him to see over the meter-high, lavender-tintedgrass that comprised much of the surrounding vegetation.

Something quick and chittering scuttled through the sedgeclose to his right. Using the truhand and foothand on that sideof his thorax, he drew the rifle that was slung across his backand aimed it at the source of the noise, tensing in readiness. The muzzle of the weapon came up sharply as half adozen!ccoerk burst from the meadow. Letting out a whistleof fourth-degree relief, he let a digit slip from the trigger andreholstered the gun.

Their plump brown bodies shot through with purplestreaks, the flock of feathered !ccoerk fluttered toward thesatin-surfaced lake, cooing like plastic batons that had beencharged with static electricity. Beneath a feathered, concavebelly one trailed an egg sac nearly as big as herself. Idly, Worvendapur found himself wondering if the eggs were edible. While Willow-Wane had been settled for more than twohundred years, development had been slow and gradual, inthe conservative, measured manner of the thranx. Colonization had also been largely confined to the continents of thenorthern hemisphere. The south was still a vast, mostly unknown wilderness, a raw if accommodating frontier wherenew discoveries were constantly being made and one never knew what small marvel might be encountered beneath thenext hill.

Hence his rifle. While Willow-Wane was no Trix, a worldthat swarmed with dynamic, carnivorous life-forms, it wasstill home to an intimidating assortment of energetic native predators. A settler had to watch his steps, especially in thewild, uncivilized south.

Tall, flexible bluesylux fringed the shore of the lake, animpressive body of fresh water that dominated the landscapefor a considerable distance to the north. Its tepid, prolificexpanse separated the rain forest, beneath which the settlement had been established, from inhospitable desert thatdropped southward from the equator. Founded forty yearsago, the burgeoning, thriving colony hive of Paszex was already sponsoring outlying satellite communities. Worvendapur's family, the Ven, was prominent in one of these, theagri town of Pasjenji.

While rain forest drip was adequate to supply the settlement's present water needs, plans for future growth and expansion demanded a larger and more reliable supply. Ratherthan going to the trouble and expense of building a reservoir,the obvious suggestion had been made that the settlementtap the ample natural resource of the lake. As the possessor ofa subspecialty in hydrology, Wor had been sent out to scoutsuitable treatment and pipeline sites. Ideally, he would findone as close to the lake as possible that was also geologicallystable and capable of supporting the necessary engineeringinfrastructure, from pumping station to filtration plant tofeeder lines.

He had been out in the field for more than a week now,taking and analyzing soundings, confirming aerial surveys,evaluating potential locations for the treatment plant andtransmission routes for the water it would eventually supply.Like any thranx, he missed the conviviality of the hive, the press and sound and smell of his kind. Regrettably, anotherweek of solitary stretched out before him. The local faunahelped to divert his thoughts from his isolation. He relishedthese always educational, sometimes engaging diversions, solong as one of them did not rise up and bite off his leg.

Seismic soundings could have been made from the air, orby a mechanical remote, but for something as critical to thecommunity's future as a water facility it was felt that on-site inspection and evaluation by a specialist was required. Worcould hardly disagree. If it proved feasible, this same lakewater would be used to slake the thirst of his own offspring.When the spouts opened inside the hive, he wanted their flowto come from a station that would not be subject to incessantbreakdowns or microbial contamination.

Unlimbering his pack, he used all four hands to removeand set up the sounder. At the touch of a switch, its six slim,mechanical legs snapped into place. Setting the instrumentdown on the ground, he adjusted the controls until he wasconfident it was stationed in a precise and sturdy manner onthe slightly boggy surface. Compared to many of the waterlogged sites he had already visited and evaluated, the present location looked promising. It would not do to situate awater treatment plant on sodden, potentially temperamentalground.

Activating the sounder, he stepped back and let his compoundgaze wander to a formation ofgentre!!mgliding pastoverhead. A widespread native species familiar from numerous encounters in the long-settled north, they were migratingto the southern rain forests to escape the onset of the northern wet season and its accompanying monsoon rains. Theirtranslucent, membranous wings shimmered in the haze-heavysunshine of midday. Long, flexible snouts inflated and collapsed as individuals called tumescently to one another.

The sounder beeped softly, signifying the completion of the survey. While he had watched the wildlife soar past to vanish beyond the far horizon of the lake, the sounder hadtaken a sonic scan of the immediate vicinity to a depth ofmore than a hundred meters. From a study of such scansas well as a mass of other accumulating data, Worvendapurand his colleagues would choose a site for the filtration andpumping station.

While there was no need for him to perform an in-depthanalysis of the actual readings in the field, he was always curious to see the unit's findings. Even more so than the averagethranx, he was intensely interested in what the earth beneathhis feet was like because he might have to live in it someday. The initial readouts that flashed on the screen were promisingand devoid of surprise. As it had proven to be in every previous reading, the ground on which he stood was composedprimarily of sedimentary rock, with the occasional ancientigneous intrusion from a time when local tectonics weremore active. Though the area, and for that matter the groundin which Paszex itself was located, was riddled with faults,they appeared to be long quiescent and of no especial concern.

He dipped his head lower. Having only a transparent, nictitating membrane in place of opaque eyelids, he could notsquint, but his antennae dipped forward until the tips were almost brushing the screen. The sounder was reporting ananomaly, virtually beneath his feet. A very peculiar anomaly.

It was so peculiar that he considered returning to the air-car and reporting what he had found. But while reliable,sounders were not perfect. No instrument was. And neitherwere those individuals charged with their operation. If hecalled in his concern and it turned out to be baseless, hewould come off looking more than a little foolish in the eyesof his peers. Thranx humor could be as sharp as a youngdancer's ovipositors. Uncertain how best to proceed, he carried the sounder toward the lake, repositioned it, and rana second scan. This time, instead of studying the wildlife, he waited impatiently for the compact device to completeits work.

The second scan, run from a different site, confirmed thereadings of its predecessor. Worvendapur pondered long andhard. The unusual results he was getting could be due to a mechanical fault in the instrumentation, a consistent error inthe analysis program, a simple imperfection in the readoutsystem or screen itself, or any one of half a hundred otherpossible reasons--any one of which would make more sense than what he believed the instrument was telling him.

Breathing evenly through his spicules, he ran a detailed internal check on the sounder's systems. As near as he could tellwithout taking it apart, something he was not qualified to do,the device was working perfectly. He then examined himself,and decided that he was working perfectly as well. Very well then. He would leave it to a committee to debate and settle onan interpretation of his inexplicable findings. But he wouldnot rely on one reading, or even two. Moving the sounderagain, he set about making the third of several dozen soundings of the immediate area, unaware that he was not doing so in isolation.

His actions were being observed and subjected to the samekind of rigorous analysis that he was applying to the ground beneath his feet. The eyes that watched him were not compound, nor did they belong to representatives of the indigenouswildlife.

"What is he doing?" Clad in color-shifting, pattern-changing camouflage garb, the AAnn advance scout wasvirtually invisible where she stood crouching within the wallof weaving lakeside sylux. Together with her companion, shewatched the blue-carapaced intruder shift his six-legged device, wait, then move it again.

"I enjoy no personal familiarity with thranx scientific mechanisms," the other scout confessed. "Perhaps he is taking weatherreadings."

The slightly larger of the two females gestured third-degree dissent and followed it with a hand movement indicating second-level impatience. "Why send a lone technicianout here with a single small device to analyze the weather?Orbiters are far more efficient."

"That is so," her companion conceded testily. "I was simplytrying to suggest possibilities in the absence of information."

The concealed reptilian visage peered through the gracefully swaying, dark blue stems. Their constant motion madedetailed observation difficult. Furthermore, it was far toohumid out here on the surface for her liking. While the thranx thrived in rain forest surroundings--the steamier the better--the AAnn were most comfortable breathing air that was starvedof moisture.

"It takes readings of its surroundings. Sowe will take readings of it taking readings." Removing a small, tubular device from her belt, she activated it and aimed the shiny, reflectiveend at the thranx. It was a bit of a gamble, but so preoccupiedwas the settler with his own work that he did not notice theoccasional brief, transitory light flashing from among thedense, oscillating stand of sylux.

The results confirmed the worst fears of both scouts.

"He is making subsurface sonic readings."

Her companion was properly alarmed. "That cannot bepermitted!"

"Correction," her superior gestured. "The taking of readingscan be allowed. What must be prevented is the reporting ofthose readings to his peers."

"Look!" Heedless of the fact that her sudden movement might reveal their position in spite of the camouflage gear,the other scout straightened and pointed.

The thranx was folding up his equipment. Turning, hestarted resolutely back through the grass, making a straightline for his waiting transportation. Keeping low, their suitsshifting pattern and hue to match grass instead of sylux, thetwo scouts followed, steadily closing the distance betweenthemselves and the visitor. As they stalked him, they debatedhow best to proceed.

"We should call this in," the smaller female decided.

"Cannot. By the time the seriousness of the situation isrealized and a decision handed down, the intruder will begone and it will be too late to halt the dissemination of the information he has gathered. A broken tooth must be fileddown before it can spread infection."

"I dislike making a decision of such gravity without authority from above."

"So do I," her larger companion agreed, "but that is whyyou and I are here, and most everyone else is not."

The second scout straightened to her full height, her scaly tail switching nervously back and forth. "He is nearly to hisvehicle."

"I can see that," hissed her colleague. "The time in which to debate how best to resolve this matter has passed." Powerful legs pumping, she broke into a sprint.

Worvendapur opened the storage compartment and carefully slid the folded sounder inside, making sure that thecover sealed tightly before turning and heading for the boarding ramp. He would call a meeting of his work group as soonas he returned to Paszex. The information contained in thesounder was of sufficient import to justify an emergencysession. Even as he began mentally rehearsing his presentation, he fervently hoped that some mechanical glitch, someother explanation he had overlooked, was responsible for thecontroversial readings, and that he was not seeing what hethought the sounder was seeing.

In light of the potential explosiveness of that informationhe knew he ought to be more alert, but the peaceful, bucolicsurroundings lulled him. Besides, in a minute or two he wouldbe on his way back to the settlement, traveling at high speed just above the tops of the grass. There was nothing to worry about. Even when he glimpsed movement out of the side ofone eye he felt no especial concern.

Then he saw the glint of light on something of artificial manufacture, and knew that what was approaching was atonce larger and more lethal than anything he had encounteredsince commencing his survey.

Truhand and foothand reached down and back, all eightdigits clutching at the rifle. Before it was halfway clear ofits holster, a shaped sonic pulse struck the upper portion ofWorvendapur's abdomen, stunning his nervous system and punching a hole in his blue-green exoskeleton. The force ofthe impact lifted him off the ground and threw him sidewaysagainst the idling aircar. Still trying to draw his weapon, heslammed off the gleaming, scored fuselage and collapsed tothe ground.

As he finally managed to withdraw the rifle, a heavy sandaledfoot came down on his truhand. Several of the delicate manipulative digits crumpled under the weight, but the woundedhydrologist was beyond feeling the pain. Despite the strongbracing of his chitinous internal structure, his insides werestarting to leak out through the hole that had appeared just beneath his upper set of vestigial wing cases.

Consciousness and sight fading in tandem, he looked up tosee a pair of homicidally alert eyes staring down at him. Thenthe piece of sky that framed the eyes shifted and he was ableto discern the smooth outline of the skull, clad in camouflage suiting that was struggling to simulate a cloud. A second pairof eyes hovered nearby, glaring at him from behind a fluidmask of falsified brush. Words passed between the two figures. No linguist, Wor understood none of what they weresaying in their clipped, sharp tones. He kept trying to reachhis rifle with his foothand alone.

"What do we do now?" the smaller of the two assassinswondered aloud. "Take it in?"

"Of what use is a corpse?" Removing her foot from thethranx's crushed truhand, the scout nudged the gaping, bleeding abdominal wound with the tip of her weapon. The helpless researcher cried out softly beneath her. "The shot was alethal one." Moving the muzzle forward, she placed it againstthe side of the blue-green, valentine-shaped head. Her expression did not change as she pulled the trigger. The skull jerked once, twin antennae twitched violently, and then thebody lay still. As the two scouts deliberated how best to proceed, the bands of red and gold that shone from the compound eyes of their victim gradually began to take on theblank brown tint of lifelessness.

The scouts were stolid but apprehensive when they werecalled before the tripartite board of inquiry. Following theconclusion of the usual terse formalities, questions were put to the female pair by their superiors, to which answers wereunhesitatingly given.

"We felt we had no choice," the senior scout explained yet again. "The thranx was about to depart."

"We had to act," added her comrade by way of support.

The senior officer present scratched at an itch behind hishead. His neck scales were dulled with age, and he was longoverdue to shed and replace his skin. But his eyes were stillbright, his mind sharp.

"You did the only thing you could." He emphasized hisconclusion with a gesture indicative of second-degree conviction. "If the field researcher had returned to his settlementwith the information he had gathered, our solitude would immediately have been compromised. That revelation must beprevented until our presence here is militarily secure."

"Then we were correct in our assumptions about his activities?" the senior scout inquired.

A junior officer gesticulated assent. "The information contained in the alien field instrumentation you recovered wasextracted. It was substantially as damaging as you feared."

"The situation is to be regretted," added the third presidingofficer, "but had you not acted as you did it would be muchworse. That was quick thinking of you to place the body in theaircar, program it to retrace its course, and self-destruct afterit had traveled a specified distance." He looked at his colleagues. "With luck, the locals will make the assumption thattheir researcher died as the result of a mechanical failure onthe part of his equipment."

The senior officer gestured affirmatively. "These thranxare simple settlers. They are not sophisticated visitors fromHivehom. Our report will reflect these considerations." Slittedeyes met those of the two scouts who continued to standstiffly at attention, their tails held motionless and straightout behind them. "It is fortunate you were in a position to effect this nullification. Appropriate commendations will beforthcoming."

The two scouts, who had entered the inquiry desiring simplyto avoid condemnation for having precipitated the fatal confrontation, were silently overjoyed.

The hopes of their superiors, however, and of their superiors' superiors, were not to be fulfilled. Contrary to theiroverly sanguine predictions, the local thranx proved not tobe as unresponsive as would have been wished. Puzzled bythe circumstances in which the competent, well-liked hy-drologist had perished, a pair of auditors was sent out fromPaszex with orders to retrace the path of the deceased. Whentheyfailed to return, a larger search party was empowered. Following its equally inexplicable disappearance, thesettlers requested and not long thereafter received an officialcommission of inquiry from the long-established northerngovernment.

Covering the same conspicuously murderous ground asthe thranx who had gone before them, they rediscovered whatthe by now long-demised Worvendapur had threatened toexpose. In the ensuing violent confrontation, most of theheavily armed force was wiped out. But this time, the AAnncould not kill them all. Their retreat and flight covered bytheir rapidly falling comrades, a small contingent of thranxsucceeded in reaching the settlement to report not only what they had found, but what had taken place subsequent to theirdiscovery.

With serious escalation now appearing to be the onlychoice left to them, the AAnn proceeded to track the survivors in hopes of taking them out before they could file aformal report with the authorities in the northern hemisphere.Though the AAnn moved quickly, efficiently, and in strength,the thranx managed to hold Paszex and slip revelation of their situation past their assailants' attempts to impose a communications blackout on the settlement. At the same time, theAAnn noble in command was compelled to request that hisposition be bolstered by reinforcements from offworld.

Paszex was nearly taken by the time the first military transport arrived from the north. Startled by the strength of theattacking AAnn, the relieving thranx promptly called forreinforcements of their own. Analysis of sounding datarevealed the presence of not merely an outpost, but an entirecomplex of AAnn settlements located beneath the inno cent surface of the extensive lake. Excavating, quarrying, building, the AAnn had made a comprehensive andexpensive effort to establish a permanent presence onWillow-Wane before the thranx became aware of their intent.The subsurface lines the late, lamented Worvendapur had detected and recorded on his instrumentation had beentunnels, not geologic faults.

Eventually, the AAnn were driven out of and away fromPaszex. But their underground installation proved too extensive and well fortified to be taken. Diplomatic, if not military, attrition led to the AAnn being granted a portion oftheir claim to Willow-Wane, allowing them to maintain andexpand the settlement in an area not seriously coveted bythe thranx but forbidding them to establish any others. This compact was wildly unpopular on Willow-Wane itself, but larger factors were at work. Better to concede the existenceof a single settlement, however far-ranging and illegal, thanto risk war over a world already extensively settled anddeveloped.

So the intruding AAnn were tolerated, the least of theirspecious claims accepted. Such are the workings of broad-scale diplomacy, in which assorted small murders are ingenuously subsumed into what professional diplomats euphemistically refer to as the "overall picture." In its inert,and hypocritical shadow, the pain of those who have lostfriends and relations is conveniently overlooked.

Revenge was not a prominent passion among the thranx, but there were more than a few feelings of loss and betrayal among the survivors of Paszex. Among these were what remained of the family Ven. Comprising a sizable portion of thesettlement's population, they had nearly been wiped out inthe first assault. The survivors struggled to carry on thefamily name, but ever thereafter not many were to be foundwho could boast of the patronymic Ven among the hive Daand the clan Pur. Acutely conscious of their loss and theirresponsibility to keep the family line from dying out, these few became more insular than was normal among theirkind. Their offspring were inevitably inculcated in thesesame aberrant traits, and in turn passed them on to the nextgeneration.

To one in particular.

It had been a long day, and the members of the Grand Councilhad retired, as was their custom, to the hot, steamy quiet ofthe contemplation burrow deep beneath the council chamber,there to relax and relieve the stress of governance. Solitudewas not sought, and conversation turned to more pleasant,less weighty matters.

Except among two. Though aged by any standard, theywere among the youngest members of the council. Togetherthey discussed two recent events of import that appeared tohave no connection. It was in fact a connection they weredrawing.

"The AAnn grow bolder than usual."

"Yes," declared the male. "A terrible shame about Paszex."As he spoke he inhaled perfumed steam from the herbal wrapthat covered half his breathing spicules. "Nothing to be doneabout it. You cannot bring back the dead, nor can one in goodconscience vote to embark on an all-out war in memory ofthe already deceased:'

"The AAnn always count upon us to be reasonable andlogical in such matters. May their scales rot and their eggsshrivel."

"Sirri!!ch,why not? We always are. But you are right. Theincursion onto Willow-Wane was unprecedented for its size.But we can do nothing about it."

"I know," agreed the senior female. Her ovipositors lay flat against the back of her abdomen, no longer capable of layingeggs. "I am concerned about preventing a recurrence elsewhere in the future. We must strengthen ourselves."

The male tri-eint gestured second-degree ambivalence."What more can we do than what we have done? The AAnn dare not make a blatant attack. They know it would invite anoverwhelming response."

"Today that is true. Tomorrow ..." Her antennae flutteredsignificantly. "Every day the AAnn work to strengthen andenlarge their forces. What is needed is something to keepthem off guard, to divert them." Amid the steam, her gleaming compound eyes glittered softly. "Something perhaps notas predictable as the thranx."

The male was intrigued. He shifted his position on theresting bench. "You are not hypothesizing. You have something specific in mind."

"You know of the alien outpost on the high plateau?"

"The bipeds? The hu'mans?"

"Humans,"she replied, correcting his pronunciation. Human words had no bite and were difficult to enunciate. Theirspeech was soft, like their fleshy exteriors. "I have just read areport. Progress there is good. So good that preparations arebeing made to take the next step in deepening and developingrelations."

"With the humans?" The tone in the tri-eint's voice waspalpable and was accompanied by suitable gestures of disgust. "Why would we want to enhance relations with suchunpleasant creatures?"

"You do not deny their intelligence?" The female waschallenging him.

"Their morality and manners, perhaps, but their intelligence, no--not based on the secret reports I have seen." Sliding off the bench, he reached back to remove the herbal wrap.

"They have a conspicuous military capability."

"Which they are hardly about to put at the service ofsuch as ourselves." Antennae twitched. "I have seen those re-ports as well. The great majority of the human populationfinds our appearance abhorrent. I must say that the feeling ismutual. Mutual dislike is a shaky pedestal on which to raisean alliance."

"Such things take time," she chided him as she used a foot hand to rub scented polish across her exoskeleton. Combined with the steam that permeated the chamber, it imparted to thepurplish blue chitin a semimetallic sheen. "And education."

The male councilor barked his antipathy. "You cannot educate without contact. Admittedly, from what little is releasedto us the project here goes well enough. But it is modest insize and scope, and does nothing to deal with the revulsionmost humans seem to experience in our presence."

"That is so." Nictitating membranes flushed condensation from individual lenses. "But there is another project,larger in scope and more pointed."

Her counterpart looked up, uncertain. "I have not heard ofanother."

"It is being kept quiet until it has matured sufficiently formutual revelation. Only a few know of it. A very few. It isconsidered absolutely crucial to the development of relationsbetween our two species. Above all, the AAnn must not learnof it. As it is, they consider the humans a threat to their expansionist intentions. The thought of a human-thranx axis mightdrive them to do something...ill considered."

"What human-thranx axis? We hardly have relations withthe bipeds."

"There is work afoot to change that," she assured him.

The male chirped skeptically. "Proper, formal relationsbetween our two species I can envision. But a permanent alliance?" He executed the strongest possible gesture of negativity. "It will never happen. Neither side wants it."

"There are visionaries, admittedly few in number for now, who believe otherwise. Hence this second, most secret project." Her declaration of seriousness was leavened with justthe barest hint of amusement. "You will never believe whereit is." Moving close so that the other eints in the relaxationchamber could not possibly overhear, she touched antennaewith him while whispering into the hearing organs on hisb-thorax.

She was right. He didn't.

Chapter Two

The thranx do not bury their dead: the deceased are lovinglyrecycled. Like so many components of thranx culture, this was a tradition that reached back to their primitive origins, when hives were ruled by pretech, egg-laying queens, andanything edible was deemed worthy of consumption, including the remains of a demised fellow citizen. Protein wasprotein, while nourishment and survival continued to takeprecedence over emerging notions of culture and civilization.The manner in which the traditional recycling was carriedout was more decorous now, but the underlying canon remained the same.

Farewell giving was far more elaborate and formalizedthan it had been in the times before talking, however, thoughthe one whose praises were presently being sung woulddoubtless have dubbed them overwrought. For a poet famouson not just Willow-Wane but all the thranx worlds, Wuuzelansem had been even more than conventionally modest.

Desvendapur remembered the last time he had sat with the master. Wuuzelansem's color had deepened from the healthyaquamarine of the young beyond the blue-green of maturityuntil in old age his exoskeleton had turned almost indigo. Hishead had swayed uncontrollably from side to side, the resultof a nonfatal but incurable disease of the nervous system, andhe but rarely rose up on only four legs, needing all six all thetime to keep him from falling. But though they might flashless frequently with the fires of inspiration, the eyes stillgleamed like burnished gold.

They had gone out into the rain forest, the great poet andhis master class, to sit beneath a yellow-boledcim!bu treethat was a favorite of the teacher's. Possessed of its ownbroad, dense canopy of yellow-gold, pink-striped leaves, thiswas the time of year of the cim!bu's flowering. Nectar-richblossoms of enormous length saturated the air with their perfume, their dangling chimelike stamens thick with pollen. Noinsects hummed busily about those blooms; no flying creatures lapped at the dripping nectar. Attendants looked afterthe pollination of the cim!bu. They had to. It was an alien,a foreigner, an exotic outsider that was native to Hivehom,not Willow-Wane. A decorative transplant propagated bysettlers. It thrived in the depths of the native forest, eventhough surrounded by strangers.

Beneath the cim!bu and the rest of the dense vegetation,Yeyll throve. The third-largest city on Willow-Wane, it was ahive of homes, factories, training institutes, recreational facilities, and larvae-nurturing chambers. Technologically advanced they had become, but when possible the thranx stillpreferred to dwell underground. Yeyll wore the preserved rainforest in which Wuuzelansem and his students strolled on itscrown, like a hat. Though it exuded the scent of wildness, inreality it had been as thoroughly domesticated as any park.

There were benches beneath the cim!bu. Several of the students took advantage of them as they listened to the poet declaim on the sensuousness of certain lubricious pentameters, resting their bodies lengthwise along one of the narrow, rustic wooden platforms and taking the weight off their legs. Despreferred to remain standing, absorbing the lesson with onepart of his mind while the other contemplated the lushness ofthe forest. The morning had dawned hot and humid: perfect weather. As he scanned the surface of a nearby tree, his antennae probed the bark, searching out the tiny vibrations ofthe creatures that lived both on and beneath its surface. Somewere native insects, ancient relatives of his kind. They paidno attention to the declamations of the revered Wuuzelansemor the responses of his students, being interested only in eating and procreating and not in poetry.

"Whatdo you think, Desvendapur?"

"What?" Dimly, it registered on his brain that his name hadbeen invoked, together with the attached verbal baggage of aquestion. Turning from the tree, he saw that everyone waslooking at him--including the master. Another student mighthave been caught off guard, or left at a loss for words. NotDes. He was never at a loss for words. He was simply sparingwith them. Contrary to what others might believe, hehadbeen listening.

"I think that much of what passes for poetry these daysis offal that rarely, if ever, rises to the exalted level of tendentious mediocrity." Warming to the subject, he raised hisvoice, emphasizing his words with rapid, over expansive movements of his truhands. "Instead of composing we have composting. Competitions are won by facile reciters of rote whomay be craftsmen but are not artists. It's not all their fault.The world is too relaxed, life too predictable. Great poetry is born of crisis and calamity, not long hours whiledaway in front of popular entertainments or the convivialcompany of friends." And just in case his audience felt thathe was utilizing the opportunity to answer the query in order to grandstand before the master, he concluded with a choice,especially coarse, expletive.

No one spoke, and fixed thranx countenances were capable of little in the way of facial expression, but rapid handmovements showed that his response had elicited reactionsranging from resentment to resignation. Desvendapur wasknown to be habitually outrageous, a quality that would havebeen more readily tolerated had he been a better poet. Hislack of demonstrated accomplishment mitigated against acceptance by his peers.

Oh, there were occasional bursts of rhetorical brilliance,but they were as scattered as thequereequi puff-lions in thetrees. They manifested themselves just often enough to keephim from being kicked out of the master classes. In manyways he was the despair of the senior instructors, who sawin him a promising, even singular talent that never quitemanaged to rise above an all-consuming and very unthranx-like preoccupation with morbid hopelessness. Still, he flashedjust enough ability just often enough to keep him in theprogram.

Even those instructors bored with his disgraceful outbursts were reluctant to dismiss him, knowing as they did his familyhistory. He was the last of the Ven save two, the progenitorsand inheritors of his family having been wiped out in the firstAAnn attack on Paszex more than eighty years earlier. Thisharsh hereditary baggage had traveled with him all the way north to Yeyll. Unlike the wrong word or an inept stanza, itwas something he would never be able to redraft.

"Ven, Ven? I don't know that family," acquaintances wouldmurmur. "Does it hail from near Hokanuck?"

"No, it hails from the afterlife," Desvendapur would musemiserably. It would have been better for him if he had comefrom offworld. At least then it would have been easier to keep his family history private. On Willow-Wane, where everyone knew the tragic history of Paszex, he could indulge in no suchcovertness.

Wuuzelansem did not appear upset by his comments. Itwas not the first time his most obstreperous student had expressed such sentiments. "You condemn, you criticize, youcastigate, but what do you offer in return? Crude, angry platitudes of your own. Specious sensitivity, false fury, biasedfrenzy. 'The jarzarel soars and glides, dips to kiss the ground, and stumbles, perspiring passion: contact in a vacuum.' "

Softly modulated clicks of approval rose from the assembled at this typically florid display of words and whistlesfrom the master. Desvendapur stood his physical and intellectual ground. Wuuzelansem made it seem so easy, the right words and sounds spilling prolifically from his jaws, the precisely correct movements of his hands and body accompanying and emphasizing them where others had to strugglefor hours, days, weeks just to compose an original stanza ortwo. The war was particularly acute within Des, who neverseemed quite able to find the terminology to frame the emotions that welled up from deep inside him. A simmering volcano, he emitted much steam and heat, without ever reallyerupting creatively. Artistically, something vital was missing.Aesthetically, there was a void.

He accepted the lyrical rebuke stolidly, but the way inwhich his antennae curled reflexively back over his head revealed how deeply he had been stung. It wasn't the first time,and he did not expect it to be the last. In this he was correct. Poetry could be a savage business, and the master's reputation did not extend to coddling his students.

Looking back, Des was not surprised that he had survivedthe rigors of the curriculum. But despite being utterly convinced of his own brilliance, he was nonetheless surprisedwhen he was graduated. He had expected dismissal with lessthan full ordination. Instead, he found himself armed with private blessings and official certification. Graduation had led toa boring but just barely tolerable position with a private company in the wholesale food distribution business, where hespent much time composing attractive jingles lauding thebeauty and healthfulness of the concern's produce and products. While it provided for the maintenance of his physicalupkeep (he certainly ate well), his emotional and artistic well-being languished. Day after day of waxing lyrical about the multifarious glories of fruits and vegetables left him feelinglike he was ready to explode. He never did, with the result that one vast, overriding fear dominated his waking thoughts.

Would he ever?

Dozens of invited guests were arrayed in the traditionalcircle in the garden where the dead poet was to be recycled.Notables and dignitaries, former students both famous andobscure, representatives of clan and family, all listened politely to the respectful speeches and ennobling refrains extolling the virtues of the deceased that droned out on thesteamy morning breeze. The ceremony had already gone ontoo long. Much longer than the humble Wuuzelansem wouldhave liked. Had he been able to, Des reflected amusedly, the master would long since have excused himself from his ownsepulture.

Wandering through the crowd as the sonorous liturgy wounddown, he was surprised to espy Broudwelunced and Niowin-homek, two former colleagues. Both had gone on to successful careers, Broud in government and Nio with the military,which was always in need of energetic, invigorating poets. Hewavered, his habitual penchant for privacy finally giving wayto the inherent thranx proclivity for the company of others.Wandering over, he was privately pleased to find that theyboth recognized him immediately.

"Des!" Niowinhomek bent forward and practically wrappedher antennae around his. The shock of familiarity was morerefreshing than Des would have cared to admit.

"A shame, this." Broud gestured with a foothand in the direction of the dais. "He will be missed."

" 'Rolling toward land, the wave pounds on the beachand contemplates its fate. Evaporation become destruction.' "Nio was quoting from the master's fourth collection, Desknew. His friends might have been surprised to know that the brooding, apparently indifferent Desvendapur could recite by rote everything Wuuzelansem had ever composed, includingthe extensive, famously uncompletedJor!k!k fragments. Buthe was not in the mood.

"But what of you, Des?" As he spoke, Broud's truhandsbobbed in a manner designed to indicate friendliness thatbordered on affection. Why this should be so Des could notimagine. While attending class he had been no more considerate of his fellow students' feelings than anyone else's. Itpuzzled and even unnerved him a little.

"Not mated, are you?" Nio observed. "I have plans to be,within the six-month."

"No," Desvendapur replied. "I am not mated." Who wouldwant to mate with him? he mused. An unremarkable poet languishing in an undistinguished job leading a life of untrammeled conventionality. One whose manner was anything but conducive to the ordinary pleasures of existence. Not that hewas lacking in procreational drive. His urge to mate was asstrong as that of any other male. But with his attitude andtemperament he would be lucky to spur a female's ovipositorsto so much as twitch in his direction.

"I don't think it's such a shame," he went on. "He had a notable career, he left behind a few stanzas that may well outlasthim, and now he no longer is faced with the daily agony ofhaving always to be brilliant. The desperate quest for originality is a stone that crushes every artist. It was good to seeyou both again." Dropping his foothands to the ground to return to a six-legged stance, he started to turn to go. The initial delight he had felt at once again encountering old friends wasalready wearing off.

"Wait!" Niowinhomek restrained him with a dip and weaveof both antennae--though why she should want to he couldnot imagine. Most females found his presence irksome. Even his pheromones were deficient, he was convinced. Searchingfor a source of conversation that might hold him, she remembered something recently discussed at work. "What do youthink about the rumors?"

Turning back, he gestured to indicate a lack of comprehension. Suddenly he wanted to get away, to flee, from memoriesas much as from former friends. "What rumors?"

"The stories from the Geswixt," she persisted. "Thehearsay."

"Chrrk,that!" Broud chimed in with an exclamatory stridulation. "You're talking about the new project, aren't you?"

"New project?" Only indifferently interested, Des's irritation nevertheless deepened. "What 'new project'?"

"You haven't heard." Nio's antennae whipped and weaved,suggesting restrained excitement. "No, living this far fromGeswixt I see that it is possible you would not have." Stepping closer, she lowered her voice. Des almost backed away.What sort of nonsense was this?

"You cannot get near the place," she whispered, her fourmouthparts moving supplely against one another. "The whole area is fenced off."

"That's right." With a truhand and opposing foothand Broudconfirmed her avowal. "With as little fanfare and announcement as possible, an entire district has been closed to casualtravel. It is said that there are even regular aerial patrols in the area to seal off the airspace all the way out to orbital."

Mildly intrigued in spite of himself, Des was movedto comment. "Sounds to me like somebody wants to hidesomething."

Using four hands and all sixteen digits, Nio insinuatedagreement. "A new biochemical facility doing radical research. That's the official explanation. But some of us havebeen hearing other stories. Stories that, in the fourteen yearsthey've been being propagated, have become harder andharder to dismiss."

"I take it they don't have anything to do with biochemicalresearch." Des desperately wanted to leave, to flee surroundings that had become suddenly oppressive.

Broud implied concord, but left it to his companion to continue with the explanation. "Maybe a little, but if so and if thestories are true, then such research is peripheral to the centralpurpose of the Geswixt facility."

"Which is to do what?" Des inquired impatiently.

She glanced briefly at Broudwelunced before replying."To watch over the aliens and nurture a growing relationshipwith them."

"Aliens?" Des was taken aback. This was not what he hadexpected. "What sort of aliens? The Quillp?" Refusing to allythemselves with either thranx or AAnn, that race of tall, elegant, but enigmatic creatures had long been known to thethranx. And there were others. But they were well and widelyfamiliar to the general populace. Why should any of them bepart of some mysterious, secretive 'project'?

But then what did he, bard to fruits and vegetables, knowof covert government undertakings?

"Not the Quillp," Nio was telling him. "Something evenstranger." She edged closer, so that their antennae threatenedto touch. "The intelligent mammals."

This time, Des had to pause before replying.

"You mean the humans? That's an absurd notion. That project was shifted in its entirety to Hivehom years ago, wherethe government could monitor it more closely. There are nohumans left on Willow-Wane. No wonder it's the basis forrumor and speculation only."

Nio was clearly pleased at having taken the notoriouslyunflappable Desvendapur aback. "Bipedal, bisexual, tailless,alien mammals," she added for good measure. "Humans. Therumor has it that not only are they still around, they're beingallowed to set up a colony right here on Willow-Wane. That'swhy the Council is keeping it quiet. That's why they weremoved from the original project site to the isolated countryaround Geswixt."

He responded with a low whistle of incredulity. Mammals were small, furry creatures that flourished in deep rain forest.They were soft, fleshy, sometimes slimy things that wore theirskeletons on the inside of their bodies. The idea that somemight have developed intelligence was hardly to be credited.And bipedal? A biped without a tail to balance itself wouldbe inherently unstable, a biomechanical impossibility. Onemight as well expect the delicatehizhoz to fly in space. Butthe humans were real enough. Reports on them appeared periodically. Formal contact was proceeding at a measured,studied pace, allowing each species ample time to get used to the existence of the fundamentally different other.

All such contact was still ceremonial and restricted, officially limited to one project facility on Hivehom and a humanoid counterpart on Centaurus Five. The idea that a raceas bizarre as the humans might be granted permission toestablish permanent habitation on a thranx world was outlandish. There were at least three different antihuman groupsthat would oppose such a development, perhaps violently. He said as much to his friends.Nio refused to be dissuaded. "Nevertheless, that is whatthe rumors claim."

"Which is why they are rumors, and why stories imaginative travelers tell so often differ from the truth." For thesecond time he started to turn away. "It was pleasant to speakwith you both."

"Des," Nio began, "I...we both have thought about youoften, and wondered if...well, if there is ever anything either of us can do for you, if you ever need any help of anykind..."

He stopped, turning so suddenly that her antennae flickedback over her head, out of potential harm's way. It was an ancient reflex, one she was unable to arrest.

Preparing to leave, he had been struck by a thought pregnant with possibility. Bipedal, tailless, intelligent mammals were an oxymoron, but no one could deny that the humansexisted. Tentative, restricted contacts between humankindand the thranx had been taking place for a number of yearsnow. There were not supposed to be any humans on his world. Not since the project begun on Willow-Wane had been shiftedto Hivehom. But what if it were true? What if such outrageous, fantastic creatures were engaged in building not asimple research station, but an actual colony right here, onone of the thranx's own colony worlds?

It was what the AAnn had sought to do by force, in their repeated attacks on the Paszex region. It was extraordinary tothink that the Grand Council might actually have grantedequivalent permission to another species, and to one so alien.

What possibilities might such an unprecedented situationpresent? What wonders, however inherently appalling, didit conceal? What promise would such an outlandish discovery hold?

The promise, just possibly, of the inspiration his muse andlife had thus far been lacking? The thought simultaneouslyterrified and intrigued him.

"Broud," he said sharply, "you work for the government."

"Yes." The other young male wondered what had happenedto transform his former colleague's manner so dramatically. "I am a third-level soother for a communications processingdivision."

"Near this Geswixt. Excellent." Desvendapur's thoughtswere churning. "You just offered me help. I accept." Now itwas his turn to lean forward, as the members of the commemorative funeral crowd began to disperse. "I am experiencing asudden desire to change my living circumstances and go to work on a different part of the planet. You will recommendme to your superiors, in your best High Thranx, for work inthe Geswixt area."

"You ascribe to me powers I don't possess," his age-counterpart stammered, truhands fluttering to indicate hisdistress. "Firstly, I don't live as near this Geswixt as you seemto think. Neither does Nio." He glanced at the female for support, and she gestured encouragingly. "Rumors may alert andinfluence, but they weigh little and travel without effort. Also, as I told you, I am only a third-level soother. Any recommendations I might make will be treated by my superiors withless than immediate attention." Antennae dipped curiouslyforward. "Why do you want to uproot your life, shift tunnels,and move nearer Geswixt?"

"Uproot my life? I am unmated, and you know how littlefamily remains to me."

His friends gesticulated uncomfortably. Broud was beginning to wish Des had never come over to talk with them. Hisbehavior was uncouth, his manner unrefined, and his motivesobscure. They should have ignored him. But Nio had insisted.Now it was too late. To simply turn away and leave wouldhave been an unforgivable breach of courtesy.

"As for the reason, I should think that's obvious," Descontinued. "I want to be nearer to these bizarre aliens--ifthere is any basis to these rumors and if there actually are anystill living on Willow-Wane."

Nio was watching him uneasily. "What for, Des?"

"So I can compose about them." His eyes gleamed, thelight reflecting gold from intricately interlocking lenses." Wuuzelansem did. He was a frequent contributor to the originalproject, composing for as well as about humans. I personally attended at least three performances during which theywere mentioned." His antennae twitched at the remembrance."Difficult as it may be to believe, he always claimed that despite the absence of appropriate cultural referents, they appreciated his poetry."

"What if there are no humans near Geswixt?" Broud feltcompelled to point out. "What if the rumors of this implausible, unlikely, alien colony in the making are just that andnothing more? You will have embarked upon a radical changeto your life for nothing."

Des turned to look at his colleague. "Then I will meditateon my impulsiveness and try to salvage illumination from thedepths of quandary. Either way it will be an improvementover my present circumstances." He gestured with a truhandin the direction of the nearest tunnel entrance to the citybelow. "There is nothing for me here. Comfort, shelter, familiar surroundings, daily work, ritual compliments, intimacy with familiars. Nothing more."

Nio was openly shocked. Desvendapur was even moremaladjusted than she had ever supposed. "Those things arewhat all thranx desire."

Des whistled sharply and clacked his mouthparts togetherin a particularly offensive manner. "They are the enemies ofpoetry. My mind embraces all, but with them my aesthetic iseternally at war."

"Poetry should reassure, and comfort, and soothe," Broudwas moved to protest.

"Poetry should explode. Stanzas should burn. Word sounds should cut like knives."

Broud drew himself up on all four trulegs. "I see that wesuffer from a serious difference of philosophy. I believe thatmy job as a poet is to make people feel better, about boththemselves and their surroundings."

"And mine is to make them uncomfortable. What better source of inspiration than beings so grotesque they arescarcely to be believed? What rationale could the governmentpossibly have for allowing them to set up a colony here?" Hegestured emphatically with both truhands. "A small, officialcontact station to which access is severely restricted is onething--but an actual colony of the creatures? If this is true, nowonder it is being carried out in secret. The hives would never stand for it."

Nio gestured uncertainly. The crowd was continuing tothin around them, the park emptying as attendees vanisheddown a handful of subsurface accessways. "If colonization isactually being carried out, there could be other reasons forthe government wanting to keep things quiet. We are notprivy to the rationale that underlies the Grand Council's innerdecisions."

Des indicated understanding with a flip of his antennae. "What other reasons? They're afraid that hasty exposure ofthese aliens' intentions might enrage the populace, especiallywith the AAnn's repeated attempts to establish and enlargetheir presence here by force. It would make sense to keep asecond alien presence among us quiet for as long as possible." He stridulated wistfulness. "I have heard recordings oftheir voices. They can communicate, these mammals, butonly with difficulty."

"I know nothing about them," Broud protested. "Remember, at this point their continued presence on Willow-Wane is only a rumor. Officially, they were all moved toHivehom years ago. To find out if the rumor has any basis infact you would have to speak with someone directly connected to this new project. If thereis a new project."

Des pondered furiously. "That should be possible. Surelythese colonizing humans, if they exist, must be supervisedand attended by specialists of our own kind, if only to see thattheir activities remain unknown to the population at large.Aliens can be isolated, but not their supervisors. Everythranx needs the camaraderie of the hive."

Nio whistled amusement. "Why, Des, you hypocrite."

"Not at all," he shot back. "I need the hive around me asmuch as anyone. But not at all times, and not when I'm insearch of inspiration." He looked up and past her, to thenorth. "I need to do something wonderful, something unique, something extraordinary, Nio. Not for me is the comfortable,easy life we usually aspire to. Something inside me pushesme to do more."

"Really?" Broud had had just about enough of their pretentious and probably unbalanced colleague. "What?"

Eyes full of reflected sunlight focused on his. "If I couldexplain it away, my friend, I would be assembling appliancesand not words. I would be like a worker and not a poet."

Broud shifted uncomfortably. Without actually coming outand saying so, or directly denigrating Broud's profession, theother male had made him feel a bit like a lowly line workerhimself. Des did not give him time to ponder the actuality ofany deeper meaning hidden in his comment, however.

"Can you help me, Broud?Will you help me?"

Caught between Desvendapur's unwavering stare and Nio'scurious one, Broud felt trapped into assenting. "As I've said,there is little I can do."

"Little is what I have here. Your help is more than I couldhope for."

All four trulegs shifted beneath Broud's abdomen. "If itwill make you happy..." he clicked lamely.

"I'm not sure that anything will make me happy, Broud.There are times when I would welcome death as an end to allthis purposeless striving and futile activity in search of newness. But in lieu of an incipient demise--yes, it would makeme less miserable."

"Then I'll see what I can do for you. I do not know howclose I can get you to this mythical colony site. It is possiblethat I am already the nearest artist within our classification,and as you know, a little poetry goes a long way."

"Do the best you can." Advancing almost threateningly,Des dipped his antennae to entwine them tightly with theother male's. "After inspiration, hope is the best any poet canwish for."

"Just how close to these creatures are you hoping to get?"Nio asked him.

Desvendapur's tone, his whistles and clicks, were charged with excitement. "As close as possible. As close as you and Iare now. I want to see them, to look upon their deformities, tosmell their alien odor, if they have one. I want to peer intotheir eyes, run my truhands over their soft, pulpy skin, listento the internal rumblings of their bodies. I will incorporatemy reactions in a dramatic narrative suitable for distributionacross all the thranx worlds!"

"What if, assuming any are present, they're simply too hideous, too alien to study at close range?" she challenged him."I've seen the pictures of them, too, and while it is nice tothink that we might have some new intelligent friends in thispart of the Arm, I'm not sure I would want to spend any time intheir actual company. That may be a matter best left to contactspecialists." One foothand contorted in a gesture of mild distaste. "It is said that they have a vile odor."

"If specialists can sustain contact and survive, so can I. Believe me, Nio, there is little in reality that can exceed thewarped imaginings of my mind."

"I have no doubt of that," Broud muttered. Already he wasregretting his compliance, his offer to assist his colleague inhis inexplicable efforts to get close to the aliens. Of course, it was very likely that there were no humans on Willow-Waneand that Desvendapur would be wasting time and energylooking for them. The thought made him feel better.

"If it exists, this is not only a secretive but highly sensitivegovernment undertaking." Nio put a truhand on Des's thorax,just below the neck and above the first pair of breathingspicules. "You're not going to do anything antisocial, areyou? I would hate for you to end up as a negative mention on the daily tidings."

"I don't care about that." She found his degree of indifference alarming. "But I will be careful, because if I break a lawit will keep me from accomplishing what I hope to achieve.My own inner, personal goals--not the rules of society--will keep me honest."

"You need help." Broud's head was bobbing steadily, an indication of how seriously he viewed his colleague's intentions. "Urgent therapy."

"Perhaps the effort alone will be enough to divert me intothe tunnel of satisfaction. Perhaps the presence of humans is in fact no more than rumor. In either event, the change will relieve me of my boredom and help to alleviate mydepression."

Broud was heartened by this assessment, if not entirely putat ease. "I will research possible openings near Geswixt. Assoon as I have found the closest, I will recommend you for the position. It might be a lesser post than the one you enjoynow."

"That does not matter," Des assured him. "I will composepoetry for sanitation workers charged with disposing of hazardous wastes. I will sweep tunnels."

"Machines do that," Nio reminded him.

"Then I will write poetry for the machines. Whatever isnecessary." Seeing the way in which they held themselves, he was compelled to comment further. "I can tell that you boththink I'm crazy. Let me assure you that I am in possession of all my mental faculties and am perfectly sane. What I am isrelentlessly driven."

"As a fellow poet, I know how small the difference is,"Broud commented dryly. "You walk a thin line in this matter,Desvendapur. Have a care you don't fall off."

Chapter Three

The image in the center of the room was notably unstable,flickering between two and three dimensions, the colorsshifting more than the broadcast parameters ought to haveallowed. But it was an old tridee projector, the best thebackcountry establishment could afford. Nobody complained.Here in the depths of the Amistad rain forest, even the smallestcomfort was appreciated.

Nor were the men and women whose blurred gazes occasionally turned to the image sufficiently sophisticated tocomplain about such details. Most appreciated the noise that emanated from the image more than the visuals. They weretoo engrossed in other matters to pay much attention to thebroadcast, their serious interests lying in copious alcohol,swift-acting narcotics, cheap sex, expensive promises, andeach other.

At the bar--a traditional affair of battered cocobolo wood,hard unupholstered seats, bottles of luminescent metal andglass and plastic, foul-mouthed conversation and unrealizeddreams, overhead lighting, and a complaisant mixologist--the dented but still functional multiarmed automated blenderwas the only concession to modernity. A couple sat at one end,negotiating a price for services that had nothing to do with thesurrounding rain forest and everything to do with the mostbasic mammalian needs. One man lay on the floor, snoringloudly in his own spittle, ignored by those around him.

Two others had turned in their seats to watch the tridee. Near them a third sat hunched over his drink, a pale greenliquid concoction that whispered to him in soft, reassuringtones. The liquorish voice was not metaphorical: The drinkactually spoke, its reassuring recording embedded in thefizzing molecules within the glass. As the level was loweredby consumption, new sentences manifested themselves forthe benefit of the drinker, like the layers of a drunken onion.

"Fat Buddha, would you look at that!" Shifting on his seat,whose aged and poorly maintained internal gyros struggledto keep the boisterous tridee-watching imbiber they supported from crashing to the floor, the speaker pointed at the image hovering in the center of the room. His clothes werethick with decomposing rain forest and he needed a shave.

"Man, I never seen anything so ugly!" agreed his companion. Turning slightly in his chair, he jabbed a finger hardinto the side of his neighbor. "Hey, Cheelo, take a look atthis, man!"

The false promises of his voluble drink lingering in hisears, the third drinker turned reluctantly to gaze at the tridee.The image presented therein, in unstable three dimensions,only barely impacted on his liquor-sedated consciousness.

His tormentor, an ostensible friend, poked him again. "Arethey gruesome lookin', or what?" An unpleasant frown creasedthe man's dark face. "Hey, Cheelo--you getting any of this?"

"Look at his eyes," the heavyset drinker urged his companion. "He's right on the edge. Push him again and I bet youfive credits he passes out. His chair ain't strong enough tohold him."

The words stung worse than the liquor. Cheelo Montoyasat a little straighter in his seat. It took a sustained effort, buthe forced himself. "I ain't--I'm not going to pass out." Hestruggled to focus on the tridee image. "Yeah, I see 'em. Sothey're ugly. So what?" He looked sharply at his "friend.""You just have to look at 'em, not sleep with 'em."

This observation struck the two other men as uproariouslyfunny. When the coughing and hooting had died down, thelarger man wagged a fat finger at the diminutive Montoya.

"Sometimes I can't never figure you, Cheelo. Sometimes Ithink you're as stupid and ignorant as the rest of these sorry-ass poachers andgrampeiros around here, and then you'll goand surprise me by saying something almost intelligent."

"Thanks," Montoya muttered dryly. He nodded in the direction of the tridee image. Feeling the familiar, irresistibleglaze spreading over his eyes like heavy honey, he determinedly blinked it back. "What are they, anyway?"

The other men exchanged a look, and the one nearest Montoya replied. "You mean you don't know, man?"

"No," Cheelo mumbled. "I don't know. So shoot me."

"Waste of a bullet," the heavyset drinker husked, but toosoftly for Montoya to overhear.

"They're bugs, man.Bugs." The speaker waved his armswildly in front of Montoya, though the visual emphasis wasunnecessary. "Giant, gross, filthy, stinking, alien bugs! Andthey're here! Right here on Earth, or at least at the two official contact locations."

Leaning back against the bar, the heavyset drinker gazeddully at the tridee. "Actually, I hear they smell kind of nice."

Visibly outraged, his lanky friend whirled on him. "What?Smell nice? They'rebugs, man! Bugs don't smell nice. Especially alien ones." His tone fell threateningly, bursting with false courage. "I wish I had a size fifty shoe, so I could step on 'em and squish every one of 'em." Glancing down at the floor, he promptly slid off his seat and landed feet first on alarge tropical roach. The insect tried to dodge, failed, andcrunched audibly beneath the pair of heavily scored jungleboots."That s how you treat bugs, man. I don't care if they do make speeches and build starships."

The bartender leaned slightly forward to peer over the bar. A look of mild distaste soured his expression as he evaluatedthe fresh black smear on the floor. "Did you have to do that,Andre?"

"Oh, right," the bug smasher replied sarcastically. "Like it seriously impacts the elegant decor of your fine establishment."

The eyebrows of the beefy individual behind the bar rose.He did not blink. "If you don't like it here anymore, there's always Maria's down the street."

The heavyset drinker choked melodramatically. "Maria's?This dive is Ambergris Cay compared to that hole. Hey,hey--" He prodded his friend. "--I bet if you paid enoughyou could get one of Maria's whores to sleep with a bug." He chuckled at his own debased humor. "They'll sleep with any-body.Why notanything?"

"Ay--they build starships?" Swaying slightly, Montoyastruggled to focus on the tridee image.

"That's what they say." The man next to him resumed hisexplication. "First the lizards, now bugs. Me, I think we shouldkeep to the solar system and forget about the rest of it."

"They're not lizards." His marginally more erudite associate did not hesitate to correct his drinking companion. "TheAAnn are lizardlike. Just like the thranx are insectile, but notinsects."

"Ahhhhh, go plug yourself, Morales. They'rebugs." Theother man's conviction was not to be denied, nor was he aboutto let awkward facts interfere with his ripening xenophobia. "If it was up to me, I'd call the nearest exterminator. Let 'eminfest their own planet, but stay the hell away from ours. KeepEarth pure. We already got enough bugs of our own." Hedowned a long, corrosive swallow of biting blue brew, wipedhis lips with the back of a hairy hand that was too conversantwith manual labor, and remembered the smaller man on hisother side.

"What about you, Cheelo?" Andre nodded at the tridee."What do you think we should do about 'em? Let 'em hangaround us or dust the lot of 'em? Me, I'd rather hang out withthe lizards. Least they got the right number of legs. Cheelo?Hey, Montoya, you in there?"

"What?" Swaying on his seat, the smaller man's responsewas barely audible.

"I said, what would you do about the bugs, man?"

"Forget it," Morales said. He had turned away from themedia image on the tridee and back to the bar. "You expecting a considered opinion on alien contact fromhim!" Hetapped his glass, calling for a refill. "Might as well ask for hisopinion on how to retire the world debt. He doesn't havean opinion on anything, and he's not going to do anythingabout anything." Small, porcine blue eyes glanced contemptuously in Montoya's direction. "Ever."

The words penetrated the dark, sweet mist that was slowlycreeping through Cheelo's consciousness. "I am too going todo something." He coughed, hard, and the man seated next tohim hastily backed out of the line of fire. "You'll see. One ofthese days I'll do something. Somethingbig."

"Yeah, sure you will." The drinker next to him guffawed."Like what,que ?C'mon, Cheelo, tell us what big thing you'regonna do."

There was no reply from the other seat because it was nowvacant, its occupant having slid slowly out of the chair anddown to the floor like a lump of diseased gelatin. Overwhelmed, the seat's internal gyros whirred back to vertical.

Peering over the barrier, the bartender grunted as he gestured to the other pair. "I don't give a good goddamn if hedoes something big, so long as he doesn't do it in my place."Reaching into a front pocket of his shirt, he removed ahandful of small white pills and passed two of them to theheavyset man. "Take him outside and let him do his big thingthere. If you're his friends, don't dump him in the street." Heglanced at the ceiling. "Coming down pretty hard tonight,and you know it won't let up again till sunrise. Try and get these down him. It'll detox some of the alky radicals somaybe when he comes around he won't feel like his brain'strying to punch its way out of his skull. Poor bastard." Havingdone his duty, he turned back to his liquids and potions andother customers.

Thus co-opted, the two speakers reluctantly hauled Mon-toya's limp corpus outside. Tropical rain was plunging vertically into the earth, shattering the night with unrelentingmoisture. Beyond the dark row of tumbledown buildings thatmarked the other side of the town's single street, rioting vegetation climbed a dark slope, the beginnings of the wild andempty Amistad.

Making ample show of his distaste, the heavyset manforced the pills into Montoya's mouth and roughly massaged his throat before rising.

"He get 'em?" the other drinker wondered. His gaze turnedupward, to the deluge that formed a wet wall just beyond thedripping rim of the porch overhang.

"Who the hell cares?" Straightening, his companion nudgedthe limp form with one booted foot. "Let's toss him out in therain. Either it'll sober him up or he'll drown. Either way he'llbe better off."

Together, they lifted the pliant form off the prefab plastic sidewalk sheeting and, on the count of two, heaved it far outinto the downpour. It wasn't difficult. Montoya was not a bigman and did not weigh very much. Chuckling to themselves,they returned to the warmth of the bar, the heavyset manglancing backward toward the street and shaking his head."Never done anything, never will."

There was mud seeping into his open mouth, and the rain wasfalling hard enough to hurt. Montoya tried to rise, failed, andcollapsed face first back into the muck that was running downthe imported plastic avenue. Standing up being out of thequestion, he rolled over onto his side. The tepid rain courseddown his face in miniature cascades.

"Will too do something," he muttered. "Something big.Someday."

Got to get out of this place, he heard himself screaming.Got to get away from here. Miners too tough to skrag; merchants too heavily armed to intimidate. Need money to get tosomeplace decent, someplace worthwhile. Santo Domingo,maybe. Or Belmopan. Yeah, that was the place. Plenty of tourists with wide eyes and fat credit accounts.

Something was crawling across his stomach. Sitting upquickly, he saw a giant centipede making its many-leggedway across his body. Uttering the forlorn cry of a lost child,he slapped and swung at himself until the enormous butharmless arthropod had been knocked aside. It was a harbinger, but he had no way of knowing that.

Then he turned once again face down to the street andbegan to retch violently.

Chapter Four

As time passed and contact was not resumed, Desvendapurcould not keep from wondering if his friends had indicatedtheir willingness to help him in his endeavor only to shut him up, and had forgotten all about his request as soon as they hadreturned to the comfort and familiarity of their own homes.But though it took a while to make things happen, the reluctant Broud eventually proved to be as good as his word.

There came a day when Des received a formal notificationfrom the sub-bureau in charge of poets for his region, informing him that he had been assigned the post of fifth-degree soother to Honydrop. Hastily, he looked it up on hisscri!ber. It was a tiny hive situated outside the main currentof Willow-Wane life whose inhabitants worked at gatheringand processing a few fields of imported, cultivated berries.Located high on a mountainous plateau, it suffered fromweather sufficiently harsh to discourage most thranx fromwanting to visit, much less immigrate. He would need protective clothing, a rarity among his kind, and a stolid dispositionto endure the unforgiving climate. Furthermore, acceptingthe transfer would drop him two levels in status. He did notcare. Nothing else was important.

What mattered was that the Honydrop hive was situatedless than a day's journey from Geswixt.

There was no information to be had on a hypothetical,unacknowledged, and highly improbable human colony, of course. His personal scri!ber was a compact device capable of accessing every information storage dump on the planet,and he had long since given up hope of finding even the mostoblique reference to such a development in its innards, nomatter how clever or rigorous a search he assigned to it. Therewas plenty of information on the humans--more than hecould hope to digest in a lifetime--and some on the progressof the mature project on Hivehom. But there was nothingabout a continued presence on Willow-Wane of bipedal, intelligent mammals. Despite his most probing efforts, it all remained nothing more than rumor.

Reaching Honydrop involved no less than four transfers,from a major tube line to, at the last, a place on one of the infrequent independently powered supply vehicles that servedthe isolated mountain communities of the plateau. He hadnever imagined so hostile an environment could exist on aworld as long settled and developed as Willow-Wane.

Outside the transparent protective dome of the cargo craftin which he was riding, trees grew not only at absurd distances from one another, wasting the space and soil that laybetween, but stood independent of mutual contact. No familiar vines or creepers draped in graceful arcs from one boleto its neighbor. No colorful blossoms added color to trunksthat were drab and dark brown. The tiny leaves they sportedseemed too insignificant to gather sufficient sunlight to keepthe growths alive.

Still, many grew tall and straight. It was exactly the sort oflandscape in which one might expect to encounter alien visitors. But the only movement came from animals that, whileexotic to his lowland eyes, were quickly recognized by thetransport's crew and were well documented in the biologicalhistory of the planet.

A glance at the cargo craft's instrument panel showed thatthe temperature outside was much nearer freezing than he had ever hoped to experience other than theoretically. Hemade sure his cumbersome leg wrappings were securelybelted and that the thermal cloak that slipped over his abdomen was sealed tight. This left his head and thorax unavoidably exposed. A thranx had to be able to see and tobreathe. Knowing that he would tend to lose the majority ofhis body heat through his soft under-abdomen, he felt as confident as one could be in his special apparel.

The two drivers were similarly clad, though in contrast to his, their suits displayed evidence of long wear and hard use.They ignored the single passenger seated behind them as theyconcentrated on their driving and on the softly glowing readouts that hovered above the instrument panel. The vehiclesped along over a crude path pocked with muddy patches andsmall boulders. These did not impact on its progress becausethe bulky cargo craft traveled on a cushion of air that carried it along well above such potentially irritating natural obstructions. Outlying communities like Honydrop and Geswixtwere too small and isolated to rate a loop on the network ofmagnetic repulsion lines that bound together Willow-Wane'slarger hives. They had to be supplied by suborbital fliers orindividual vehicles like the one on which he managed to secure transport.

One of the drivers, an older female with one prostheticantenna, swiveled her head completely around to look backat him. "Cold yet?" He gestured in the negative. "You willbe." Her mandibles clicked curtly as she turned back to hercontrols.

The paucity of vegetation compared to what he was used towas more than a little unnerving. It suggested an environment hostile beyond anything he had ever experienced. Yet, thranxlived up here, even at this daunting altitude and in these horrific conditions. Thranx, and if the Willow-Wane Project wasmore than just rumor, something else--something the tri-eints who made the decisions that affected all thranx wantedto keep from the eyes of their fellow citizens.

Other than an orbiting station, they couldn't have chosen abetter place, Des mused as the cargo vehicle sped along below the granitic ramparts of the high mountains that framedthe plateau. This was not terrain where thranx would casually wander or vacation. The AAnn would find the thinner air andinfinitely colder temperatures equally uninviting. Glancingout the dome, he saw that the upper slopes of the peaks whosegaze they were passing beneath were clad in white. He knewwhat rilthwas, of course. But that did not mean he had anydesire to see it up close or to touch it. His body shiveredslightly at the thought. There were certain kinds of inspiration he could do without.

Hardship, however, was not among them. Even if there was no colony, or if there was some other kind of clandestine government project involving subject matter that did not includebipedal intelligent mammals, the harsh surroundings had already suggested more than a few couplets and compositionsto him. Any poet worthy of the designation was an openspigot. He could no more turn off the thoughts and words thatcascaded through his head or the relevant twitches and ticsthat convulsed his arms and upper body than he could ceasebreathing.

There was little to see when they arrived. Unlike moreestablished thranx communities in more salubrious climes,Honydrop was situated almost entirely below ground. Normally the surface would be covered with vehicular dockingalcoves, a forest of power air intakes and exhausts, bulk storage facilities, and parks--lots of parks. But except for placeswhere the brush and some of the peculiar local trees had beencut down, the terrain the cargo carrier embraced late thatafternoon had been left in a more or less natural condition.

He had been expecting too much. Honydrop, after all, wasonly a very small community on the fringe of what was stillthe ongoing settlement of Willow-Wane. Three hundred and sixty-odd years was a long time in the settlement of a continent, but with an entire world to develop and civilize, there was still space to accommodate little-visited, empty places.The vast plateau on which Honydrop, Geswixt, and a fewother minuscule outposts had been established was one locale where frontier still prevailed.

The transport slipped smoothly into a weather-batteredshelter. Immediately, double doors labored to close behind it.To Des's surprise, the two drivers did not wait for the interiortemperature to be raised to a comfortable level. They cracked the dome soon after shutting down the vehicle's engines.

The blast of cold air that struck the poet made him gasp.Shocked spicules caused his entire thorax to contract in reaction. Using all four hands he hurried to tighten the unfamiliar, constricting clothing around his unacclimated limbsand abdomen.

At least the interior of the warehouse reflected traditionalthranx values. Everything was organized and in its place, although he had expected to see more in the way of supplies. An isolated community like Honydrop would require moresupport than a hive of similar size set in an equitable climate. Perhaps there were other storage facilities elsewhere. Disembarking from the cargo carrier, he took further stock of his surroundings. Power suits and mechanical assistants at theready, a stevedore crew appeared. Working in tandem withthe drivers, they began to unload the big bulk carrier. Deswaited impatiently for his baggage, buried unceremoniouslyamong the rest of the cargo.

A foothand prodded him from behind. Turning clumsily inthe cold-weather gear, he saw a middle-term male staringback at him. Seeing that the local was encumbered by evenmore clothing than himself made Desvendapur feel a little bitbetter. The people who lived up here were not superthranx,inured to temperatures that would stiffen the antennae of anynormal individual. They were subject to the same climatic vagaries as he.

"Greetings. You are the soother who has been assignedfrom the lowlands?"

"I am," Des replied simply.

"Wellbeing to you." The salutation was curt, the touch ofantenna to antenna brief. "I am Ouwetvosen. I'll take you toyour quarters." Pivoting on four trulegs, he turned to lead theway. When Des hesitated, his host added, "Don't worry aboutyour things: They will be brought. Honydrop is not a bigenough place in which to lose anything. When can you beready to recite?"

Apparently, traditional protocol and courtesy were as aliento his new home as was the climate. A bit dazed, Des followed his guide. "I've only just arrived. I thought--I thoughtI might accustom myself to my new surroundings first."

"Shouldn't take you long," Ouwetvosen declared bluffly. "The people here are starved for therapeutic entertainment.Recordings and projections are all very well in their way, butthey're not the same as a live performance."

"You don't have to tell me." Des followed his host into a lift. When the doors closed, the temperature within approached something closer to normal. His body relaxed. Itwas as if he had stepped into a larval nursery. Aware thatOuwetvosen was watching him closely, he straightened hisantennae and shifted from six legs back onto four.

"Chilled?"

"I'm fine," Des lied.

His guide's attitude seemed to soften slightly. "It takessome getting used to. Be thankful you're not an agricultural worker. You don't have to spend time on the outside if youdon't want to. Myself, I'm a fourth-level administrator. I don't go to the surface unless somebody orders me."

Desvendapur felt emboldened. "It can't be that bad." Heindicated his cold-weather gear. "Equipped like this, I think Icould stand it for a workday."

The administrator eyed him thoughtfully. "After a while,you probably could. That's how the agri folk dress. Exceptwhen the rilth is precipitating out of the atmosphere, ofcourse. Then they require full environmental suits." His mandibles clicked sharply. "One might as well be working inspace."

Des had not made it to the administrator's sarcasm. "Youare subject to falling rilth? Here, at Honydrop? I saw somecompacted on the high peaks, of course--but it actuallyfallshere?"

"Toward the end of the wet season, yes. It does sometimesgrow cold enough to freeze precipitation and make it fall tothe ground. You can walk on it--if you dare. I've seen experienced, long-term agri workers do it barefoot. Not for morethan a few moments," he added quickly.

Des tried to imagine walking barefoot in rilth, the icyfrozen moisture burning the underside of his unprotectedfoot-claws, numbing nerves and crawling up his legs. Whowould voluntarily subject themselves to such hell? That kind of cold would penetrate right through the chitin of a person'sprotective exoskeleton to threaten the moist, warm fluids and muscles and nerve endings within. Did he dare?

"One question, Ouwetvosen: Why did they name a hive situated in country like this, in a climate like this, Honydrop?"

His host glanced back at him and gestured with a truhand. "Someone had a sense of humor. What kind of sense, I'd justas soon not say."

Desvendapur's private quarters turned out to be of modestdimensions and were equipped with comfortable appointments. Once settled within, he prepared to address the matter of the individual climate control. His mouthparts parted contemplatively, then hesitated. It was his state of mind thatwas chilled, not his body. Here below the surface, within theHonydrop hive, the temperature was set at thranx norm andthe internal humidity was raised to the appropriate 90 percent. Stop thinking about conditions on the surface, he admonished himself, and the rest of your body will follow yourmind's lead.

Already he had composed and discarded a good ten minutes' worth of material. Inspired by what he had seen, it hadbeen full of portentous references to the searing cold andbarren mountains. Reviewing the stanzas, he realized thatthese were not what the locals would want to hear about. Theywanted to be soothed, to be transported by his words andsounds and hand gestures; not reminded of the harshness oftheir surroundings. So he threw out everything he had contrived and began anew.

His inaugural recitation was well attended. Anything freshwas a novelty in Honydrop, and that included a recently arrived therapist like himself. Having full confidence inhis abilities, he did not force his performance, and it went"soothly." Following his well-thought-out coda, more than afew females and males walked to the center of the small community amphitheater to congratulate him and to chat amiably.After the stark, tense journey up from the lowlands, it felt good to be back among a swarm, the warmth and smell ofmany unclothed thranx pressing close around him. He accepted their thanks and comments readily, grateful for theattention. Veiled promises of possible mating opportunitieswere appreciatively noted.

Reassured and exhausted, he retired to his quarters at the appropriate hour, reviewing in his mind all that he had seenand experienced since arriving. The isolation, the ruggednessof his surroundings, should make for inspired composing. Ina few days he felt he would be mentally secure enough to jointhe agricultural workers on one of their daily forays to theberry fields, to watch them at work and experience more ofthis exotic, little-visited corner of Willow-Wane.

He knew he would be watched while his work was beingevaluated. It would not do to inquire too quickly into rumors about a nearby mysterious project, or to ask frequently aboutclandestine government operations in the area. Honydropwas located a respectable distance away from and on the opposite side of a high, sharp mountain ridge from Geswixt, thehive that would be the support base for any eccentric out-world operations. Somehow he would have to find a way topay the place a visit without arousing any suspicions. Honydrop was a typical agricultural community, albeit a markedlyisolated one. Its inhabitants went about their business free ofimmoderate surveillance. Geswixt could be different.

If it wasn't, then he had come all this way and gone to allthis trouble--not to mention sacrificing two levels in status--for nothing.

As the weeks passed he found himself settling in amonghis fellow workers. They were a hardy lot, the thranx ofHonydrop. They appreciated every word of his poetry, everymannered gesture, dip of head, and spiral of antennae. Eventhe less inspired of his workmanlike refrains drew praise. Hissuccess, he felt, was due more to the ardor he emanated whileperforming than to any brilliance of invention. As a soother, he was inescapably impassioned. This additional emotionalwarmth was gratefully embraced by the citizens. Unsolicitedcommendations piled up in his record. There was talk of recommending him for an embedded shoulder star.

At any time, he could have requested a transfer to a larger,more rewarding venue. Promotion within his calling also beckoned. He made no effort to procure either.

What he did do was strive to make friends with anyoneengaged in transportation, be it the operator of one of theloaders that gathered the plump fruit from the scattered fields,the drivers of internal individual transports, or the occasionalvisiting cargo pilot. A check of maps showed that it would befutile to attempt to walk overland to Geswixt or anywhere inits vicinity. Without a full environment suit he would neverget across the intervening ridge, and there was no viable reason why a poet should need to requisition that kind ofextreme-weather gear. It left him no choice but to try andhitch a ride some day.

The difficulty was that despite their geographic proximity, there was little interchange between Honydrop and Geswixt.The produce harvested by Honydrop hive went directly outof the mountains and down to processing plants in the nearestcity. Nothing was shipped from Honydrop to Geswixt, and allnecessary supplies came straight up from the lowlands. Forall the formal intercourse that took place between the twohives they might as well have been on opposite sides of theplanet.

He was sitting in one of the two community parks, surrounded by supplementary humidity, dense tropical growth,and edible fungi, basking in the artificial light that filteredhazily down from the ceiling, when he was approached byHeulmilsuwir. A logistics operator who, like many, admiredhis work, she had become a good if casual friend.

"Sweet tidings to you, Desvendapur."

He set his scri!ber aside, mildly irritated at having been interrupted in midcomposition. "Good day, Heul. Are you onoff-time?"

"For a little while." She settled herself on the bench next to his, straddling it with her abdomen, her trulegs splayed out toeither side. "You're still working, even here?"

"The curse of creativity." He made a soft, humorous gesture to take the edge off his tone. "Even a soother needssoothing. I find that in all of Honydrop, this place does thatfor me."

"Only this place?" Reaching out with a truhand, she strokedhis slick, blue-green thorax just below the breathing spicules.

Idly, he mused on the slenderness of her ovipositors, curledup over her lower abdomen. "There are others," he concededwith grudging warmth.

They made inconsequential but diverting chatter for awhile. Then her tone changed. "Am I wrong, or in the intervals when we were talking days ago did you mention that youwould like to visit Geswixt?"

He fought to suppress his initial reaction. While his facewas inflexible, his limbs were not. He felt he largely succeeded in hiding from this female what he was feeling. "Achange of scenery, however transitory, is always a welcomediversion."

She indicated disagreement and clicked her mandiblessharply for emphasis. "Not if it means going outside. Personally, I can't imagine why anyone would want to go to thetrouble of visiting Geswixt. Everything I've heard about theplace suggests that it's a grim, spare little mining station, withnothing in the way of amenities." She gestured with a truhand. "Less so even than Honydrop."

"What do they mine there?" he asked absently. "What kindof ore?"

She gestured uncertainty. "I do not know. I think I remember hearing something about an ongoing dig for nonferrous materials, but I don't believe they've actually hit an orebody yet. They're still searching."

"And tunneling a lot, I imagine. A mine would mean manytunnels. A great deal of earth and rock would have to bemoved."

She eyed him curiously. "Why, yes, I suppose so." Lightflashed off the multifarious golden mirrors that were hereyes. "Anyway, if you really want to go there and have a lookaround, I've found someone who might take you."

His hearts pounded a little faster. "That is interesting.Would I know this person?"

"Perhaps. Her name is Melnibicon. She's a driver." WhenDes indicated his ignorance, Heulmilsuwir elaborated. "We'vemet a number of times, in the course of checking her manifests. It seems that there is a need for a certain medicine inGeswixt. A small quantity of a little-used enzymatic catalyst.Rather than wait to have it shipped from Ciccikalk, our department is sending some over the mountains to Geswixt. A quick courtesy run. Melnibicon is taking it. Since her transport will be pretty much empty except for a single package of medication, I thought she might have room for a passenger."

"You asked her on my behalf?" Had he not made a conscious effort to suppress it, Desvendapur might have beenmoved to affection.

"I knew you were interested, and I have enjoyed your recitals so much--and your company."

"I thought travel was prohibited between Honydrop andGeswixt." He watched closely for any reaction.

"Restricted. Not prohibited. Otherwise, clearing the requisite bureaucratic strictures would prevent Melnibicon frommaking the trip. Officially, casual travel is not supposed totake place. But now and again, people do make the journey."

Leaning forward, she reached into a beautifully embroidered, hand-woven abdominal pouch and handed him an embossedplastic rectangle.

"This is where you will find her. She's leaving mid-middayso she can make it back before dark. It is better to do these things on the cusp of the moment. Too much planning canlead to exposure. Are you going to meet with her and try to dothis?"

Gathering all four trulegs beneath him, he slid off thebench. "I don't know," he lied. "I'll have to think about it. If Iam found out, it could mean trouble for me."

"I won't tell." The logistics officer flexed her ovipositorscoquettishly. "You will get there, have your little look aroundand visit, and be back before anyone in a position to objectrealizes that you've gone. Where is the harm in that?"

No harm indeed. Eventualities cascaded through his mindlike logs swept before a spring monsoon. "I will be backtonight," he declared flatly.

"Of course you will." She abandoned her own bench tostand alongside him. "And I will be waiting to greet you, tohear all about your furtive visit to exotic Geswixt." She gestured amusement.

He started to leave, composing the necessary preparations in his mind. Then he hesitated and looked over at her. "Heul, why this interest in me? Why the persistence on my behalf?"

"You're a poet, Des. You conform so differently." With thatshe was gone, scampering off in the direction of one of thesouth tunnels. He watched her depart, then headed for hismodest quarters. There were several small items he wanted tobe sure and take along with him---just in case.

If he was lucky, the opportunity might arise not tocome back.

Melnibicon was an older, taciturn thranx whose ovipositors had long since lost their resilience and collapsed against herwing cases. After assuring herself that Desvendapur had comealone and had not been followed, she directed him into theback of the cargo lifter's cramped cockpit. No one saw himboard, the rest of the warehouse facility's crew being fully occupied with tasks of their own.

Granted clearance, the lifter trundled out through theweather-tight double doors onto a small, spotless landingarea. Des was jolted when the craft took off straight up, rising to a height of several hundred feet before leveling off and accelerating eastward.

"Sorry about that." Melnibicon grunted a terse apology asshe kept a careful watch on her instrumentation, occasionallyglancing up to take in the daunting view forward. "I'm usedto hauling cargo and produce, not sightseers."

"It's all right." Settling himself onto the narrow, emptybench alongside her, he studied the view outside. Ruggedpeaks and jagged ridges saddled with rilth separated the fertile but cold valley beneath which Honydrop lay from thehigher vale that was home to Geswixt. Once again, he sawthat attempting to cross between the two on foot in anythingless than full environmental gear would have brought a quick death to the hardiest thranx. In contrast, the lifter would makethe trip in less than an hour.

He felt some sort of thanks was in order. "This is very goodof you."

A reply that was more grunt than whistle assailed his ears."This job is boring enough. A little risk is worth it for a littlecompany. Talk to me poet. Tell me about yourself, and theworld beyond this cold hell. How goes life in Ciccikalk?"

"Why ask me? You have pictures, images."

"That's not the same as hearing it from someone who's recently been places. Use flowery language, poet. I like beingsoothed in High Thranx."

He complied as best he was able, resorting to improvisation when knowledge and experience failed, and all the whiledoing his best not to look outside. Doing so reminded him ofthe cold death that awaited below.

In spite of his nervousness he found that the time passedquickly. When Melnibicon indicated that they had crossedthe ridge and were descending into Geswixt, he forced asidehis unease and pressed his face and antennae to the port.

The view was less than instructive. Not having any ideawhat to expect, he was still disappointed. The panorama was less than inspiring. Certainly it dispensed no revelations.

Below them, a long, narrow valley stretched from the impossibly inhospitable high mountains that lay to the north offin the direction of the distant sea. A fast-flowing river randown the center of the valley. Unlike the country above andaround Honydrop, the land showed no signs of cultivation.Only the rabble-free disc of the landing platform indicatedthe presence in the valley of intelligent inhabitants. Theywere flying over one of the most remote regions on Willow-Wane. Geswixt, like Honydrop and every other thranx hivebuilt in a less than ideal climatic zone, would of course be located entirely underground.

What did you expect? he admonished himself as the lifterhummed through a pass between two rilth-clad crags. Hordesof humans dashing about in all directions, or genuflecting atthe approach of every craft making an arrival? The absence of any visible indication that the bipedal mammals were present was hardly conclusive proof of their absence.

Neither, however, was it encouraging.

After an uneventful descent, Melnibicon set the lifterdown gently on the landing disc and taxied forward until they were once more within a sheltering enclosure andsurrounded by other vehicles. The assortment of battered, weather-scoured craft parked in the Geswixt terminal betrayed no hidden uses. The terminal looked exactly like theone in Honydrop, only larger. Cargo was being unloadedfrom one aircar while a small lifter was being filled with anassortment of crates and barrels from a pair of containertransports. There was no evidence of unusual activity or exceptional security.

If it was after all nothing but rumor, he thought disappointedly, then he had wasted not just an afternoon but the pastseveral seasons of his life on a quixotic, futile quest.

The muted hum of the lifter's engine died. Slipping free of the pilot's bench and gear, Melnibicon turned to look back athim. "Welcome to Geswixt. Is it what you expected?"

He gestured noncommittally. "I haven't seen anything yet."

She generated the high-pitched whistle that was thranxlaughter. "Have a look around. I need to make delivery of thatmedication. They're waiting for it, so it shouldn't take long.Then I am going to take a little break for myself, chat withsome fliers I know here." She spoke to the lifter and it repliedwith the correct time. "Be back in four time-parts. I'd rather not fly through these mountains after dark, even if the lifterdoes most of the flying itself. Just because the route is preprogrammed doesn't mean I don't want to be able to see wherewe are going."

Disembarking, he found himself alone in the spacious terminal. With no specific destination in mind, he wandered from craft to craft, observing handlers at work and askingwhat he hoped were innocuously phrased questions that wouldgive the impression he knew about something that might ormight not actually exist. The replies he received varied fromthe bemused to the straightforwardly indeterminate. In thismanner he passed most of the remainder of the afternoon, atthe end of which period he was no more enlightened than hehad been prior to leaving Honydrop.

One young male in particular was having a difficult timeshifting a stack of six-sided containers from an off-loadingplatform onto the back of a small transport vehicle. The machinery he was using to perform the work was balky and uncooperative. It was a rare example of thranx patience wearingthin. Having nothing else to do and already resigned to returning to Honydrop devoid of the edification he sought, Des wandered over and offered his help. If there was nothing here to stimulate his mind, at least he could exercise his body.

The youth accepted the stranger's offer gratefully. Withthe two of them working in tandem the process of shifting thecontainers accelerated noticeably. The open back of the littlevehicle began to fill.

"What is in these?" Only mildly interested, Desvendapurglanced down at the container cradled in his four arms. Theinformation embossed on the side of the gray repository wasless than descriptive.

"Food," the other male informed him. "Ingredients. I am afood-preparation assistant, third level." There was no falsepride in his voice. "Graduated at the top of my classificationseveral years ago. That is how I secured this position."

"You make it sound like it's something special." Neverknown for his tact, Desvendapur was not about to open a newwing case now. He passed another container to the waitingmale. "This is Geswixt, not Ciccikalk." In what had become arote comment, he fished automatically. "Of course, if the humans were here, it would be different."

"Here?" The hardworking preparator whistled amusedly."Why would there be any humans here, in Geswixt?"

"Why indeed? An absurd notion." A practiced Des displayed neither discouragement nor excitement.

His new acquaintance barely paused to catch his breath. "Itreally is. They are all up-valley, in their own quarters." He indicated the rapidly growing stack of containers. "This is foodfor them. I'm learning how to prepare sustenance not for ourkind, but for humans."

Chapter Five

Having by now more or less come to the depressing conclusion that the presence of humans in Geswixt was a myth, Desvendapur made the fastest mental adjustment of his life. With admirable lack of hesitation, he responded, "Yes, Iknow."

"You know?" The preparator hesitated uncertainly. "Howdo you know that?"

"By the markings on the containers," the poet repliedwithout hesitation, supple prevarication being close kin to the white heat of creation. The only difference was that he wascreating for the sake of convenience and not for posterity.

His new acquaintance clicked dubiously. "Every shipmentis coded. How do you come to know the codes?"

Self-immersed in semantic mud and unable to see a wayclear to extricating himself, Des blithely burrowed in deeper. "Because I'm here to cross-check you. I am also in foodpreparation, just assigned here as a general kitchen assistant."He tapped the repository he was cradling with all four digits of one truhand. "How are your skills? Current? Up-to-date?Tell me what this contains."

Distracted, the preparator glanced at the embossing. "Powdered milk. A natural mammalian bodily extract that is usedas an ingredient in many meals."

"Very good!" Des complimented him slavishly even as he wondered what 'powdered milk' might be. "This one's trickier." He singled out a cylinder with a larger embossedidentification area than its predecessor. "How about this?"

The younger male hesitated only briefly. "Soya patties, various nut extracts, dehydrated fish, assorted fruits andvegetables. I don't know all the individual names yet."

"Go on, try," Des urged him. "I'm going to catch you outyet before we're finished here."

"Nothing was said to me about another assistant being assigned to my section," the preparator murmured, still uncertain.

"That's what I thought." Des moved to stack the containerwithout letting the other have a look at its index. "This one istoo alien for you."

"No content listing is too alien for me. At least, I don'tthink it is." Antennae gyrated pridefully. "I complete all myassignments and receive notable ratings."

They continued in this fashion until the last of the containers had been transferred and its contents elucidated."Where are your quarters?"

"They have not been designated yet." Des continued to improvise, a skill at which poet-soothers excelled. "I came upearly. I'm not supposed to present myself until next day next."

The preparator considered. "There is not much to see herein Geswixt proper. Why don't you come with me? You canshare my room until you have been assigned."

"Many thanks, Ulunegjeprok."

His new friend glanced around. "Where is your personalgear?"

"It missed the transport because I decided to come upearly," Des explained. "Don't worry about me. It will work itsway through the system in a couple of days."

"You can borrow some of mine if you need anything. Isee you've already got cold-climate gear." He indicated thespecial protective attire that covered most of Desvendapur'sbody. "I need to see if there is any other cargo here for thekitchen. If not, we can leave in half a time-part."

"I will meet you right here," Des assured him.

Leaving the preparator, the poet rushed from one part ofthe terminal to the next in search of Melnibicon. When hefound her, she was conversing amiably with a pair of olderthranx. Fighting to conceal his excitement, he drew her aside.

"What's going on?" She eyed him warily. "Your spiculesare dilated."

"I have ... met someone," he hastened to explain. "An oldfriend. He has invited me to stay with him for a while."

"What's that? You can't do that." The senior flier lookedaround uncomfortably. "I took a chance just in bringing you over here for the afternoon. I can't leave you here. Your absence will be questioned."

"I'll take care of it. I will not involve you in any way,Melnibicon."

She took a step back from him, fending him off withboth foothands. "Blood parasites, you won't! I am already involved. You camewith me, soother, and you are coming backwith me."

"It is only for a day or two," he pleaded with her. "I won'tbe missed."

"What about your regular daily recitals, your rounds?"

"Tell anyone who asks that I'm not feeling well, that I amsuffering from an internal upset and am self-medicating myself. Have Heul activate the privacy lock on my quarters."

"So you would involve her in your subterfuge as well. Iwill not be a party to this, Desvendapur. If you want to spendtime here, place an application through the proper channels."

"It will not be approved," he argued. "You know it won't.Geswixt is a restricted destination."

"Exactly why you're coming back with me." She started toturn away. "Now if you will excuse me,soother, I am not finished talking with my friends."

He stood motionless, thoughts churning and anger risingas she persisted in ignoring him. It was impolite of him to remain standing there, but she remained adamant. Since she did not acknowledge his presence, her friends did not feelcompelled to, either. Hiding his mounting frustration and his fury, he turned and started back across the broad, flat surfaceof the terminal. He would meet his new friend Ulu at the designated pickup point and at the appointed time, but first hehad to make a stop at the lifter that had brought him here fromHonydrop.

Walking gave him time to ponder what he was about to do.Though his mind was clear, his intentions firm, a part of himremained hesitant. What he contemplated was unlike him,unlike anything he had ever done before. But wasn't that the source of true artistic inspiration: the naked plunge, the embarkation into regions never before visited, the effort to breakfree of convention and restraint? He argued with himself allthe way back to the lifter, while he was on it, and after he leftit behind. But having set his mind, he solidified his decisionas he approached the meeting place. He took considerablepride in not looking back over his shoulder, not even when heboarded the small truck and drove off in the company of chattering Ulunegjeprok.

Melnibicon would look for him, he knew. She would askwho had seen him. He doubted she would receive much in theway of response. Everyone in the terminal was busy, intenton his or her own business. No one would have noticed onemore thranx striding purposefully through their field of vision.Eventually she would give up, cursing all the while, and re-board the lifter for the return flight to Honydrop. It was nother fault if he missed the departure. Upon her return shewould report him as absent, accept whatever chiding was duefor taking an unauthorized passenger to Geswixt, and go onabout her business.

It troubled Desvendapur, but not to the point of preventinghim from engaging in conversation with Ulu. They spokeabout alien foodstuffs and their sometimes eccentric preparation, Des giving the impression he knew a great deal while inreality he was utterly ignorant on the subject. But the moreUlu talked, the more Des 'tested' and 'checked' him, thegreater grew the poet's rapidly burgeoning store of knowledge. By the time they reached the checkpoint, he felt hecould have carried on a limited conversation on the subject.Certainly he now knew more about it than any nonspecialist.

It was rare to see a hive tunnel blocked or guarded. Desvendapur supposed that access to military installations wassimilarly restricted, as was that leading to sensitive scientificinstallations, but this was the first time in his life he hadactually encountered an armed guard. One of the pair recognized Ulunegjeprok immediately. Des tensed when the no-nonsense sentry turned his attention to the truck's passenger. But it was late in the day and the guard was tired. When Ulu cheerily explained that his passenger was another newly arrived worker assigned to his own section, the body-armoredthranx accepted the explanation readily. There was no reason not to. Why would anyone not ordered to do so want towillingly place himself in close proximity to a bunch of soft-bodied, pinch-featured, antenna-less, malodorous mammals?The truck was waved through.

They entered a much longer tunnel, featureless except forperiodic electronic checkpoints. Their progress was beingmonitored, Des realized. The amount of security was daunting. How long he would be able to continue to brazen his waythrough he did not know. Long enough to gain inspiration fora small volume of stanzas, he hoped. Phrases, at last, thatwould be underlain with real meaning and significance. Afterwhat he had gone through to get this far, he had better accomplish at least that much.

Would Melnibicon notice that the lifter's navigation system had been accessed? Would it occur to her to recheck apreprogrammed course that the craft had followed faultlesslymany times before? If she did, then he would have only hours of freedom in which to seek inspiration. If she did not, and relaxed on board as she had on the flight over, then he mighthave a day or two in which to interact with the aliens and the storm of exotic sights and sounds they hopefully representedbefore Security caught up with him. As for Melnibicon, herhastily reprogrammed lifter would set her down automatically among the rilthy peaks, whereupon if he had done his work properly the flight instrumentation would then freezeup and compel her to call for rescue.

It never occurred to him while he had been entering hisirate, hasty adjustments that the disoriented craft might simplyrun into the side of a mountain.

For a service tunnel, the corridor they were speeding down seemed to go on forever. Locked into the passageway's guide strip, Ulunegjeprok abandoned the controls to let the truck doits own driving. He would return to manual when necessary.

"So, where did you study?" he inquired innocently of hisnewly arrived counterfeit colleague.

Nothing if not voluble, Des spun an elaborate story wovenaround what he knew of Hivehom. Since Ulu was a native ofWillow-Wane and had never been offworld, he could hardlycatch Des in any mistakes. By the time the truck finally beganto slow as they approached another floor-to-ceiling barrier, the poet had half convinced himself of his own skill at foodpreparation.

He held his breath, but the facility on the other side of theseal was disappointingly ordinary. Certainly there was nothing to indicate the presence of aliens. He was reluctant topress Ulu for details lest he appear too eager. Besides, the lesshe opened his mouthparts, the better. Silence was the bestway of hiding ignorance.

Turning down a subsidiary corridor, Ulunegjeprok eventually parked the truck in a vacant unloading slot. Wordlessly,acting as though he knew exactly what he was doing and thathe belonged, Des proceeded to help him unload. The kitchenfacilities were extensive, spotless, and more or less familiar, though he did espy several devices whose purpose was foreign to him. That did not necessarily mean they were intended for the preparation of mammalian food, he remindedhimself. He was a poet, not a cook, and the only food preparation equipment he was familiar with was the individual kindthat he had made use of personally.

Encountering and finding himself introduced to a coupleof Ulu's coworkers, he was delighted to discover that he couldpass himself off as a colleague with a certain aplomb. They inturn were able to present him to still others, with the resultthat by nightfall he was an accepted member of the staff. Thusaccredited through personal contact, his presence was notfurther remarked upon. He even assisted in the preparation ofthe nighttime meal, noting that for this purpose the staff responsible for the preparation of the alien food had the extensive facility entirely to themselves.

To his surprise he discovered among the courses a numberthat were familiar to him. He did not comment on this revelation lest he expose his ignorance. But it was fascinating tolearn that the humans could eat thranx food.

"Not all of it, of course," Ulu remarked in the course oftheir work, "but then you know that already. Fortunately, theydon't ask us to assist in the treatment of meat."

"Meat?" Desvendapur was not sure he had heard the preparator correctly.

"That's right, joke about it," Ulu whistled. "I cannot imagine it myself. They warned us when we were taking thespecial courses, but still, the idea of intelligent creatures consuming the flesh of others of their own immediate family wasmore than a little terrifying. Didn't you find it so?"

"Oh, absolutely." Desvendapur was quick to improvise."Meat eaters! The proclivity seems utterly incompatible with true intelligence."

"I have not seen them do it myself. I do remember asking, early on in the first seminar, why they did not just do all theirown food preparation, but as you know the idea is to encourage them to become as comfortable as possible here.That means learning to eat food that we prepare." He whistleda soft chuckle. "What the media would not give to know thatthe only contact project isn't on Hivehom." Light flashedfrom his compound eyes as he looked over at Des, whowas whitened up to his foothands in something called flour."Wouldn't it be funny if you were a correspondent who hadslipped in here under cover, and not a preparator assistant?"

Desvendapur laughed in what he fervently hoped was anunforced manner. "What an amusing notion, Ului Naturally,I am as sworn to secrecy as everyone else who has beenchosen to work with the aliens."

"Naturally." Ulunegjeprok was forming the flour into loaves.Watching and learning something new and useful every minute, Des imitated him with rapidly accelerating skill. Alienfood formed the basis for a nice quatrain or two, but wherewere the aliens themselves? Where? Would he have the opportunity not simply to prepare their food but to see them eat?To observe their flexible mouthparts in motion and see thelong pink tongue thing that resided, like some symbioticslug, within their mouths? That would provide inspiration formore than a few stanzas! Horror was always an efficaciousstimulus.

He did not get his wish. The food was taken from them forfinal treatment and delivery, leaving the prep staff alone in thekitchen to clean up before retiring. Desvendapur followedUlu to his quarters, memorizing sights and routes, learningsomething new and useful with every step.

"I have to present myself and my credentials in the morning, so I will be late to work," he told Ulu as they were preparing to retire. "Meanwhile, thank you for all that you havedone, and for your hospitality tonight."

"Glad to be of help," the preparator replied guilelessly."All kitchen assistance gratefully welcomed. You're good atyour work."

"I had excellent instruction." By now Desvendapur hadcome to believe it himself. As of this moment he was not onlyan amateur poet, but a professional food preparator, one specializing in alien cuisine, who was and always had been adenizen of large, professional kitchens.

The death of Melnibicon, when he learned of it the following morning, threatened to shatter his resolve as much ashis confidence. He had never intended for her to die, only tobe delayed a day or so while he penetrated the secrets ofGeswixt. But he was forced to set aside the overwhelmingsense of guilt as he considered the ramifications of the corollary knowledge that in addition to her passing, the crash ofthe lifter had also resulted in the death of one Desvendapur, poet and soother, whom she had illegally transported toGeswixt for an afternoon. It seemed that neither body hadbeen recoverable from the incinerated crash site.

He had become an instant nonperson. Desvendapur thesoother no longer existed. His family and clan would grieve.So might Heul, for a short while. Then all would go on withtheir lives. As for himself, he had a chance to begin a new one--as a simple, hardworking, lowly food preparator forhumans.

But first he needed a place to sleep, not to mention anidentity.

There were a number of empty living cubicles. Settling onone located as far from the nearest inhabited space as possible, he moved himself in. The dearth of personal possessions within might puzzle a visitor, but he did not expect tohave much in the way of company. His personal credit havingperished along with his former identity, he would have to establish a new one with the fiscal facilities in Geswixt.

Altering a personal identity chit was a serious crime, butsuch ethical considerations no longer weighed heavily onDes. Not after having committed, however inadvertently, akilling. Artists died for their art, he rationalized. Melnibiconhad died for his. He would compose a suitable, grand memorial to her in dance verse. It would be more honor than someone like herself was due or would normally rate. She should be grateful. Certainly her clan and family would be. Meanwhile, he had more important things to do than mourn thepassing of someone who was, after all, practically a complete stranger, and an individual of indisputably little importance.

With the aid of the electronics in the cubicle it turned out tobe surprisingly easy to forge a new identity. It helped that hewas not attempting to have his new self classified as a specialist in military weaponry, or a communications expert, or a financial facilitator. Who would want to assume a false identity as a bottom-level food preparator? With a few delicatecybernetic twitches, his name became Desvendapur, a changesufficiently significant to render him wholly separate andapart from the dead poet, but not radical enough to make amess of his original identity chit.

He waited tensely while the hive network processed hiswork. Because he had a position, because he was there, because he could now rely on the confirmation of others to support his new self, it was accepted, showing a credit balance ofzero. Because he had been acknowledged by the system, noone thought to question his presence. With each succeeding day, Desvendapur the assistant food preparator became amore familiar and well-liked figure around the complex. Witheach succeeding week, applying himself intensely to a job classification for which he was seriously overqualified, hegrew more and more adept at its practice.

A day came when a newly arrived sanitation tech appeared, luggage in tow, to claim his previously unassignedcubicle. Finding someone already living within, both thranxreferred the situation to the official in charge of housing. Preoccupied with more serious matters, she acknowledged that itwas clear some degree of oversight had been at work. WithUlunegjeprok and other coworkers vouching for the amiableDes, she simply reassigned the newcomer to a different vacant cubicle, at which point the shelter the poet had earlier appropriated was officially entered into the hive recordsas his.

With an official residence, an accepted line of credit into which seasonal income was placed--as soon as the hive financial officer was informed by Des's friends that he wasnot being paid, the oversight was hastily corrected--and anoccupation, Desvendapur reinvention as Desvendapur wascomplete. The chance of exposure still existed, but with eachsucceeding day it became less and less likely. Finding himselfgifted with another highly efficient and willing assistant whoseemed to have materialized out of nowhere, the food division supervisor was more than happy to have the additional,to all intents and purposes legitimate, help. Des's name began to creep, by default, into the official records of daily life at thecomplex. Desvendapur the food preparator came into conclusive existence through the inherited process of bureaucraticosmosis.

He learned that anyone associating in any capacity, however distant, with the visiting humans was encouraged to learn more about them. Des was quick to take advantageof these free educational facilities. His off-duty hours werespent poring over the history of thranx-human contact, the official records of the ongoing project on Hivehom, and thehesitant but ongoing attempts to broaden contact between thetwo radically different, cautious species. There was nothingin the official records about another project at Geswixt. As far as publicly available history went, the complex did not exist.

He was afraid to be promoted, but commendations came his way in spite of his efforts to avoid them. The alternativewas to work less diligently, to slack off on the job, but thatmight attract even more attention, and of an unwanted sort.So while striving to endear himself to his coworkers, hestruggled to do that work which was assigned to him and little more, seeking safety in anonymity.

Already more knowledgeable about human food intake than all but the biochemists and other specialists, Desvendapur absorbed what knowledge was available about everything from the bipeds' appearance to their tastes in art andamusement to their mating habits. That a great deal wasmarkedunknown did not surprise him. Though improving,contact between the species was still tentative and infrequent,proceeding officially only at the single recognized projectsite on Hivehom.

The reason for the clandestine complex at Geswixt was obvious: Both sides wanted to speed the pace of contact, to increase the opportunities for an exchange of views, and to stimulate learning. But it had to be done in such a way asnot to alarm the general populace. Even after some fourteen years, each side was still far from confident they could trust the other. The thranx had more experience than they wishedwith duplicitous, deceitful intelligences, among whom theAAnn stood foremost. Sure, these soft-skinned mammalsseemed sociable enough, but what if it were all a ruse, a ploy,an attempt to lull the hives into a fatal relaxation of theirguard? No one wanted to see another Paszex happen onHivehom, or anywhere else.

Among the humans there existed an equal if not greaternumber of concerns. With insects constituting a hereditaryracial antagonist, the idea of becoming close friends withtheir giant, albeit distant alien cousins, the thranx, was difficult for many to stomach. Objections and concerns emergedless often intellectually than they did viscerally.

So each species continued to feel the other out, to studyand to learn, and as they did so to keep a wary eye on the activities of the AAnn as well as the other known intelligences. The covert complex north of Geswixt was an attempt by the thranx to broaden and accelerate those contacts.

Though he experienced a delicious shudder of instinctiverevulsion every time he called forth in his cubicle a three-dimensional projection of a human, Desvendapur relievedthe nausea by composing a new set of sonnets, complete withappropriate accompanying choreography. These files he encrypted and secured with great care lest someone stumbleupon them accidentally and wonder at the extraordinary aesthetic skills of a simple food preparator. The lines he devisedwere facile, the inventions clever, but they lacked the fire hesought. Where was the explosion of brilliance that wouldgain his work universal recognition? How was he to fabricatelyrical phrases so glorious that they would leave listenersstunned?

In his off hours he threw himself into a study of the humans' principal language, after first dismissing as a hiddenjoke the revelation that they still practiced dozens of differenttongues. That was an absurd notion, even for creatures asalien as humans. Different dialects could exist, to be sure, butdifferent languages? Dozens of them? How could a civilization arise out of such a counterproductive babble? Decidingthat the first linguists to make contact were having a little funat the expense of those who came after, he ignored the assertion as he concentrated on the language of contact.

Recordings of their speech yielded a brutal, guttural modeof communication that made Low Thranx sound like a clearstream running over water-polished stones. It was not unpronounceable, but it was unwieldy. And where were thewhistles and clicks that gave civilized speech so much of itscolor and variety? Not to mention the modulated stridulations that humans seemed utterly incapable of duplicating.Though it was difficult to countenance, the records indicatedthat some human linguists had succeeded in mastering portions of both High and Low Thranx. Furthermore, theyhad the ability, like the AAnn, to take in air through theirmouths instead of through designated, specialized breathingorifices as did the thranx and others. Like the AAnn, their airintakes were located on their faces, resulting in a severecrowding of important sensory organs in the same place. And there were only two air intakes. The thranx had eight, four oneach side of the thorax. Given such a deprived physiologicalarchitecture, Des thought it something of a minor miraclethat the humans were able to take in enough air to supply theirblood with sufficient oxygen.

With no one to practice on, he learned by means of repeating human phrases in the solitude of his cubicle. As hestudied, he composed, waiting for the time when blinding inspiration would strike. What would help, what he wished formore than anything else, was to meet an actual alien. Heknew their food, or at least the thranx food they could digest.Now he wanted to know them.

He had been at the complex for more than a year, longenough to experience the first feelings of despair, when theopportunity finally came.

Chapter Six

Golfito wasn't much of a city. Located in a fine natural harbor, it existed only to service the cruise ships and othertourist vessels that stopped to give their passengers a quicktaste of the Corcovado rain forest. After making a wild flurryof purchases and embedding tridee cues into their home unitslike crazy, they reboarded the giant, luxurious hydrofoils andzeps and floated or flew onward, heading for more glamorousdestinations to the north, the south, or across the isthmus.In their wake they left memories of foolish behavior, hasty sexual assignations with Golfito's enterprising exotics, andmuch-appreciated credits.

Montoya had tried his best to attach himself to some ofthe thousands of credits that spilled from the bulging cred-cards of the laughing, wide-eyed visitors, but despite hismost strenuous efforts he never seemed quite able to cement any valuable contacts. He was always a little too slow, a stepbehind, left fumbling for the right word or phrase, like thefisherman who never manages to pick the right lure to attractthe fish that surround him on all sides.

But if he had failed to cash in on the bounty offered upby the regular loads of visitors, he had succeeded in makinga few potentially useful contacts among the less reputabledenizens of Golfito's waterfront and rain forest suburbs. Amongthese sometimes agreeable, sometimes surly specimens was one who dangled promises in front of the struggling immigrant like sugarcease before a diabetic.

Surprisingly, the ever-hopeful but always realistic Montoya had received word that one of those promises mightactually be on the verge of being fulfilled.

Ehrenhardt's place hugged one of the steep rain forestcovered hillsides that rose above the town. As he rode thesilent electric lift up to the gated enclosure, Montoya gazeddown at the exquisite blue of the bay and the dark Pacific beyond. Monkeys, jaguars, quetzals, and all manner of exoticcreatures inhabited the carefully preserved lands on bothsides of the city. They interested him only to the extent oftheir cash value. Not that he would dare to compete with oneof the known poacher consortiums. He knew better. Try,and he'd end up a skin at the bottom of somebody else'strophy case.

A lanky Indian with a prominent sidearm and expressionless eyes met him at the top. Beckoning for the intimidatedguest to follow, he escorted Cheelo out onto the porch that overlooked the sultry panorama below. Rudolf Ehrenhardtdid not rise, but he did offer Montoya a drink from the icedpitcher sitting on the lovingly polished purpleheart table before him. He did not, however, gesture for his visitor to take aseat, and so Montoya remained standing, drink awkwardlyin hand.

"Cheelo, my friend." The fixer squinted behind his polarizing glasses, eyes completely hidden. It was like conversing with a machine, Montoya thought. "You really should investin some nose work."

Montoya flinched inwardly. It was not his fault that overthe course of a difficult life that distinctive protuberance hadbeen broken and reset more times than he cared to remember. "If I could afford it, Mr. Ehrenhardt, sir, I'd certainly consider it."

The older man nodded approvingly. It was a good reply."What if I were to tell you that the opportunity to afford that,and many other good things, has finally arrived for you?"

His guest put the already empty glass back down on thetable. He had been unable to identify any of the contents beyond wonderful. "Ay, you know me, sir. I'll do whatever isnecessary."

Ehrenhardt chuckled, enjoying himself, drawing out thesuspense even though he was quite aware that his guest was inan agony of expectation. A harpy eagle soared past below,skimming the treetops in search of somnolent monkeys. Somewhere an indolent pet macaw screamed.

"You've always told me that you wanted to do somethingbig."

"Just the opportunity, Mr. Ehrenhardt, sir. All I want is forsomeone to give me a chance. That's all I've ever wanted."

The fixer smiled condescendingly. "There is an opening inMonterrey that has come about through...let us sayattrition"Ehrenhardt did not add the wordnatural before attrition, and Montoya did not question him as to the reason forthe omission. "I have been asked to recommend someonesuitable to take over the franchise. It is exceptionally lucrative, but it requires the attention of someone with drive, intelligence, and desire. Also someone who knows the meaning of loyalty, of when to speak and when to keep his mouth shut."

"You know me, Mr. Ehrenhardt, sir." Cheelo drew himselfup to his full, if unprepossessing, height.

"No, I do not know you." The older man was staring hard,hard into Montoya's eyes. "But I am learning more each time we meet. I placed your name before the involved parties, andI am happy to say it has been accepted. Conditionally, ofcourse."

"Thank you, sir! Thank you!" At last, Montoya thought.The chance to fulfill all his dreams! He would show themall. Everyone who had ever mocked him, looked down onhim, spit on his intentions. Here at last was the opportunity toprove himself to all of them, to each and every one of the sarcastic, heartless bastards. In particular, there was a worthlesslittle town up in the Amistad...

Something Ehrenhardt had said made him hesitate. "Conditionally, sir? Conditional on what?"

"Well, my ambitious friend, surely you know that such opportunities do not come along every day, and those special things that do not come along every day are not for free. Afranchise is what it is because it must be paid for. A minimalsum, provided as a guarantor of the prospective franchisee'sgood faith."

Montoya swallowed and maintained his self-control. "Howmuch?" So nervous was he that he forgot to saysir.

Either Ehrenhardt did not notice or chose magnanimouslyto ignore the oversight. Smiling, he pushed a piece of embossed plastic across the table in the direction of his apprehensive guest. Montoya picked it up.

He breathed a little easier. The amount was daunting, butnot impossible. The date...

"I have until this day of the indicated month to raise the required fee?"

Ehrenhardt nodded paternally. "If it is not forthcoming bythen, the franchise must by mutual agreement of the partiesinvolved be awarded to another. That is the way of things. Tellme: Can you be in compliance?"

"Yes, sir! I know that I can do it." The time allowed wasgenerous. But he had none to waste, to linger on the beachesand ogle the ladies in the bars and restaurants.

"That is what I told the others." The smile faded. "I knowthe extent of your financial condition, Cheelo. It is not one toinspire confidence."

He did his best to shrug off the criticism. "That's becauseI enjoy myself, sir. I spend credit as I acquire it. But ifyou know my status, then you know that it is not always so insignificant."

To Montoya's relief, the fixer's smile returned. "Anothergood answer. Keep giving the right answers, Cheelo, andcome up with the necessary fee by the indicated date, and you will have your chance to do something big. Take advantage ofthis opportunity, work hard, and you can become a wealthyand important person, just like myself. I need not tell you that such a chance comes along but rarely in a man's lifetime. For most, it never comes at all."

"I won't fail it, sir--or you."

Ehrenhardt waved diffidently. "This has nothing to do withme, Cheelo. It has everything to do with you. Rememberthat." He sipped contemplatively at the pale liquid maintainedat just above the freezing point by the thermotic tumbler.Somewhere within the rambling white stucco building thatidiot macaw refused to shut up. It was making Montoya nervous. "Tell me, Cheelo--what do you think of these aliensthat are so much in the news these days?"

"Aliens, Mr. Ehrenhardt?"

"These insectile creatures who persist in trying to furtherrelations with us. What do you think is their real purpose?"

"I really don't know, sir. I don't think much about suchthings."

"You should." Adjusting his dark glasses, the fixer gazed out across the bay to the open ocean beyond. "This is a surprisingly crowded corner of the galaxy, Cheelo. It behoovesevery one of us to consider what is taking place here. We canno longer go about our business here on Earth indifferent towhat happens on other worlds, as we could in the days before the invention of the drive. Take these reptilian AAnn, for example. The thranx insist they are incorrigible, aggressive expansionists. The AAnn deny it. Whom are we humans tobelieve?"

"Ay--I really couldn't say, sir."

"No, of course you couldn't." Ehrenhardt sighed deeply."And it's wrong of me to expect it of someone like yourself.But living here, I am inescapably surrounded by those of limited vision." Rising abruptly, he took the startled Montoya'shand and grasped it with a firmness that belied his age.

"Deliver the fee by the indicated date and the franchise isyours, Cheelo. The franchise, and the prestige and everythingelse that goes with it. One thing more: The credit transfermust be made in front of me. I am required by those others involved in the business to witness it in person. There are manytraditionalists among us who do not trust long-distance electronics. So Iwill see you before the indicated date?" Montoyanodded, and the hand moved to the jittery younger man'sshoulder. "Then you can do your 'big things.' " He sat backdown. The interview was at an end.

Cheelo rode the lift back down to the city in a haze of euphoria. His chance at last! By all the gods of his forefathers and all the gonads of those who had ever kicked, beaten, orinsulted him, he would raise the necessary money somehow.It shouldn't be too hard. He had ample experience in suchmatters.

But he could not do it in Golfito. Because of the prevalenceof the tourist ships and zeps there were simply too many police about. They were alert to the activities of denizens suchas himself. He was too well known to them. He would have to go to work elsewhere.

He knew just the place.

Chapter Seven

Ulunegjeprok's voice was flat, betraying no hint of the excitement he felt. "Instead of preparing foodstuff basics forhumans," he asked his friend and fellow worker, "how would you like to deliver some?"

Desvendapur did not look up from where he was cleaninga large quantity of pale pinkvekind root. "Do not joke withme, Ulu. What are you talking about?"

"Hamet and Quovin, the senior biochemists in charge offinal checkout and delivery, are both down sick. It has fallento Shemon to carry out the transfer of this week's produce. Ispoke to her earlier. She has never done this before and is apprehensive about doing it alone."

"Why?" Des wondered. "You know the procedure as wellas I. It is not complicated."

"It isn't procedure that concerns her. She has never dealtwith the humans in person, only via communicator, and sheis not sure how she will react. So she asked for subsidiary personnel to accompany her." His antennae straightened."I volunteered. Knowing of your interest in the aliens, I alsovolunteered you." He extended a foothand. "I hope you arenot disappointed in me. If you want to withdraw your services for this afternoon..."

"Withdraw?" Desvendapur could hardly believe his good fortune. At last, after all he had suffered--physically, mentally, and emotionally--he was going to encounter the bipedsin person instead of via research team projections and odorless images. Already mellifluous phrases and biting stanzaswere bubbling in his brain. "This afternoon? How soon?"

Ulunegjeprok whistled amusedly. "Clean your eyes. Wehave several time-parts yet."

Des did his best to concentrate on his work, but everythinghe managed to accomplish subsequent to his friend's revelation he did by rote. His mind was spinning. He would take ascri!ber with him so that he could compose on the spot, to ensure that nothing was lost and every advantage taken from the forthcoming confrontation. There was no telling how long hissuperiors' illnesses or Shemon's aversion would last. It mightbe some time before the opportunity arose again.

"What are you doing?" As he labored at his own station,Ulu eyed his weaving, bobbing coworker curiously.

"Composing poetry."

"You? Poetry?" Ulunegjeprok whistled long and hard."You're an assistant food service preparator. What makes youthink you can compose poetry?"

"It is just a hobby. Something to occupy my recreationaltime."

"Good thing Hamet and Quovin are both out sick andShemon is busy inventorying the week's consignment. They wouldn't look upon this as recreational time. Well, as long asyou're making the effort, I'll give it a try. For friendship's sake, even though it will be painful. Go on, I'm braced--recite something."

"No, never mind." Aware that in his excitement he wasskirting potentially dangerous territory, Desvendapur turnedback to his work, stripping the thorny casing from oblongcazzi!!s fruit. "I'm not very good at it."

"That goes without saying, but I would still like to hearsomething." Ulu would not be put off.

Cornered, Des complied, trilling and clicking as inconsequential and unsophisticated a brace of stanzas as he couldmanage, a feeble collage of words and sounds guaranteed toget him whistled down at any semiprofessional gathering ofqualified soothers.

Ulu's reaction was wonderfully predictable. "That was awful.You had better stick to makinghequenl buns. You're good atthat."

"Thank you," Des told him. and he meant it.

Systems idling, the small transport truck in the warehousingchamber hovered an arm's length off the floor. Des and Ulusaw to the transfer of assorted crates and containers while the venerable Shemon accounted for each one as it was loaded. Itwas evident from her attitude as well as her words that she didnot want to be doing this, that she dearly wished the absentHamet or Quovin were present instead, and that the soonerthey had concluded the delivery and returned, the better shewould like it.

There was barely enough room in the vehicle's enclosedcab for three. As she adjusted the guide controls and the truckstarted silently forward down a well-lit corridor, Desvendapur checked to make certain his scri!bers were nestled snuglyin the abdominal pouch slung over his left side. He hadbrought two, in case one should fail.

"Why do you need us to come along anyway?" Ulu wasasking her. At these words, Des wanted to reach out andsmother him. "Are these creatures so physically feeble thatthey cannot unload their own supplies?"

"The ones that are present are engaged in more importanttasks. They are scientists and researchers, not manual laborers. Easier for us to do such work." She looked over athim. "Why? Do you want to go back?"

Desvendapur hardly dared to breathe.

"No. I was just wondering," the unimaginative Ulu concluded.

The corridor was blocked by another guard station. Herethey were waved through without an identification check, thecontents of the transport being sufficient to establish their legitimacy and purpose. As the vehicle accelerated, Des looked for any sign of a change, for anything exotic or alien, and sawnothing. They might as well still be traveling through thethranx portion of the complex.

Eventually they pulled into a storage chamber scarcely different from the one they had left. Easing the truck into a receiving dock, Shemon shut off the power to the engine andslipped off the driver's bench. Ulu and Des followed heraround to the back of the conveyance.

Under her direction, they began unloading the foodstuffsthey had brought. Save for small robot handlers and cleaners,the chamber remained empty. He tried not to panic. Wherewere the humans? Where were the aliens he had sacrificed hiscareer, more than a year of his life, and the life of another tosee? Unable to stand it any longer, he asked as much.

Shemon gestured indifferently. It was evident that she waswell pleased with the turn of events. "Who knows? It is notnecessary for them to be here for the unloading."

"But don't they have to acknowledge receipt? Don't theyneed to check the delivery to make sure everything's here?"Desvendapur was moving as slowly as he possibly couldwithout appearing to be deliberately inhibiting the unloadingprocess.

"What for? They have been notified that the weekly delivery was on its way. If anything is missing, or out of theordinary, our department will be notified and the omissioncorrected." Her relief was palpable. "At leastwe won't haveto deal with it personally."

But that was precisely what Des wanted, needed to do: to deal with things personally. Despite his best efforts to bringabout an inconspicuous slowdown, the quantity of cargo inthe back of the transport was diminishing at an alarming rate. At this pace they would be done and gone within half a time-part. He invented and discarded dozens of scenarios. Hecould fake an injury, but Shemon and Ulu would only load him into the rear of the transport and hurry him back to theinfirmary in the thranx sector. He could try overpoweringthe two of them, but while Shemon might prove a less thanchallenging adversary, Ulunegjeprok was young and fit and might be difficult to surprise. Besides, Des was a poet, not asoldier. And while such a hostile action might gain him a fewtime-parts of independence, the reverberations of such agesture would undoubtedly result in his expulsion from the Geswixt hive and the loss of any further opportunity to encounter the aliens.

There was nothing he could do. He was trapped in a webof inexorably contracting time. His abdomen twitched, reminding him that his thoughts did not operate independent ofhis body.

Revelation congealed like a ripe pudding. Perhaps that wasenough.

Passing a self-hovering cylindrical container twice his sizeto the waiting Ulu, he glanced in Shemon's direction. "I haveto relieve myself."

She did not even look up from the readout on which shewas tallying inventory. Truhand and foothand pointed. "Overthere, through that second door. Don't you recognize themarkings?"

Desvendapur looked in the indicated direction. "Those areindicators for a human facility."

"It is a joint facility, or so the instruction manual claims.But you didn't see my instructions; you only saw yours, so I suppose your ignorance is understandable. Be quick, and donot linger." There was unease in her voice. "I want to leavethis place as soon as possible."

He gestured assent leavened with understanding as he hurried off in the indicated direction, all six legs working. Thedoorway yielded to his touch and granted entry, whereuponhe found himself confronted with as exotic a panoply of devices as if he had stepped into the cockpit of a starship--although their functions were far more down to earth, in moreways than one.

In addition to the familiar sonic cleanser and slitted receptacles in the floor, there were a number of what appeared to be hollow seats attached to a far wall. He would have liked to inspect them more closely, but he was here to try to encounter aliens, not their artifacts. Desperately he searched the wastechamber for another exit, only to find none.

Refusing to give up and return to the unloading dock, he eased the door to the service chamber open and peered out,folding his antennae flat back against his smooth skull tocreate as small a profile as possible. Shemon was focused onher readout while Ulu was preoccupied with the remainder ofthe unloading. Waiting until his coworker was busy in theback of the vehicle, Desvendapur bolted to his right, hugging the wall of the storage chamber while hunting desperately foranother way out. He had to try three sealed portals before hefound one that was not locked.

Entering and closing the door behind him, he noted that itwas of human design, being narrower and higher than that intended solely for thranx. Ahead lay a ramp leading upward. Advancing with determination, he took in a plethora of alienartifacts around him: contact switches of human design in a raised box; a railing of some kind attached to the wall head-high, too elevated to be useful to a thranx; a transparent doorbehind which was mounted equipment whose pattern andpurpose he did not recognize; and more. Though the ramp was oddly ribbed instead of pebbled as was normal, it stillprovided excellent purchase for his anxious feet.

A second, larger door loomed in front of him. From itscenter bulged a recognizable activation panel dotted with unfamiliar controls. Touching the wrong one, or the wrong sequence, might set off an alarm, but at this point he didn't care.Even if that proved to be the ultimate result of his intrusion, atleast there was an outside chance aliens might respond to thealert. Without hesitating, he pressed two of the four digits ofhis left truhand against a green translucency. From his studies he knew that humans were as fond of the color green as werethe thranx.

The door buzzed softly and swung back. Without waitingfor it to open all the way, he dashed through as soon as theopening was large enough to allow his abdomen to pass.There was a temperature curtain ahead, and he hurried rightthrough it as well. Then he came to a stop, stunned physicallyas well as mentally. He was outside. On the surface.

In the mountains.

His feet sank into drifted rilth, and incredible iciness racedup his legs like fire. The shock was magnified by the fact thathe was not wearing cold-weather gear, but only a couple of carrying pouches. There was no need for special protective attire in the hive below. Looking around, he saw whitenesseverywhere--the whiteness of newly fallen rilth.

Turning, he took a step back toward the portal. The intensecold was already numbing his nerves, making it difficult tofeel his legs. It struck him forcefully that no one knew he wasout here. Ulu and Shemon would not begin to wonder at hiscontinued absence for another several minutes at least. Whenthey did, they would start by searching for him in the unloading area. By the time anyone thought to look for himoutside, he would be dead, his respiration stilled, his limbsfrozen solid.

He tried to take another step, but even with all six legsworking, the cold had reduced his pace to a bare shuffle.Fresh rilth, frozen white precipitation, began to sift downaround him, spilling from a leaden sky. I'm going to die outhere, he thought. The irony was unspeakable. His death wouldprovide excellent fodder for some bard in search of inspiration. The tragic demise of the poet aspirant. No, he correctedhimself. Of a stupid assistant food preparator. Even his motives would be misascribed.

"Hey over there! Are you all right?"

He found that he could still turn his head, though the effort made the muscles in his neck shriek. The salutation had comefrom a figure a full head taller than himself--from a biped, ahuman.

From his studies Des knew that humans rarely went without protective attire, even when indoors and out of the weather.This one was clad in a single pouch of loose gray clothingthat covered it from neck to ankle. The leggings fit neatly intoshort gray boots of some synthetic material. Astonishingly,its head and hands were unprotected, directly exposed to thefalling rilth. Though it evinced no sign of an integratedheating unit, it moved freely and easily through the accumulated rilth that came up to just below the tops of its footwear.

Though it was far from the circumstances under whichDesvendapur had first hoped to try out his store of meticulously memorized human phrases, he was not shy about responding. The vocal modulations sounded unnaturally harshto his ears, and he hoped he was not overemphasizing theguttural nature of the mammalian speech.

Evidently he was not, because the human responded immediately, hurrying toward him. It was astonishing to observe it lifting first one foot and then the other, plunging oneuncaringly downward into the rilth, raising the other, andbringing it forward. How it managed to stand upright, muchless advance on only two limbs, and without a counterbalancing tail like the AAnn or the Quillp. was something tobehold.

"What are you doing out here like this?" Up close, thebiped's odor even in the clear outside mountain air was all butoverpowering. Desvendapur's antennae flinched away. Performed in front of another thranx, the reaction would haveconstituted a grave insult. Either the human was unaware ofits meaning or did not care. "You guys hate the cold."

"You--" Desvendapur continued to hesitate over the wordseven though it was clear that the human understood him."--You don't mind it?"

"It's not bad out today, and I'm dressed for it." With a soft, fleshy hand that boasted five flexible digits the human began brushing accumulated rilth from the errant thranx's head andthorax.

"But your face, and your hands--they're exposed."

The creature had only two opposing mouthparts insteadof the usual four. These parted to reveal teeth as white asthe falling rilth. Des did not have teeth, but he knew whatthey were. He struggled to recall the library information thatdealt with the utterly alien aspect of human facial expressions. While the bipeds could and did gesture with theirlimbs, they preferred to use their obscenely flexible faces toconvey meaning and emotion. In this ability they exceededeven the AAnn, whose visages were also flexible but becauseof the scaly nature of their skin, far more stiff and restricted.

As the human continued to brush rilth from the thranx'snumbed body, seemingly oblivious to the dangerous dampcoldness melting against its hands, Des marveled at the exposed flesh. Why the rippling pink stuff simply did not sloughoff the internal skeleton was another of nature's marvels.There was nothing to protect it: no exoskeleton, no scales, noteven any fur except for a small amount that covered the top ofthe skull. The creature was as barren of natural cover as the muscles that were barely concealed within. The poet shuddered, and not entirely from the cold. Here was the stuff of nightmares indeed--and of shocking inspiration. Animalscould exist so, but something sapient? He found it hard to believe the evidence of his eyes.

"We've got to get you inside. Hang on."

If Des had wondered at the biped's ability to ambulate ononly two limbs without toppling sideways at every third orfourth step, he was positively stunned when it bent at themiddle lower joints, reached beneath his abdomen, and lifted.He felt himself rising, the lethal cold of the drifted rilth sliding away from his exposed feet, the heat of the creature reaching out even through its protective clothing. Then he wasbeing carried. That the biped, heavily burdened with its load,did not immediately fall over backward was scarce to bebelieved.

Not only did it not collapse or lose its balance, it carriedDes all the way back through the temperature curtain. Warmmoist air enveloped them like a blanket. Feeling began toreturn to Desvendapur's limbs, and the creeping stiffnessstarted to recede.

"Can you stand by yourself?"

"Yes, I think so."

Once they were through the main door the human set himdown, keeping a steadying hand on his thorax. Despite theabsence of a supportive exoskeleton, the digits were surprisingly strong. The sensation was one no library spool couldconvey.

"Thank you." He gazed up into the single-lensed humaneyes, trying to fathom their depths.

"What the hell were you doing outside like that? If I hadn'tcome along you'd be in a bad way."

"I would not be in a bad way. I would be dead. I intend tocompose a sequence of heroic couplets about the experience.The sensation of the cold alone should be worth several inspiring stanzas."

"Oh, you're a poet?" Absently, the human checked anumerical readout attached to his wrist. Desvendapur had decided the creature was a male due to the presence of certainsecondary sexual characteristics and the absence of others,though given the thickness of the voluminous protective clothing it was difficult to be absolutely certain.

"No," Des hastily corrected himself. "That is, I am anassistant food preparator. Composition is a hobby, nothing more." To try to change the subject he added, "If you have sampled thranx fare, I have probably worked on the initialstages of its preparation."

"I'm sure that I have. We eat your stuff all the time. No waywe could import enough to keep everybody fed and still maintain our privacy here. Willow-Wane fruits and vegetables andgrains are a welcome change from concentrates and rehydrates. What's your name?"

"Desvenbapur." He whistled internally as the humangamely assayed a comical but passable imitation of the requisite clicks and whistles that comprised the poet's cognomen."And you?"

"Niles Hendriksen. I'm part of the construction teamworking with your people to expand our facility here."

Expand, Des thought. Then the human presence on Willow-Wane likelydid consist of more than just a small scientificstation. Still, that did not make it a colony. He needed to learnmore. But how? Already the human was exhibiting signs ofimpatience. It wanted to resume its own schedule, Dessuspected. Furthermore, perspiration was pouring down itsexposed face. Even deprived of every last piece of attire, Des-vendapur knew, it would find the heat and humidity withinthe unloading area acutely uncomfortable.

"I would like to see you again, Niles. Just to talk."

The human's smile was not as wide this time. "You know that's not allowed, Desvenbapur. We're breaking a couple ofpages of stipulations and restrictions right now by just standing here conversing. But I'll be damned if I was going to walkon by and let you freeze to death." He started to back up, stillwithout falling down. "Maybe we'll see each other again.Why don't you apply to come work in our sector?"

"There is such a position?" Des hardly dared to hope.

"I think so. There are always a couple of thranx workingwith our own food people. But I think they must be masterpreparators, not assistants. Still, with the installation expanding and all, maybe they can use some lower-level help." Withthat he turned and headed back up the ramp, closing the doorat the top behind him.

Thoughts churning, Desvendapur made his way back tothe central dock and the waiting truck. A distraught Ulu andan angry Shemon were waiting for him, having long sincecompleted the unloading.

"Where were you?" Shemon inquired immediately.

"I needed to relieve myself. I told you." Desvendapur mether gaze evenly, his antennae held defiantly erect.

"You're lying. Ulu went to check on you. You were not inthe facility."

"I was having digestive convulsions so I took a walk,thinking that it might ease the discomfort."

She was having none of it. Her antennae dipped forward."What more appropriate place to deal with intestinal convulsions than the hygienic facility you were already inside?"

"I wasn't thinking straight. I am sorry if I caused you toworry."

Ulunegjeprok stepped forward and spoke up in his co-worker's defense. "There is no need to torment him. Look athis eyes. Can't you see that he is not feeling well?" Hereached out to lay a reassuring hand on Des's thorax.

Desvendapur quickly stepped back. His friend gesturedsurprise, and Des hastened to concoct an explanation. "I am sorry, Ulu. It's nothing personal, but I do not want tobe touched just now. I am afraid it might irritate my insides,and they do not need any more stimulation." The real reasonwas that his chitin was still chilled from his sojourn on thesurface, a phenomenon that would not be so easily explainedaway as his extended absence.

"Yes, I can see that." His colleague gestured concern. "Youshould report to the infirmary immediately upon our return."

"I intend to," a relieved Des replied.

Little was said on the return journey down the access tunnel. Desvendapur kept, physically and verbally, largely to himself. Believing him ill, neither Ulu nor the still silentlyfuming Shemon intruded on his personal privacy.

Once back in the complex, the poet excused himself. Hewent not to the infirmary but to the preparation area. There hesearched until he found a suitable bin of spoiledhime rootand ripely decomposingcoprul leaves. From this he fashioned a suitably noxious meal and forced himself to eat every last leaf and stem. Within half a time-part he was able to present himself outside the complex's medical facilities with agenuine, full-blown case of severe gastrointestinal upset, forwhich he was tenderly treated.

By the next day he was feeling much better. He couldhardly wait for his work shift to end, whereupon he retiredto his cubicle, set a flagon of thin!eld by the side of hisresting bench, lowered the lights, activated his scri!ber, andin the carefully crafted privacy of his quarters, prepared tocompose. And then a strange thing happened.

Nothing happened.

When he struggled to find the words and sounds to describe his encounter with the human, nothing suitable manifested itself. Oh, there were sounds and phrases at his disposal:an ocean of suitable components wanting only inspiration tolock them tightly together. He assembled several stanzas--and erased them. Attempting to mime the sound of the humanvoice while utilizing thranx terminology, he constructed anedifice of hoarse clicks--and tore it apart.

What was wrong? The words were there, the sounds--but something was missing. The consecution lacked fire, theframework elegance. Everything had happened so fast he hadonly been able to react, when what he really needed was timeto absorb, to study, to contemplate. Concentrating on survival, he had not had time to open himself to inspiration.

The only explanation, the only solution, was obvious. Moreinput was needed. More of everything. More contact, moreconversation, more drama--though next time, not of the life-threatening variety. He remembered the words of the humanNiles. But how could he apply for a professional position in the human sector that might not even exist? Or if it did, howcould he ingratiate himself with the necessary authority without revealing information he was not supposed to know?

He would find a way. He was good with invention, withwords. Not inspired, perhaps. Not yet. But he did not need tobe inspired to proceed. He needed only to be clever.

Would the human speak of their encounter to his own superiors or coworkers? And if he did, would word of the unauthorized contact reach the thranx authorities who administeredthe indigenous half of the complex? Desvendapur waitedmany days before he was convinced that the human had keptthe details of the confrontation and rescue to himself. Eitherthat, or his coworkers did not feel the incident worthy of mention to their hosts. Only when Des felt halfway confident thatnews of the occasion had not been disseminated did he riskprobing possibilities. "I do not understand." Rulag, Des's immediate superior, was gazing at the readout on her screen. "It says here that you areto report for service to the human sector tomorrow morningat sunrise. You have been assigned to the inner detail."

Somehow Desvendapur managed to contain himself. Thiswas what he had been waiting for. "I have repeatedly appliedfor any opening in food preparation in the human sector, inthe hopes that they might expand our presence there."

"You know very well that they have been doing so, albeitslowly and carefully. But that's not what puzzlesme." Withtwo digits of a truhand she indicated the readout, which waspositioned out of Des's line of sight. "It says here that you are to bring all your belongings with you. Apparently you are notonly to work in the human sector; you are also to residethere." She looked up at him. "To my knowledge, all thranxwho work with the bipeds have their quarters here, on theborder of Geswixt proper."

He shifted edgily on all four feet. "Obviously there hasbeen a change in policy. Or perhaps it is part of some newexperiment."

Her interest as she studied him was genuine. "This doesn'tbother you? You are prepared to go and live among thehumans?"

"I will be with others of my own kind." He genuflectedconfidence. "Surely I'm not the only one to be so assigned.The humans would not request only a lowly assistant foodpreparator to come live and work among them."

"No, there have been others. You are right about that. Only you from our division, but I have talked with other level-ninesupervisors. One from meteorology has been similarly assigned, another from engineering--you will have company."She gestured brusque negativity."I couldn't do it."

"You don't have a sufficiently open or exploratory nature," Desvendapur replied gently. It was not a criticism.

"Yes I do, but only where innovative food preparation is concerned." Rising from the desk, she dipped her antennaetoward him. "I will miss you, Desvendapur. Not particularlyon a personal basis, but in the kitchen. You are a good worker.In fact, I don't believe I have ever seen such dedication in so prosaic a classification. It is almost as if you have the capability to achieve much more."

"As you say, I like to work hard," he replied evasively, refusing to bite on the bait of the compliment. "At first light,you said?"

"Yes." She turned away. "Report to the transition chamber,dock six. I am told there are three others who are going at thesame time, so your first encounter with the humans will notbe a solitary one."

He had already had a first encounter, but that was andwould always remain a private matter. "It will not take melong to gather my things."

"No, from all that I've been told you are not an accumulator. I suppose that under the circumstances that's all for thebest. Farewell, Desvendapur. I hope you find your stay amongthese creatures enlightening, or at least not too frightening."

She would not have understood if he had told her that he hoped to be frightened--also amazed, overwhelmed, terrified, awed, and subject to every other strong emotion possible. It was only from such extremes of feeling that true artarose. But he could not tell her that. He could not tell anyone.What emotions he experienced, as first assistant food preparator Desvendapur, were only supposed to arise from intimate contact with vegetables.

Chapter Eight

He was the first of the four adventurous ones to presenthimself at the designated assembly point. The others arrivedsoon after. The meteorologist was there, as was a senior structural engineer. The third member of the group was a youngfemale sanitation worker who went by the dulcet patronymicof Jhywinhuran. Forcing himself to ignore the more interesting conversation of the two high-level researchers, he gravitated toward the only one of the group with whom he mightnaturally be expected to bond.

He would much rather have discussed their situation andprospects with the two scientists, but joining in an ongoingdiscussion with two such cerebral heavyweights was just thesort of misstep that could call his carefully constructed falseidentity into question. As it turned out, he was only mildlydisappointed. Jhywinhuran was lively, personable, far moreattractive than either of the two senior techs, and did not rankhis job classification. It did not take much of an effort on hispart to settle readily onto the bench alongside hers.

"This is so exciting!" Light from overhead sparkled in hereyes. He observed that the red bands that streaked the predominant gold of her multiple lenses shaded delicately topink. "Ever since the existence of the bipeds was acknowledged by the government I've dreamed of working closelywith them. That's why I applied for a position here. But Inever imagined I would ever have the opportunity of actuallyliving among them as well."

"Why?"

She gestured uncertainty. "Why what?"

"Why do you want to work and live among them?" Beneath them, the transport shifted slightly as it backed out ofthe loading bay and moved toward a tunnel whose terminushe knew from a previous visit.

"I've always liked new things," she replied. "Anythingnew. When I heard about this, it seemed like the newest thingthere could be."

He looked away from her, scrutinizing the tunnel ahead."You sound like you should be an artist."

"Oh, no!" She seemed shocked at the notion. "For that youneed a constructive imagination. Mine is purely deductive. I have no aesthetic discipline at all. But I'm very good at whatI do."

"You must be," he told her, "or you would not have beenchosen for this transfer."

"I know." She stridulated personal pride. "I'm proud of myskills, even if my position is a lowly one."

"Not at all," he chided her. "Mine is lower still. In essencewe are both laborers in the same discipline: biology. I workone end, and you the other."

To make the mild witticism work he was forced to employa couple of whistles in High Thranx. It took her several moments for comprehension to dawn, but when it did her gestureof amusement was highly appreciative. As always, he knewthat he would have to be careful not to reveal too much of his erudition. Assistant food preparators rarely made use of HighThranx, which was not a dialect but a second language whoseuse was largely reserved for the learned.

The journey through the tunnel seemed to go on forever.Certainly he did not remember it taking half so long on his previous visit. When questioned, the transport driver couldonly say that he was taking them to the destination decreed on his manifest. What would happen to them after they arrived at their destination he did not know.

After what felt like an interminable junket the transportpulled into a dock unlike any Des had seen before. All thranxfacilities were spotless, but this one gleamed as if it wasscoured down every other time-part. Security was noticeablyprominent. The travelers were escorted off the transport,equal attention being paid to scientists and support workers.Ushered into a clean room, their bodies and personal luggagewere minutely inspected, scanned, probed, and analyzed. Desvendapur would have been uneasy had he not observed thatJhy was even more nervous. Was she too the manufacturerand possessor of a false identity?

No, that was absurd, he told himself. As ever, he needed tobe wary of slipping into paranoia. The four of them weregoing to be working in close quarters with humans. Whatmore natural than that they should be profoundly screened?

Still, the procedures being followed struck him as excessive. After all, he had experienced close contact with one ofthe bipeds without any prescreening whatsoever, to the detriment of neither. But that contact had been unofficial.

He had anticipated the inspection and review would last afew time-parts at most. It occupied the better part of threedays, during which time the four assignees were kept isolatednot only from humans but from all other thranx except thoseimmediately involved in their examination. At the end of thatperiod they were directed to board another transport. Desnoted that it was not independently powered, but instead wasmounted on magnetic repulsion strips. That suggested a highspeed journey, and a much longer one than he had expected.

He was moved to query the official marching alongsidehim. She had a silver star and two subsidiary bursts embedded in the chitin of her right upper shoulder. "Where arewe going? Why the rapid transport?" He gestured with a tru-hand. "The human sector is right over there somewhere."

"The Geswixt sector is," the escort agreed. "But youfour have not been assigned to Geswixt. You're going to theproject."

"The project!" Striding along just behind the poet, Jhywinhuran was listening intently. "The project on Hivehom. Theydidn't tell us."

"No point in keeping it a secret now. I envy you," the escort murmured. "You will have the opportunity to meet andinteract with the famous first-contact supervisor, the EintRyozenzuzex. Quite an honor."

"I've never been offworld." Desvendapur's mind was spinning. Space-plus travel itself--the experience of journeyingbetween different star systems--should provide marvelousfodder for composition. And then there was the opportunityto live and work with members of the original project, setup soon after the first tentative thranx-human contact wasestablished.

"Neither have I." The escort gestured appropriately asthey reached the portal that provided entrance to the transport. "Nor is it likely I will ever be. But I am grateful forthe opportunity to work here and contribute to interspeciesunderstanding."

"How many humans have you met?" Des asked as hestepped into the waiting vehicle. "How many have you dealtwith?"

"None." The escort stood stiffly to one side as they boarded,all four arms upraised in salute. "I am with Security. Our job is to keep the wandering curious away from the humans, notto interact with them. But there is still the satisfaction of contributing. Sweet traveling to you."

Anticipation surged through Desvendapur as he settledhis abdomen over a vacant bench, straddling it expectantly.Very soon thereafter, the transport began to move, picking up speed as it rose above the strip and raced toward an unknown destination. No, not entirely unknown, he told himself. Therewould be a ship waiting, a shuttle to lift them into orbit. Therethey would board a starship for the journey through space-plus to Hivehom, the thranx homeworld and the location ofthe project.

For someone who had hoped only to meet another human or two in their own environment, events were moving alongencouragingly indeed.

There were no signs to identify the station where theyeventually disembarked, and no crowds to query. Insignia and attitude indicated that they had arrived at a military asopposed to a commercial facility, a supposition that furtherinspection and scrutiny confirmed.

Everything was going so well that Desvendapur was unprepared when the processor standing on the other side of therailing looked up from his readout to declare calmly butfirmly, "Desvendapur? There's no Desvendapur in this file."

The poet's blood went colder than it had on the day he had stumbled inadvertently outside the Geswixt hive and into the accumulated rilth above. The new identity he had worked solong and hard to construct seemed to evaporate like a puffof perfumedpleorin, leaving him standing exposed and revealed to every set of compound eyes in the facility. But noone was looking in his direction; no one was staring at himaccusingly. Yet.

"There must be a mistake. I made a proper application andhave been passed on through to this point without any difficulty." He struggled to keep his antennae from twitching,fought to conceal the fear that was raging through him.

The processor was not impressed. He was a senior, hischitin shading heavily to purple, but he was still alert and infull possession of his faculties. He replied without looking upfrom the readout.

"That is why a hive has multiple layers of security. Whatslips past one can be caught by another."

There was nothing Desvendapur could do but stand andwait. Having passed on to the next station, a puzzled Jhywalked back to see what was taking so long. When Des explained, she became irate.

"What nonsense is this? Of course this male belongs. He is one of four assigned to this duty. No--honored bythis duty."

"Really, Jhy." He did his best to quiet her, looking arounduneasily. Drawn to the commotion, the two scientists whohad already been cleared had paused at the top of the landingto look back. The one thing Des did not seek in his present incarnation was attention. "I'm sure it will sort itself out."

She gazed at him out of eyes that were a flaxen composite of shattered mirrors. "You shouldn't let him treat youlike this, Des. You are special now. All four of us are." Sheeyed the processor sternly. "Regardless of our individual jobclassifications."

The elderly drone remained unperturbed. "Procedures mustbe followed. Otherwise you do not have a hive: you have anarchy. If he is not in the file, then it admits of an irregularity. Irregularities must be resolved."

"I am sure this one will be." The poet made short, swooping, soothing gestures with both truhands. "It has to be somesort of administrative error."

"No." The processor was adamant. "There is no Desvendapur registered here." A truhand reached toward a communicator. "I will have to summon a superior--and Security."

Tussling with a couple of warriors with oversized mandibles would not get him a cubicle on the waiting starship,Des knew. There was nothing he could do but stand and wait.Wait, he feared, for the inevitable--for that which he hadsucceeded in putting off for more than a year.

"I do not understand." If Desvendapur was distressed, Jhywinhuran was openly baffled. "He has been working at Geswixthive for some time. That is a security-sensitive area, and therehas been no difficulty. Why should there be a confusion now?It's not as if he is laboring for military intelligence or energyresearch. He works in food processing."

"It does not matter," declared the processor with finality. "A security breach is a security breach, no matter whatthe status of the ..." He halted in midapprobation. "Foodpreparation?"

"Eighth-level assistant," Desvendapur supplied quickly.

The processor clicked sharply, his mandibles grinding together just so. "The file lists you as a foodsynthesizer. That is a much more illustrious designation."

"I completely agree," Des told him, "but it is not one thatapplies to me. I am only an assistant preparator." Leaning forward, he tried to steal a glimpse of the readout, and failed. Itwas attuned only to the eyes of the processor.

Digits moved and the readout changed. Desvendapur reminded himself to breathe.

"Aht,here it is." The drone's tone did not change. "Desvendapur. Assistant food preparator, level eight. You mayproceed to the next checkpoint."

"That's it?" The challenge emerged of its own accord."After all that?"

"After all what?" The processor eyed him curiously. "Itwas a simple filing error. I was doing my job."

He would have to learn to accept such things in stride,a relieved Desvendapur told himself. His identity had notbeen compromised--only momentarily misplaced. With Jhyleading the way, he advanced to the next station, ready nowfor whatever challenge it might present.

He need not have concerned himself. At each successivecheckpoint his presence was acknowledged and his legitimacy confirmed. If he had been at all worried about the integrity of his newly wrought identity, two days of processingdid much to lay his concerns to rest.

They were housed together until the following morning,when they were due to lift off via atmospheric shuttle. Waiting in high orbit was the space-plus transportZenruloim. Noone had officially told them they were going to Hivehom, and no one had to: That was where the project was located.

He tried to prepare himself mentally for the voyage ahead. His first journey offworld should be good for a folio at least.Then would come the descent to an entirely new planet, theancestral homeworld of the thranx. Finally there would be, atlong last, extended and intimate contact with the extraordinary bipedal mammals called humans. His sleeping chamber was comfortable enough, but he hardly slept at all.

Morning brought with it an excitement that was as difficultto contain as it was to quantify. He was pleased to note that the two scientists, far from being intellectually or emotionally above such simple emotions, were as visibly excited asfood preparator and sanitation worker.

They boarded the shuttle via a long access ramp. At notime were they exposed to the outside, but that was perfectlynatural. Very little of a hive beyond parks and recreationalsites was located on the surface. The atmospheric shuttle itself was of modest dimensions, long and low. Brief prelift instruction was given; no one materialized to offer good-byesor farewells; and before he really had time to inspect hissurroundings, Desvendapur found himself airborne and thundering toward orbit.

Offworld. There were no ports on the government transport, but by utilizing the seat controls he was able to call up athree-dimensional projection of the external view in any direction. He saw Willow-Wane receding below him and thefirmament of stars and worlds and other species--primitiveand intelligent, familiar and alien--drawing infinitesimallycloser. Within him fresh inspiration simmered but did notboil. That would come with consistent contact, he felt. Whenhe was surrounded by alien bipeds, by humans dwelling intheir own facilities, that was when the river of enlightenment would wash over him to cleanse him of the puerile, classical heritage of traditional thranx rhythmic narrative.

He had studied hard, had prepared for this his whole life.What it was permitted to know, he had absorbed, from available records and reports. He knew how humans lived, but thatwas not the same as living with and among them. He knewhow they were supposed to smell, but that was not the sameas smelling them. He knew how they moved, how their peculiarly restricted speech patterns sounded, how they viewedthe universe out of undersized single-lensed eyes, how theirdigestive systems worked to process not only normal foodbut dead animal products as well. All these things he knew,but studying them in recordings and reading about them insecond- and third-hand reports was not the same thing as experiencing them for himself.

Furthermore, almost all of it was knowledge that had beengained under controlled conditions. From the standpoint ofan artist as opposed to a scientist, he valued his single, brief, dangerous encounter with the lone human in the rilth above Geswixt more than all the recorded lore he had assimilated. How he was going to duplicate and expand upon that under the controlled conditions of the project he did not know. Heonly knew that it was necessary, even vital, to the maturationof his art. Somehow he would make it happen.

But first they had to get there.

When theZen made the jump from normal space to space-plus he was sufficiently disoriented to contrive the sounds for what he believed to be a modestly successful tripartite stanza. Realizing that it undoubtedly duplicated, in spirit if not in actual phraseology, a hundred similar initial deep-space experiences, he promptly discarded the entire minor opus. He hadnot come this far, had not lied and invented and lowered himself and abandoned the patrimony of his hive, to grind outpale imitations of the work of others who had gone beforehim. He sought the unique, the new, the distinctive. Thatwould not be found in duplicating the obvious experiences of predecessors.

As the journey through distorted space-time progressed hecame to know his fellow travelers better. Though he focusedhis attentions on Jhywinhuran and the two scientists who hadalso been assigned to the project, he did not neglect the other passengers or those members of the crew who found time to spend with an inquisitive lower-level passenger. He partookof everything. A true artist disdained nothing, never knowing from where true inspiration might arise. So he acquired and stored away information on topics as diverse as hydro-logical engineering and starship maintenance, not neglectingthe area of food preparation, in which he could boast someexpertise.

They were two eight-days out and he was sleeping soundlyin his private cubicle when he heard the noise. It was amuffled creaking, repeated at regular intervals. Since thecomponents of a thranx vessel fit together seamlessly, it was difficult to imagine what might be causing noise sufficient towake him. As he regained consciousness, lying in the dark on the low sleeping bench, he listened intently to the soft, unsettling sounds. He did not have to open his eyes because theywere always open. He had only to struggle to pull together theconstituent bits and pieces of his consciousness.

The subtle shushing was produced by the movement ofclothing against the body of its wearer. But it was not the slick rush of thranx protective attire against smooth, hardchitin. The noise that had awakened him was more subtle, almost as if cloth were being dragged across water.

Looking up, he saw the shape looming over him. In thetwilight that filled the cubicle it was enormous and unarguably human. From his studies Des knew that specific bipeds varied considerably in size, as opposed to other sapientspecies like the thranx or the AAnn whose individual physical dimensions were relatively consistent. This one was atleast twice as big as the solitary male he had encountered inthe exposed air of Geswixt. An enormous waterfall of tangledblack fur sprouted from its face and head to hang downover the upper portion of its chest and shoulders. Its eyeswere black and protruding. Its immense five-digited hands, ofwhich the creature had only two, gripped a shiny length ofprojection-studded metal that was vaguely ominous in outline. The creature wore a heavy jacket of some dun-colored material and matching pants, and its single pair of feet wereshod in calf-high black boots fashioned from some muted,reflective material.

Towering above his bed, it glared down at him, showingthe even, white teeth that served the same function as normalmandibles. Its entire aspect was quietly intimidating. No em-pathetic "Are you all right?" greeted the awakening of thesingle sleeper. From head to foot the massive figure was theperfect embodiment of alien nightmare.

Despite the insulation, he could hear some commotionoutside the door to his cubicle. There were high-pitched whistles that passed for screams, followed by the muted whisper of running feet and loud, anxious conversation.Querulous mandibular clicks filtered into his quarters fromthe corridor outside as if it had been invaded and was being assaulted by a horde of migrating carnivorousmetractiafrom Trix.

Raising his upper body off the sleeping bench he whispered in the direction of the cubicle's scrilber. The auralpickup winked to life. "Projective intrusion noted. Presumed unscheduled emotional stability test acknowledged. Returning to sleep." When no further vocals were forthcoming fromthe sleepy occupant of the room, the scri!ber winked off,having duly made note of Desvendapur's terse report.

Glancing to his right, he saw that the forbidding figure hadvanished. The projection really had been well done, he mused as he drifted back toward unconsciousness. Had he been confronted with it the previous year he undoubtedly would havejoined the others who had been assailed with the same nocturnal visitation in scrambling in panic for the corridor outside his cubicle. But he was not the same individual he hadbeen then. He knew more now--a great deal more. That acquired knowledge was reflected in the calm with which hehad confronted the figure, and in his ability to return readilyto a state of uninvolved repose.

Following the daybreak meal the four fellow travelers werecalled away from the other passengers to a private, securedconspectus session in a spacious meeting chamber. Warmearth tones dominated the decor, and the walls exuded the familiar fragrance of rammed earth and decomposing vegetation. The two senior researchers who debriefed them wereespecially intrigued with Desvendapur's laconic reaction tothe finely rendered three-dimensional imaging of the previous night.

"You did not panic when confronted with the human visualization," the elder, a female, declared almost accusingly."To greater and lesser extent, your colleagues did."

Des was aware that this time not only Jhy but the two scientists were watching him curiously. Had he stepped too boldlyoutside his carefully constructed identity? Should he, too,have run out into the hall whistling in fear and panic? But hehad been awakened from a sound sleep and had reacted, notas a false persona, but as himself, bringing into play all the knowledge he had acquired in the past year. He could onlyhope that it would not mark him so singularly as to prompt aprobe from which this time he might not emerge unscathed.

Realizing that the longer he delayed responding the greaterthe likelihood of suspicion germinating in the minds of hisinterrogators, he replied succinctly, "I saw no immediate reason for alarm."

A slightly younger male questioner spoke up sharply.Desvendapur wondered if in addition to being recorded, this encounter was also being broadcast to and studied by an unknown number of other suspicious professionals.

"An armed alien of considerable size and menacing aspectappears without warning in your sleeping quarters in themiddle of the night, waking you from a deep rest, and instead of panicking you immediately recognize the intrusion as specious, react accordingly, and go back to sleep. How manythranx do you think would react in such a fashion?" Awaitinghis response, every antenna in the chamber was inclined inhis direction. He hoped he was not emitting a strong odor ofconcern.

"Probably very few."

"Probably not more than a handful." The female's tone wassharp, incisive but without overtones of anger. "An assistant food preparator from Willow-Wane would not generally beaccounted a member of that group."

Subdued light glinted off the curve of the male's eyes."How did you recognize so quickly that the intruder was aprojection, and therefore posed no threat to you?"

"From his clothing." This time Des replied promptly andwithout hesitation.

The interrogators exchanged a glance and passing antennacontact. "Every effort was made to ensure the verisimilitudeof the human's appearance. What was wrong with its clothing?"

"There was nothing wrong with it. At least," the poet hastened to add, "nothing that I, based on my own private studiesof humans and their habits and accouterments, could see."

"Then why did you react so calmly?" the male pressedhim. "What about the appearance of the simulacrum's attiretold you that it could not be real?"

"There was too much of it." Des felt safe in indicating mild amusement. "Humans thrive in a climate of considerably lessheat and one-third the humidity that thranx enjoy. They canendurewhat we consider optimum living conditions, but they are not comfortable in them. And what we would regard as an excessive but tolerable climate could prove fatal to even well-adapted humans." Feeling more confident, he shifted easilyon the resting bench.

"The temperature in my quarters was, if anything, setslightly warmer and moister than usual to accommodate mypersonal sleeping preferences. The bipedal figure wore notless than two layers ofheavy human clothing. According tomy studies, no human--no matter how well acclimated toWillow-Wane or Hivehom or any thranx world--would voluntarily wear a fourth as much apparel. Its system could nottolerate it for more than a time-part or so without suffering serious overheating. Yet the figure that woke me from mysleep did not appear even slightly inconvenienced by themicroclimate in my room. The characteristic cooling condensation known as sweat was not present on its skin at all." Helooked from his interrogators to his colleagues. "That's how I knew it couldn't be a real human."

The examiners looked briefly to their scri!bers before thefemale replied. With a truhand she indicated not suspicion or accusation, but admiration. "You are observant beyond yourstation, Desvendapur. It is no wonder you were chosen to participate in as significant an undertaking as this."

He hastened to demur. "I have always tried to learn everything possible about any task I was involved with, whether it concerned food preparation or anything else. The simulacrumcould have fooled me. It just happened that I wasstudying that section provided to us that deals with humanphysiology only last eight-day, and remembered it right away.It was at the front of my memory."

"A fine memory," she complimented him. "I would let youprepare my food anytime." Indicating that their involvementin the meeting was concluded, she and her companion roseand left the room. Their place was taken by four new officials,one of whom had two full stars inset into her right shoulder.

Desvendapur leaned toward Jhy and whispered. "I wonder what we have done to deserve the attention of so much rank."

"I don't know." She was grooming an antenna, bending itforward and down with her left truhand and running the sensory organ delicately through her mandibles. "You certainlyelevated yourself in the project's estimation with your actions last night."

"I was lucky." Using a surreptitious foothand, he strokedher upper abdomen. Her ovipositors reacted with a slightquiver. "Easy enough to be nonchalant in the presence of aprojected simulacrum. Next time I will probably be the onewho runs screaming."

"Somehow I don't think so." She would have said more,but the first of the newly arrived ranking elders was speakingto them.

"You four will be joining and participating in what manyeints have dubbed the most important social experiment in thranx history. As you know from your studies, ever sincecontact was first made we have found these bipedal mammalsto be at once fascinating and frightening, refreshing and appalling, useful and dangerous. They are an aggressive, inventive species that exhibits a disturbing tendency to act beforethinking. More often than you might expect, this produces results that are not to their benefit. Yet they will plunge blindlyon, sometimes even when they are aware that what they aredoing is detrimental to their own cause. It has been theorizedthat they have too much energy for their own good.

"Based on our initial contacts with them they are, I ampleased to report, not fond of our old friends the AAnn. Butneither are they openly antagonistic toward them. Their attitude towardus is characterized by an unreasonable, irrationalfear of the innumerable small arthropods that inhabit theirown world, against which they have been waging a war notmerely for dominance but for survival since they acquiredthe first stirrings of sapience. Our physical appearance wastherefore something of a shock to them, from which only themost intelligent and responsive of their kind have managed torecover. Progress in advancing relations has therefore beenmuch slower than either government would like. Yet to rushmatters risks alienating the more conservative among ourown kind while simultaneously activating the latent xenophobia that is regrettably endemic among the vast majority ofhumans.

"Overall, their present attitude toward us might best becharacterized as a suspicious ambivalence. It is hoped thatthis will correct itself with time. In the interim, various proposals have been put forth, by both sides, for different meansof accelerating the process of contact."

"The project," the meteorologist pointed out.

"Yes." It was the two-star who responded. "Everyone who wants to be or needs to be--human as well as thranx--is familiar with the project and its estimable goals." Her greatgolden eyes lingered individually on each of the four designates. "What is not known except among the highest representatives of both governments is that a similar project hasbeen established elsewhere."

"The need for secrecy is absolute," a third supervisor commented tersely. "As suspicious and mistrustful as the humansare of us, it is believed they would react in a manner most unfriendly to the revelation that not simply a contact post, butthe beginnings of a real colony were being established in their midst."

Desvendapur was not sure he had heard correctly. Thethranx had begun establishing colonies on habitable worldsgenerations ago, but to the best of his knowledge they hadnever tried to situate one on a world already inhabited byanother intelligent species. The idea of establishing a full blown hive on a human-occupied world was more than daring. Many would call it foolhardy.

Yet he sensed this was not a test, as the simulacrum of theprevious night had been. The supervisors were as serious as apregnant female about to lay.

Which world?" the engineer asked. "Centaurus Five, orone of the other Centaurian spheres?"

"None of those." The two-star was speaking again. If possible, her manner was more serious than before. "It is to thiscolony that you have been assigned. It is there that you willbe working, often in closer quarters with humans than anythranx anywhere else. Nothing of this kind has ever been attempted before. You will be part of a pioneering interspeciessocial experiment." Lifting a scri!ber, she flicked a control onthe panel. A folly featured three-dimensional globe appeared in the air between supervisors and incipient colonists.

"The great majority of humans are unaware of it, and if everything goes according to plan they will remain so forquite some time, but there is even as we speak an expanding thranx presence here, growing and thriving with the help of afew dedicated, farseeing humans."

As she spoke the global image rotated before them, theview zooming in and out at the whim of the controller. It wasa beautiful world, Desvendapur thought, swimming beneath its sea of thin white clouds. Not as beautiful as Hivehom, oreven Willow-Wane, but except for the prevalence of largeoceans, an inviting planet nonetheless. He wondered whichof the human-colonized worlds they were seeing, wonderedwhat the name of their destination might be.

The one supervisor who had not spoken yet now stoodback on all four trulegs and proceeded to enlighten, elucidate, and explain.

"Burrowers, fellow hive pioneers, future colonists, hereis your destination. I extend to you all an early welcome-- to Earth." Turning, he gesticulated somberness mixed withhumor. "After all, if the humans can be allowed to have acolony on Hivehom, why should we not have reciprocal privileges on their homeworld?"

Chapter Nine

They looked like a prosperous couple. Too staid to be romantic, walking side by side without touching or holdinghands, they had probably gone for a stroll in the tropicaldownpour so they would be able to tell their friends backhome that they had done it. Anyone with any sense wouldhave stayed inside a nice dry hotel until the clouds closedback up. That was what the permanent residents of San Josewere doing. That was what the great majority of tourists weredoing.

But not these two. Since they were wearing matchingelectrostatic repulsion rain gear, only their hands were getting wet, and these only when they emerged from large, accommodating pockets. The tepid water struck the invisibleprotective fields and slid off, leaving the strollers and the expensive clothing they wore underneath comfortable and dry.

Montoya followed them at a discreet distance. There werea few others out walking or running through the heavy rain.In the hilly downtown historical district there were always people making deliveries or pickups. There were plenty of other tourists out and about besides the couple he had targeted, but they were sensibly holed up in gift shops, restaurants, or hotel lobbies, waiting for the storm to piss itself out.

Hold-ups were not Cheelo's preferred mode of personal enrichment. He disliked confrontations. Like narcotics, muggingwas a bad habit that could all too easily become addictive. He'd seen it happen to acquaintances. He would have seen it happen to friends, if he'd had any. Given a choice, he would have preferred to rifle a hotel room or two, or pick a plump pocket, orlift a purse. No such opportunity had presented itself for days.Now he was growing anxious.

One more good score, just one more, and he would haveall the good-faith money he needed to present to Ehrenhardtto secure the franchise. Well ahead of the deadline that hadbeen set, too. Ehrenhardt and his people would be suitablyimpressed--which was Montoya's intention.

This would not be the first time he had mugged. Unlike anumber of younger compatriots he derived no thrill from it,got no adrenaline rush from seeing the look of fear on thefaces of his intended victims. With him it was all business, inthe tradition of professional highwaymen going back to archaic times. To fulfill his dream he needed a few hundredcredits more. These negligent travelers would provide it.

He continued to track the couple, pausing when theypaused, turning to peer into a store window whenever theychanced to look in his direction. For the most part he remained invisible, another tourist like themselves out for alazy afternoon's stroll in the rain. Only unlike them, he wasunable to afford expensive water-repulsion rain gear. Alreadyhe was damp and uncomfortable beneath his old-fashionedmaroon slicker.

In a sense hewas a tourist, having come up from Golfitospecifically to make the money necessary to buy the franchise. He had learned early in life that it was better to keepone's place of business separate from one's current home.Avoiding the authorities was difficult enough without livingin the same city as the ones who would be most interested infinding him. Besides, there were far more opportunities to accumulate the requisite credit in bustling San Jose than in thesmaller, sleepier city on the coast.

He tensed slightly, preparing his thoughts and muscles,and began to walk a little faster, closing the gap between himself and the perambulating couple. They had turned downone of the city's quaint alleys, a narrow street with scouredcobblestone sidewalks.

He was reaching inside his coat when they unexpectedlystepped into a store specializing in the distinctive woodwork for which the city was famed. Forced to continue on past, he glanced surreptitiously at the paduk and cocobolohandicrafts on display in the window. The next store wasclosed. Beyond, a serviceway barely wide enough to admitone person at a time split the line of old buildings as it penetrated to the heart of the block. Ducking inside, he foundsome shelter from the rain.

He waited there, biding his time, occasionally leaning outto look back up the hill. The sodden stones were deserted.Rain staccatoed off the pavement, fleeing in small distinctrivulets into the nearest storm drain. If the couple chose to retrace their steps instead of extending their excursion, hewould have no choice but to continue following them, likea caiman marking the progress of a tentative tapir grazingalong a riverbank.

Before long he heard the subdued murmur of casual chatter: three voices--those of the couple and that of the storeowner. Then footsteps, splashing in the rain, growing louderinstead of more distant. Reaching into his coat, his fingersclosed around the grip of the tiny pistol.

Timing his appearance, he stepped right out in front ofthem, trying to make himself look larger than he was. Thestunned expressions on their faces showed that his surprisewas complete.

Quickly now, he told himself. Before they have time tothink or time to react. He extended his other hand, palmupward.

"Wallet!" he snapped curtly. When the man, who was despite his age large and fit looking, hesitated, Cheelo barked asthreateningly as he could, "Now--or I'll skrag you and takeit anyway!"

"Martin, give it to him!" the wife pleaded. "Everything'sinsured." Ah, traveler's insurance, Cheelo mused. The casualthief's best friend.

"Slowly--so I can see it as you bring it out." He couchedthe warning in his most intimidating manner.

Glaring down at him, the well-dressed pedestrian removed a soft plastic pouch from beneath his coat and handed it over.Cheelo took possession gingerly, never taking his eyes off theman. Slipping the prize into his own inner shirt pocket, heturned his attention to the woman. Above and below them,the narrow street remained deserted. A couple of vehicleshummed past on the main avenue above, their occupantsoblivious to the pitiful drama that was being played out beyond their windows.

"Purse," he ordered her. "And jewelry."

Trembling fingers passed over the handbag of wovenmetal, then reluctantly followed it with a ring and two bracelets. Nervously eying the front of the store from which theyhad recently emerged, he gestured imperatively at her lefthand. "Come on, come on--the rest of it."

The woman covered the remaining exposed ring withher other hand. Her expression and tone were imploring."Please--it's my wedding ring. I've given you everythingelse." He knew the droplets that were starting to run down hercheeks were tears because her face was protected from therain by the wide brim of her stylish water-repelling hat.

He hesitated. Enough time had been spent standing out inthe street. He had wallet, purse, and jewelry. The woman's anguishseemed genuine. He had seen enough of it faked bythose attempting to protect expensive but impersonal possessions. Wearing the same expression he had presented when he had first stepped out of the alley, he started to turn awayfrom them.

"Sure, why not? Look, I'm sorry about this, but I've got a big deal pending--the opportunity of a lifetime--and I justneed a few more credits to . .."

That was when the husband jumped him.

It was a stupid move, a foolish move, the kind propoundedby middle-aged men who think a little regular exercise anda lifetime of watching action tridees equips them with the wherewithal to handle sinewy professionals. He was a lotbigger than Cheelo, which made him bold, and a lot stronger,which made him overconfident. In fact, he superceded Cheeloin every aspect of fighting ability except the most importantone: desperation.

As the man's large hand, fingers aligned in a karate chop,came down on Cheelo's flinching arm, the impact caused his finger to contract on the trigger. The compact weapon spat a small, silent blue flash. Instantly, the delivered charge interrupted the flow of electrical impulses running through themillions of neurons in the man's body. A shocked look on his face, he collapsed onto the sidewalk, falling over sideways so that his shoulders and then his head struck the pavement. Theskull took a visible bounce. Hovering over him, pistol inhand, Cheelo was no less shocked than the woman, who immediately dropped to her asinine husband's side. His eyeswere wide open.

When it had gone off, the muzzle of the pistol had beenaimed right at his chest. His heart had momentarily beenparalyzed. That was not necessarily a lethal proposition--except that the man's heart had not been an especially sound one to begin with. The problem was not that it had stopped;the problem was that it did not start beating again. Cheelo hadseen death before, though it had not been propitiated by hisown hands. He saw it now, in the gaping frozen face thatwas filling with rain where it lay upturned to the sky on thecobblestone sidewalk.

Heedless of her own circumstance, the woman beganscreaming. Cheelo raised the pistol, then lowered it. He had

not meant to shoot the poor dumb grandstanding bastard. Hehad certainly not meant to kill him. He doubted the admission

would carry sufficient weight with the authorities. Clutchingthe purse close to his chest beneath the raincoat, he turned

and ran, shoving the weapon back into his pocket. Behindhim, the woman's screams were swallowed up by the gray torrent that fortuitously continued to spill from the clouds. Hewas more grateful than ever for the rain. For a little while atleast, it would keep the shopkeeper from hearing her wails.Breathing hard, he threw himself onto the first public transport that presented itself. Surrounded by preoccupied, indifferentticos andticas. he pulled the collar of his raincoathigher around his neck and head and strove to make himselfas inconspicuous as possible.Now what the hell was he supposed to do? Self-defense made a bad defense for a knownbrigand. At the very least he would be sentenced to a selective mindwipe, the extent of which would depend on how toleranta court he found himself in. The truth machine could possibly support his claim that he had not intended to kill, but his stateof mind at the time might appear as a gray area on the device's readout.

It didn't matter. He had no intention of being incarceratedor of letting the authorities erase any part of him.

He did not go back to the cheap hotel room that was his address when he stayed in San Jose. Instead, he transferred topublic transport traveling in the opposite direction. By thetime he reached the airport the rain was diminishing, the skybecoming merely sentimental instead of sorrowful.

The nearest shuttleport where he could secure offworldtransport was in Chiapas. Even if he could somehow make itthat far without being picked up, he couldn't be sure his efforts of the past month had accumulated enough credit to purchase passage. Not that it mattered. The first thing the localauthorities would do would be to run a report on the incident,complete to a police molder's rendering of the attacker basedon the woman's eyewitness account. As soon as he stepped off a down shuttle on, say, one of the Centaurus colonies, agrim-faced welcoming committee would be there to greethim. Besides, he had no intention of traveling offworld. Notwhen he had important business on this one.

What he needed was to get as far away as possible asquickly as possible, but not so far that he couldn't get back tosee Ehrenhardt before the deadline that had been set for payment. At least for the moment, returning to Golfito was out ofthe question. Ehrenhardt would not take kindly to a personalvisit from a man wanted by authorities for murder. As aknown antisoc, his home and businesses would be watched.

Paying with credit from his personal account, Cheelolocked himself in a shower room at the airport while he renegotiated the unfortunate husband's credcard. In minutes, usingthe room's public terminal, he had succeeded in draining thecredit and switching it into his own account. Colorless anduntraceable, it would provide him with a means of flight. He was grimly gratified to see that with the addition of the latestsum, even after the purchase of a ticket to somewhere else,enough remained for him to pay Ehrenhardt what was required. The transaction would simply have to be delayed for a while. There was no reason to panic. He had plenty of time.

The woman would remember what he had been wearing. With considerable reluctance, he discarded the raincoat,shoving the crumpled bundle of fabric into a disposal chute where, hopefully, it would be compacted and then incinerated. Underneath, he wore attire that was simple but cleanand untattered. Adopting as best he could the air and attitude of a small businessman, he approached one of the automatedticket dispensers and logged in.

"Where is it you wish to go today, sir?" The device's synthesized voice was brisk and feminine. He tried not to be tooobvious as he looked sideways, backward, down, anywherebut directly into the visual pickup. Frequently, he passed ahand over his face as if wiping rain from his eyes. He kept hisvoice at the lower limits of audibility as he shoved his illegally recharged credcard into the accept slot.

"As far as this will take me on the next flight out and stillleave twenty thousand in the account. No, make that twenty-two thousand." If his estimate was off he could always cancelthe request and make a new one.

"Could you be a little more specific, sir? Random, spontaneous vacationing is a joyous adventure, but it would behelpful to me if you could at least pick a direction."

"South," he mumbled without thinking. His choices weresimple. West or east would send him out over one of twooceans. North would find him very, very cold.

The dispenser hummed softly. Seconds later a small plasticstrip emerged from a slot. Cheelo stood ready to bolt if thedevice's internal alarms went off, but his credcard popped outnormally alongside the ticket a moment later. Taking the strip,he placed it on his card, to which it promptly adhered.

"Thank you for your patronage, sir," the dispenser toldhim. He turned to go, then halted and spoke without lookinganywhere in the direction of the unit's visual pickup.

"Where am I going?"

"Lima, sir. Via suborbital, gate twenty-two. Enjoy yourflight."

He did not offer thanks as he strode purposefully in the direction of the requisite concourse. A glance at a monitorshowed that he would have to hurry if he was to make the departure. His expression set; he was inwardly pleased. The lastthing he wanted to do was to have to linger in the vicinity ofthe airport.

No one challenged him as he approached the gate. Theticket processor did not eat his card, passing it through to himon the other side of the entryway. The man and woman seatednext to him ignored him as they chattered inconsequentially.

Even so, he did not allow himself to react until the planewas in the air, gaining altitude to climb above the tropicalweather while accelerating rapidly to supersonic speed. Hehad to try to relax. He had a couple of hours before the nextcrisis, when the time would come to disembark. It was futileto agonize. If the police traced him to the flight, they wouldbe waiting for him when he stepped off the plane. Therewould be nowhere to run. He would be promptly put on a return flight and extradited back to San Jose.

As he leaned back in the seat he remembered the face ofthe lurching husband, the sharp pain of his big hand comingdown on Cheelo's arm. He did not even recall pulling thetrigger. Then the man collapsing, his life imploding like amud wall under assault from a rain forest downpour. His wifefalling to her knees next to him, disbelief seizing control ofher throat and vocal cords. He shuddered slightly. Though hehad administered his share of beatings, he had never killedanyone before. He still felt the same. The pistol had done thekilling, not him. The man had set if off himself, as a consequence of his own idiotic actions. Why couldn't he havejust stood there for another lousy couple of minutes? Whycouldn't he have played out his role of victim? A lot of goodhis insurance did him now.

Lima. Cheelo had never been to Lima, had in fact neverbeen south of Balboa. Whenever he accumulated a little credithe usually went to Cancun or Kingston for a while, until hewas broke again. He tried to recall what little he knew ofplanetary topography. Lima was near the Andes, but was it inthem? He was dressed for the subtropical clime of San Jose,not high mountains.

Well, he would find out when they landed. Assuming theticket dispenser had abided by his instructions and that histransfer of credit from the dead man's account was not compromised, he would have the additional wherewithal beyondthe franchise price to purchase clothes as well as food andshelter. And transport. He could not afford to linger long inLima, or in any big city boasting competent police technology. He began to feel a little better about his randomlyselected choice of destination. Mountains were a good placeto hide. He knew nothing of the region, but he would learnquickly. As soon ashe landed he would purchase a guidebook or two and have them transferred into his card where he couldperuse the information at leisure.

Somehow, he would manage to lose himself. He had doneit before, though not under the impetus of such urgency. Anew identity, a new look, and he would be safe. He was thirty-five years old and for twenty of that had lived off his wits andillicit activities. He was not about to let himself in for even apartial mindwiping. Hell, no! Not when the answer to all hisdreams lay virtually within his grasp.

Just let me get off the plane and out into the city, he thoughttightly. Just that one moment of freedom and from then on I'llbe able to make my way in silence and safety.

He was shaking when the plane slowed to a stop at thedisembarkation gate. When one of the flight attendants remarked on his evident distress he managed to reply in a calm and unaffected voice that he was just a little cold, and he eventhanked her for her solicitude. Shuffling off the aircraft, hekept his gaze fixed resolutely straight ahead. As the passengerload thinned around him--businessmen striding toward connection gates or baggage pickup, families reunited joyfully--he kept walking without any real destination in mind. Whenhe was halfway through the terminal and it was apparentthat no officials were waiting to intercept and detain him, helengthened his stride.

Public transport into the city was readily available in various familiar forms. Avoiding both the cheaper bulk carriersand the more expensive private vehicles with drivers, hechose an automatic. It answered his questions as readilyas any human escort and without propounding inquiries ofits own.

Once downtown he immediately felt better about his situation. New clothing, a meal, the purchase of a guidebook, anda dose of depilatory to remove his attractive but too distinctive beard improved his outlook considerably. All he had todo was to disappear for a while. It was much too soon afterthe incident to search out a surgery where he could havehis appearance permanently altered. When the furor over thekilling had been pushed off the front page of police screenshe could return to Golfito and conclude the transaction withEhrenhardt.

Lima was not in the Andes, he discovered, and at this timeof year it was subject to heavy fog, a development that delighted him. The less visible he was at all times, the better. But, like any large metropolitan center, the city boasted anunobtrusive yet sophisticated police center and an appropriate number of active response sites. Enough stolen credit remained in his account to get him out of the city and awayfrom public scanners without impacting on the twenty thousand he needed to keep for Ehrenhardt. The only questionwas where to go. It would have to be someplace where the police presence was slight to nonexistent, someplace where hecould walk without having to worry about keeping his faceturned away from pole-mounted scanners.

The guidebook suggested several possibilities. To the northlay a largely uninhabited region of rolling hills and flat plains.But the area was thick with important archeological sites thatwere periodically swarmed with tourists. That wouldn't do.The mountains were a suitably forgotten fastness, except thatthe habitable valleys were full of neat vegetable farms andranches that echoed to the hoofbeats of alpaca, llama, andcattle genetically engineered to thrive at altitude. The higherelevations were sufficiently inhospitable to discourage settlement. Similarly, the low temperatures and thin air were more than enough to discourage him.

More promising was the strip of southern coastal desert. Behind the beaches, with their resorts and desalinization plants, few people lived who did not work in one of the numerous mines gouged from the arid landscape. There wasstill room for a person to lose himself, but not enough room--not for the kind of near-total disappearance Cheelo had in mind.

That left the enormous Reserva Amazonia. The most biologically diverse stretch of rain forest wilderness left on theplanet, it had seen its last indigenous inhabitants resettledelsewhere more than a hundred years earlier. Since then it hadbeen abandoned to its great profusion of plants and wildlife,save only for scheduled incursions by tourists and scientists.The dense canopy would hide him from prying overheadeyes, and the presence of so many other forms of life wouldmask his heat signature from patrolling remotes.

According to the information he read on his card, the mostprimitive and isolated part of the park lay at and encompassed the eastern foothills of the Andes. There, where cloudforest met lowland rain forest, there had never been a need toremove and resettle traditional inhabitants because there hadnever been any. The region was as inhospitable to man as itwas lush, a place where some of the rarest creatures left in thewild roamed free. Yet even there, isolated tourist facilitiescould be found that catered to the most adventurous, to thoseseeking a true wilderness experience.

Having spent some time in the rain forest himself, plucking tourists instead of tropical fruit, he enjoyed a certain familiarity with such country. The miserable months he hadspent drunk and diseased in Amistad came back to him in a rush. It wouldn't be very comfortable--he would be hot and sweaty all the time, and there would be bugs--but the sameconditions that would make it unpleasant for him would alsodiscourage extended examination by officers of the law. Ifstopped and challenged, he could pass himself off as just another tourist. If anyone thought to probe further, he couldvanish into the immense forest while they were running abackground check on him.

He was unable to outfit himself to his satisfaction in Lima,but Cuzco boasted a number of shops where he was able toobtain his modest requirements. The lightweight, rip-proofpack he purchased filled rapidly with a good supply of basicemergency concentrates and vitamins, a permanent water filter and purifier, insect-proof bedroll and tent, fuel-cell cooker,and mapping ware for his card. The live clerk assured himthat his new clothes would repel everything from army ants toa rainy season downpour.

Thus equipped, he booked passage on a slow lift to Sintuya, the only community permitted within the boundaries ofthe southwestern portion of the Reserva. It existed solely toserve the needs of tourists and researchers. Since he couldhardly pass himself off as the latter, he assumed the identityof the former. At the same time, he had as little intercoursewith his fellow sightseers as possible, though he made a conscious effort to be polite rather than taciturn. Anything torender himself as bland and forgettable as possible.

The flight over the Andes from Cuzco was spectacular, an unfolding panorama of ancient Inca terraces--now groomedand tended by machines---irrigated ranches, and tiny, quaintQuechua alpine communities that made a good living fromcrafts and tourism. Then the peaks gave way to mist-swathedcloud forest. The slow lifter descended, following the steepeastern slopes, occasionally blowing mist and cloud aside togive those aboard a glimpse of the thick vegetation beneath.Once, a family of spectacled bears ambled into momentaryview, and recorders whispered as the travelers imaged themoment for replay back home in London and Cairo, Delhiand Surabaya.

Cheelo Montoya took no pictures, though he made a showof oohing and aahing over the scenery as energetically asthose around him. A tourist who failed to tour would standout in the minds of his fellow travelers, something he intended to avoid. The absence of a recorder did not have to beexplained. Not everyone spent their vacation gazing fixedlyinto a color imager.

Sintuya proved to be even smaller than he had expected. Afew restaurants served meals of exotic rain forest produce, everything from starfruit mousse to caiman fritters. Awarethat it might be the last meal he would enjoy for some timethat he would not have to prepare himself, he splurged on a ragout made with agouti, yuca, assorted vegetables, andblanched Brazil nuts. A couple of hostels, a flurry of handicraft and gift shops, the usual traveler's aid stations, and anoutlying scientific complex comprised the rest of the town.Though the air-conditioned, dehumidified hostels beckoned,he resolutely ignored their civilized blandishments. Exceptfor the purchase of one meal, he would leave no record behind of his presence in the remote community.

Idling away the rest of the day among the town's minoramusements, he waited until well after nightfall to steal aboat. It was a small, silent tour lifter that could carry up tofour persons. There were half a dozen of the sleek little craftbobbing at the dock. He set all of them free, shepherding theothers out into the middle of the current and watching as theydrifted off downstream. Theft might be suspected in the disappearance of one boat. The flight of all six would be interpreted as a consequence of bad luck, vandalism, or a youthful prank gone awry. When only five of the errant craft were recovered it would be assumed that the other had sunk or that itwould be found washed up in some overgrown bend of theriver or stream mouth.

The silent engine whisked him upstream at high speed, theboat's built-in sensors automatically avoiding any obstaclesin its path. An aircar would have offered greater speed andmore flexibility, but unless he wanted to skim along above thecanopy it would have been as useless as an ancient ground-bound vehicle. Also, it would have run out of power in a fewdays. The boat's energy cell ought to last for a couple ofweeks, at least. By keeping to the main river and huggingclose to its lush, overgrown banks, he ought to be able tomake his way deep into the Reserva without much risk of detection. Once he turned up a tributary, there was no reason tosuppose anyone would come looking for him at all. Runawayboats did not head themselves up the current.

He would find a suitable site, perhaps an old abandonedtourist blind, and settle in until his supplies began to run low.Supplementing his stores with living off the land, he shouldbe able to exist quite tolerably, if not entirely comfortably, fora number of months. By that time the urgency attending thedeath of one unfortunate traveler in distant San Jose wouldhave faded, and he would still have several weeks in which tomake his meeting with Ehrenhardt. Emerging from the rain forest, he would solidify his credit balance, arrange to havehis physical appearance altered, and start afresh as masterof a lucrative, semilegal franchise. He would finally, at last,be someone important. He would finally have done somethingbig.

Setting the boat on automatic after programming it to follow the course he had predetermined, he settled backwithin his bedroll and watched the stars slide past in apristine, uncontaminated sky. A typical criminal would havesought refuge in the depths of one of the great cities. Thatwas where the authorities would be looking for him now--running scans, posting electronic flyers, querying informants.He was reasonably certain he had escaped San Jose unnoticed, was more confident his arrival in Lima would pass unremarked upon, and was sure he had transited Cuzco withoutbeing scanned. Let them hunt for him in Golfito, ransackhis tiny one-room apartment. Out here, in the depths of thegreat wild park, there was nothing and no one to take notice of him. Even the rangers who monitored the Reservawere concentrated in the areas of highest tourist density. Hehad deliberately chosen a section famed for the ferocity of itsinsect life. In return for physical anonymity he would gladlysacrifice some skin and blood.

Feeling pretty good about himself and his resourcefulness,he rolled over and let the near-silent hum of the boat's enginelullaby him to sleep.

Chapter Ten

The world outside the port matched precisely the projectionDesvendapur and the others had been studying for days: an impressive globe of cloud and earth all but submerged by adisproportionate volume of water. It seemed impossible thatintelligent life could have arisen and matured on such a scattering of isolated landmasses, but such was indisputably the case. Then the time for study was over, and a senior officialwas delivering their last briefing.

"Because of the need for secrecy, transport to the surface must be carried out clandestinely." The large male gesturedfor emphasis. "Since we and our human associates established the colony a routine has been devised whereby this canbe accomplished with some degree of safety and assurance.That isn't to say that some risk is not involved." He eyed each of them in turn. The four new colonists-to-be waved truhandsand twitched antennae to indicate that they understood thegravity of the situation.

"If by some chance the drop is intercepted, you four know nothing. You are workers on your way to the official contactsite at a place called Lombok." To Desvendapur it sounded as if the official's spicules must be underwater and that he was inthe first stage of drowning, but in spite of linguistic difficulties he managed to pronounce the human word clearly. "If questioned, you may describe your respective specialties.There is nothing in them to indicate that you are bound for acovert colony as opposed to the officially recognized site.

"Collect your personal gear and report to the disembarkation chamber in two time-parts." He gestured a mixture ofcaution and admiration. "You are to be part of a great experiment. In twenty or so years, when it is time to reveal the existence of the colony, it is expected that humans will be sufficiently used to our presence among them so that they will not only accept it but be amused at their own initial uncertainty. Itwill also show that we are capable of sharing one of theirworlds as opposed to one of our own without adversely impacting their society or environment. There are other important social questions that the colony will answer, but it is notnecessary to go into the details now. You will be thoroughlybriefed about your sojourn among these creatures by thoseliving and working on-site."

The meteorologist gesticulated a question. "What aboutyou? Have you spent much time among them?"

"Some," the official admitted.

"How do you find them? Our own contact to this point has so far been limited."

"Frustrating. Friendly but hesitant. Impulsive to the pointof nonsapience. Vastly amusing. Threatening. Liquid of movement, clumsy of hand. You will see for yourselves. They are abumbling, stumbling, wondrous medley of contradictions.And I am speaking of the best of their kind, those within theirgovernment who have helped to establish the colony project by deceiving their own people. The general human population, which this experiment is designed to help win over, is a surging, unpredictable, cacophonous sea of barely controlledchaos. One moves among humans the way one would amongan arsenal on the cusp of detonation. Each individual is abomb waiting to go off. Collectively, they make one want to flee their presence as rapidly as possible. Personally, I do not like them. But it has been decreed by the Grand Council thatwe are to try and make them our allies. Myself, I would prefer the Quillp." He moved forward.

"But I am bound by my instructions. I admit that they areundeniably clever and intelligent. It is claimed that in spite ofindividual dislikes we must work to make them our friends,and us theirs, lest the AAnn or some other equally unpleasantspecies gain the low ground with them. That will be part andparcel of your work. You are all specialists, some in advanced fields of research, others in support, but each of you is an ambassador. Never, never, forget that."

They were dismissed to return to their quarters to collecttheir belongings and their thoughts. Des did not know whatwas racing through the minds of his three companions, butas for himself he could hardly contain his excitement. Thiswas what he had worked for for so long. This was what hehad lied and deceived and falsified to attain: inspiration wildand fresh, of a kind that was denied to every other poet on allthe thranx worlds.

A sudden thought clouded the dream. What if there was already a poet within the secret colony? Surely it would boastamong its complement an official soother or two. He decidedhe could not worry about that. If they existed they wouldbe occupied with official duties, with performing for theirfellow colonists. He labored under no such obligation. When not carrying out his rote, lowly duties in the kitchen he wouldbe free to compose, locking his inventions away from pryingeyes in the secure section of his scri!ber. They would be revealed only when he was back on Willow-Wane, only when itwas time to retire Desvendapur the assistant food preparatorand resurrect Desvendapur the poet.

In time, he cautioned himself. In good time. Stimulationand enlightenment first, then revelation.

To all outward appearances there was nothing to distinguish the thranx shuttle from the dozens that had preceded it.A sleek multiwinged shape designed for atmospheric as wellas orbital travel, it emerged from the side of theZenruloimlike avlereq voiding its egg. There was nothing in its externalconfiguration to suggest to observant eyes either in orbit oron the planet below that there was more to it than what wasimmediately visible.

Receiving final clearance from planetary authorities, itdrifted away from the starship on secondary thrusters beforeengaging its main engine at a safe distance. Braking againstorbit, it began to fall not only behind but below its parentcraft.

Along with that of his companions, Desvendapur's attention was fixed on the screen before him as they drifted clear of the queen vessel's gravity field. It showed a portion of thecloud-bedecked globe filling the field of view. They fell pasta human orbiting station, a massive assemblage of rotatinginterlocking discs that swarmed with smaller craft. A pair ofstarships were docked at one end. To the poet's untrained eyethey appeared to be about equal in size and mass to theZen-ruloim. It was an impressive sight, but hardly an overawingone. Certain aspects of human design were quite similar tothose of the thranx while others were radically, even incomprehensibly, different. It seemed impossible that the laws ofphysics could be bent to identical ends by engineering thatdiffered so startlingly.

Then the shuttle was below and beyond the busy station.An intensely blue ocean loomed below. From his studies Desknew there were three such primary bodies of water on thehuman homeworld, the least of which was larger than themost extensive sea on either Willow-Wane or Hivehom. Though he knew there was no reason to worry, the sightchilled him more than he would have cared to admit. With itsbreathing spicules located on its thorax, a thranx could standupright with its head and all its principal sensory organs heldwell above water--and it would quietly drown. A hard exo-skeleton and slim legs made swimming difficult.

Humans, he had learned, not only swam efficiently butwere naturally buoyant. Put representatives of both speciesside by side and a human would turn on its back and floatwhereas a thranx would, after suitable panicky thrashing, sink to the bottom of whatever body of water it had beenunfortunate enough to stumble into. Conversely, no humancould match an active thranx, with eight limbs at its disposal,for stability. Nor were the bipeds as dexterous, their twohands and ten manipulative digits unable to equal the finesseof the thranx four and sixteen.

When they wished to be, however, humans could be muchlouder. Whether this was a particularly useful trait was thesubject of debate.

As the shuttle entered atmosphere, weight began to return,dragging Des's abdomen down against the thickly paddedflight bench he straddled. The view on the screen shiftedwildly between impenetrable ramparts of cloud and flickeringglimpses of surface. The colors of the latter varied considerably, as did those of any world that supported indigenous life.He heard Jhywinhuran calling out to ask how he was doing,and he replied absently. His attention was wholly focused onthe alien world that was rushing up toward them.

Calm and collected flight commands echoed over thechamber speakers. Then there was a sharp lurch as the secondary shuttle that was mounted within the belly of the largerdropped away. Its plunge toward the surface was precipitous, masked and electronically warped to avoid detection byplanetary instrumentation. It helped that they were descending over a swath of unbroken rain forest that boasted one ofthe lowest population densities anywhere on the planet.

At the low altitude at which separation occurred and giventhe velocity and angle of the drop, there was absolutely noroom for error. Too conservative an approach and the shuttlewould overshoot its target, appearing unannounced and uninvited above a populated area. Too extreme, and it would beunable to brake in time, resulting in tragedy as well as accusation. But the pilots of the tiny craft had performed the requisite difficult maneuvers before. The g-forces that piled upagainst Des and his companions pressed their antennae backagainst their skulls and kept them pinned to the flight benches.It did not worry him. They had been briefed to expect it, andin the cramped confines of the downsized sub-shuttle therewas nowhere for them to walk anyway.

Oversized braking thrusters rocked the craft, and his mandibles clamped tightly together. The viewscreen darkened as they dove into heavy weather. It rained frequently in the region chosen for the site of the secret colony--a warm, wetreminder of home. Familiar with such conditions, the rainforest downpour posed no unexpected difficulties for thepilots.

Through dark gray cloud and mist he had a glimpse of avast, unbroken forest full of unfamiliar shapes. Then he feltimpact and a jarring, wrenching slide as the shuttle disappeared into a heavily camouflaged opening. The noise levelwithin the chamber rose appallingly as the shuttle slowed,finally coming to a halt within a sealed corridor. As his respiration returned to normal and he began to release himselffrom the landing harness, Desvendapur saw small service vehicles, mechanicals, and several heavily laden six-legged figures advancing swiftly and efficiently toward the craft.

He and his companions emerged into a landing chamberthat except for its exceptionally compact dimensions waslittle different from one they might have encountered onWillow-Wane. The same equipment, the identical facilities,were much in evidence although greatly reduced in mass.A single young female was waiting with transportation andgreetings to welcome them when they disembarked. Assured that their belongings would follow, they climbed onto astripped-down surface transport and were promptly whiskedaway from the shuttle chamber.

Nothing unfamiliar assailed their senses. Strong, lightweight composites had been sprayed on the walls of the excavation to form a solid seal against intrusion from outside.Familiar fixtures and markings indicated the location of sidecorridors, specific facilities, water, and utility conduits. Itlooked exactly like the hive facilities they had just left. To alloutward intents and appearances, they might as readily beback on Willow-Wane.

He had a horrible thought. What if this and they were partof some extraordinary, extreme social experiment? Whatif they had indeed traveled through space-plus, but only tomake a looping curve back to Willow-Wane, or to journey onto Hivehom itself? What if they were gullible volunteers inan experiment to see how humans and thranx would get alongin close quarters--in a physical and mental environmentfaked to resemble the humans' homeworld? The view outstarship and shuttle windows could be simulated. What ifthey had simply landed on a thranx world? It was impossibleto tell. Everything was the same; nothing was different.

Except for the air.

It stank of exoticism, of alien vegetation and musk. Even purified and cleansed before being drawn into the colony itwas still ripe with the fragrance of the utterly foreign. Ofcourse, an atmosphere could be falsified as easily as images.All manner of smells and stinks could be artificially introduced into a closed environment. If so, he thought, someonewas doing a superb job.

Because of his unique personal circumstances he was inherently more distrustful than any of his companions. Awareof this he chose not to reveal his suspicions. He hoped theywould be proved wrong.

If the gravity differed from that of Willow-Wane, the difference was negligible. He didn't know whether to be uneasyor delighted at the realization. The transport turned down asecond corridor and began to slow. That was when many, ifnot all, of his suspicions were laid to rest.

A trio of specialists were strolling down one side of thetunnel, chatting amiably among themselves, their antennaebobbing and weaving animatedly. They wore no special attire, nothing to mark their surroundings as unusual. Two humans were walking and talking with them, gesturing withtheir forelimbs. Compared to the lone human Desvendapur had encountered on the surface of Willow-Wane, thesetwo wore virtually nothing. Their fleshy, multihued epidermiwere blatantly exposed for all to see. Recalling his studies,Des decided that both were male. It was neither their presence nor their lack of clothing that particularly intrigued thepoet, however. It was their nonthranx companions.

The pair of small quadrupeds that gamboled around bothhuman and thranx legs were coveredwith a bristly substance that he managed to identify as fur before the transporthummed on past. One had covering that differed significantlyfrom that of its counterpart. It was also considerably larger, though neither would have come up to the underside of thepoet's abdomen. They had long faces, intelligent eyes, and jaws that resembled those of the AAnn more than they didthose of their human associates.

He fought to recall the details of human society. As he remembered it, the bipeds not only consumed the butcheredflesh of other creatures, they kept representatives of certain species in their own homes, as if the company of their own kind was insufficient to sate their need for companionship.In this regard, certain subspecies were more privileged thanothers. Among the latter were dogs, of which the two furryquadrupeds accompanying the strollers appeared to be legitimate representatives. What was especially fascinating was that despite their lack of sapience, the dogs appeared to bepaying as much attention to the three thranx as to the twohumans.

To the best of his admittedly restricted knowledge, no suchcreatures had been imported to Willow-Wane. They did notoccupy space reserved for humans on Hivehom. Support facilities were designed to provide for humans, not their domesticated animal companions. It was costly enough to properlycare for the bipeds. On the human homeworld no such restrictions would apply. The presence of the dogs had not entirelyerased his concerns, but they had made it much easier for himto be convinced. The domesticated furry quadrupeds had appeared far too comfortable in the company of the three thranx to have been recently imported to a project site.

The transport slowed to a stop, settling to the floor with awhine. They were met by a pair of females wearing a type ofinsignia Desvendapur had never seen before. While the twoscientists were whisked off to a separate destination, Des and Jhy were given a quick tour of the facilities where they wouldbe working before being escorted to their new quarters. Thetwo of them made arrangements to meet and share the nightfall meal along with the rest of the day's experiences.

Waiting for his belongings to arrive, the poet inspected thedouble cubicle that would serve as his new home for an indeterminate period. Nothing was unfamiliar; little differed fromthe living chamber he had occupied at Geswixt. Everythingappeared to be of thranx manufacture. Given the professed secretive nature of the nascent colony, he would have expected nothing else. The bipeds who were surreptitiouslyhelping the thranx to establish a foothold on their own home-world could hardly place an order with one of their localmanufacturers for a load of thorax massagers.

He halted. Something rising from the equipment stand atthe foot of the sleeping bench caught his eye. As he turnedtoward it, an odor as pleasant as it was subtle tickled his antennae. The small, carefully arranged cluster of flowers wasunlike anything he had ever seen, with spreading white petalsthat shaded to deep purple at the base of the stamens. Bending close, he dipped his antennae forward to sample theessence of the bouquet. The stems rested in a fluted afterthought of tinted glass. If it had been grown on Willow-Waneor Hivehom, there was a group of botanists who deservedwhatever compensation they had been allotted. But it did notsmell of either of those thranx worlds. The amputated blossoms reeked of the here and now.

He looked forward to learning his way around the kitchenfacility, but that pleasure was denied him until tomorrow. No one was expected to step off a shuttle after completing an interstellar journey and get right to work. If it was all part of ascript to convince them they were on Earth when in fact they had never left home, it showed an attention to detail he couldonly admire. But with each passing time-part he becamemore and more convinced of the reality of the interstellartrek, and that they had truly arrived at a furtive colony-to-behidden on the most hallowed of all human worlds.

He had hoped to encounter some of the bipeds, but thenightfall meal was attended only by fellow thranx. A numbersmelled strongly ofoutside, and of a moist, pungent, alienoutside at that. He consoled himself with the knowledge that he would probably have the opportunity to interact with humans tomorrow or the next day. Had he not seen two of themwalking casually in the company of three of his own kind onthe way in? He had been patient this long; he could wait awhile longer.

But as the days went by without even a glimpse of a human, he found himself growing uneasy. He had not traveledall this way, had not forged a false identity, to toil at the preparation of food for the rest of his life. Though he had masteredthe limited demands of his new vocation, he was anxious toshed it and resume the mantle of full-time poet. In order to dothat it was necessary for him to immerse himself in hischosen source of new inspiration. But that source remainedas elusive as ever.

Where were the humans?Save for the pair he had passedon the day he and his fellow assignees arrived, the bipedshad been conspicuous by their absence. It was absurd to thinkthat he might have less contact with the bipeds on their ownworld than on his. Yet for all the contact, inspirational or casual, that he had experienced so far he might as well havestayed on Willow-Wane. His frustration gave rise to severalrobust, acidic stanzas, but while well crafted and originalthey did not burn with the fervor of discovery he so desperately sought.

Any attempt to probe further would require great cautionon his part. An assistant food preparator who was both persistent and inquisitive about subjects that were far removedfrom his official duties might well draw unwanted attention tohimself. Any queries would have to be carefully framed anddelivered in an offhand, almost indifferent manner. His co-workers in food preparation were notable for their lack ofenlightenment.

Jhywinhuran was only marginally more helpful. Despitehis intentions to keep his distance, he found himself drawn toher. Though her hive ranking was no lower than his, it wasclear that she regarded him as her intellectual superior andlooked up to him in matters outside their respective specialties. It was not a matter of flattery for ulterior motives or extraneous personal ends. Her attention and admiration weregenuine. In her presence he relaxed far more than he intended. Constantly on guard, ever alert to the possibility ofdiscovery, he luxuriated in the companionship of another ofhis kind who was openly fond of him no matter how mysterious his origins or how unforthcoming he was when certainsubjects were broached.

In response to his query she informed him that she had actually seen humans on two occasions, but at a distance. Therehad been no personal contact. There was no reason for it tooccur at her level. No doubt the rogue humans had to consortwith their thranx friends on matters that reached beyond theboundaries of the colony. In matters of Jhywinhuran's field ofsanitation, outside advice and help would be necessary unless the incipient colony was designed to act as a completelyclosed system. That was possible, but only up to a point. Thatit was not the case was clear from the limited interaction thathad taken place between human and thranx specialists onthe two occasions that Jhy had observed.

But there was no reason for humans to come into thekitchens. Desvendapur and his coworkers needed no assistance in preparing the basics of the colony's meals. That therewas another feeding station he already knew from contact between the two. It was no consolation to him to learn that hiscounterparts in the other facility had no more interactionwith humans than he did.

He had to find some way to reach out to them, to immersehimself in the strange culture of these creatures and theirworld. While personally satisfying, advancement in his adoptedspecialty promised nothing in the way of additional contactwhile exposing him to additional personal scrutiny he did notwant. Given the extremely sensitive nature of the secret installation, like everyone else in the subterranean colony hismovements were restricted. He was allowed to wander freelywithin the food service area and to roam the communalrecreational and social intercourse areas, but everything elsewas strictly off-limits. This included the heavily camouflagedshuttle bay and all hive departments with access to the outside, of which there were very few.

The location of these exits, the majority of which had beenestablished for categorical emergency purposes only, werewell known. Keeping them secret would only have obviatedtheir purpose. No thranx, however curious, would brazenly defy restrictions by attempting to make unauthorized use ofany such egress. Not only would it violate strict hive procedure, there was no reason to do so. Within the colony all was comfortable and familiar. Outside--outside lay an unknownalien world swarming with exotic fauna and dominated by anunstable intelligence. Who wouldwant to go outside? Anysensible thranx who expressed a desire to do so would immediately find himself branded as unbalanced, marginally mad,or outright insane.

As a poet, Desvendapur qualified on multiple counts.

If he had spent all his time dwelling on his frustrations, he might well have ended up in the hospital. Aware of the dangers, he forced himself to concentrate on his work. It wasmuch worse at night, when he had nothing to occupy hishands or mind, when he was free to meander both physicallyand mentally. Unable to fathom a reason for the agitation thatsometimes bubbled to the surface of Desvendapur's personality, Jhywinhuran did her best to comfort him. He respondedas best he was able, but there were times when she could donothing. How could she understand the nature of the creativefury that seethed within him, a raging torrent dammed andheld back by stricture and circumstance?

It was a state of affairs that could not go on, he knew.Sooner or later his mounting frustration would overwhelmhis good judgment and common sense. He would do something stupid and end up exposing himself. Then he wouldbe removed from his duties, taken into custody, and shippedoffworld for treatment and, inevitably, castigation. If his linkto the death of the transport pilot Melnibicon was discovered, he would be subjected to worse than that. Any chancefor a notable creative career, of course, would be permanentlydashed.

How to inquire about matters outside his area of expertise without appearing too curious? After careful consideration ofpossible alternatives, he decided that a bold approach to one person offered fewer risks than dozens of furtive queries putto many different individuals.

He settled on a junior transport operator named Termilkulis who periodically delivered supplies to the kitchenfacility. Cultivating friendship, slipping the active and efficient young male leftover delicacies from food storage,Des gradually drew him out until the operator felt completely comfortable in the assistant food preparator's company.

It was early one morning, after preparations for the morning meal had been concluded and the results turned over to the division masters for final tinkering, that he encounteredTermilkulis concluding a delivery. Remarking that he wasabout to take time for a rest, Desvendapur was gratified whenthe operator responded agreeably to the suggestion that theydo so together. They retired to a back corner of the facility,near the narrow unloading dock, and assumed resting stances on all four trulegs and both foothands.

Following an indeterminate number of minutes spent inlazy contemplation of the morning that were interrupted only by inconsequential remarks, Des ventured casually, "It seemsstrange to me that, finding ourselves on the human home-world, we do not see more of the natives."

"Well, I don't imagine that you would, working in the department that you do." Wholly at ease, Termilkulis's antennae drooped listlessly over his forehead.

Desvendapur indicated assent, careful to keep his gestures moderated and brief. "I suppose that's true. What aboutyou?" he asked with apparent indifference. "How many haveyou seen?"

The transport operator did not appear to find the questionin any way out of the ordinary. "One or two."

"But I would think that in the course of making deliveriesthroughout the colony you would surely have the opportunityto see many of the bipeds."

"Not really. You know, for a while after I was first assignedhere I wondered about the same thing myself." The poettensed, but it was evident from the operator's attitude that thefood preparator had not triggered any latent suspicion in theyoung driver. "So I inquired about the seeming discrepancy,and what I was told made perfect sense."

"Did it?" responded Desvendapur casually. "Did it really?"

Termilkulis turned toward him. "This is a thranx colony, a thranx hive. Only a few humans, working for an enlightenedbut covert division of their government, know of its existence. It is designed to show that we can live among them, in sizable numbers, without adversely impacting their civilization. When the time comes, when the xenosociologists onboth sides think it is all right, our existence will be revealedand will hopefully have a salutary effect on the bipeds' opinion of us.

"But there is no reason for more than a very few of themto visit the hive. This is a thranx colony. As such, it is populated by thranx." A foothand rose to gesture. "By such as youand me."

It made damning, frustrating sense, Desvendapur knew.Why should any hive, even one located on the human home-world, require the presence of humans? While the respectiveprojects on Willow-Wane and Hivehom had been designedfrom the start to explore the ramifications of intimate human-thranx interaction, this colony was different. It was surreptitious, officially unacknowledged by both governments. It was designed to show that thranx could thrive on a human-dominated world. Open interaction here would come later,when both species had become acclimatized to the presenceof the other, when humans did not find thranx abhorrent andvice versa.

This much he could understand. He also found many aspects of humankind distasteful. The difference between himand his fellow thranx was that for him, abhorrence was an excellent source of inspiration.

But how to immerse himself in that and its related emotional states if he was denied interaction with its progenitors, in all their billions? He would gladly settle for contact with adozen or so, but it appeared that even that was to be deniedhim. He could not wait indefinitely for something to happen, for circumstances to change. His term of service wasfinite. More than that, he was too impatient to wait aroundand react. Fatalistic resignation was not a component of hischaracter.

What to do? If he happened to see another human in thedistance, walking the fringe of a sector off-limits to him, hecould ignore restraint and brazenly confront the visitor. Thatmight work--for a minute or two, until Security forestalledextensive interaction by hauling him away. Too much risk fortoo little potential reward. Or he could try to isolate a visitingbiped, keep it to himself for a while, but even the suggestionof the use of force within the colony would find him shippedoffworld faster than he could pack his meager belongings.With his access to vehicular transport, Termilkulis might beof real help--until he became aware of his new friend's intentions. That would doubtless result in immediate terminationof their relationship and the reporting of the food preparator'seccentric behavior to hive authority.

No, whatever he did, Desvendapur decided quietly, hewould have to do it on his own. His choices were decidedlylimited. Or at least, the sensible, rational ones were. There remained the option of the insensible and the irrational. Thesewere not available to the average thranx. Had there been anything average about Desvendapur, he would not even havebeen contemplating them.

The solution was as obvious as it was insane. If he couldnot find humans to interact with within the hive, then hewould have to find a way to encounter them without.

Chapter Eleven

As had quickly become his routine, Cheelo was awakenedby the gothic choir of howler monkeys greeting the return of the sun. Lying on his back beneath the thin tropical blanket,he gazed up through the dense, featherweight material of the tent. This close to the Earth's waist, the sun rose and set withequal alacrity. "Lingering twilight" was terminology that belonged to the temperate zone and had no place in the equatorial rain forest.

Yawning, he reached up to scratch an itch--and sat up fast,yelping. Looking down, he saw a rushing river of red-tingedbrown flowing across his stomach from left to right. The riverentered through a hole in the left side of his tent and exitedthrough a gap of correspondingly tiny dimensions on hisright. It went over, around, or through anything and everything in its path. It might have gone through him as well if he had not been tucked into the tough, inedible blanket.

He had gone to sleep without activating the electronic insect repeller in his backpack.

The army ants had eaten through his tent because it was intheir path. Able to surmount his sleeping form, they hadchosen to go over him. This was fortunate, though he did notthink so until later, when he had time to reflect on the closeness of his call. At the moment he was standing and screaming, slapping at the soldier ant that had sunk its mandiblesdeep into the flesh of his right thumb. Had he known more ofarmy ants and their ways he would have reacted in a more circumspect fashion.

Detecting the release of alarm pheromones from theirsmashed colleague, a subsection of the living brown streamdetached and attacked. Flailing wildly as if afflicted withsome aberrant disorder of the nervous system, Cheelo hopped and stumbled out of the tent and the trees, across the open, intervening beach, and into the river. Even submerged, the antshung on tenaciously. Since it was not the dry season andample customary prey was available, the resident piranhas ignored this violent intrusion into their world. The four-meter long black caiman on the far bank did not, slipping silentlyinto the water, its dragon's tail cleaving the rippling, mirroredsurface as it sinuously advanced to investigate. By the time it arrived, a fully awake and much chastened Montoya hadslogged back onto the beach. Disappointed, the caiman sankback beneath the surface, its intended quarry as ignorant asever of its majestic, carnivorous presence.

Muttering a steady stream of gutter curses, Cheelo madehis way back to his tent. Reaching inside, he checked his packcarefully before picking it up. A pouch within yielded ointment to treat the red welts left behind by the jaws of thesoldiers. A pair of tweezers were necessary to remove themandibles and attached heads of those ants that had refusedto release their grip, even after having been drowned anddismembered.

There was not much he could do then except wait for thecolumn to finish moving through. Fortunately, all of his foodstuffs and concentrates were vacuum sealed. This was critical not only to prevent spoilage in the dank depths of therain forest but to keep edibles from detection by maraudingscavengers no matter what their size.

It was late afternoon before the rear guard moved throughthe hole in his tent and out the other side. After carrying out avisual inspection to ensure that no stragglers remained, hebroke down the shelter and its contents and placed them oncemore in the boat. Normally before loading his gear he wouldhave first checked everything for those dangerous lovers ofdark places who inhabited the rain forest: scorpions, spiders,kissing bugs, and their ilk. Subsequent to the column's passage he knew that would not be necessary. As efficiently as ifthey had intentionally been making amends, the ants wouldhave scoured clean his tent and belongings. In the wake oftheir passage, nothing lived.

He vowed that from now on he would be more careful inhis choice of campsites. In the rain forest no locality was perfect, however. Bushes concealed dangers of their own; treeswere home to voracious insects of other species; and sleepingin the boat, where he could not erect his tent, would exposehim to predation by mosquitoes and worse, such as disgusting parasites like the human botfly. Despite his unfortunate experience, he continued to favor open ground withinthe forest itself for sleeping. He carried a patch kit for thetent, and the holes the insectile multitude had gnawed couldbe repaired.

Perversely, he was grateful for the presence of everythingthat stung, bit, chewed, or parasitized. All contributed to conditions the average tourist found uninviting. The worse theclimate, the more rapacious the fauna, the less likelihoodthere was of him running into a tour supervised by a querulous escort. Despite the area's isolation, a guide or even atourist equipped with a communicator could quickly call askimmer full of rangers down on him. With the unfortunateencounter in distant San Jose still a recent item on police callsheets throughout the hemisphere, that was a confrontationCheelo desired devoutly to avoid. By the time he was ready toreturn to Golfito, the furor surrounding his unfortunate encounter ought to have died down.

So far he had been successful. What was proving more difficult than evading the attention of the authorities was livingoff the land. He had succeeded in catching plenty offish: Theriver was awash with them, and they bit at the first hint of bait.But he discovered that there were far fewer edible fruits andnuts than he had hoped to find, and he had been beaten tomost of those by the park's thirteen species of monkey ordozens of parrots and macaws before he could so much asfind a ripening tree. The fish were plentiful and tasty and kepthim sated, but after a couple of weeks, even a steady diet ofpiranha and catfish grew boring.

The craving for variety in both taste and nutrients forcedhim to draw down his stock of concentrates to a point wherehe began to grow uneasy. Having worked so hard to isolatehimself, he was extremely reluctant to make his way to Maldonado, the nearest town, to replenish his supplies. He didfind some yuca root that he cleaned and fried. That restoredhis confidence in his back-country abilities, learned if notpolished during his youth in Gatun and its own tropical environs. He knew he was being too hard on himself. Nothingcould really prepare one for living beyond the limits of civilization, in the greatest surviving rain forest on Earth, in theplace known as the lungs of the planet.

When he found the grove of fruit trees, planted long ago byvanished villagers and now gone wild, he was euphoric. Not yet decimated by monkeys, the fruit was a welcome and refreshing addition to his food stores. His success cheered himmentally as well as physically. That evening he caught athirty-kilo catfish on his compact line and streamer, enoughmeat to fill the preserver compartment in his pack to bursting.

Cruising upriver, he lay back in the boat and let the onboard navigator take control. It would keep him from runninginto the banks, or any floating logs or embedded snags. Beneath him, the electric motor hummed almost silently, its batteries recharged by the amorphous solar cells that lined thesides and top of the boat. For a fugitive, he was exceptionallyrelaxed.

Until the boat struck something unseen.

A cry of distress, a pained yelp, came from near the bow.Sitting up quickly, Cheelo looked over the side just in time tosee the injured pup floating on the surface. Blood streamedfrom the side of its head and flank. Preoccupied with chasingfish in the murky water, it had failed to react to the boat'spresence in time. Now it limped along the surface, yippingpiteously.

Swarming to its aid, the rest of the pack instantly focusedon the assumed attacker. Nearly two meters long and weighing in at more than thirty kilos, the adult river wolves swarmedthe boat, barking angrily.

"Ay, it was an accident!" Cheelo found himself yelling as he scrambled frantically to unholster his pistol. "The kid raninto me!"

The dozen or so giant otters did not understand him. Evenif they had, it was conceivable they would not have beenswayed in their course of action. Two leaped into the boat andbegan nipping at his feet, taking bite-sized bits out of hisjungle boots. Their canines were as long as his thumb. Jawspowerful enough to crunch bone snapped at his calves whilebright black eyes glared furiously.

It took an eternity to free the gun, but he couldn't use it lest he risk holing the boat. Instead, he fired over the heads of hisattackers. Barking and squeaking in panic, they dove backover the side, but not before one practically ran up his leg totake a bloody chunk out of his left biceps. By the time thecursing, fulminating fugitive could bring the weapon to bear,the otters had vanished into the depths of the river.

Setting the pistol aside, he grumbled aloud as he sought tobind up the wound. With all the poisonous insects, lethalsnakes, giant crocodilians, burrowing parasites, and voracious rodents in the rain forest, leave it to him to be grievously assaulted by otters. Dousing the open wound withdisinfectant, he sprayed sealer over the injury and wrapped itin a thin layer of transparent artificial skin. The tape immediately contracted and began to bond with his own flesh. Oncehealing had concluded beneath, the artificial epidermis woulddry, crack, and flake off, leaving the restored flesh exposed.Finishing up the first aid, he restowed the emergency kit and cleared some vegetation from the autobailer so it could moreefficiently remove from the bottom of the boat the waterthe otters had brought in with them.

That was when one of them, apparently deciding that theintruder had not been punished enough, jumped out of thewater and onto his back.

As its teeth and claws tore into his shoulders, a screaming, cursing Cheelo flailed wildly at his back in an attempt to pullit off. Twisting violently, locked together, man and otter overbalanced the narrow craft and tumbled into the river. As hefell, the flailing fingers of Cheelo's free hand contacted hisbackpack and instinctively grabbed hold. The safety strapconnecting it to the side of the boat gave way beneath hisweight and followed him into the water. Automatically rightedby its internal gyro, the swift craft promptly resumed itscourse upstream--carrying with it Cheelo Montoya's tent,sleep sack, and all of his supplies that were not contained inthe pack.

Perhaps the impact dislodged the river wolf as well as discouraging it. Or possibly it had finally slaked its need for revenge. Regardless of the reason, the meter-and-a-half-longotter released its bloody grasp on Cheelo's shoulders andswam off, occasionally popping its head out of the water tolook back long enough to sputter a few final insulting chirpsand barks at the intruding human. Treading water, Cheelohad no time to respond to the insults of his fellow mammal.Clutching tightly to the backpack with one hand and hispistol with the other, he struck out for the shore opposite theone favored by the otter clan, occasionally glancing upstreamto track his boat as it blithely powered on out of sight minusits absent passenger.

He shouldn't have been such a lazy sailor, he reflected indismay. With its autonav activated the craft would continue tomake steady progress until halted by impassable rapids orsome other obstacle it had not been designed to cope with.Then it would stop and wait for instructions from its absentowner.

Thoroughly drenched, he hauled himself out on the nearestbeach. Smooth-shelled turtles watched him from a nearbylog, butterflies fluttering about their snouts in search of extruded salts. Wading birds accelerated their stride to give himadditional room. Checking his pants for worms, candiru, and other potentially dangerous hangers-on, he contemplated hisoptions.

Recharging by day, the boat would not run out of power.Programmed to proceed upstream, it would not pause for restor sleep. It was gone, and along with it much that he hadbrought to sustain him in the rain forest. By great good fortune he had shoved the compact fishing kit into the backpackafter the last time he had used it. That was helpful, but stillleft him with little choice. No longer could he gambol carelessly through the forest. In order to make his critical appointment with Ehrenhardt, he had to find his way to a town,an isolated farm, even a tourist encampment, and he had tostart now. Anyplace would do so long as it was not home toofficial authority. A convincing liar, he felt that he could successfully pass himself off to a group of adventurous touristsas a kindred spirit. It would take very little to render whollybelievable the story of falling out of a boat set on autonav and not being able to catch back up to it.

With luck he would find assistance in returning to civilization. There he could access his credcard and without furtherado, book the sequence of flights necessary to take him back to Golfito. Because he was on foot he would have to move alittle faster now, that was all. He still had ample time to makethe deadline.

But first he had to find those hypothetical charitable tourists, and avoid the attention of park rangers while doing so.

Two days later he felt he was closer to the nearest townbut no nearer fellow sightseers. So preoccupied was he withsearching for food to supplement the small stock of concentrates that remained in his pack that he almost overlooked theprobe. Disguised as a split-tailed eagle, the drone came gliding down the river at treetop level. It was not the smoothnessof its flight that caught Cheelo's attention and caused him to duck deeper into the woods, but the fact that the too-perfectraptor did not flap its wings--not even once. Superb glider that it was, even a large eagle needed the intercession of anoccasional wingbeat to keep it aloft.

Tracking its progress from behind the buttress roots of arain forest hardwood, he watched as the drone circled a spoton the far bank, descended to a height of several meters, andproceeded to hover. Eagles could hover, he knew, but only onstrong, warm updrafts. There was no updraft a couple of meters above the riverbank, certainly not one forceful enough to support even a medium-sized hawk, much less the eagle. The cameras that were its eyes were doubtless taking pictures andrelaying them back to one of the distant ranger stations thatringed the perimeter of the immense Reserva. Monitoring the health of the forest and its fauna without disturbing any of theinhabitants was a task best carried out by such disguisedmechanicals.

Surely they couldn't be looking for him, he thought. Evenif the authorities had somehow managed to track him andtrace his flight from San Jose to Lima, there was next to nothing to lead them to the middle of the rain forest. Hethanked whatever deities looked after such as him that he had grabbed his pack while falling out of the boat: It contained allhis identification. Then it occurred to him that they mightnot be looking for him, Cheelo Montoya, wanted for murder,but for the missing occupant of a runaway boat. Proceedingmindlessly on its way upriver, it was not unreasonable to assume that the intruding craft had caught the attention ofone of the Reserva's robotic monitors. Rangers and administrators could be expected to wonder at the presence of anunoccupied craft, packed with supplies, cruising blithelynorthward devoid of passengers. It would be percipient forthem to assume that a small disaster might have occurred andto go looking for the owner of the wayward craft.

That was fine, except that he did not want to be rescued. Itwas his intention in coming to the Reserva to get himselfgood and lost. He did not want to be found, no matter howwell-intentioned his would-be saviors were. Despite hisreluctance to abandon the only landmark he knew, he hadno choice but to move away from the main river and deeperinto the forest. Searchers, human or mechanical, would assume that stranded travelers would keep to the shoreline andthe beaches where they could easily be spotted. He had taken care to acquire a boat that could not be traced, so if scanned itwould not lead back to him. With luck, it would sink andbreak up before inquisitive rangers could haul it ashore andcheck its contents.

Meanwhile he plunged deeper into the forest, knowingthat it would conceal him like a hot, green blanket. The profusion of life in the canopy and on the ground would make itnext to impossible to isolate his heat signature from the air,even if a properly equipped drone knew exactly where tosearch. He made slow but steady progress. Unlike thicket orjungle, virgin rain forest permitted relatively easy hiking.Large trees grew well apart, and the canopy harvested thesunlight before it could hit the ground, restricting the densityof the undergrowth.

Not only was the solid overstory reassuring, it was alsobeautiful--diverse with epiphytes and flowers. Monkeysrattled their way through the arboreal highways, and the bell-like warbling of the oropendula punctuated his footsteps. Hewas careful to shuffle his feet as he walked. Making as muchnoise and vibration as possible would keep the local serpentsout of his path. Avoiding the authorities would not help him ifhe accidentally stepped on a bushmaster or fer-de-lance.

After making a careful check for ants, he settled down between the buttress roots of a sprawling tree and prepared tospend the night. His tent was still on the boat, but his packyielded a light, strong emergency blanket. One root curved sideways and out, creating a swooping overhang that whencombined with the blanket served to protect him from theevening rain. It was a good thing he had not come in the wetseason, he mused. Without his boat he would be helpless,trapped by flooded rivers and lakes, unable to cross groundchurned to mud. That he was going to get wet despite thelightweight raincoat he could extract from the pack was a facthe could not avoid: He was, after all, deliberately lost inEarth's greatest rain forest. But he would not drown and, solong as he could fish, he would not starve. He did not care tothink what he would have done had the folding fishing kitbeen lost along with the boat.

He had no difficulty the following morning pulling several small fish from a sizable pond. Using his belt knife, he guttedand filleted them. His camp stove was on the wayward boat,and making a fire was out of the question. Even if he couldfind sufficiently dry wood in the waterlogged forest, it wouldmost likely be too soft to burn for long, or already so rotted itwould fall apart in his hands. Nor could he risk giving awayhis location by producing smoke.

As he ate the fish raw he wished for a few limes or lemons. They were not available, so the tang of ceviche would have towait until he found himself once more in a town. But the fishwould give him strength. With the small remaining stock ofsupplements contained in the pack's emergency kit, he oughtto be able to keep going for some time. At least, he thoughtwith a grim smile, he would not be slowed down by theweight of supplies.

Settling the pack on his shoulders and back, he struck offinto the trees, keeping to the highest ground that presented itself. His feet stayed warm and dry, as the surrounding mudand muck was repelled by the permanent static charge in hisjungle boots. He was glad that when he had made his purchases he had not stinted on appropriate clothing. It wouldhave been nice, however, to have the tent.

On the other hand, he might have grabbed something besides the pack when tumbling out of the boat. He did not careto think about what his situation might be like without it. Hewould have had no choice but to risk rescue by the Reservarangers and to hope that no one connected his face to the onethat was by now no doubt splashed across police wanted files all across the planet.

The repeller in the pack kept the swarms of ravenousinsects at bay. He could see them, could hear them humming and clicking and chittering as they flew and crawled all around, unable to enter the restricted sphere of electronic dislocation that had at its core a warm, pulsating, blood-filledfigure. They wanted to nibble on his flesh and drink his blood.Mosquitoes and flies, beetles and ants, all gave way as theprecisely modulated stridulations of the repeller urged themaside like a drifting iceberg parting the sea. Without the compact device, he knew, his skin would by now have takenon the reddened, uneven contours of a strenuously abusedgolfball.

The birds kept him company, and the monkeys. While easyto hear, the latter were difficult to see. The natives who hadonce inhabited this region had been fond of monkey, but thethought of consuming a simian was not one that appealed toCheelo. Anyway, he had only a single-bladed knife and could not have used a bow and arrow had heaven provided them.

The following morning a skimmer flashed by overhead, traveling slowly at treetop level. Alerted to its approach bythe startled screeches of a family of squirrel monkeys, hehad taken shelter beneath a dense cluster of dieffenbachia.Thick, spatulate leaves shielded him completely from above.Peeping out as the skimmer thrummed past, he saw that it wascamouflaged visually as well as aurally. If not for the panicthat had arisen among the monkeys he would never have noticed it until it was right on top of him. Despite the cover provided by the trees, he might have been spotted.

The forest is my friend, he thought, waiting beneath theconcealing leaves until he was sure the patrolling vehiclewas gone. When he resumed his march, his confidence wasshaken by unexpected uncertainty.

Come to think of it, why would Reserva rangers need tocamouflage their patrol craft? True, the soft whine a skimmergenerated might disturb the native fauna, but it was hardlyloud enough to be flagrantly unsettling. Masking the sound ofan engine was an expensive procedure that hardly seemedjustified by the limited disruption it might cause.

He could understand disguising drone probes as eagles and other birds. They could move more freely among theforest creatures, taking surveys and monitoring their health.But it seemed a waste of money to camouflage a skimmer. Itssize and unfamiliar shape would instantly identify it to thecreatures of the forest as an unknown and possibly hostile intruder. His confusion deepened.

If the skimmer was not disguised to conceal it from thedenizens of the rain forest, then from whom? Wouldn't it be more likely that an official Reserva vehicle would be boldly emblazoned with identifying marks and colors? A scientificexpedition might opt for anonymity, but not for expensivecamouflage. In the event of an emergency, they would want tomake certain their craft could be spotted from the air by asearch party. The same would be true for a tourist vehicle.

That left open to speculation the possibility that there wereothers in the rain forest who did not wish their presence advertised. Biochemical companies, for one, extracted enormously valuable and useful derivatives from rain forest plants.Most of these took the form of legal, government-approved,exhaustively tested products. A few did not. Their scarcityand novelty value enhanced their price.

If botanical pirates were active in this part of the forest, they might--once he had the chance to explain himself--accept him as a kindred spirit and take him in. That would obviate his need to find his way into a town, thereby riskingexposure to the local authorities. On the other hand, such illicit organizations did not usually take kindly to the appearance of uninvited outsiders, no matter what their social standing. Depending on the frame of mind of the people incharge of such a hypothetical illegal operation, they might asreadily decide to punch a hole in his chest and dump him inthe nearest river for the caimans and the piranhas to clean upas invite him to share their camp.

He would have to tread carefully. He might already havetripped hidden sensors, resulting in the appearance of the patrolling skimmer. If he had strayed inside some undefinedperimeter, the possibility of automated traps could not be discounted. From now on he would have to pay even more attention than usual to where he put his feet. But, he remindedhimself, any assault by the authorities on a clandestine rainforest operation would come from the air. He would be cautious anyway. He did not know what he was dealing with, anduntil he did, he would continue to treat his immediate surroundings with heightened suspicion.

Another skimmer flew over later that day, forcing him totake shelter a second time. He knew it was a different vehiclefrom its size and silhouette. It only reinforced his convictionthat it was someone other than the local authorities who wassearching for him. If it was the police and they suspected afugitive was afoot in the area, they would have called for himto surrender himself. If it was the as-yet-unidentified ownerof the wayward boat who was being sought, they would haveadvertised the opportunity for rescue rather than gone to expensive lengths to conceal its presence.

That left him with his suspicions of a criminal operationhidden somewhere in the depths of the rain forest, its operators as eager as he to avoid the attention of the authorities.They would be people who might as readily kill him aswelcome him, even if he invoked Ehrenhardt's name. Thechoices thus presented were not easy ones. He decided that until he knew more he would maintain his privacy. Meanwhile let them search for him. He had avoided the authoritiesall the way from San Jose to the Reserva. No manufacturersof illicit pharmaceuticals were going to find him if he did notwant to be found.

Whoever they were, he reflected as he stepped over a fallen log lush with fungi, they had money. Camouflaging askimmer's appearance was one thing, but muting its enginecalled for expensive technological expertise. This remote corner of the vast rain forest was not being guarded by a handfulof amateurs working out of a few thatched huts. The presenceof not one but two such costly disguised skimmers hinted at alevel of sophistication outside his experience.

Maybe he could do more than merely survive here, hethought. Maybe there was a chance to make some contacts--big, important contacts. If the opportunity presented itself to fall in with a group of well-connected felons, he would takeit. Or he might learn all he could about them and then turn intheir operation to the nearest authorities, using his knowledgeto bargain for the dropping of the charges that would havearisen from the incident in San Jose. That had been an accident, after all. No one could claim premeditation. Either way,he had options. What he needed now was to supplement themwith knowledge, as much as he could gather without beingdiscovered.

It struck him that the drone that had been disguised as aneagle might be owned and maintained not by the Reserva authority but by these same people. Monitoring a buffer areaoutside their immediate zone of operations, it could watch for patrolling rangers and unwitting tourists without drawing attention to itself. He whistled softly to himself, impressed bythe implications. Everything he had seen so far suggested theexistence of an illegitimate operation on an imposing scale.That was assuming he was right in his assumptions andthat it was not the local authorities who were conducting theflyovers.

For a moment he worried that the electronic repeller mightgive him away. Then he relaxed, secure in the knowledge thatif it was going to, it already would have. Its output must be infinitesimal, he decided. Anyone close enough to pick it upwould be able to see and identify its owner. Even so, he considered turning it off. The continued presence of the activeinsect multitude that had helped to keep this portion ofthe Reserva pristine for hundreds of years forestalled him. Hewas uncomfortable enough already. He would not add to hisdiscomfort by exposing his flesh to the attentions of a million marauding mandibles, stingers, and probing proboscises.Aside from the potential for loss of blood and the acquisitionof disease, he flat-out hated and always had despised bugs.

Trying to make as little noise as possible as he advanced,he kept his eyes alert for the glint of metal and plastic andcomposite, and his ears attuned to the harmonic discord ofthe surrounding forest. If the monkeys failed to warn himnext time, the birds might do so. He was not alone here; hehad allies, however unconventional. He had escaped confinement and mindwipe by never letting down his guard and bytrusting no one. Early in his life he had chosen to swap companionship for freedom. It was a philosophy that had servedhim well, and he saw no reason to tamper with it now.

Overhead, a pair of scarlet macaws were screeching withpleasure as they attacked a cluster of ripe figs. A pair of thejuicy green fruits fell to earth not far from where Cheelo wasstanding. Bending, he picked them up and, after checking forants, shoved them in a pocket. Later, when his stomach wasfeeling more adventurous, he might try a bite. Raising ahand, he saluted his rain forest confederates with a grin before moving on.

It did not matter who was looking for him, he decided withsatisfaction. Police or traffickers, rangers or poachers--hewould avoid them all until he and he alone decided it wastime for Cheelo Montoya to leave the Reserva. They kept therain forest at arm's length: He embraced it. The trees and theanimals and the insects were his friends, his shield. All he hadto do was find out what was going on here, in this empty, isolated place, and figure out the best way to profit from thatknowledge before he left.

While taking care, of course, to make sure that his friends and his shield did not poison, infect, dismember, eviscerate,or otherwise impede him.

Chapter Twelve

Sustenance would not be a problem, at least not in the shortterm. Desvendapur had readier access to food than anyoneelse in the colony, far more than he would be able to carry.Besides, it was his intention to live as much as possible offthe alien land. Just as the bipeds had been able to derive nourishment from many of the native foodstuffs available onWillow-Wane, so the residents of the hidden colony on the human homeworld found that their digestive systems couldtolerate a significant variety of the local plant products. Thisgreatly facilitated settlement and the perpetuation of secrecy, since suspiciously large quantities of food did not have to bebrought down from orbit.

Certain vital minerals and vitamins not found in terrestrialvegetation, or available only in insufficient quantity or incorrect proportion, were supplied to the colonists in theform of supplements, and it was these that Desvendapur was careful to stockpile for his pending enterprise. As a food preparator he was as familiar as the senior botanists and biochemists with those local growths that provided the bulk ofthe colony's provender. Once outside, he would know exactlywhat to look for in its raw form and how best to prepare it.Provided he could get outside, of course.

He spent a good deal of his leisure time surreptitiouslystudying and evaluating potential egresses. There was onlyone main exit to the surface: The shuttle dock where he hadfirst arrived. On those occasions when it was necessary forthem to pay a visit, the colony's human friends and facilitators entered via the same portal.

There were in addition a number of artfully concealedemergency exits, to be used only in the event of disaster. Their design and construction was familiar to him. Every hive boasted similar "shoot" tunnels equipped with automatic, individually powered lifts to the surface. Utilizing onein the accustomed manner was out of the question, as its activation would set off all manner of alarms.

At least he would not have to deal with guards, armed orotherwise. The forest that grew above the colony was undisturbed and empty save for those remote monitors that had been designed jointly by humans and thranx to keepwatch for unforeseen intruders. Since the establishment of the colony there had been none. This portion of the planetwas not only vast and untouched, it was guarded by the humans themselves against unauthorized entry. The monitorswere a calculated afterthought, a precaution whose presencewas very likely unnecessary. Nevertheless, they existed, andhe would have to deal with them.

But no one guarded the exits. There was no reason, no needfor sentinels. Bold and audacious as the colonists were, nothranx in its right mind would think of taking a solo, unsanctioned jaunt on the actual surface, exposed to thousands ofexotic alien life-forms. Additionally, it could get uncomfortably cool outside, especially at night. There was also hostilefauna with which the colonists were utterly unfamiliar, andthey wanted to keep it that way.

All except Desvendapur. Hostility was fertilization fortragedy, and tragedy was the foundation for many a nobleepic. As for the climate, he would cope. Of all the places onEarth, the colony had been established in the one most copacetic to his kind. If he could not persevere on the surfaceabove the colony, it was highly unlikely he would be able todo so anywhere else on the world.

It took him some time and much careful calibrating toforge the necessary internal directives. Anyone who chancedacross them would discover that he had been temporarily transferred to the colony's other food preparation facility.Anyone who happened to check personnel records wouldnote that he was still hard at work in the colony. With his worklocation temporarily blurred, no one should miss him at either location. He would be free to wander, to absorb and learn, to discover and explore. When he was finished hewould return to his old station, there being a good likelihoodof his never having been missed. He would resume workwhile devoting the majority of his time to the tailoring of hisrough notes.

When they were revised to his satisfaction he would submit them to the appropriate sources on Willow-Wane forcriticism and publication. That they would cement his celebrity he had no doubt. Then he would gladly submit to thepublic revelation and exposure of his true self, in the processreclaiming his identity. If this connected him with the deathof the transport driver Melnibicon, he would deal with theconsequent ramifications as required. What happened afterthat did not matter. His fame would be assured. The honorand renown he would bring to his much-reduced family, tohis clan and his birth hive, would blaze forth no matter whathis eventual disposition at the hands of the authorities. There was even a good chance he would escape punishment. Greatart traditionally excused a multitude of sins, as well it should. He did not dwell long on the morality of this conviction.

But his compositions would have to be exceptional indeed.

It was with growing confidence that he made ready. Thethrill of preparing to do something as illicit as it was extraordinary inspired him to fire off half a dozen scrolls filled withscreaming hot stanzas. Reviewing them, he decided that theyrepresented his best work to date. And they only anticipatedthe sights he expected to see, the experiences he proposedto have. He could foresee that any creative difficulties thatmight develop were not going to arise from insufficient inspiration, but from a need to channel and guide a surfeit ofillumination.

And then, falling upon him as heavily and abruptly asa collapsing tunnel, the chosen day was at hand. He badetemporary farewell to Jhywinhuran and his friends and co-workers within the food preparation section, assuring themthat he would return from his temporary reassignment totheir quadrant of the colony within a single moon cycle. Returning to his quarters, he made certain that everything wasin order and that, should anyone come calling and enter uninvited, they would find a chamber in a state reflecting the continued residence of its occupant. He had arranged everythingjust so, even to programming his favorite relaxation musicand visuals to power up at appropriate times of the day.

There was only so much he could do. If someone shouldpost a watch on his living quarters they would quicklydiscover that the cubicle was not in use. But why wouldanyone do that? As jointly devised by humans and thranx,colony security was designed to keep a lookout for wandering strangers on the surface. It was intended to keep outsiders sealed out, not residents locked in.

The supplies he had so patiently and laboriously accumulated were packed within a waterproof commodities sack appropriated from food preparation. Anyone observing him intransit would think he was making a delivery. The fact that hewould be traveling outside the usual food freighting routeswas unlikely to give rise to a great deal of comment. It wasnot as if he were transporting a bomb.

Strapping the sack onto his back, he used a reflective surface to make sure that it was properly balanced against thelong, narrow sweep of his abdomen. The fact that he had not been mated and still retained his vestigial wing cases helped,since the additional layer of hard chitin served to shouldersome of the weight. Slipping a carry pouch over his thoraxfound him heavily burdened, but not intolerably so. Taking alast look around the comfortable chamber that had been hishome ever since he had touched down on the world of thebipeds, he walked out, closing and securing the entrance behind him with his personal code.

He had deliberately chosen the hour of early morningwhen hive shifts were in flux. With half the colony's workersretiring and the other half rising to their assignments, therewas a lot of traffic in the corridors. Everyone walked who could. The fewer vehicles the colony utilized, the less thechance that an accumulation of stray vibrations might bepicked up by unknowing travelers on the surface above.Given the isolation of the colony's site within the immenseprotected rain forest, that was extremely unlikely, but everyprecaution that could be taken to ensure secrecy had beenfully implemented.

No one confronted him or greeted him as he made his waywestward through the hive. General anonymity was one ofthe benefits of working in food preparation, and he had deliberately done nothing since his arrival to cultivate convivialityor friendship among his fellow thranx outside his department. Jhywinhuran was the one exception. He tried not tothink of how she might react to the revelation of his true identity. Seeing her perfect vee-shaped face, her golden eyes thatseemed to glow within, the elegantly sensuous sweep of herovipositors and the gleam of soft light off her brilliant blue-green exoskeleton made him uncomfortable. He forced theimages from his mind. A poet on the hunt was not permittedto indulge in the balm of soothing reminiscence.

As he traveled farther from the centers of operation andinto zones designed for general maintenance he encountered fewer and fewer residents. Machines held sway here,muffled and muted to emit as little in the way of vibration andtelltale impulses as possible. Every technological blanketavailable had been thrown over the colony to screen it fromprying eyes.

But in addition to basic foodstuffs imported from orbit and water from the colony's own wells, there was one other component vital to the continued health of the facility: air.

Filtered and purified, the alien atmosphere was drawn intothe hive by means of a series of all-but-silent vacuum pumps.Narrow of diameter, camouflaged to look like tree stumps,they dotted the floor of the rain forest above, inconspicuous and immobile. When he entered via a servicing andmaintenance hatch the one he had singled out, Desvendapurstruggled against the pull from below. If he lost his grip, if hefell helplessly, arms and legs flailing, he would find himself trapped at the bottom of the shaft. If he was lucky, someonewould detect the reduction in the flow of air and come to seewhat was causing the obstruction. If not, he would lie thereuntil his food ran out and until--despite the presence of biological inhibitors--he began to rot.

Bracing all four legs, both foothands, and both truhandsagainst the sides of the vertical cylindrical shaft, he steppedthrough the opening, using his truhands to carefully close theservice hatch behind him. Even with eight limbs to bracehimself against the dark composite walls, it was a struggle to ascend against the powerful downdraft. The untreated atmosphere being sucked down into the hive was ripe with a pervasion of exotic odors that threatened to overwhelm him. Hepersisted in his ascent. As expected, the air was cooler thanhe would have preferred, but adequately impregnated withmoisture. He might get cold, but he would not dry out.

Once, he slipped, a rear leg losing its grip, threatening to send him hurling down the shaft. His other legs stiffened totake up the slack, and he quickly reasserted his stance, resuming the full brace. The supply sack strapped to the backof his abdomen now felt as if it were filled not with foodand medication and survival gear but with bars of unrefinedmetal. The place where his thorax met his upper abdomenrubbed painfully together with each upward step, threateningto crack and expose his semiopen circulatory system. If thathappened and the break was serious, he could easily bleed todeath before he reached the surface.

Though always in view, the upper terminus of the shaftseemed impossibly far away. He elected not to look at it lestthe distance he still had to climb discourage him. From thetrembling in his legs he knew that he had already passed thepoint of no return. The top of the shaft was closer than the service hatch through which he had entered. Since it requiredalmost the same energy to rise as to retreat, he clasped hismandibles tightly together and continued his ascent. His thoraxpulsed with his hard breathing.

The higher he rose, the stronger became the alien stenchfrom outside. Just when he thought his legs could no longersupport him, his head slammed into something unyielding.The pain that raced down his unprotected antennae was intense. Only the shock kept him from losing his grip on thewalls of the shaft entirely and plunging to the bottom. If thathappened at this height he would not have to worry aboutrescue. Drawn inward by the suction from below, alien air entering through screened, eye-sized gaps blasted his face and exposed eyes. Ignoring the dust and grit, he reached up withboth truhands to feel along the inner edge of the rim. Thereshould be a single latch. In the near darkness he could seevery little, and he was constantly having to look down to protect his eyes from the barrage of minuscule debris that threatened to rip the shielding nictitating membranes.

If he failed to locate the latch, or if it refused to open, hewould have no choice but to try and work his way all the wayback down the shaft to the service hatch. Given how his legs were shaking, he doubted very seriously if he would be ableto make it.

He had studied the design of the air shafts closely, but perusing a schematic in the comfort of his quarters was very different from hunting for a tiny component part, trembling and exhausted, while braced only by his legs at the top of a lethally high duct full of incoming air that seemed determined to break his grip and send him hurtling downward. Thedelicate digits of his left truhand skimmed the place where the upper rim met the top of the shaft. They encountered an immovable obstruction. Raising his head, Desvendapurfought to see clearly in the poor light and softly moaning air.It was the latch. Ithad to be. Using all four digits, he pressedand twisted according to the schematic he had memorized.

The latch did not respond.

Regulating his breathing as best he could, he tried again. The latch might as well have been welded shut. Refusing to concede, unable to do anything else, he readied himself for a third attempt. But he needed more leverage--or morestrength.

Sending his last surge of energy and determination into hislower body, he released his grip on the shaft walls with hisupper limbs. Braced now only by his four trulegs, he grasped the latch with all sixteen digits of his foothands and tru-hands while pressing and twisting. Something unyieldingcomplained. The latch gave.

He was not sure whether his legs lost their brace before hepulled himself out or at the same time. All he knew was thathe was hanging on with his upper limbs for what seemed like an eternity before he was able to finally kick, pull, and draghimself out of the shaft. He lay on the ground, breathing hard, his vision unfocused, alongside what looked like the stumpof a dead diderocarpus. The last thing he had done before collapsing was to close the top of the shaft. It had snapped shut,automatically resealing.

He was committed now. He could not reopen the shaft andregain access to the hive from outside. He was trapped onthe surface of an alien world, the world of the bipeds. Rightwhere he wanted to be.

It had not been difficult to learn where the few fixed monitors were located, or when the mobile scanners passed overtheir respective sections of the site. Colony-based securitywas necessarily limited lest it attract the attention of the local human authorities. Of necessity, the majority of it was left tothose renegade humans who had assisted in the establishment of the colony, and even they had to keep a low profile. Thosefew who had infiltrated the park authority were the mostuseful, but even they could not linger in the colony's vicinity. It would be difficult to explain the attraction of a patch of rainforest that, literally on the surface, was no different from thethousands of square kilometers surrounding it. So while heremained attuned and alert to the possibility, he believed thatany chance of imminent discovery remained slight.

His excitement at having made it this far was muted by hisexhaustion. Every joint in his exoskeleton ached. He lay onhis lower abdomen, his legs folded beneath him, slowly regaining his strength. Gradually it returned, and with it, theability to marvel at his outlandish surroundings.

The trees were all the wrong color: gray or grayish-greenwhere they should have been dark brown. Leaves tended to bebroad and spatulate, which was normal, but with their veinsall too visible. It was a relief to observe distant ancestor types crawling and flying through the forest. The screech of primitive mammals, the predecessors of the dominant planetaryspecies, pierced the sodden air. Any less humidity and Desvendapur would have been distinctly uncomfortable, but thenear-normal moisture content helped to mitigate the cooltemperature. He might feel a slight chill now and then, especially at night, but otherwise he anticipated no difficultysurviving.

Having devoted himself in his spare time to the study ofthe biology of the surface in the immediate vicinity of thecolony, he was able to locate not one but several edible plants.None of them were palatable to humans, whose ability to consume and digest plant matter was notably inferior to that ofthe thranx. Rising, he hefted his pack and started off into the woods, choosing an easterly heading. He ignored theedible vegetation. At the moment he was not hungry, and therewould be plenty to choose from in the course of his journey. Nor did he wish to leave behind any evidence of hispassing.

With that in mind he was careful to step only in very wet orvery dry places so as not to leave footprints, to avoid thebreaking off of leaves or branches, and to disturbas little ofthe forest litter as possible, even though there were otherlarge animals in the forest and any such damage would likelybe ascribed to them. Even a human specialist would find ithard to tell whether a branch had been snapped off by athranx or a tapir.

As he traveled farther from the site of the colony anddeeper into the untouched terrestrial rain forest his elation increased. This was what he had come for, what he hadstruggled so long to achieve--exposure to something utterlynew and different. Already, long lines of continuous versewere scampering unbidden through his brain so voluminously that he had to halt from time to time to recite them intohis scri!ber. Every tree, every flower and insect, peeping amphibian or raucous bird, inspired him to compose. He couldno more stop himself from doing so than he could halt hisbreathing. It slowed his progress but raised his spirits.

A fruiting tree was ablaze with cacophonous color, not from flowers but from the flock of scarlet macaws busilygorging themselves in its upper branches. Pausing below,Desvendapur assembled an entire sonnet, complete to rhythmand accompanying stridulation. Following a creative lull ofmany cycles, the explosion of artistry left him giddy. And this was only the first morning of the first day! What inspirationalwonders awaited him in the cycles to come? He resolved to maintain his freedom for as long as possible, or at least untilthe last of his strategic supplements gave out.

It did indeed grow decidedly chilly when the sun set, butthe personal covering and tubular shelter he had brought withhim proved sufficient to ward off the cold. A human would have spent the night sweating in the nocturnal heat and humidity, but the comfort level of a thranx demanded more ofboth. Within the solitary six-legged sightseer, excitement andelation battled exhaustion. To Desvendapur's benefit, exhaustion won. He slept soundly and well into morning.

Rising, he repacked his gear and resumed his march eastward. Surrounded by a profusion of exotic edibles, he did nothesitate to try one after another, but only if he was certain of his identification. Many terrestrial growths contained toxinsto discourage the attention of predacious herbivores. Some of these were deadly to humans but harmless to thranx, and vice versa. Strong botanical alkaloids that would have sickened ordisabled a biped, for example, the thranx considered piquantand spicy.

Ambling along between the trees, the poet ate as he walked.Truhands reached out to pluck leaves from surroundingbushes or hanging branches. Many things a human wouldhave considered fair game the vegetarian thranx ignored, including the abundance of insects. For Desvendapur to haveconsumed a plump, protein-rich grub would have been akinto a biped eating a baby monkey.

Water was everywhere, eliminating the need for him tocarry a supply. Obstacles that would have given a humanpause proved no impediment to a six-legged thranx. His onlyfear was that there might not be room enough in his scri!berto hold all of the endless stream of invention that poured fromhis mandibles.

Carefully picking his way through a jumble of small fallentrees that had been washed up in one place by the annual wet-season flood, he felt something strike his middle left legforcefully. Looking down, he was intrigued to see the three-meter long bundle of lethal curves known to the humans as a fer-de-lance drawing warily away from him. With a soft hissit turned to slink off into the rotting litter. Its method of locomotion greatly intrigued him. Nothing half so large livedon Willow-Wane that was capable of rapid movement over land without legs. He observed its departure with interest. Aglance at the limb that had absorbed the impact revealed apair of shallow dimples in the faintly metallic blue-greenchitin where the elapid's fangs had struck. When they had failed to penetrate, the aggressive and slightly bewilderedsnake had turned to slink off into the darkness of the forestunderstory.

Having paid close attention to his studies, Desvendapurhad been able to identify the snake instantly. Had it bit the soft, unprotected leg of a human, pain and paralysis wouldhave rapidly ensued and--without the prompt application ofthe appropriate antivenin--death. Unless struck in the eye,the soft underside of the abdomen, or between joints, an armored adult thranx ran no such risk.

Not every threat manifested by the wild rain forest couldbe so easily dismissed. Knowing this, Desvendapur was alertto its many dangers. A large constrictor like a boa or an anaconda could kill a thranx as readily as an unwary human. Socould a startled spectacled bear or an angry caiman. By virtue of his hard exoskeleton the poet was, however, virtuallyimmune to the attentions of the omnipresent hordes of biting,stinging, blood-sucking insects.

Despite the wonderful excess of exotic tastes freely available on the trees and bushes growing all around him, he wascareful not to overindulge. It would be foolish to survivethe forest only to succumb to a self-inflicted stomach upset.There would be plenty of time later to try everything.

The narrow, shallow rain forest streams were a source ofconstant wonder and delight, but the first sizable tributary heencountered gave him pause. It was less than five metersacross, no more than half a meter deep, and devoid of visiblecurrent. Any human child could have plunged in and crossedit easily. Not so Desvendapur or any other thranx. No matter how hard they thrashed and kicked, even with all eight limbsthey were feeble swimmers. Their bodies had simply not been designed with buoyancy in mind. And while members of both sapient species could keep their heads above water while theyswam, humans breathed through double openings set in thecenter of their faces. A thranx utilized eight breathing spicules, four to each side, located on the thorax. Following immersion, these invariably found themselves situated belowthe surface.

Turning upstream, the poet kept alert for a place to cross. Alarge fallen mahogany tree trapped among rocks provided abridge. It was shakier than he would have liked, but in the absence of alternatives he felt he had no choice but to trust it.He wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and the colony as rapidly as he could.

The log held steady beneath his weight, and with all sixlegs securing his footing he was able to accomplish the potentially lethal transit without difficulty. Besides, there wasnothing like tempting death to stimulate the creative musewithin. Composing as he walked, the scri!ber held comfortably in one truhand, he plunged gleefully into the dense rainforest on the far shore.

In this manner he passed a number of days, camping in adifferent place every night, sampling the local vegetation,composing relentlessly, crossing intervening streams with anabandon that began to border on recklessness. He was drunk with delight at the sights he encountered, knowing that few ifany of his kind had ever seen half as much of the world of thebipeds as he was seeing now. Via recordings, yes, but that wasnot the same as and could not compare with trudging throughthe deliciously decomposing muck of the rain forest floor,catching the flash of light from a flitting morpho or dragonfly,listening to the squawk and screech of birds arguing withtree-dwelling simians, or pausing to ingest and sample thetaste of yet another exotic leaf or flower.

It was worth everything he had gone through to get here, hetold himself with satisfaction. It was worth anything the authorities might do to him if he was caught. He had composedmore and better in the past few days than in his entire previous lifetime. For a true artist, that made any and all consequences worthwhile.

He marveled at the miniature jewels comprising the familyDendrobatidae, the poison arrow frogs. When he encountered a sloth lumbering lugubriously between trees, he satfor hours watching it. Reaching a stream whose bottom wasclearly visible through the transparent water, he chose towade it instead of hunting for a bridge or a way around. Themeter-deep water covered his legs and submerged his abdomen, coming right up to the base of his thorax. All fourtrulegs were underwater, a condition designed to make anysensible, right-thinking thranx exceedingly nervous. What if hestepped into a hole and went under? What if the appearanceof the streambed was deceptively deeper than it appeared, orgave way beneath his feet?

Holding his breath, he deliberately lowered himself untilthe stream rose to his mandibles. With his spicules submerged, only his head remained above water. He could still see with his eyes, hear with his ears, taste with his antennae,but he could not breathe. He held the unnatural position foras long as his lungs would allow before finally straightening. Water trickled off his exoskeleton as he emerged ontothe far bank. The experience had been empowering as well asexhilarating.

Raising the overworked scri!ber to his mandibles, he poureda stream of florid composition into the integrated pickup.As he walked and dictated, he strode into a patch of lowswamp seething with voracious, newly hatched leeches. Theyswarmed onto his legs and promptly dropped off, unable topenetrate his exoskeleton. Those that persisted he picked offand flung aside. They tried to cling to his digits but were unable to secure a grip on the hard, smooth surface.

There were sizable native predators on Willow-Wane, andin prehistoric times primitive social thranx on Hivehom hadsuffered predation at the claws of rampagingcolowact or theferocious burrowingbejajek. Large meat-eaters tended tomake a good deal of noise prior to attacking, however. So itwas with more than a little surprise that Desvendapur, whothought himself by now comparatively well attuned to themovements and the rhythms of the terrestrial forest, steppedthrough a clump of deep green calathia and found himselfconfronting a round, speculative face deep of eye and carnivorous of aspect.

More than a little surprised itself, but equally intrigued, the jaguar inclined its head upward and sniffed curiously.Recognizing the quadruped from his studies, the poet haltedwhere he was standing. One foothand reached up and back toremove the kitchen cutting tool he had appropriated from thefood preparation section. It was the nearest thing to a weaponDesvendapur had been able to expropriate and bring along.Food preparators did not have access to stunners or projectiledevices. Not that it mattered. Even if he had been allowedopen and free access to the colony's stores he doubted if such appliances were extant. Even the rogue humans who had assisted in helping the colony to get started might balk at theunregulated importation of alien weaponry.

Taking care not to make any sudden movements that mightagitate the big carnivore, Des transferred the cutting toolfrom his foothand to a truhand. The foothand was stronger,but the truhand was more dexterous and agile. Also, it couldreach high enough to protect his face. Thranx and jaguarstared, each one utterly foreign to the other.

When the big cat took a deliberate step forward, the poetfought down the urge to turn and run. Thranx were not notedfor their sprinting ability, and he didn't doubt for a momentthat the terrestrial predator could overtake him with littleeffort. Approaching, the jaguar lowered its head and commenced a thorough olfactory inspection of this unprecedented prowler, beginning at the excessive number of limbs and working its way upward. The scent it was inhaling wasnot unpleasant, but neither did it correlate with anything inthe jaguar's experience. Ears inclined sharply forward, itworked its way along the length of the thranx's body.

V/as this peculiar creature alive? Was it something good toeat? A thick pink tongue emerged to take a lick of Desvendapur's hind left leg. Finding this foray inconclusive, thejaguar employed the only sampling means left at its disposal.Opening massive jaws, it placed them around the poet's legjust above the middle joint and bit down.

Desvendapur winced at the pain and lashed out with thecutting tool. It was not the resultant shallow incision thatcaused the jaguar to leap up and backward, however, but thereflex stridulation generated by the wing cases on the thranx'sback. Sharp, piercing, and unprecedented in the big cat's experience, the reflexive distress cry hurt its sensitive ears. Withthe alien vibration ringing in its head, it landed on all fours,whirled, and disappeared into the forest.

Breathing hard, Desvendapur hung onto the cutting toolwith one truhand while he used the truhand and foothand onhis other side to explore the injury. Though oozing blood and body fluids, the wound was not deep. Unpacking his improvised medical kit, he disinfected and then patched the hole,filling it with quick-drying synthetic chitin. Fortunately, thejaguar had not bit down with its full strength, or it might havecracked the limb. That would have posed serious problems indeed, though less so for a six-legged thranx than for a two-legged human. He could have rigged a splint, but it was justas well that the attack had not been more serious.

He could not really call it an attack, he decided. The bitehad been more in the nature of a tasting. But for purposesof dramatic composition, he would remember and render itotherwise. Exaggeration was as much a tool of the poet as accent and cadence. Like everything else he had experiencedsince escaping the hive, the encounter with the big cat wouldbe turned to creative profit. Unlike nearly everything else, itwas one experience he had no desire to repeat.

The next large predator might decide to see if the eight-limbed alien was edible by taking a bite out of his head instead of a leg.

Chapter Thirteen

Increasingly confident of his ability to elude the attentions ofwhoever was probing this portion of the rain forest, Cheelofinished the last of his supper and prepared to retire for the night. The enormous branch that protruded from the lowerportion of the trunk of the diderocarpus would not have beeneasy for a city dweller to reach, but in his time Cheelo hadbeen forced to do more than his share of scrambling over,around, and through obstacles to avoid the attentions of security guards, alerted authorities, and violated merchants. Themodest ascent caused him no difficulty.

In minutes he had his pack snugged deep in a crook formedby two tributary branches and his thin emergency blanket spread out on a flattened portion of the largest. Safer thanusual from those forest inhabitants who chose to do theirmarauding after dark, he settled down to a meal of fruitsupplemented with vitamin pills and dehydrates. The latter responded gratifyingly to his experienced ministrations andthe application of a little water.

The sun did not so much set as silently evaporate behindthe clouds and trees, so he could not watch it drop below a vaporous horizon. But seated silently in his temporary aerie hewas able to observe the performance of parrots and macaws,of monkeys and lizards, and to hear the ever-present thrum ofhyperactive insects. For company he had a brace of black-and-yellow frogs, each of which was no bigger than his thumb.The rain forest was an unending, round-the-clock carnivalin which one never knew what act was going to present itself next.

That did not mean he retained his composure when themeter-and-a-half tall bug wandered out of the woods in thedirection of his tree.

At first he thought he was hallucinating, a not-uncommonoccurrence in the deep tropics. As opposed to the giant insect,however, everything else looked, smelled, felt, and soundedunceremoniously real. Hallucinations usually involved morethan one element of perception. Excluding the outlandish apparition, nothing--not even the clouds, not even the explosion of green growth--appeared abnormal.

As it came closer he saw that while it was insectlike, it wasnot an insect. It had eight limbs instead of the compulsorysix, but neither did that make it a spider. Other details markedit as significantly different. Each of the upper four limbs terminated not in hooks or claws, but in four manipulative digitsof equal length. Cheelo could not avoid thinking of them asfingers. Not while one delicately gripped a device of somekind and another casually held a stick.

As he stared, the blue-green, hard-shelled specter halted. Itlooked down at the device it was carrying, up and around atits immediate surroundings, and again at the device beforereaching back to place it in a pocket or slot in the sack slungacross its body. The sack was fashioned from a synthetic material Cheelo did not recognize. Unable to reach the pouchwith the smaller limb that had held the device up for inspection, the creature was forced to transfer the object to a second set of arms in order to complete the transfer.

Raising itself up onto its four hind limbs, it looked aroundbefore resuming its approach. Unless it deviated from itspresent course, it would pass directly beneath the branch onwhich Cheelo had chosen to make his bed. Flattening himself out, he rumbled apprehensively for the pistol in his backpack. He could see nothing like a weapon hanging from or attachedto the bug or its gear.

That was when he recognized the creature from a hazy remembrance of an old media report. As he recalled, it was hismind that had been hazy at the time, not the report. He hadbeen very, very drunk; he recalled the moment as one of thelow points in his life, of which he had suffered many. If he remembered correctly, this creature was a representative of oneof the several intelligent, space-traversing species mankindhad encountered subsequent to the development of the posigravity, or KK-drive, that had made other-than-light travelpossible. He tried to remember the species' name: cranks ordrinks or--thranx. That was it. Never one to care about ormuch keep up with planetary, much less extrasolar, news, hehad overheard and filed the information in that corner of his mind where he stored data that was unlikely to immediatelyimpact his personal social and financial standing.

Explorers might contact and encounter a dozen new species or a hundred: It meant nothing to him if he was unable tosomehow profit from it. Nor was he alone in his reaction. Convinced that all matter, existence, and the universe revolved around each of them individually, the bulk of humanity paid little attention to that which did not affect theirlives directly. The far-reaching, far-ranging vision that thespecies possessed as a whole tended to dissolve into its billions of self-serving individual components when redacted to the petty concerns of one person at a time.

Well, he was damn well concerned now. Tense and wary, heobserved the alien's approach, marveling at the fluid yet jerky motion of the four hind limbs that propelled it forward. Whatthe hell was one of these buglike thranx things doing here, inthe empty reaches of Earth's largest rain forest preserve?Shouldn't it be quarantined on an orbiting station, or at thevery least confined to a well-established diplomatic site likeGeneva or Lombok?

Anxiously scanning the trees behind the creature revealedno other signs of movement. Though it would be premature tomake the assumption, as far as his senses could tell him, thealien was alone. As he stared, it stopped again to take stock ofits surroundings. The valentine-shaped head, about the sizeof his own, turned almost a hundred and eighty degrees tolook back the way it had come. In striking contrast to theblue-green exoskeleton, the oversized compound eyes were amuted gold marked by latitudinal streaks of red. Like an extrapair of fingers, the two antennae would incline first one way,then another, and sometimes in opposite directions, as theyinvestigated their immediate surroundings.

Individuals of a different and more advanced intellectual bent would have reacted to the intrusion with curiosity andinterest. A nervous, edgy Cheelo just wanted the stiff-leggedmonstrosity to go away. He had spent too much time in thecompany of cockroaches, had been stung too often by scorpions, had been bitten too many times in his life by spidersand ants and aggressive tropical beetles, to want this giganticif distant relation to tarry in his vicinity. Even though heknew it was intelligent and not an insect in the accepted terrestrial sense, he just wanted it to go away. If it did not, if itcaused him the slightest bit of trouble, if it reacted in any way, shape, or form that might be construed as hostile--his fingerswere firm and unyielding on the butt and trigger of the compact pistol.

That killing the intruder might precipitate some kind ofinterstellar diplomatic incident never crossed his mind. Interstellar diplomacy and interspecies relations had no immediate impact on the lifestyle of one Cheelo Montoya andtherefore did not concern him. If there was trouble of thatkind it was up to the government to sort out. All that concerned him washis freedom of movement,his health, and thefluctuating status ofhis bank account. He did not see how the shooting of one overlarge, out-of-place, alien bug would adversely affect any of that.

Hopefully, he would not have to deal with any such exoticramifications. Preferably, the extraordinary creature wouldkeep right on walking--through the forest, under his branch, and off in a westerly direction, intent on pursuits or destinations that would remain forever a blissful mystery to the uninterested Cheelo. As it drew nearer still he noted the size of the second, larger sack strapped to the alien's back and wonderedwhat it contained besides small lumpy devices of unknownpurpose. It was preparing to pass beneath his bough now, andhe edged a little farther back, the tough bark scraping againsthis legs, belly, and chest.

Dislodged by his actions, one of the fruits he had scavenged tumbled backward, off the branch, and plunged to the ground directly in front of the extraterrestrial visitor. It haltedimmediately, gazing down at the green orb where it hadlanded among the leaf litter. Cheelo held his breath. Therewas no reason for the creature to look up. In the fecund rainforest, fruit fell from the canopy all the time.

But it did look up--directly at him. Though it had no pupils on which he could focus, he could not escape thefeeling that it was staring directly at him. It was an unnervingsensation, an unsettling feeling, as if all the bugs he had everstomped, sprayed, squashed, or swatted had been rolled uptogether into one measureless, accusatory, all-encompassinginsectoid stare. Even though he knew it was his own memories and guilt that were gazing back up at him, the realization did nothing to alleviate the unease in his mind or the pounding of his heart. Bringing up the hand that held thepistol, he started to point it at the silent specter standing beneath the branch. While he knew nothing about alien physiology or vulnerability, he was willing to chance that it couldnot take a burst to the skull at close range. He lowered themuzzle so that it was pointed right between the two bulging,reflective eyes. His finger started to tighten on the trigger.

The accent was soft to the point of being incomprehensible, but slight and wispy as it was, there was no mistakingthe conjoined syllables of Universal Terranglo.

"Hello," the big bug said. "I hope you will not expose me."

Expose me? Had he expected the outrageous apparition tosay anything at all, that was not what Cheelo would have predicted. "Greetings, man," perhaps, or maybe "Can you tellme how to contact the nearest authorities?" not "I hope youwill not expose me." It had also, he noted, not reacted eithervisibly or verbally to the presence of the lethal weapon thatthe nervous human was pointing directly at its head. Cheelohesitated.

Could the soft voice and gentle words be a ploy to relaxhim and put him off his guard before it attacked and sucked out his innards? Simply by looking at it he could not tell if itcould climb. Was it trying to lure him down to the groundwhere it could set upon him with all eight limbs? It wasshorter and looked like it weighed less, but knowing as he did nothing about the species he had no idea how strong itmight be. Crabs were smaller than humans, too, but they hadjointed chitinous limbs that could effortlessly amputate aman's fingers.

"Can you talk?" it inquired in a manner that could only bedescribed as curiously polite. "I spent a great deal of timestudying recordings of your language until I thought myselffluent. Of course, mimicry is not the same as competency."

"Yeah." Cheelo found himself responding reflexively."Yeah, I can talk." As for competency, the thranx's Terranglowas more cultivated than his own. Montoya's speech reflected its origin in small villages and mean streets, not fancyrecordings or educational programming. "You're a thranx,aren't you?"

"I am thranx." The creature gestured elaborately with itsset of small upper limbs and their eight digits. "I am individually, in the sounding of your speech, called Desvendapur."

Cheelo nodded absently. Was there any harm in telling thisalien his name? Was there anything to be lost or gained by it?If they were going to continue this conversation--and thebug showed no signs of being in a hurry to move on--itwould need to call him something. He gave a mental shrug.Whatever else the thranx might represent, he doubted itworked for the local police.

"Cheelo Montoya."

He smiled at the thranx's initial attempts to pronounce hisname. Maybe its speech wasn't all that cultivated after all.It was, however, sufficiently inquisitive to cause Cheelo totense all over again.

"What are you doing out here in this empty place?" Desvendapur inquired innocently. It took a step backward, awayfrom the branch and the tree. "Are you a ranger on patrol?"

At the mention of the wordranger Cheelo started to bringthe pistol up again--only to relax, not a little confused, whenhe saw that the alien suddenly appeared to be more nervous than he was himself. It was looking around with rapid,twitchy movements and had drawn its forelimbs up againstits--well, whatever passed for its chest. Being utterly ignorant of alien gesture and motivation, Cheelo could only interpret what he was seeing based on that which he knew, and itlooked to him as if the creature was ready to bolt.

"No," he responded cautiously. "I'm not a ranger. I'm notan official of any kind. I'm...a tourist. An amateur naturalist, studying the forest."

Sure enough, the two withdrawn forelimbs resumed theirprevious relaxed position and the searching, rotating, headtwisting ceased as the creature focused once more solely onthe man in the tree. "You must be a confident one. This is supposed to be an exceptionally remote, uninhabited area."

"That's right." Cheelo nodded agreeably, then found himself frowning. He had drawn the pistol aside, but he did notput it down. "How do you know that? And whatare you doing here, anyway?"

Desvendapur hesitated. Unable to interpret human gestureor the extraordinary range of expression their flexible faceswere capable of producing, he had no way of determining thebiped's true intent. As such, he had to rely entirely on hisknowledge of their language. For a thranx, used to employingand translating gesture as organically as sound, the absenceof interpretable gesticulation was akin to hearing only everyother word of a conversation. He would have to fill in the gapsby inference, as best he could.

As near as he could tell based on what he thought he knew,the human struck him as curious rather than hostile, thoughthe poet could not help but wonder about the function of thesmall device it had previously been pointing at him. Thatit was no longer doing so was a relief. But how to respond to the coarse, guttural inquiry? Of course, if he had simplystumbled into the lair of a wandering naturalist, then therewas nothing to fear. He doubted that the human counterpartto a thranx researcher would be much of a threat. Students ofscience, regardless of species, tended to be reflective ratherthan violent.

That did not mean it would hesitate, if provoked, to givehim away. He could do nothing, could not determine on acourse of further action, until he knew what means of communication the human maintained with the outside world. Atleast, he decided, it had not immediately drawn forth a communicator of some kind to announce the encounter. As anaturalist, it might well be as curious about Desvendapur asthe poet was about him.

In any event, benefits from the confrontation were alreadymanifesting themselves. A rush of suggestive stanzas racedthrough Desvendapur's freshly stimulated brain. Reachingback with a foothand, he searched for his scri!ber.

The sudden movement alarmed the suspicious biped. "Hey,what are you doing there?" Again, the small pointed devicethe mammal was holding made an appearance on the rim ofthe bough.

Maybe it's got a gun, Cheelo found himself thinking nervously. And if it did, would he be able to recognize an alienweapon if it was pointed in his direction? Maybe he shouldjust shoot it, right now. But what if it was not alone? What if itwas a member of some larger exploration party? What ifit was working in concert with people, with human scientists?Painfully aware of his ignorance, he realized that until heknew more it would be prudent to react cautiously. He hadnot survived worse than the rain forest and come as close torealizing his lifelong dream as he had by acting impetuously. Observe, analyze, think, plan, then act: the ancient lessons ofthe street.

Besides, the stiff-legged alien didn't look particularly fast,and it gave no indication of wanting to run away. He could always shoot it later.

Not wanting to upset the biped further, Desvendapurbrought the scri!ber out very slowly. "This is a harmless recording device."

"I don't give a shit what it is." Cheelo gestured with thepistol. "Don't point it at me." He did not want his picturetaken, either.

"As you wish." Exhilarated by the tension and the unexpectedness of the contact, Desvendapur proceeded to deliver a stream of clicks, whistles, and sibilant syllables to the scri!ber, together with breathless suggestions for appropriate accompanying gestures. Throughout the euphonious discursive, the human continued to gaze down at him from its perchup in the tree. Such a primitive stare! the poet thought. Sostraightforward and unvarying, heightened by the directness of a single lens. Human eyes were very vulnerable, Desvendapurknew. A thranx could lose part of an eye, dozens of individual lenses, and still be able to see, albeit with a reducedfield of vision and focus. Should a human lose its lens, the ocular function of the entire orb would be largely lost. The realization transformed part of his discomfiture into sympathy.

When he was finished he attached the scri!ber to the pouchhanging from his thorax, where it could be accessed quickly. The human responded by lowering the unidentified mechanism it had been clutching so tightly in one hand.

"You still haven't answered my questions. I told you who Iam and what I'm doing here. I'm still waiting to hear yourstory."

Desvendapur knew he would have to summon all the creative inventiveness at his command. It was vital to prevent thehuman from notifying the authorities. If that happened, notonly would the poet's presence be revealed to the outsideworld, so would that of the colony. He could hardly explainthat he had found his way to the forest preserve from theofficial, highly restricted contact sites halfway around theplanet. Officially, few thranx had even set foot on the humanhomeworld.

The biped claimed to be an amateur naturalist. But unlesshe was concealing his equipment, he appeared to Des to betraveling exceptionally light even for a casually interestednonprofessional. For that matter, why was he even botheringto have this conversation? Any human encountering an unannounced alien could be expected to immediately contacta higher authority. Instead, this Cheelo individual seemed content, at least for the moment, to perform his own interrogation. Something was not as it seemed, but Desvendapur knewit was far too early for him to render judgments. He neededmore information--a great deal more. After all, what didhe know of human scientific procedures? Perhaps this self-proclaimed naturalist's gear was stored or buried nearby.

Irrespective of the actual explanation, the delay was greatlyto the poet's liking. The longer the encounter lasted before itwas terminated due to contact with the planetary authorities,the greater the opportunities to set down new and excitingpoesy.

"I am a food preparations specialist." He spoke slowly tomake certain he was being understood.

He was being understood, all right. Utterly ignorant ofthranx dining deportment, Cheelo did not much like thesound of "food preparations specialist."

"Who do you prepare food for?" He looked past the bug,scrutinizing the rain forest from which it had emerged. "Notjust yourself, surely? There must be more of you."

"There are," Desvendapur explained creatively, "but theyare,crrrk, carrying out limited studies of their own far, farfrom here. I am on a solitary expedition of my own."

"To do what?" Suspicious to a fault, Cheelo kept searchingthe woods for any hints of closing ambush. "Gather herbs andspices?" He lowered his gaze. "Or maybe you'd like to catchme off guard so you could kill and eatme?"

Utterly unanticipated, the sickening speculative accusationcaught Desvendapur completely off guard. He had thoughtthat his surreptitious research and studies adequately preparedhim for just this kind of contact, but he was wrong. Unwilledand unbidden, an image formed in his mind: the human,stripped of clothing and nude, its pulpy, fleshy pink form stretched out over a fire; raw animal fat dripping from itsscorched limbs, oozing into the flames and sizzling; the smellof carbonizing meat...

Reeling, he promptly regurgitated the undigested portionof the day's meal that had been quietly fermenting in hisupper stomach. He had turned away not out of embarrassment but to avoid retching into the space between himself andthe human. That would have constituted a serious breach ofmanners, though without further knowledge of human habitshe was unsure how the biped would have reacted to it.

As it was, the lone male's tone rose in volume. Basedon his studies, a retching Desvendapur thought it soundedslightly alarmed.

"Ay--what're you doing? Are you all right?" It looked likethe alien was throwing up, but for all Cheelo knew it mighthave been seeding the ground with its spores, planting moreof its kind deep in the rain forest soil. As the creature explained when it finally recovered its equilibrium, Cheelo'sinitial assumption had been the correct one.

"I am apologizing." As it spoke, the bug was cleaning itsfour opposing mandibles with the back of a leaf it plucked from a nearby plant. "Your insinuation conjured up a mostunpleasant picture. Thranx do not eat"--his voice quavered--"do not eat...other creatures."

"Ay--vegetarians, eh?" Cheelo grunted. "Okay, so you'rea cook or something. That still doesn't explain what you'redoing out here all by your lonesome."

Desvendapur plunged ahead. He had nothing to lose now,less so by revealing himself to this representative of anotherspecies. "I am also an amateur poet. I was transmuting myimpressions of my alien surroundings into art."

"No shit? You don't say?"

Desvendapur was unsure if he had heard correctly. "Yes Ido say," he responded hopefully.

A poet. That sounded about as unthreatening as anythingCheelo could imagine. "So when you were speaking into that recording device of yours, you were composing poetry?"

"A portion of it. Much of the artistry lies in the delivery. You humans use gesture as a supplement to language. Forthranx, how we move is as important a part of communication as what we say and how we say it."

Cheelo nodded slowly. "I can see that. If I had four arms,waving them around would probably be twice as important tome, too." While he still did not trust the alien, neither did itappear as threatening as it had at first appearance. Nevertheless, a giant bug was still a giant bug, even if taxonomically itwasn't a bug at all. He kept the pistol drawn as he rose fromhis crouch and scrambled down the trunk of the tree.

Desvendapur watched in awe. While adept at traversing rocky slopes or narrow ledges, a thranx had difficulty withverticalities. A certain sinuosity of self was required that theirinflexible exoskeletons did not permit. To thranx eyes, the actions of a climbing human were as fluid as those of a snake.

Leaping the last meter to the ground, Cheelo found himself confronting the outlandish visitor. Inclined back on itsfour hind legs with thorax, neck, and head stretched as highas possible, the creature's face came about to Cheelo's chest.He estimated its weight at fifty kilos or so, perhaps slightlyless. When erected, the twin feathery antennae added anotherthirty centimeters to its height.

"So," Cheelo continued, "this expedition of yours? It's authorized by the authorities? I thought all aliens were restrictedto contact on orbiting stations, with only a few high-rankingdiplomatic types allowed to actually set foot on Earth."

Desvendapur falsified rapidly. "A special waiver was grantedto my group. They are being supervised by representatives ofyour own kind." Years of practice had given him the ability tolie with great facility and skill.

"Then you'll be rejoining them soon?"

How best to answer so as neither to make the biped suspicious nor activate its defensive instincts? "No. They will becontinuing their work for," he fumbled for the appropriatehuman time referents, "another of your months."

"Uh-huh." The human's head bobbed up and down severaltimes. From his studies Desvendapur recognized the gestureas a "nod," an indication of general concurrence. It was onethe thranx could easily mimic. Though he normally wouldhave used his truhands to suggest agreement, the poet duplicated the motion in so natural and relaxed a fashion that thebiped did not think to question its unlikely origin.

For a self-proclaimed naturalist, Desvendapur reflected,the human's queries seemed to troll far from the realms ofscience.

"So this special group of yours is here kind of secretly, soit can do its work without alerting the media or even thelocals?"

For a second time Desvendapur "nodded," finding the movement natural if overly simplistic, as were the majority of human gestures.

Cheelo was more than merely relieved. For a disquietingtime he had been forced to deal with the prospect of dozensof reporters swarming the site of the first thranx expeditionto pastoral Earth. Wandering media types might well havetrailed an adventurer like this Desvendapur, anyway. Thatwas all Cheelo needed--half a dozen tridee pickups shovedin his face as their manipulators asked the rain forest hiker forcomments. Following broadcast, one of the automated fugitive matchers that monitored the media would set off alarms in half the police centers in this part of the world, and thatwould be the end of his freedom and anonymity, not to mention any chance of delivering his fee to the waiting Ehrenhardt in time to secure the precious franchise.

But if he was reading the situation correctly, then this smallgroup of thranx this Desvendapur was talking about were asanxious to keep their presence hidden from the rest of theworld as was he. He and this cook-poet were symbiotes in secrecy. Unless...

"Okay, I accept that you are what you claim to be. But whatare you doing out here by yourself?" He gestured expansively without stopping to wonder if the sweeping movementof his arm would be interpreted correctly, or indeed if itwould mean anything at all to the alien. "This is one of themost isolated, primitive places on the planet. There are dangerous animals here."

"I know." With its inflexible face the thranx could notsmile, but its upper limbs moved expressively. "I have metseveral of them. As you can see, I am still unharmed."

"Defended yourself, huh?" Cheelo squinted as he tried toidentify the purpose of the visible bulges in the creature'sbackpack. Amiably as they were conversing, he still did nottrust the alien as far as he could throw it.

"Not really. Some I avoided, while others proved not asdangerous to me as I believe they are to your kind." With themiddle digits of his left truhand Desvendapur tapped thecenter of his thorax. "Unlike you, my people wear their supportive skeletons on the outside. We are more resistant topunctures and cuts. However, because of the nature of our respective circulatory systems, if epidermally compromised,we bleed more easily."

"Then you're not armed?" Cheelo tried to peer deep intothe alien's eyes but was unsure where to focus.

"I did not say that. Should it prove needful, I can protectmyself." The biped was being agreeable, but it would not doto let it know how helpless Desvendapur really was. Capabilities unrevealed are capabilities held in reserve.

"Glad to hear it." Cheelo was mildly disappointed. Not thatthe alien had acted in any way hostile.

"Actually," it continued in its soft, melodious rendering of Terranglo, "I am lying. I am actually part of a large complement of warriors scouting sites for the invasion."

Cheelo's expression dropped, and he started to bring upthe hand holding the pistol. Then he hesitated. The bug wasemitting a vibrant, high-pitched whistle, and the feathers ofits antennae were quivering.

"Chinga--that was a joke, wasn't it? A goddamn up-frontright-out-there joke! Bugs with a sense of humor. Who wouldathought it?" Carefully, he bolstered the pistol, though he keptthe safety off.

"You see, despite your unavoidably hideous appearancewe have many things in common." The valentine-shapedhead inclined slightly to one side, momentarily giving thealien the appearance of a querulous canine. "You will not reveal my presence here to the local authorities? To do so wouldbe to put an end to my gathering of raw material for myartistry--and to the work of my fellow expedition membersas well."

"Naw, I won't give you away. Tell you what--I won't mention your presence here, and you don't mention mine to yourcoworkers when you rejoin them."

"I am pleased with the arrangement, but why do you wishyour presence here to remain unknown? Surely secrecy is not a necessary component to the work of a naturalist?"

Cheelo did not think as fast as the poet, but he managed toimprovise a reply before Desvendapur could grow uneasy.

Lowering his voice, he moved a little nearer. As the lankybipedal form loomed over him, Des took a step backward,then forced himself to halt. Was this not, after all, what he had come for? The decreasing distance that separated them wouldhave been easier to deal with if the human had not smelled sobad. The climate of the humid rain forest served to magnify the pungency of its body odor, which unavoidably reeked ofpreviously ingested flesh.

"To tell you the truth, I'm sort of here illegally myself. Access to this part of the Reserva is restricted. Not everyone canget a permit to do work in the Manu. And I needed to behere." Oh, how I needed to be here, he thought. "So I just kind of slipped in, quietly and on my own. It's not hard to do, if youknow how to go about it. The Manu is big, and ranger outposts hereabouts are isolated and lightly staffed." He drewhimself up proudly.

"Not many people would think of exploring this region ontheir own, much less actually try to do so. You might say thatI'm an exceptional person."

"Yes, I can sense that." Were humans, too, vulnerable topraise and flattery? It was another similitude, but this timeone that Desvendapur chose not to expound upon. Suchknowledge could prove valuable in the days ahead.

"Well, this has been fascinating, really fascinating, but Ihave to get on with my work, and I'm sure you feel the sameabout your own." Demonstrating astonishing balance, thebiped pivoted and turned to leave. In so doing, Desvendapursaw the wrenching, intense inspiration he had worked so longand hard to access disappearing with it.

By taking several steps forward, he induced the human toturn back once again. Rather abruptly, the poet came to a decision. "Your pardon." He fought down the churning in hisstomachs that was induced by proximity to the creature. "Butif you would not object, I would just as soon adapt my routeso that it coincides with yours."

Chapter Fourteen

Words had never been Cheelo Montoya's forte. Needing some to cope with an unexpected moment deep in the rainforest was no exception. He found himself fumbling for anappropriate response.

The last thing he wanted was company. The more alone hewas, the better his chances of avoiding the attention of local authorities. He saw no advantage to having his tracks shadowed by a curious artist, be it human or alien.

Unable to think of an all-inclusive reply, he stalled. "Whywould you want to tag along with me?"

"I am--I have been interested in your kind ever since Ilearned of the inaugural project that was set up on Willow-Wane to try and facilitate communication and understandingbetween our species. Long ago I resolved to thrust myself,with only my studies and my wits, into direct confrontationwith your kind, seeking in it a source of inspiration as new tome as it was forbidden to my brethren."

Cheelo could not help but respond with a short, derisivesnort. "If it's inspiration you're looking for, you won't find itin my company."

"Allow me to be the judge of that."

Formal sort of bug, Cheelo found himself thinking. Hewondered if they were all like this. "I travel alone." He indicated the surrounding rain forest. "Isn't this enough alien inspiration for you? A whole new world to explore?"

"It is wonderful," Desvendapur agreed, "but better I see itthrough your eyes, peculiar as they are, than only throughmine. Don't you see? In your company I experience everything twice: as I apperceive it, and as you do."

"Well, you're going to have to damn well apperceive it byyour lonesome. I don't like company." For the second time heturned away.

"If you do not allow me to travel with you, 1 will exposeyou to the local human authorities," the poet declared rapidly.

This time Cheelo grinned wolfishly. "No you won't. Because you're not supposed to be here, either. Your little research expedition is poking its antennae way, way outsideestablished perimeters for alien visitors. Even I know thatmuch. You don't belong here. In fact, I ought to be the onethreatening to expose you!"

Desvendapur deliberated. "Then why don't you?"

"You already know. Because to do so would mean revealingmy own unauthorized presence here. I don't belong, and neither do you. So neither guy can risk exposing the other. Butthat doesn't mean I have to let you follow me around."

"I would rather have your cooperation." The thranx's antennae were never entirely still, Cheelo noticed. "But if necessary, I will follow and observe you and your interactionswith the environment at a distance."

"No you won't." The lanky human patted his holster. "Because if you do, I'll splatter your bug guts all over the forest."

The valentine-shaped head dipped slightly to allow compound eyes to focus on the weapon. "That is a very belligerent attitude for a professed naturalist to take."

"We all have our little character flaws." Cheelo's lips wereset in a thin, tight line.

The human's expression had no effect on the contemplative Desvendapur, but his words did. Did he realize how deepthe truth of his observation ran? The poet suspected the bipeddid not.

"You won't shoot me. If I do not report in according to aprearranged schedule, my hive companions will come looking for me. When they see how I died, they will come lookingforyou."

"I'll take my chances." Cheelo's fingers twitched in thevicinity of the holster. "If your compadres can identify yourremains after the caimans and the piranhas have finished withthem, then they're better forensic pathologists than any I'veever heard about."

Desvendapur did not have to ask for elucidation. From his studies he was familiar with both varieties of local predators."What makes you think your native carnivores will find mybody palatable? They will ignore me. My corpse will drift until it is found. Then those who will come looking for mewill react in a relentless and savage fashion."

They would do no such thing, he knew. Their only concernwould be to remove the body lest it be found by other humans, thereby giving rise to awkward inquiries. But the bipeddid not know that. All he knew of the thranx, Desvendapursuspected, was what the poet chose to tell him.

Man and thranx regarded one another speculatively, eachas ignorant as to the true motives of the other as they were to those of their respective kind. Neither had any training in interspecies contact. Operating from mutual nescience, theywere making it up as they went along.

"All right." Cheelo's fingers reluctantly drifted away fromthe gun. "So maybe I won't shoot you. But that still doesn'tmean I want you following me."

"Why not? If you choose, I will not intrude on your solitude. You may continue to conduct your research as if I wasnot there. I only wish to observe, and record, and compose."

Myresearch, Cheelo thought. All he was doing was researching a way to keep one step ahead of the police. He didnot see how an eight-limbed insectile alien could assist inthat end.

Yet despite his otherwordly origins, the hard-shelled poetseemed to know a great deal about their surroundings. It had spoken of studying the area. If not an advantage, maybe it atleast wouldn't be a burden. Come to think of it, if the policedid manage to track him down, Cheelo could always claim--after first blowing the bug's head off, of course, so it couldn'tcontradict his story--that he had uncovered an illicit alienoutpost. If he could not get rid of it, either by threat or inducement, he would have to find a way to turn the creature'spersistence into an advantage. That was something CheeloMontoya had always been good at.

"You're right, as far as it goes," he snapped. "I can't keepyou from following me, and even though I'm not sure I believe all your chatter about your buggy friends coming looking for revenge, I'm not going to risk it by killing you. Notright away, anyhow. Just stay out of my way and do yourrecording, or composing, or whatever the hell it is that you'redoing, quietly."

"I will become a veritable nonentity," a pleased and muchrelieved Desvendapur assured him.

Too bad you couldn't become a real one, Cheelo mused.Maybe the alien would drown in a river or break a couple oflegs and fall behind. Then no one could be blamed for theconsequences. Given the right place and time, he might evenbe able to hurry the process along. If not, well, hadn't the bugsaid that he only had a month to do his work? Before thenCheelo would be ready to quit the forest himself in order tomake the journey back to Golfito.

How fast was a thranx? How durable? After a day or two oftrying to follow and keep up with the agile, hardened thief,the many-limbed poet might decide that it was a good idea toseek inspiration from less wearisome sources. Cheelo wouldlead him a chase, all right!

"Come on, then." Turning, he gestured with a hand--and paused. Head back, expression reflecting uncertainty, hefound himself sniffing the air. To Desvendapur, who sensedodors through his antennae, it was a fascinating display worthyof several original and elaborately bizarre stanzas.

"What is it? What are you doing?"

"Smelling. Can't you see that?" Noting the absence on thealien's face, or for that matter anywhere else on its body, ofanything resembling nostrils, Cheelo added tersely, "No, Isuppose you can't. I'm sampling the air for odors. For oneparticular odor, actually."

The feathers that lined Desvendapur's antennae flexed to allow as much air as possible to pass between them. "Whatparticular odor?"

Turning, Cheelo found himself inexorably drawn to the exotic exoskeletoned alien. There was no longer any doubt as tothe source of the subtle, suggestive aroma. "Yours."

The thranx regarded the tall biped warily. "And what doesmine remind you of?"

As Cheelo sniffed, Desvendapur watched the pair of openings in the middle of the human's face expand and contract obscenely. "Roses. Or maybe gardenia. I'm not sure. Couldbe frangipani. Or bougainvillea."

"What are these things?" None of the names the humanwas reciting were familiar to Des from his studies.

"Flowers. You smell like flowers. It's a strong fragrance,but not overpowering. It's not...it's not what I expected."

Desvendapur remained on guard. "Is this a good thing?"

"Yes." The human smiled, though his attitude suggestedthat the expression was dragged forth involuntarily. "It's agood thing. If I seem surprised, it's because I am. Bugs aren'tsupposed to smell like flowers. They never smell like flowers. They stink."

"I am not a 'bug,' which I believe is a generic colloquialhuman term for insects. Thranx and terrestrial insects are anexample of convergent evolution. Yes, there are many similarities, but there are significant differences as well. Carbon-basedlife forms that have evolved on planets with similar gravityand within stable atmospheric and temperature parametersfrequently display many recognizable characteristics of form.But do not mistake body shape for species relationship."

Cheelo's gaze narrowed slightly. "You know, for a cook'shelper, or whatever the hell it is exactly that you do, you seemawfully smart."

Desvendapur could not give himself away with a startledexpression, and the human was untutored in the subtle meanings of thranx hand movements. "The position I occupyrequires more intelligence than you might suspect. All members of my expedition were chosen from the elite within theirrespective categories of expertise."

"Yeah, right." Cheelo was unconvinced. He had known thealien for only a short while, but unless the nature of thranx-kind differed greatly from that of humans (a possibility thatcould not be discounted), he almost felt as if the bug washiding something.

He sniffed again. Orchids this time--or was it hibiscus?The distinctive scent seemed to change with each successivesampling, as if the alien's shiny blue-green body was emitting not one but a complex, ever-changing bouquet of fragrances.He was surprised it was not being swarmed by rain forestnectar eaters, from hummingbirds to bees. But while it exuded a strong natural perfume, it did not look very much likeI a cluster of blossoms. Also, birds and bees were more sensitive to odors than any human. It was likely that they could detect subtle alien overtones to the thranx's body scent that hiscruder sense of smell missed completely.

What other surprises did the bug have in store? "Whatabout me?" he asked curiously. "How do I smell to you? Youcansmell, can't you?"

Desvendapur dipped his antennae forward, but not before compacting their sensitive feathering to shutter his perception of the biped's odor as much as possible. "I can. Youare...pungent."

" 'Pungent,' " Cheelo repeated. "Sure, okay." Turning, he climbed back up into the tree to get his pack. Desvendapurobserved the process with fascination, composing avidly ashe watched. Not even the most gymnastic of thranx couldmatch the flexibility of the human's body and limbs. Norwould they want to, he reflected. His reaction was similar to what a human would feel watching an octopus unscrew thelid of a sealed jar to get at food left inside.

Cheelo started to toss his pack down, considered, and then called out, "Here, make yourself useful. Catch this." He heldthe tough, lightweight material out over the branch.

It was not a significant drop, but Desvendapur knew nothing of the bag's contents. Still, based on what he knew of human physiology he did not think it could be dangerouslyheavy. Obediently advancing until he was beneath the branch,he extended both foothands, taking care to ensure that hissmaller, more delicate truhands were folded tight against hisbody and out of the way.

"Ready? Catch." Cheelo let the pack fall.

The thranx caught it easily in both outstretched foothands,then used all four manipulative limbs to place it gently on theground. Satisfied, Cheelo rolled up his blanket and tossed itover next, then climbed down to join his implausible companion. Desvendapur watched silently as the human bundledhis equipment together, straightened, and slipped the pack-and-strap arrangement onto his back. It was difficult to understand how and why the additional weight did not cause thebiped to fall over backward. Though smaller and lighter, witha minimum of four legs and a maximum of six to support itsslim body, an adult thranx could carry more than even a verylarge human. This knowledge led him to make an offer thatwas in the nature of a painless gamble.

"Want me to carry that for you? It has to hurt your upperbody, trying to support it that way."

Cheelo eyed the shorter creature in surprise. "What's thematter? Aren't you packing enough gear of your own?"

"I can manage the extra mass easily. If we are going totravel together we should each make use of the other's natural strengths. I could not climb into that tree without help, as youdid, but I can carry a good deal of weight. Your pack wouldnot inconvenience me."

Cheelo found himself grinning. "That's real nice of you."He started to reach up and around to slide the pack off hisback. Abruptly, his smile faded. "No, on second thought, Ithink I'll hang onto my own stuff for a while longer. Butthanks for the offer."

Desvendapur automatically gestured an appropriate response. The rapid hand and finger movements meant nothingto the human. "As you wish."

It might have been an honest offer, Cheelo thought as heturned and strode off into the trees. But what did he know ofalien motivation? Suppose the thranx was operating from ulterior motives. At an opportune moment it might decide totake off with a nice, prepacked grab bag full of terrestrialsouvenirs, graciously supplied by one trusting, half-wittedCheelo Montoya. He knew next to nothing about the bigbugs, including how fast they could run. It had confessed tobeing a poor climber, but it didn't look clumsy or lumbering. He was willing to bet that when it utilized all six legs it couldmove over the ground at a respectable clip.

The thought of allowing someone else to haul his gearthrough the hot, steamy rain forest was a tempting one. Hisback and legs were wholly in favor of the notion, but his brainvetoed it outright. Surviving alone in the vast rain forest was hard enough. Trying to do so without blanket, electronic insect repeller, food supplements, water purifier, and other gearmight prove well nigh impossible. So he would suffer on.

Time enough to figure out if he could trust something witheight limbs, twin antennae, and eyes like shattered mirrors.

It sure did smell good, though.

That night he had the opportunity to see how a thranx notonly ate, but slept. As it sipped liquids from a narrow-spoutedutensil and chewed compacted food with its four opposingmandibles, he wondered what it thought of his own dininghabits. The fact that it kept its distance could be considered significant. Cheelo took some of the fish he had caught theprevious day out of his pack. The thranx studied the process of consuming with obvious interest, chattering and whistlinginto its recording device without pause.

Finally Cheelo could stand it no longer. "I'm just havingsupper. No big deal. Where's the poetry in that?"

"There is verse in everything you do, because it is all exotic to me. Presently I am much taken with the contrast between your exceedingly civilized behavior and your lingeringbarbarism."

"Excuse me?" Breaking off a small fillet, Cheelo scaled itwith his fingernails before shoving it into his mouth andbiting off a piece. He chewed slowly.

"You utilize the tools and knowledge of a contemporarycivilization to eat the flesh of another creature."

"Yeah, that's right. Are you guys all vegetarians?" He heldout the pungent fistful. "This is just a fish."

"A water-dwelling animal. It has a heart, lungs, nervoussystem. A brain."

Cheelo squinted through the gathering darkness. "Whatare you trying to tell me? That a fish thinks?"

"If it has a brain, it thinks."

"Not much it don't." He chuckled and bit off anotherchunk.

"Thought is an absolute, not a matter of degree. It is aquestion of morality."

The human gestured back the way they had come. "How'dyou like to go find your creative inspiration elsewhere? Sonow I'm immoral?"

"Not by your own standards. I would not presume to judgea member of another species by standards that were developed to apply to my kind."

"Smart boy." Cheelo hesitated with the remaining fishhalfway to his mouth. "What kind of poetic inspiration areyou getting out of me eating a fish, anyhow?"

"Crude. Powerful. Alien." The thranx continued chatteringinto its scri!her.

"Shocking?" Cheelo inquired thoughtfully.

"I would hope so. I did not come all this way and gothrough a great deal of trouble to find inspiration of a cloying,puerile kind. I came in search of something radical and extreme, something dangerous and unsafe. Ugly, even."

"All that from a guy eating a fish," Cheelo murmured. "I'mnot much on poetry myself, but I wouldn't mind hearingsome of what you've written. As your source of inspiration, Ithink I have that right."

"I would be glad to perform it for you, but I am afraidmuch of the subtlety and nuance will be lost. You don't have the necessary cultural references to understand, and there areconcepts that simply cannot, given its innate restrictions, berendered in your language."

"Is that so?" Taking a long swig from his purifier, Cheeloleaned back against a tree, knees apart, and gestured commandingly at the oversized arthropod. "Try me."

"Try you?" Confusion impregnated the thranx's response.

"Let me hear what you've done," Cheelo clarified impatiently.

"Very well. I dislike performing without proper rehearsal,but since you are not going to understand very much of itanyway, I suppose that doesn't matter. I cannot translate intoyour language and properly follow through, but I hope thatyou will get some sense of what I am trying to accomplish."

"Wait. Wait a minute." Rummaging through his pack,Cheelo produced a compact flashlight. A glance at the canopyshowed that they were reasonably well hidden from above.No low-flying scanner blocked out the few visible stars, andclouds would conceal their presence from anything higher.Flicking the light to life, he placed it on the ground so that itssoft beam illuminated the thranx. In the darkness the alien'sstiff limbs, bobbing antennae, and reflective compound eyeswere components of an atavistic nightmare shape--but itwas hard to be afraid of something that exuded the aroma of a Paris perfume boutique.

"I am afraid that the title of my latest exposition is nottranslatable."

"That's okay." Cheelo waved grandly. "I'll think of it as'Human Eating Fish.' " Scarfing down the rest of his supper,he leaned back and began licking grease and bits of whiteflake from his fingers. Suppressing his distaste, Desvendapurbegan.

In the tropical night, surrounded by the sounds of the rain forest's emerging nocturnal inhabitants, words mingled withwhistles sharp and soft, with clicks that varied in volume andintensity from that of tiny tappings to a rhythmic boomingthat might have been generated by muffled drums. Accompanying this stately carillon were intricate dancelike gestures,weavings in the air executed by four limbs and sixteen digits.Antennae twisted and curled, dipped and bobbed, as the insectile alien body swayed and contorted.

At first the sight was somewhat frightening, but as Cheelogrew more comfortable with the thranx's appearance he foundhimself starting to think of it not as a giant bug but as a sensitive visitor from a distant star system. The scent of freshflowers that emanated from the hard-shelled body certainlyplayed a large part in effecting his change in perception--notto mention attitude. As for the performance, even thoughDesvendapur was right and Cheelo understood little of what was being imparted, it was undeniablyart of a complex, sophisticated order. Poetic, even. While he understood nothingof what the creature was saying, the confluence of sound andmovement conveyed a grace and elegance the likes of whichhe had never encountered before.

Growing up poor and forever on the fringe of society,Cheelo Montoya had never had much of an opportunity tosample anything other than the crudest kinds of art: violenttridee recordings, raucous popular music, unsophisticated pornography, cheap stims, and low-level hallucinogens. He wasaware that what he was hearing and witnessing now, alienthough its origins might be, comprised creation of a muchhigher order. At first amusedly contemptuous, the longer andmore intricate the thranx's interweavings of movement andsound became, the quieter and more solemn Cheelo's expression grew. When a quietly triumphant Desvendapur finallyconcluded the performance, the sun had set completely.

"Well," he prompted when no response was forthcomingfrom the silent, seated human, "what did you think? Did youget anything out of it, or was it all nothing more than alienmumblings and twitches?"

Cheelo swallowed--hard. Something crawled over his left hand without biting, and he ignored it. In the nearly completedarkness the light from the flashlight was stark on the thranx'sblue-green exterior.

"I...I didn't understand a goddamn word of it, and I thinkit was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen."

Desvendapur was taken aback. It was not the reaction hehad anticipated. A polite gesture of courtesy, perhaps, or amumbled word of mild appreciation--but not praise. Notfrom a human.

"But you say you didn't understand." Taking a chance, presuming on an acquaintance that was still untested, he movedforward, out of the throw of the flashlight and into proximatedarkness.

The human did not shy away. The scent of fresh-picked posies was very close now. In the shadow of night his absurdly tiny but nevertheless sharp eyes searched those of thethranx. "Not your speech, no. Not a word of it. But the soundsyou made, like music, and the way all four of your handsand the rest of your body moved together with it--that waswonderful." He shook his head from side to side, and Desvendapurstruggled to interpret the meaning of it.

"I don't know anything about it, of course," Cheelo continued, "but it seems to me that you're very good at yourhobby. People--humans--would pay to watch it."

"You really think so? As I said earlier, I am only anamateur."

"I know they would. I may not know much, but I know that.I...would pay. And if you could figure out a way to translateyour speech into Terranglo without sacrificing anything ofthe performance ... Well, it wouldhave to contribute to understanding and good relations between our species. Doesn'tanyone do performances like that at the project on yourworld--what's it called?"

"Willow-Wane," Desvendapur murmured softly. "I suppose they must, but I do not really know. I don't knowany more about what goes on within the project than whatthe Grand Council chooses to disseminate. They might havesoothers there, or they might not."

"Is that what it's called? Soothing?" In the poor light,Cheelo nodded thoughtfully. "Listen, I know I'm not much ofan audience--not knowledgeable or anything like that--andI can't exactly return the favor with constructive criticism,but anytime you want to practice a new piece or a part of one, I'd be real pleased to look at and listen to it."

"Youdid actually enjoy it, didn't you?" Desvendapur stared at the biped.

"Damn right I did. Tell you what. Tomorrow night I'll eatsomething different, just to give you fresh inspiration. MaybeI'll try and kill an agouti or something."

Desvendapur gagged, and his antennae flinched reflexively. "Please do not cannibalize a living creature on mybehalf."

"I thought you wanted radical, extreme stimulation."

"My mind does. My digestive system is a different matter."

Cheelo crossed his legs and grinned. "Okay. We'll build up the inspiration gradually." Leaning over and reaching into his pack, he extracted a stimstick and unwrapped the vacuum tip. On contact with the air, it flashed alight.

Desvendapur watched the human place one end of the burning shaft between its lips and inhale. This was morethan he could have hoped for. Every moment spent in thebiped's company was a source of unprecedented enlightenment. What whimsical pleasure the creature gained fromplacing combusting organic matter in its mouth the thranxcould not imagine, but the inscrutable activity proved to bethe source of not one but two complete, condensed compositions before the evening bored its way into night and theywere compelled to retire.

Chapter Fifteen

It was not the howlers that woke Cheelo the followingmorning. A sharp, cawing call caused him to roll over and situp, the lightweight blanket falling away from his neck andchest and down to his hips. The bird that was pecking at somefallen, rotting fruit nearby was grotesque in the extreme. Out-sized red eyes peered from a narrow, blue-skinned face thatwas lined and surmounted by a crest of stiff, yellow-blackfeathers. His rising startled the creature and it flew, awkwardly and with undisguised effort, into a nearby tree. Thesize of a small turkey, it rocked on a branch while contemplating the odd duo resting on the ground below.

As he rubbed at his eyes and climbed to his feet, Cheelotried to remember names from the guideware he had boughtin Cuzco and installed in his card. The bird was big enough tobe a raptor, but its short beak and small claws, not to mentionits awkwardness in the air, marked it as belonging to some other family. Still blinking away sleep, he opened his packand took out the card. A few adjustments called forth theguidebook and the section on birds.

The clumsy flier with the prehistoric mien was a hoatzin. Ifthere ever was a bird that looked like a dinosaur, he thought,here it was. His attention shifted from the red-eyed forestdweller to the far more alien figure slumbering nearby.

Having found a suitable fallen log, the thranx had straddledit. Three legs hung on one side, three on the other, with thefirst set of arms tucked neatly up against the insectoid's chest,if that's what the forward-facing portion of its anatomy couldbe called. Since it had no opaque eyelids, but only a very thin,transparent membrane that sometimes slid down to protectthose golden orbs, it was impossible to tell by looking at itwhether it was awake or asleep. The absence of any movement or reaction as Cheelo cautiously approached, coupledwith the steady bellows-like pumping of its thorax, was enoughto convince him it continued to occupy whatever unimaginable region such creatures visited when they turned off theirconsciousness for the night.

What kind of dreams did aliens dream? he wondered. Forthe first time, he found himself within touching distance ofthe creature. Up close, the ambrosial fragrance of its bodyodor was even stronger. Bending over, he was able to see himself reflected dozens of times in the multiple lenses of onegolden eye. A line of small openings in the blue-green chitinof the thorax pulsed rhythmically, showing where the creature siphoned air. The sensitive, feathery antennae describedtwin limp, forward-facing arcs on the otherwise smooth curve of the skull.

Reaching out, he ran fingertips along the glistening exoskeleton of one wing case. It was hard, smooth, and slightlycool to the touch, like plastic or some highly polished building material. Letting his hand drift downward he felt of a leg,unable to escape the feeling that he was exploring a machineand not a living creature. That perception vanished the instantthe thranx woke up.

Startled by the unexpected human touch, Desvendapur let out a shrill stridulation and kicked out reflexively with all six legs. One caught Cheelo in the thigh and sent him stumblingbackward. Scrambling frantically, shocked into wakefulness,the poet slid off the makeshift bed and promptly fell overon his side onto the moist, leaf-strewn earth. He recoveredquickly to stand facing the human across the log.

"What are you doing?"

"Take it easy," Cheelo admonished his otherworldly companion. "Nothing weird."

"How can I be sure of that? Humans are noted for their peculiar habits." As he spoke, Desvendapur was checking thelength of his body. Everything appeared to be undamagedand where it belonged.

The human snorted derisively. "Look, it was hard enoughfor me just to touch you."

"Then why did you?" Desvendapur shot back accusingly.

"To make sure that I could. Don't worry--I won't be doingit again." Cheelo rubbed his fingers together, as if trying to remove dirt or grease from beneath the nails. "It was like rubbing a piece of old furniture."

The poet walked over to his pack and checked the seal. Itwas undisturbed, but he could not be absolutely sure until he checked the contents. "Better than making contact with fleshthat flexes beneath one's fingers." His antennae quivered. "Allthat soft, pulpy meat held in check only by a thin layer offlexible epidermis, full of blood and muscle, just waiting tobe exposed to the air. It's indecent. I cannot imagine what nature was thinking when she designed such animal forms andthen built them from the inside out."

"You're the one who's inside out." Walking back to where hehad laid his own gear, Cheelo crouched and pondered breakfast. "Walking around with your skeleton on the outside."

"And it is not bad enough that all your support is internal," Desvendapur continued, "you come in a bewildering varietyof colors. There is no harmony, no consistency at all. Ourcolor deepens naturally as we age, a reflection of the naturalprogression of time. Yours only changes when diseased, someof which you induce voluntarily. And it shrivels." Truhandswere in continual motion as the thranx spoke. Cheelo had no idea what the bug was saying with its eloquent limbs, but hecould make inferences from the tenor of its comments.

"Because of these flaws, which are the unavoidable consequence of defective genetics, I feel an instinctive sympathyfor you."

"Gee, thanks." As he prepared his simple morning meal Cheelo wondered if the bug could detect sarcasm and decided it probably could not. "Not that it means anything, ormatters, but why?"

This time a truhand and a foothand on the same side of thesmooth body gestured in tandem. "Your epidermis is so incredibly fragile, so easily cut or compromised, that it is outright wondrous you have survived as a species. One wouldthink that mere incidental contact with the world around you would result in the incurring of an unavoidable succession ofincapacitating wounds."

"Our outside's tougher than it looks." By way of demonstation, Cheelo pinched up a fold of skin on the back of hishand. Simultaneously fascinated and repelled, Desvendapur could not turn away from the incredible sight. It was at onceghastly and captivating to behold. Grossly descriptive, theburgeoning verses that hurtled through his mind skittered onthe very edge of possible censorship.

"Here." Walking toward the thranx, Cheelo rolled up onesleeve and held his naked arm out to the alien. "Try it yourself."

"No." The boldness that had brought Desvendapur this far wavered at the sight of the exposed, almost transparent skin,with its components of deeply tanned muscle, tendon, and blood clearly visible beneath. Mushy and resilient, the softmammalian flesh would deform beneath his fingers, he knew.Envisioning this threatened to bring up what remained unprocessed of his previous meal.

Steeling himself, he forced a halt to his mental flight. If itwas safe, unthreatening inspiration he wanted, he shouldhave stayed on Willow-Wane, ascended through the customary methods of promotion, and accepted a conventionalacademic post. Instead, he was here, on the homeworld of thehumans, illegal and alone. Raising a truhand, he reached out.

All four of the delicate manipulative digits came together.They were of equal length and shorter than a human thumb.Making contact with the exposed flesh, Desvendapur felt theheat rising from within. No wonder humans had to eat somuch, he thought. Without a proper exoskeleton to provide insulation, they must lose enormous quantities of energy inthe form of heat to the surrounding air. How they spent asmuch time in water as they did without instantly freezing wasone of those exotic physiological mysteries best left to thexenobiologists.

When the skin and flesh of the human's arm compactedand rose between his fingers, he nearly gagged. The compression did not seem to hurt or harm the biped at all, thoughsurely if pressure was increased it would ultimately do so.Utilized for extraordinarily delicate manipulation, a truhandwas incapable of exerting that kind of force. A foothandcould do so, but the poet had no desire to put the hypothesis to the test.

186

When the human deliberately moved his arm slightly, theflesh and skin in the thranx's grasp flexed with the motion butdid not tear. Cheelo grinned, enjoying the alien's discomfort.When it released its grip, he rolled his sleeve back down.

"See? No harm done.We're flexible. It's a much betterphysical design."

"That is an assertion very much open to debate." Dippinghis head, Desvendapur searched the surrounding ground until he found a small rock with an edge. Holding it in onetruhand, he extended a foothand and, to Cheelo's surprise,deliberately drew the sharp edge of the stone across the upperportion of the smaller limb. A pale white line appeared in itswake. "Try this on your 'better design.' " He chucked the rock.

Cheelo caught it reflexively. The ragged, splintered stoneedge was sharp enough to slice easily through skin, leavingexposed flesh raw and bleeding. Tight lipped, he let the stonefall from his fingers. He didn't like being shown up, neverhad, whether it was by some street punk or a sassy well-dressed citizen or a visiting alien.

"Okay, shell-butt. So you made a point. It doesn't makeyou any less ugly. You smell nice, sure, and I guess you're sortof smart, but to me you're still nothing but a big, bloated,overgrown bug with brains. My people have been stepping on your kind since we could walk."

Open hostility! Where virtually any other thranx wouldhave been dismayed and appalled by the grimy human'sresponse, Desvendapur was elated. Such primal social interaction was all but unheard-of among the thranx, whose close-quarter, underground society was necessarily founded uponan elaborate hierarchy of courtesy and manners. Here wasinspiration indeed! Drawing forth his scri!ber, he directeda rapid-fire stream of clicks, whistles, and wordings at itspickup.

Cheelo frowned. "What are you jabbering about now?"

"I am just trying to capture the moment. Outright anger israre among my kind. Please, sustain that tone of voice andthose urgent syllables."

"Sustain ... ? What the hell do you think I am, some kindof archetype for you to capture inverse?" His voice rose."D'you think I was put here just for your stinking benefit, togive you something to compose about?"

"Wonderful, marvelous!" the thranx breathed in his whisperyTerranglo. "Don't stop!"

Cheelo folded his arms over his chest and set his jaw.Seeing that the human had finished, or at least terminated his current rant, a disappointed Desvendapur paused the scri!ber.Might there be some way he could induce the biped to resume? Proceeding against nature, in direct contravention ofeverything he had been brought up to believe in and act upon,he unhesitatingly hostiled back. The larval adolescent withinhim rebelled violently at his tone, but there was no one elsearound to overhear or to be shocked.

"I am not your tiny, primitive insect pest. Try stepping onme, and you'll slide off. Or I will throw you into the nearestriver."

Cheelo's gaze narrowed. "You and what bug army? Ifthere's any throwing to be done, I'll do it."

"Come on, then." Astonished at his audacity, his mindstorming with inspired verse that burned and crackled, Desvendapurturned to face the taller, heavier human head-on.He adopted a defensive posture; truhands folded back, strongerfoothands extended, eight digits splayed in grasping position,antennae erect and alert. The thranx might be excessively polite, but they were not helpless. "Let's see you try."

The pistol weighed heavily as Cheelo Montoya mulled thechallenge. He was bigger and heavier than the bug, but out-limbed eight to four. Since all its musculature was internal,hidden beneath the chitinous exoskeleton, he could not get anidea of its strength from looking at it. He knew that smallinsects like ants and fleas could lift many times their ownweight, but that did not mean such physical ability wouldscale up proportionately to something the size of a thranx. Intheir brief time together he had not seen it throw any logsaround or push trees out of its way.

Slowly, he slid the pack off his back. A small stream flowedthrough the woods nearby. It was no river, but it did spread out to form a sizable pool. For purposes of demonstration itwould have to do.

As Cheelo approached, the thranx began weaving slowlyfrom side to side, up and down, forcing the human to dealwith a moving target. When he tried to circle around and getbehind it, it pivoted on its four legs to keep facing him. Experimentally, he struck out with his right hand, grabbing forone of the extended foothands. It drew back, and the other foothand came down sharply on his wrist. The blow stungmore sharply than he expected, and he reflexively jerked hisarm back.

"Come on." Desvendapur chided the human even as he tried to store as many new stanzas in his head as possible.This was extraordinary! The possibility that the confrontation might end in injury did not enter his mind. "I thought you were going to throw me in the river."

Cheelo continued to circle the alien, searching for an opening. With eight limbs blocking his reach, he saw that it wasn'tgoing to be easy. "You're quick, I'll give you that. You can block a grab, and probably a punch--but what can you doabout this?"

Arms outstretched, he rushed forward. When the thranxtried to feint, Cheelo swerved in response. He'd survived toomany breathless fights in too many dark alleys and desertedbuildings to be easily fooled. As his arms wrapped around thealien's lower thorax, he tucked his head low and out of reach.

Perfume exploded in his face. His upper body blocked theweaker truhands from extending and getting a grip, while the foothands clutched at his back and tried to pull him off. Theywere insistent, but not strong enough. Bending his knees,he lifted the alien off the damp ground and started walkingtoward the stream.

He'd taken two steps when all four feet slammed intohis belly, knocking the air out of him. Losing his grip, hestumbled backward, tripped, and sat down hard on his backside, curled over and clutching at his stomach. When he released the thranx, it fell on its side. All four legs churning, itscrambled back onto its feet and came toward him. This timeall four hands were extended.

He waited until they grabbed his shirt. Reaching up, hewrapped his fingers around the foothands, the unyieldingchitin smooth and slick beneath his fingers. Bringing up his right foot, he planted it in the middle of the alien's abdomenand rolled backward, pushing with his leg as he did so. Thethranx went flying over his head to land hard on its back.

Rolling, breathing hard, he staggered to his feet. Lying onits back and kicking with all eight limbs, the alien's resemblance to an upturned crab or spider was unnerving. Finallysucceeding in getting a couple of legs under its body, itpushed, straightened, and once more stood confronting him.A truhand reached up to groom flexible antennae. It did notlook like it was hurt, but it was hard to tell. Rigid chitin didnot bruise in the manner of soft flesh.

"Had--had enough?" Cheelo gasped, bending over andbracing one hand against his right thigh.

Though quite familiar from training with the techniques of hand-to-hand combat, Desvendapur was unfamiliar with theconsequences. Execution and practice in a polite, scholasticsetting was one thing; being thrown around on hard, unyielding, alien ground was quite something else. He was sorefrom head to foot. But if the transliteration of the extraordinary experience from reality to exposition did not win hima major prize in composition, then he truly might as wellgive up trying to be an innovative poet and remain a foodpreparator for the rest of his life. The experience was exhilarating, rousing, and yes, inspiring.

"A time-part fraction, if you will. Please. I have to get thisdown!" Removing the scri!ber from its padded pouch, thepoet once again spewed a stream of elegantly embellishedalien rhetoric into its pickup.

"Sure," Cheelo responded graciously. "Take your time."Approaching cautiously, he gave the device a curious onceover before bending to wrap both arms quickly and tightlyaround the alien body and lifting it for a second time off theground--but this time from behind.

Flailing arms and legs could not reach him. The thranx wasnot flexible enough to reach behind its back. The head, however, could swivel almost a hundred and eighty degrees. Theface was expressionless as always, but the rapid movement ofmandibles coupled with the anxious writhings of all eightlimbs succeeded in conveying the creature's distress.

"Kick me in the gutnow, why don't you?" Cheelo was nota big man, and the bug was as much of a load as he couldhandle, but he was determined to fulfill his earlier threat.Bending slightly backward to manage the weight, he staggered toward the stream.

Despite his helpless position in the human's grasp, Desvendapur continued to compose until they stood at the water'sedge. The stream meandered rather than flowed into a pooland was no more than a meter or so deep.

"You have proven your point," he declared as he slippedthe scri!ber back into its pouch. "I accept that you can throwme into this unpretentious river. Now you may put me down."

"Put you down?" Cheelo echoed stiffly. "Sure, I'll put youdown." Swinging both arms, he flung the thranx forward. Alleight legs kicking in surprise and alarm, it landed noisily inthe water--in the center of the pool.

It resurfaced immediately, flailing violently. A grinningCheelo watched from shore. At any moment, the creaturewould come staggering out onto dry land, dripping water andweeds, its dignity more bruised than its body. It would glare up at him but acknowledge the human as its physical superior. He wondered if it would drip-dry or shake like a dog.

His smug expression faded to uncertainty. The fluttering ofblue-green limbs was slowing. It was almost as if the alienwas in some kind of trouble. But how could it be in difficulty,with its head and neck well above water? And if it was hurting, why didn't it cry out, in its own singular combination ofclicks and whistles and words if not inTerranglo?

It could not cry out, he realized, because its lungs werefilling with water. Even as he met its resilient, reflective gaze, it was drowning before his eyes. The thorax, he remembered.The damn things breathe through holes in their thorax--andall eight of those vital openings were submerged beneath thesurface of the pond.

Leaping forward, he plunged into the water. At its deepestpoint, the pond came up to his neck. No wonder the alien washaving trouble. Unlike many of its smaller terrestrial cousins,it had negative buoyancy. It might not sink like a stone, he reflected, but sink it obviously would.

He half carried, half dragged it out of the pool. Once safelyback on land he stepped back and watched as it convulsed ingreat heaves, exuding water through a spasming thorax thatexpanded and contracted like a blue-green bellows. When thelast drop had been expunged from the anguished lungs, itstumbled sideways until it found support against the buttressroots of a nearby strangler fig. The bulbous, red-streaked,golden eyes turned to face him.

"That lethal a demonstration was not necessary. I wouldnot have done the same to you." A hacking cough convulsedthe aquamarine-hued body, emerging from the sides of thethorax and not the alien's mouth.

"You couldn't do the same to me," Cheelo could not resistsneering.

"Don't be so sure. My kind learn quickly." A trahand gestured at the human's lower limbs. "That was a clever trick,that earlier move with the leg. I think I could do it. After all, Ihave four or six to your two. It would not work on me asecond time."

Cheelo shrugged. He'd gonemano a mono with his shareof street punks and thugs, though never before with an alien.Maybe he was the first, he thought. "Doesn't matter. I know more than one trick." He stared unblinkingly at the contentious thranx. "Maybe next time I won't pull you out." Anedgy, mildly contemptuous snicker born of hard life on thestreets emerged from his lips as he nodded at the still convulsing body. "Eight limbs and you bugs still can't swim?"

"Regrettably, no. We tend to sink. Not immediately, but all too soon. And no thranx can kick hard enough to hold its entire upper body out of the water. So we drown. Thank you for pulling me out."

"I'm beginning to wonder if that was such a good idea." Ashe mumbled the rest of a reply, Cheelo saw that the alien neither drip-dried nor shook. Instead, it inclined its head downward and used its mandibles to squeegee water from its bodyand limbs. Its large supply pack lay on the ground nearby, but the thorax pouch had gone into the pond with it. He wonderedif it was watertight. It contained everything the insectoid hadcomposed since their fractious first encounter.

"Look," he proposed condescendingly, "if you want towrite about me, or compose, or whatever the hell it is thatyou're doing, go ahead. Just don't provoke me for the sake ofyour art, okay? You want to tag along, fine, but keep out of myway. I can be--I have a temper, and I've been known to lose control of myself on occasion, see? Next time I might not beable to get to you in time--or want to. Or I might hit hardenough to break one of your limbs."

The head paused in its grooming to look up at him. "That Ido not think you can do. You would be more likely to damageyour own appendage. You may be more flexible, but I amphysically tougher."

"Says who? Maybe we should just ..." Hearing his own words, Cheelo calmed himself. "This is stupid shit, what'sgoing on here. It doesn't matter who's stronger, or tougher, orwhatever. What am I--in a competition here with anotherspecies? So, educate me: If I'm ever in a life-or-death strugglewith a thranx, what do I aim for?"

"Why would I tell you that?"

Why indeed? Cheelo mused. Not that the information wasvital. The aliens might have particularly vulnerable pointsthat were not obvious, but he could see that in a fight it wouldbe best to strike at anything soft and unprotected by chitinous body armor. The eyes, for example, or the soft under-abdomen. A tug on one of those feathery antennae wouldprobably make an attacker let go, too. Not that he was anticipating a fight, but it was always better to be prepared for one.That was how it was on the streets of Gatun and Balboa andSan Jose. Why should it be any different in the jungle?

All he knew about the thranx was the little, the very little,he had picked up while absently listening to media. Thisone, this Desvendapur, might be friendly, might be harmless, might be merely suspicious and sarcastic, or it might be somekind of giant arthropod alien schizo, agreeable one moment and eager to cut his throat and suck out his organs the next. Hope for the former and plan for the latter had always beenCheelo's motto. Proof of its efficacy was that he was still alive and, except for a few scars and a couple of missing teeth, reasonably intact.

"Okay. You've got a tough outside, and you smell good.Those I'll grant you." His mouth split in a nasty grin. "Butyou're still ugly."

"Ugly?" The vee-shaped head cocked sideways as compound eyes studied the human. "What a profound observation coming from a representative of a species whose bodiesare raised up out of jelly. Not only do you all wobble whenyou walk, you can practically see through the thinner patchesof your skin. You look at the world out of a single lens which,if damaged, practically renders that organ blind. Your sense of smell is primitive and relies on olfactory organs set in themiddle of your face, where they have to strain to detect even ahint of a scent." By way of illustrating the superiority ofthranx design, feathery antennae wagged back and forth.

"You have only four limbs instead of a much more sensibleeight, and those four are restricted in their function." Foot-hands rose from the ground in a demonstration of how thesecond set of thranx appendages could be utilized either as feet or hands. "Your skin is exceedingly vulnerable to eventhe slightest cut or puncture, you can't make any music worthyof the designation by rubbing any of your limbs together, and you're not even properly symmetrical."

"Who's not symmetrical?" Using the fingers of his righthand, Cheelo pointed to the appropriate portions of hisanatomy. "Two eyes, two ears, two arms and legs. Where's theasymmetry in that?"

"Look at your hands." Desvendapur nodded in their direction. "Are the number of digits divisible by two? No.There should be six fingers--or four, like mine. Additionally,you need to look deeper."

"Deeper?" Shifting his pack higher on his shoulders, Cheelo frowned uncomprehendingly.

"Within your pitiful self. How many hearts do you have?One, shoved off to one side. The same is true for all othermajor human organs, except your lungs, of which you have,by what mysterious quirk of nature I cannot fathom, theproper division." A foothand ran down the front of the poet'sthorax to his abdomen. "Two hearts, two livers, two stomachs, and so forth. A proper body design for an advancedspecies, symmetrical and serene. Whereas yours is a mess ofinternal nonsense, with lonely, vulnerable organs strugglingfor space and pushed all out of proper position."

Out-argued, not to mention a bit overwhelmed, Cheelocould only mumble, "So you're saying that you guys have twoof everything inside you?"

Finding the equivalent, appropriate human gesture amenable,Desvendapur nodded. "Not only is such an arrangement aesthetically pleasing, it makes us more durable. Thranx can loseany major organ secure in the knowledge that another justlike it will keep them alive. Humans have no such luxury. Youmust live every day of your existence in fear of organ failure."

"If you've got two or more of everything," Cheelo repliedthoughtfully as he started off into the forest with the thranxfollowing close behind, "and your bodies run smaller thanours, then everything that's inside must also be smaller--heart, lungs, everything. Our organs are bigger."

"Better to have backup than size," Desvendapur argued.

They ambled along in that fashion, debating the merits oftheir respective anatomies, until Cheelo's train of thoughtwas interrupted by a germinating uncertainty. "For a cook, or cook's assistant, or whatever it is you are, you sure know a lotabout humans."

Though the biped could not interpret his reflexivegestures, Desvendapur instinctively tried to mute them nonetheless. "Those of us who were assigned to this information-gathering expedition were well prepared."

"Ay, you told me that." Still dubious, Cheelo was watchingthe bug closely. Its body language might be throwing off allkinds of suggestive signals, but he wouldn't know it. Thethranx's complex hand and head movements held less meaning for him than the antics of the monkeys in the canopy overhead. Fellow primates he could relate to: a pontificating alienbug he could not.

The thranx had the advantage. It had been prepared forcontact with humans, whereas he knew next to nothing aboutthe eight-limbed aliens. But he was learning. Cheelo Montoya was nothing if not a fast learner.

"Also," his otherworldly companion added by way of a delayed afterthought, "you stink."

"I can see why they put you in food preparation instead ofthe diplomatic corps." However, Cheelo had no comeback forthe thranx's latest imputation. While it continued to exudean ever-changing panoply of aromatic perfumes, he pushedon through the brush, grime-soaked and sweaty, reeking ofmammalian ooze.

As for appearance, he had to admit that the more often thebug strayed into his range of vision, the less alien and morepleasing to the eye it became. There was much to admire inthe graceful flow of multiple limbs; the glint of light shiningoff smooth blue-green chitin that was one moment the colorof dark tsavorite, the next that of Paraiba tourmaline; the delicate rustling of twin antennae; and the splintering of sunshineby the bulging, gold-tinted compound eyes. While not thedreamed-of exotic dancer from Rio or Panama City, neitherdid it make him anymore want to raise a leg and stomp it.

With a bit of a shock, he realized that in appearance it wasnot so very different from its distant, terrestrial cousins. Didmere intelligence, then, count for so much in altering one'sperception? If ants could talk, would people still find them sodisagreeable?

People would if they persisted in trying to eat a person outof house and home, he decided. It's not a bug, he kept telling himself. It's not a spider. It's a recently contacted alienspecies, intelligent and sensitive. He had some success convincing himself of that--but only some. Ancient, atavisticsentiments died hard. Easier to think of the thranx as an equaland not something to be stepped on when he kept his eyesclosed. You couldn't do that very often in the rain forest.There was too much to trip over or step into.

Perfunctory insults aside, he found himself wondering whatthe alien really thought about him.

Chapter Sixteen

The court of the Emperor MUUNIINAA III was designed toimpress and overawe, from its profusion of bejeweled robotics and whisper-silent electronic attendants to the luxuriousness of its furnishings. The fact that everything in thethrone room was functional as well as decorative was wholly indicative of the AAnn mind-set. While the AAnn were fondof ceremony, it was never allowed to get in the way of operational efficiency. This extended from the lowliest sand monitor to the highest levels of government.

The emperor, of course, had not possessed absolute powerssince ancient times. It was an elective position, as were thoseof lord and baron and the lesser nobles who ruled beneaththem. It was simply that the AAnn could not let go of tradition, so they adapted it to fit a contemporary, star traversingcluster of systems and worlds. Though it rang of history andancient regimes, it was in reality about as feudal in natureas the programming of the latest massive parallel quantumcomputers that navigated the ships that darted and plungedthrough space-plus.

So while Lord Huudra Ap and Baron Keekil YN worethe ceremonial robes of high office, each noble's elegantattire and gem-studded investitures powered individual defensive screens and a full suite of communications gear tokeep them in constant touch with both immediate underlingsand detached constituencies. Standing with bowed heads and lowered tails as the Emperor retired from the chamber to deal with the mountainous and decidedly unglamorous paperworkof office, they exchanged a glance that signified a mutualneed to talk.

Other groups broke away from the assembly to chat informally or to discuss matters of serious import. For Huudra andKeekil it was a matter of both.

Heads bobbed in greeting, and finely manicured clawswere courteously sheathed. In addition to their repertoire ofother skills, both nobles were masters of manners. Togetherwith several other nobles, they formed one of the dozen or soorganized cliques that dominated the politics of the assembly.The matter that Keekil wished to discuss with Huudra, however, had nothing to do with imminent business of state. Itwas more a matter for mutual speculation that both had madea specialty of theirs. Aware that everyone from the oppositionparties to the emperor himself relied on them for the mostcurrent information on the matter, they had made it theirbusiness to keep in constant communication with those far-flung representatives of the Empire who were in a position tobe knowledgeable.

It was in this spirit of curiosity and need that Huudragreeted his friend and ally, whom he would not hesitate toundermine to advance his own status and position. Keekilhissed a warm greeting, quite aware of what his associate wasthinking. He was thinking the same thing. There was noanimosity involved. It was the natural order of things. Suchconstant competition strengthened the assembly, and by inference, the Empire.

"It is all sso very peculiar." Keekil favored blue in hisrobes, in all its most sallow permutations. Even the communicator that hovered patiently several centimeters to the leftof his mouth was plated in gleaming pale blue metal. "Thissbusiness of the thranx attempting to make alliess of themammalss."

Huudra excused himself long enough to answer a priority call and suggest several alternatives to a disagreeable situation to the technocrat on the other end. "Apologiess, honoredKeekil. Then you think the inssectiles are sserious about it?"

The baron gestured assent, adding a supportive hiss." Yess, I do. The quesstion iss, are these humanss?"

Overhead, hoverators hummed back and forth, scanningfor intruders, petitioners, and possible assassins. The temperature in the room was high, the humidity a tolerable 6 percent.Both nobles' personal communicator suites hummed for attention. For the moment, they were ignored.

"My own ressearchess indicate an inherent reluctance on the part of the human population, both on their homeworldand their coloniess. More than that, they sseem to have a vissceral fear of the thranx sshape." He hissed his amusement."Can you imagine it? Deciding intersstellar politicss on thebasiss of sshape? They are an immature sspeciess!"

"There iss nothing immature about their technology,"Keekil reminded his aristocratic colleague. "Their weaponryiss the equal of the besst of the Empire's--or of the thranx.Their communicationss are ssuperb. Their sshipss ..." Thebaron gesticulated admiration mixed with paranoia, a difficult gesture for any but the most accomplished orator to execute eloquently. "Their sshipss are elegant."

Huudra drew back his upper lip to reveal even, sharp teethset in a long jaw. "I have sseen ssome of the preliminary reportss. There iss ssome dissagreement as to whether they arebetter than ourss."

"If they do indeed exceed the capabilitiess of ourss, thenthey are better as well than anything flown by the thranx."Irritated, Keekil waved a ringed hand across his waist. Thepersistent hum of communications demanding responsepromptly died.

"That would be reasson enough to sseek them as alliess."Huudra scratched at a loose scale on the side of his neck. Sparkling in the bright artificial light of the throne room,it fell to the floor and was promptly vacuumed away by an unobtrusive remote cleaner built to resemble a four-leggedkerpk."Our interesstss would be better sserved by convincing them to become confederatess of the Empire."

"You know our envoyss have had little ssuccess in pers-suading the humanss of the many advantagess that would liein aligning themsselvess with our interesstss." Raising ahand, Keekil had to wait less than a minute for a drifting sus-tainer to place a filled drinking utensil between his fingers.

"Yess." Huudra was not thirsty. Idly, he wondered if Keekil's drink might be poisoned. It was a natural thought, as wasthe corollary that the baron would not be so readily consuming the contents of the container if they had not been thoroughly tested by an independent machine prior to arrival. "These mamalss value their independence."

"That will have to change. I am persuaded by our pssychsspecialisstss that the humansscan be convinced. We alreadyknow that they are resisstant to pressure. Nor have rational ar-gumentss ssucceeded in sswaying them."

Huudra indicated his irritation. He ranked Keekil, but not by enough to intimidate the other noble. "Then what are weto do?"

"Have patience, I am told. The most convinced human iss one that hass convinced itsself. Wait for them to entreatuss.When that happenss, it will make for a sstronger alliance between uss, as well as one in which we remain the dominantcomponent." The baron sipped at his refreshment. "There issonly one problem: otherss who have the ssame hope."

"The benighted, dirt-loving insectiles." Huudra added ageneral curse notable for its grace of understatement.

"Truth. They have had only the most modesst ssuccessthuss far in overcoming the humanss' natural antipathy toward them. For that matter, a great many thranx find the appearance, habitss, and activitiess of humanss detestable. Thissmutual abhorrence iss of coursse greatly to our benefit."

"Then nothing hass changed." Huudra prepared to depart.The administration of his own fief awaited, and decisionswaited on no AAnn.

"That iss not entirely true, honored friend, if certain re-portss are to be believed."

Huudra hesitated. "What reportss? I have heard nothing toindicate that the relationsship between human and thranxhass changed. Certainly not for the better."

Keekil gestured apology mixed with slyness. "Perhapss that iss becausse my ssources are more penetrating thanyourss." He was unable to resist the dig.

Huundra scowled. "I will grant you the ssmall triumph ofesspionage--if you have ssomething worth hearing."

"There iss ssomething very ssecret afoot. Informationsspeakss to a great rissk the thranx are taking, in concert witha few sselect human alliess."

The lord of the Southern Fief spat his disbelief. "The thranx do not gamble. They are cautiouss, calculating, andpredictable. They do not take 'risskss,' esspecially on matterss of ssuch importance."

Keekil refused to be put off. "Nevertheless, the report iss there, for any who care to read it. It claimss that the inssectiless have embarked on a rissky coursse of action that, if ssuccessful, would greatly accelerate the improvement oftheir relationss with the humanss."

Huudra's instinctive inclination led him to shrug off this outrageous claim. The thranx did not gamble, and any attempt to rush humans into a decision, as experience had already shown, usually had the opposite effect. The insectiles knew this as well as the AAnn, and whatever else the eight-limbed might be, they were not stupid.

"I would deign to perusse ssuch a report," he replied absently, thus presenting a formal request to see the analysis inquestion. "I do not dissmiss it out of hand. I ssimply find itdifficult to countenance."

"As do I." Finishing the last of his drink, Keekil heldthe utensil high over his head. A cleaner swooped down topluck it painlessly from his fingers. "Yet to ignore it sshouldthe information it containss mature to fruition could proveperilouss."

It was a diplomatic way of saying that their titles, not tomention their tails, might be at stake. Buried as he was in administrative work, Huudra knew he could not ignore any report that commented upon human-thranx relations, no matterhow seemingly ludicrous. Not when he and Keekil had beencharged with keeping the emperor's council informed of thematter. He hissed soft resignation.

"I will read it through, of coursse. Tell me, honored colleague: Sshould the leasst of it prove to have a basiss in fact,iss there anything we can do about it?" The thought of frustrating the aims of the pedantic but indomitable thranx raisedhis spirits.

Keekil blinked slyly. "Jusst possibly, honored associate.Jusst possibly. The thranx are not the only sspeciess capable ofssubtle interference in the affairss of other sspeciess of ssig-nificance. It iss amazing how with a little imagination andcareful planning, one ssecret can be turned againsst another."

Caucusing quietly, they exited the room as the rest of theassembly trickled out behind them. The more Huudra heardof Keekil's intentions, the greater his professional admirationfor his colleague. In the shifting sands where cunning slithered, none traveled more subtlely than the AAnn.

Chapter Seventeen

Cheelo knew he probably should have seen the anaconda.What such a big snake was doing in so small a stream hecould not imagine, but the serpent's motivation was not important. What mattered was that it was there, that it had beenaroused by their passage, and that it struck.

Not him, but his unwary companion.

When the snake hit, the thranx emitted a loud, startledstridulation, the wing cases on its back vibrating like

cellos. The blunt, reptilian head grabbed a middle leg, biting downhard, the small, sharp teeth gaining an immediate purchasewithout completely penetrating the chitin. Coil after coilemerged from beneath the cola-colored, tannin-stained water to wrap around the thranx's rear legs and abdomen. Itstruggled, antennae and upper limbs flailing wildly, but itcould no more break that steel-cable grasp than its vestigialwings could carry it aloft.

The mass of writhing alien limbs and constrictor coilswent down in a heap. A loud, distinct crack split the humid,still air and the alien screamed a sharp, high-pitched whistle.Cheelo stood off to one side, wary and watching.

Doesn't look like a very superior body now, he found himself thinking.

The alien was going to die. That much was clear. Whetherthe anaconda was capable of swallowing it was another matter, but it would quickly suffocate the thranx no matter howmany lungs it had. The huge constrictor would continue totighten its grip until its prey could no longer exhale. Cheelowondered if the brilliant compound eyes would dim in death.

"Do something!" the alien was gasping. "Get it ... off.Help me!"

Did he want to do that? Montoya mused. He had lived along time without knowledge of or the company of aliens ofany kind. He could certainly continue to exist in that same fashion. If he got too close, the snake might decide to forsake its present cumbersome, hard-shelled prey for something softer and more familiar. Why take the chance? Heowed this garrulous representative of a race from a distantworld absolutely nothing.It had intruded onhis privacy, andhe had graciously consented to allow it to accompany him. That did not imply in any way that he took any kind of responsibility for it. Besides, he had an appointment to keep.

If they happened to stumble across its indigestible, extruded remains, no searchers, human or thranx, could connect Cheelo Montoya to the fatality. More likely than not, thebug's own people would come to the conclusion that theirwayward associate had received exactly what he deserved for wandering off on his own. Its death meant nothing to Cheelo,meant less to him than the passing of a bird or monkey. Besides, if their situation was reversed, there was no reason toassume that the alien would do anything for him.

"Ah,shit," he muttered as he reached into his pocket holster for the compact pistol.

Edging closer to the combatants, one of whom was tiring rapidly, he tried to draw a bead on the snake's blunt, shovel-shaped skull. Initially impossible, it became easier to aim asthe thranx's struggles steadily weakened. Sensing the imminence of its prey's demise, the serpent began to relax. Thoughhe wasn't sure he had a clean shot, Cheelo's finger tightenedon the trigger. It wouldn't do any good to wait until the snakestopped moving completely, because by then the thranx wouldbe dead.

When the full charge struck, the constrictor's head jerkedsharply. The tiny anacondan eyes made it hard to tell how effective the shot had been. Risking contact, Cheelo put thepistol as close to the snake's skull as he could and fired asecond time. This time the resultant spasmodic twitch waspurely reflexive.

Pocketing his weapon, he began struggling with the weighty mass. It took more than a few minutes to unwind several hundred pounds of solid, limp serpent from the thranx's body."How're you doing?" he queried the alien. "Talk to me, bug.Let me know I'm not wasting my time here."

"You're not." The Terranglo was more heavily accentedthan usual as the injured thranx strained to mouth the hu-manoid phrases. "I am alive, but I'm afraid that one of mylegs is broken."

"Ay, I heard it snap." With a grunt, Cheelo heaved a center length of snake aside. "You hurting?"

"Of course I am hurting!" Freed from the imprisoningcoils, a shaken Desvendapur turned to look back at the human who had saved him. "Do you think I'm made of metal?"

"No, I think you're made of crab shell and bug guts. Pardon me for asking."

Aware that his artless declaration of fact might have beenmisinterpreted by his savior, a grateful Desvendapur hastened to soothe any misconceptions. "I meant no scorn. It is just that I would think it obvious to anyone that a broken legwould be found to be painful."

"I don't know bullcrap about your internal makeup, or howyour nervous system works." Under Cheelo's strong fingers,a last span of solid muscle sloughed away from the thranx'supper abdomen.

"Then listen and learn: We feel pain as surely as do you."

"But not in the same places, or to the same degree." Kneeling, Cheelo examined the section of leg where the anaconda'sjaws remained locked, even in death, on the chitin of oneforeleg. "If you did, this would have you screaming in pain."He glanced up, meeting compound eyes, and with both handswrenched sharply on the snake's neck. "That hurt?"

"Only slightly. Few nerves run through our outer covering.We are not as tactilely sensitive as you."

"I'm not sure if that's a good thing or bad. In this case,though, it's for sure good. Stay there."

With a truhand and a foothand Desvendapur gestured downat himself. "I have a broken leg. Where would I go?"

"Beats me. A while ago you were boasting about having four or six legs as opposed to my lousy, inadequate twoand how much better the arrangement was for getting youaround."

Sliding his pack off his back he searched inside until hefound the multitool. Returning to the alien's side, he deployeda pliers configuration to remove the great constrictor's teeth,one by one, from the thranx's foreleg. Only when the lasttooth had been forcibly extracted did the dead snake's head finally slide away from its would-be prey.

Though he was ready to apply disinfectant and appropriatefollow-ups, Cheelo saw that the wound was beyond his simpleknowledge of first aid. The chitin was bleeding profusely. Adouble line of small holes showed where the snake's teeth hadsought and found a grip.

"Can we do anything with this?" he asked curiously.

"With time and the proper dietary supplements, yes." Looking back and down, Desvendapur examined the wounds."Though they testify to impressive jaw strength, the punctures are fortunately not too deep."

"What about applying a sterile covering or spray?"

"The necessary materials for sealing the wounds are in my pack. Once treated, the internal perforations will heal on theirown." His abdomen shifted. "The break is another matter."

Cheelo sighed. Why he didn't just offer a final salute andfarewell and return to the solitary depths of the rain forest onhis own he didn't know. Perhaps it was because it was beginning to occur to him that there might, just might, be a way torealize some profit from his unexpected encounter. Experience had taught him that there was always money to be madefrom the new and the different, and if the alien wasn't newand different, why then, nothing qualified.

"Let's have a look."

It was the lower portion of the middle right limb that hadbeen snapped. Blood poured from the split more freely than it would have from any human. Under Desvendapur's direction,Cheelo applied sealants and dressings from the thranx's kit tofreeze and close the wound, binding it shut with a pastelikecomposite that would set the fracture firmly. Derived from asynthetic chitin, it would become as much a part of the alien's body as his natural limbs.

It did not set instantaneously, however. They would need tomove slowly for several days. Additionally, the broken limbrequired supplementary support. Demonstrating a dexteritythat surprised the poet, Cheelo fashioned a makeshift doublesplint from available wood, securing it to the mended limbwith multiple twists of tough vine.

"That should do you." He stepped back to admire hishandiwork.

"It will suffice very well," the thranx agreed. "But then, it'sonly natural that someone who spends his time working alonein vast tracts of jungle should have mastered such necessarysurvival skills."

"That's right." Cheelo did not go on to explain that the jungle whose survival skills he had mastered consisted ofdark streets and back alleys, shadowy business enterprisesand their glowering associates. On reflection, it was not surprising how many of the abilities that allowed someone likehimself to survive the threats and dangers of the urban jungle were applicable to survival in the natural world as well.

In lieu of a suitable couch, Desvendapur settled himselfacross a broken stump padded with thriving fungi, resting asmuch of his abdomen as possible on the wooden brace. "Nowthat immediate problems have been dealt with, I was wondering if you could answer a question or two for me?" His human companion was not surprised to see that the alien'sscri!ber was out and activated.

More in an endless succession of queries about humankind, Cheelo grumbled silently. For someone who had developed a healthy dislike of questions, he found himselfanswering an awful lot of them lately.

"Okay, as long as we don't waste the rest of the day playingWho's Got the Answer. I'm working on a schedule. What doyou want to know this time? How our 'hives' are organized? What our hobbies are? Why we keep other animals as pets?Details of our mating habits?" His face broke into a widesmirk. "Ay, yeah--let's talk about mating habits. Only thistime, for every one of your questions I answer, I get to ask oneof my own."

"For the moment I would prefer not to delve into matters sointimate, though in a way my first question might be considered even more personal." The thranx was staring at him.Leastwise, Cheelo thought it was staring at him. Given the amorphousness of those multiple compound lenses, it washard to tell.

"Like what, for instance?" The human was still grinning. Itpleased him to think that his directness might have unsettledthe alien.

"Like, for instance, why have you been lying to me?"

Cheelo tensed. There was no reason for him to do so, notwith the only other intelligent creature for kilometers around an alien--and one that was reduced to hobbling on a bustedwheel to boot. His reaction was pure reflex.

"Lying to you?Who's been lying to you? Not me. Whatmakes you say that?" He was watching the insectoid closely. "What are you--telepathic or something?"

"I am nothing of the kind. There is no such thing astelepathy. At least, its existence has not yet been formallyverified. I don't need to be able to read your mind, Cheelo-person, to know that you have been lying."

"You've got some nerve, bug. I save your life and fix upyour leg real good, and the first thing you can think of to say to me afterward isn't 'Thank you very much, man, for savingmy life,' it's 'Why have you been lying to me?' "

"Thranx are very forthright--and you are being deliberately evasive."

Cheelo shrugged diffidently. "1 got nothing to hide. So ifI'm lying, give me an example. Catch me out with one."Sneering, he leaned forward and made beckoning motionswith both hands. "Come on, big-eyes. Hand me back one ofmy own lies."

"Very well. You are not a naturalist."

Cheelo looked up sharply. Why was he wasting his time onthis nonsense? "You're new to this planet, I'm the first nativeyou've spent any time with, and already you can tell when ahuman is telling the truth or not? Sorry, but I don't thinkyou're that smart."

"It is merely a matter of analyzing causal observationsmade during the time we have spent together." Desvendapur was neither intimidated nor angered by the human's attitude."We have shared each other's company for a number of daysnow. In all that time I have not seen you perform a single actof scrutiny that might justify your presumed appellation. Youhave examined nothing, identified nothing, collected nothing. You have utterly ignored the 'natural' world around youexcept when it threatened to impede your progress or complicate your movements.

"While I am willing, indeed am forced, to assume the existence of significant differences in our cultures, science is not nearly so variable. Body shape, size, and perceptive abilitiesmay vary, but certain things remain constant throughout thegalaxy.

"One is that all science is based on observation. In the timeI have spent in your company, you have made none. Not one.Nor have you taken notes, or made visual recordings, or doneanything else to indicate that you are in the profession ofgathering and analyzing information."

"See these? These are my cameras!" Using forked fingers,Cheelo indicated his eyes. "And these are my scri!bers--my recorders." He pointed to his ears. "I've got a good memory,and I remember everything I see."

Desvendapur gestured comprehension, then rememberedto follow it with a head nod so that the human would understand. "Do you? Yesterday a flock of most interesting aviansflew past overhead, visible through a fortuitous gap in theforest canopy. Both of us remarked on their appearance. Canyou tell me what color they were?"

Cheelo fought to remember. "Blue!" he announced finally. "They were bright blue, with touches of yellow." He smirked triumphantly at the multilimbed alien. "How's that for an example of a naturalist's memory at work?"

"More than sufficient to diminish his standing, if he werethranx. They were green, not blue, and their beaks were red."

"Not true!" Cheelo objected strenuously. "Blue with yellow, and you can't prove otherwise!"

"But I can." Holding out his scri!ber, Desvendapurgestured with the instrument. "I do not only record my compositions; where possible I also record their sources of inspiration. Would you like to see the flock in question? I can play it back for you, together with my notes for the stanzas I composed to accompany the flight."

Caught. Cheelo snarled at the compact alien instrument."Okay, so Ican't remember everything. So what? That proves nothing."

"It proves that you are either the most extraordinary naturalist of your species, or the most indifferent. Any thranxclaiming to hold such a position would carry instruments de signed to take measurements, carry out analyses, and make records. I have not seen you utilize a single such device." A truhand indicated the human's pack. "Show them to me.Show me one. Now."

Yet again, Cheelo found himself wondering why he was tolerating this aggravating alien's company. Use the pistol, dump the body in the river, and be done with it, he thought.Still, he could not escape the feeling that there was money to be made here, and that the quantity would be greatly augmented if the subject of potential recompense was preservedin an animate as opposed to a defunct condition.

Besides, what was the thranx going to do? Report him tothe nearest branch of the Global Association for the Advancement of Science? If he and his absent multilimbed companions were carrying out their observations under the umbrellaof a special scientific dispensation, he could hardly go shooting off his mandibles about the status of a human who claimedto be doing essentially the same thing.

"Well, hoorah for you. You've found me out. So what? Itmeans nothing."

"On the contrary, it means a great deal." The thranx wasstaring at him now, Cheelo was sure of it. "It means that if youare not a naturalist, as you have claimed, then you are some thing else." Painfully, using foot and truhand, he manuallyrepositioned his injured leg.

"The question then becomes, What are you?"

Chapter Eighteen

Electric with the realization that the colony was in the forefront of developing human-thranx relations, the terrestrialhive was an exhilarating place to work. The knowledge that itwas also illicit, an operation whose very existence was unknown to all but a few enlightened members of the humangovernment and scientific establishment, only added to theexcitement. Rising to work every shift, one never knew whenthe operation might be discovered. Having been as thoroughly briefed on humankind and its peculiarities and distinctive foibles as was possible before their journey to thecolony, every assigned thranx had been made fully aware of the inherent irrationality built into each individual human. Ifanything went wrong and they were subject to unforeseen exposure, there was no telling how the great mass of seething humanity might react to the presence of an unauthorizedalien colony in its midst. Consequently, even as they wentabout their commonplace, everyday tasks, the colonists hadto be ever vigilant and prepared for anything.

As weeks and months passed without discovery, a modestsense of security invariably settled over the colony. If eventhe apprehensive rogue humans who had cooperated and conspired in the secret establishment of the hive could relax, then certainly their thranx associates could do no less.

So it was that Jhywinhuran's thoughts were far from suchmatters as she busied herself at the end of the day's work, running a final check and chemical disbursement before signingoff her station to her shift replacement. Instead of concentrating on the admittedly rote toil at hand, her mind strayedto remembrances of the time spent in the company of aparticularly distinctive male. Somewhat to her chagrin, herthoughts had been repeatedly drawn in that direction for several days now.

Why she should have found an assistant food preparator sofascinating she could not quite explain. Certainly her attraction had nothing to do with his vocation, which was evenmore prosaic and mundane than her own. Within the bustlingcolony there were many unmated males who found her attractive, stridulating softly in her presence in an attempt toattract more than polite attention. Some she spent time with,chatting and disporting, but always her thoughts returned to acertain singular food preparator.

What it was about him that she found so distinctive proved elusive, no matter how often she tried to define it. Somethingin his manner, perhaps, or in the way he modulated communication: not only his vocalizations but the attendant clicks andwhistles that were as much a part of thranx speech as stringsof individual words. Maybe it was the way that when he became excited, exquisitely inflected snippets of High Thranx slipped into his conversation; something not to be expectedfrom an assistant food preparator. There were other distinctions: the way he spoke of the alien world above, the animation that overwhelmed his gesturing when they attended aless-than-proficient performance by one of the colony's official soothers, the indifference with which he acknowledgedboth praise and criticism of his own work.

There was something not quite right about the food preparator Desvendapur, something simultaneously irresistibly enticing and edgily off-putting. Try as she might, she couldnot get him out of her mind. She considered visiting a seniormatriarch for counseling but decided that her condition had not yet advanced from the merely affected to the obsessive. Until that line was crossed she would deal with the situationherself.

One way to do so would be to go and visit the object of heranxiety. As in any hive, the colonists had been assigned notonly labor but living quarters and sectors. While with certainspecific exceptions the length and breadth of the hive wasopen to all who dwelled within and no permit or permission was required to wander beyond those sections that hadbeen individually apportioned subsequent to arrival, it wasinfrequently done. There was no reason to explore beyondone's assigned territory. Everything a colonist needed couldbe found within an individually prescribed zone. It was a system that was traditional and efficient and that contributedmightily to the efficiency of every hive, whether on Hivehom,Willow-Wane, or the alien world known to its dominant inhabitants as Earth.

Humans, by contrast, the colonists had been told, were farless orderly. Superficially well organized, they tended to scatter and move about with considerably less regard for theeffective organization of the whole. Life in their hives frequently bordered on the anarchic. Somehow, out of confusionand turmoil, they had succeeded in raising a civilization.

She determined to resolve the contradictions that wereboiling within her. The very next off-period, she identifiedthe location of the hive's subsidiary food preparation facilityand headed in its direction, following the directions provided by her scri!ber. As she entered unfamiliar parts of the colonyshe paused from time to time to converse with thranx neverbefore encountered, and they with her. No one questioned herpresence. While out of the ordinary, there was nothing unlawful about it.

She spent some time talking with sanitation workers whosupervised the hive's other waste terminus. The colony hadbeen designed with at least two of everything in mind. If acritical component broke down, there was no hailing a neighboring hive for repairs or replacements. The nearest supplies lay parsecs away, and support could not be provided as soonas it might be needed. Between their incompatible technology and the restrictions placed on their movements, thehive's allied humans could provide only limited help. Of necessity, the colony had to be as self-sufficient as possible.

Despite diversions both enjoyable and educational, sheeventually found herself in the auxiliary kitchen area. Fromthere it was a simple matter to obtain permission to visit foodpreparation. What she saw there was a duplicate of the stationwhere Desvendapur had worked previously, identical downto the individual appliances and utensils manipulated by itswork force. At present they were engaged in cleaning andtreating a variety of native plants, rendering them suitable forthranx consumption. Without the ability to digest terrestrial| vegetation, the rapid growth of the colony would have beengreatly reduced.

She chatted amiably and casually with members of thestaff, who were curious as to the presence in their midst of anunfamiliar representative of the sanitation division. No, anassistant preparator named Desvendapur was not currently amember of their team. In fact, none of them had ever heard of him. Perhaps he worked exclusively on the night shift.

She knew she ought to make the journey back to her cubicle so she could get some rest before she had to report forthe new day's work. She was being foolish, letting an incidental interest grow into a dangerous fixation. Hadn't Desvendapur told her that he would be too busy establishinghimself in a new zone and a new routine to welcome casualsocial contact? Hadn't he told her that as soon as he wassettled in and comfortable with his work in the new sectorthat he would return to visit her? He had specifically askedher to terminate contact until such time as he felt ready totake pleasure from it again. Despite that, here she was, forcing the issue, trying to initiate intercourse he had requestedshe avoid. What was the matter with her?

She started to leave, to return to her own sector. Certainlyif he had any reciprocal feelings for her he would be in touchas soon as he felt at ease with his new surroundings. It mightwell be counterproductive, even damaging, to their relationship for her to pursue the matter so vigorously. Did theyhave a relationship? She knew thatshe desired one, and shethought that he did as well. A demonstration of excessive inquisitiveness on her part might spoil everything.

She considered her options. There was a way to at least partially satisfy her interest without much risk of damaging relations. Locating a private information terminal, sheplugged her scri!ber in and ran a search. Relief was palpablewhen his name appeared on the roster of workers assigned to this zone, food preparation division.

That should have been enough to satisfy her. Instead, adding to her distress and confusion, it only made her that muchmore anxious to see him again. She stood before the terminaluntil a polite whistle roused her to the realization that twoother hive members were standing behind her, waiting to make use of it themselves. Restless and preoccupied, shewandered off.

She would wait until the night shift, she resolved. Not to speak with Desvendapur, but to assure herself that allwas well with him. This she could do by speaking brieflywith others who worked in his department. Even deprived ofsleep, she was confident she could perform her duties tomorrow adequately, if not commendably.

She passed the remaining portion of the day shift exploringthe immediate vicinity, finding it, as expected, a veritable duplicate of her own. As shifts began their switch, she made herway back to the kitchen area and lingered in its vicinity, randomly querying those arriving to begin work. None knewof an assistant food preparator who went by the name ofDesvendapur.

By the time the last worker had arrived she found herselfgrowing concerned. What if the transfer had not worked outand he was ill? A check of medical records for the entirecolony took only an instant. It did not show a Desvendapurlisted as being among the unwell.

This was senseless, she told herself. Obviously, today wasan off-period, a rest time for her friend. He would return towork tomorrow. And she could not wait around and eschewher own labor simply to assure herself that he was all right.

But why hadn't she been able to find at least one coworkerwho recognized his name? He had been assigned to thissector long enough to have established, if not intimate friendships, at least casual acquaintances. From what she knew andhad seen of his work, an assistant food preparator did notfunction in a vacuum.

Perplexed, she waited until the terminal was free to again call up the rostering for food preparation in this zone. Therewas his name on the list, bold and unmistakable. Not beingassigned herself to the kitchen division, she could not accessindividual shift assignments. But shecould locate anyone'splace of habitation. This she proceeded to do.

There it was: Desvendapur, habitat level three, cell quadrant six, cubicle eighty-two. She contemplated the readout fora long moment, wavering. Then, antennae set determinedlyforward, she strode off along the appropriate corridor.

It did not take long to locate the living quarters in question.A pass with her scri!ber over the door ident revealed theoccupant to be one Desvendapur, assistant food preparator. Proof enough of his residence--but not of his health.Still, she hesitated. Request admittance, and she risked jeopardizing their consanguinity. Depart now, and she wouldpreserve it, but without having achieved any personal satisfaction after having come all this way and spent all this time.

Perhaps she had acquired some of her friend's intermittenthints of irrationality. Perhaps she was simply stubborn. In any event, she resolved to wait for him.

The following day shift passed without any sign of herquarry. By now her own shift supervisor would have markedher as absent and initiated a routine search to ascertain her location, health, and status. Her unauthorized absence wouldgo down on her permanent work record, she knew, inhibitingopportunity for advancement and commendation. She didnot care. The second night shift arrived, and still the door tocubicle eighty-two remained sealed.

What if he was inside, having suffered some serious harm?A dual coronary arrhythmia, perhaps, with both hearts beating out of cadence. Or a severe intestinal blockage. Curiosityturned to concern, which begat fear. Rising from the restingposition in which she had been settled for more than a day,she struggled on stiffened legs to the nearest general accessway and called for a domicile supervisor.

The female responsible for this section of living quarters responded promptly, listened to Jhywinhuran's weary concerns, and agreed that the situation she was describing demanded some sort of resolution. Accordingly, permissionwas obtained to make an unauthorized entry into privatequarters. As she followed the supervisor down the corridor, Jhywinhuran was beset with conflicting emotions. If something grave had happened to Desvendapur, she would be severely depressed. If, on the other truhand, there was nothing wrong, she would undoubtedly find herself on the receivingend of a well-deserved stream of imprecation.

She discovered that she could hardly breathe as the supervisor utilized an override to break the seal on the cubicle andslide back the door. They entered together. The interior of thecompact living space was neat, clean, spotless; from the restand relaxation chamber to the smaller area reserved for thecarrying out of individual hygiene. In fact, it was more thanspotless.

It had not been lived in for some time.

"There must be some mistake." Her gestures were clumsy,her words hesitant as she surveyed the immaculate, obviouslyuntouched quarters. "His ident is on the door."

The supervisor checked her own scri!ber. Reflexively gesturing confusion, she checked it again. And a third time.When she looked up, the commingled movements of herlimbs and antennae indicated more than simple puzzlement.

"You are right. Thereis a mistake. This living cubicle isunassigned."

Mandibles moving slowly against one another, Jhywinhuran stared at the senior female. "But his full ident is imprinted on the entrance."

"It certainly is. Be assured that I am no less curious thanyou to find out how and why it is there."

Jointly, they ran detailed searches. No assistant food preparator of any name had been placed in cubicle eighty-two byresidential assignment. Yes, one named Desvendapur hadbeen transferred to the subsidiary kitchens. No, he could notbe located. Perhaps his scri!ber was turned off or had rundown without being noticed. Follow-up queries of everysingle worker assigned to food preparation in this sector revealed no knowledge of a Desvendapur. Nor could anyone by that name be locatedanywhere, in any sector.

"Something is very wrong here," declared the supervisoras she concluded her searching.

Jhywinhuran was still working her scri!ber. "I agree, butwhat? He told me, told everyone he worked with, that he wasbeing transferred to food preparation in this sector. His nameis on the work roster."

"Just as his name is on the door to these quarters." Thetwo females considered the situation. "Let me run one moresearch."

Jhywinhuran waited while the senior female waltzed thedelicate fingers of her truhands over her unit. Moments latershe looked up again, her antennae aimed directly at her visitor. "There is no record of a transfer to this sector beingauthorized for anyone in food preparation, or specifically,anyone named Desvendapur."

"Then...he lied." Jhywinhuran could barely muster theappropriate clicks to underscore her reply.

"So it would seem. But why? Why would this friend ofyours, or any thranx, lie about being shifted from one part ofthe hive to another?"

"I do not know." The sanitation worker stridulated softly."But if he isn't here, and he isn't there, then where is he? Andwhy is he wherever he is?"

"I do not know either, but unless something emerges to indicate otherwise, what we have here is unequivocal evidence of antisocial behavior. I am sure it will all become clear whenhe is located."

When he was not, something akin to alarm set in not onlyamong those thranx charged with locating the errant assistant food preparator, but among their human associates as well.

Jhywinhuran found herself waiting in an empty interrogation chamber. It was of modest size and in no way remarkableexcept for the presence among the usual resting benches of atrio of very peculiar sculptures whose purpose she was unable to divine. They looked like tiny benches, much too smallto provide surcease and comfort to even a juvenile thranx. Instead of being open and easily accessed, one side of each ofthe squarish objects was raised above the rest, so that even ifyou tried to settle your abdomen across it, the stiff raised portions would make it next to impossible.

The hive had been turned upside down in the search for themissing assistant food preparator. When it was determined toa specific degree of assurance that not only was he no longerpresent in the hive, but that his body could not be found, astartled Jhywinhuran had found herself called away from her labor and ordered to this room. There she sat, and waited, andwondered what in the name of the lowest level of the supremehive was going on.

She did not have to wait long.

Four people filed into the chamber. Two of them betweenthem had only as many limbs as she did. She had seen humans around the hive before, but not often. They did not frequent the section of the colony where she worked, and shehad had no actual contact with them herself. From her predeparture studies she was able to discern that both genders wererepresented. As was common among humans, their skin andsingle-lensed eye color varied markedly. These and othersuperficial physical variations she expected. She also wasnot surprised when they sat down in two of the peculiar constructs whose function had so puzzled her. She winced inwardly, unable to see how any being, even one as flexible as ahuman, could call "relaxing" a posture that required the bodyto almost fold itself in half.

But she was startled when conversation commenced, andthe humans participated--speaking not in their own language but in a crude, unsophisticated, yet impressively intelligible rendition of Low Thranx.

"How long have you known the assistant food preparator who calls himself Desvendapur?" The human female blundered slightly over the correct pronunciation of the title.

Jhywinhuran hesitated, taken aback by both the nature ofthe question and its source. She looked to the two thranx present for advice, only to have the eldest gesture compliance.Not politely, either. Clearly, something serious was afoot.

"I met him on theZenruloim on the journey out fromWillow-Wane. He was pleasant company, and as there wereonly four of us bound for this world, we naturally struck upan acquaintance. I also met and became friends with the engineers Awlvirmubak and Durcenhofex."

"They do not concern us and are not involved in thismatter," the eldest thranx explained, "because they are notonly where they are, they are who they are."

She gestured bewilderment. "I don't understand."

"Neither do we," the elder responded. "That is one of thepurposes of this meeting: to reach understanding." His antennae bobbed restlessly as he spoke, indicating no especial sentiment: only a continuing unease. "Your friend has gonemissing."

"I know. I helped to file the report."

"No, you don't know," the elder corrected her. "I do notmean that he has gone missing in the accepted sense. I meanthat he is nowhere to be found anywhere in the hive."

"Nor," added the male human somewhat melodramatically,"is his corpse."

"The inescapable conclusion," the younger of the two thranxtold her, "is that he has gone outside."

"Outside?" Jhywinhuran's confusion gave way to disbelief. "You mean, he has left the colony? Voluntarily?"

The elder genuflected sadness mixed with concurrence."So it must be assumed."

"Butwhy?" Acknowledging her acceptance of the human'spresence, she included them in her question as well as thepair of somber supervisors. "Why would he do such a thing?Why would any member of the colony?"

The female human crossed one leg completely over another, an intriguing gesture no thranx could emulate halfso fluidly. Jhywinhuran wondered at its hidden meanings."We were really hoping you could shed some light on that,Jhywinhuran."

Hearing her name emerge from an alien throat, completeto the appropriate whistle-and-click accentuation, was a novelty the sanitation worker did not have time to enjoy. "I assureyou all I have no idea."

"Think," the elder prodded her. "This is important beyondanything you can imagine. We are already, with the aid of ourhuman friends, searching the surface above and around thecolony for this absent individual, but it would be of considerable use to know who and what we are searching for."

"You keep speaking of Desvendapur as though he doesn'texist." Something deep inside her felt bound to rise, however feebly or ineffectively, to the defense of an acquaintance whohad brazenly lied to her.

The two thranx exchanged gestures. It was left to theyounger to explain. "He doesn't.Crrik, the individual youknow as Desvendapur certainly does, but that is not his identity. When your report was filed and it was determined thatthe individual was no longer residing within the colony, athorough background check was run on him in the hopes oflearning or at least obtaining some clue as to what might haveprompted him to engage in such intemperate behavior. Giventhe seriousness of his apparent transgression, the check wascorrespondingly detailed.

"It included a search, via a surreptitious space-minus relay operated by our human friends, of records that extend all theway back to Willow-Wane--not only professional recordsbut personal ones as well. A portion of the finished report wasso extraordinary that despite the difficulty and expense arecheck was demanded. It only confirmed that which had preceded it."

"What did you find out?" The two humans were temporarily forgotten.

The younger supervisor continued the story. "Somethingthis serious activates, as one of multiple automatic searches,a full family background check. The records of the HiveBa show no mention of a Desvendapur living or recentlydeceased."

None of the four thranx mandibles were capable of dropping, in the human sense, but Jhywinhuran succeeded in conveying her astonishment at this astounding announcement by means of a simple truhand gesture. "Then who is he?"

"We think we know," the elder told her. "He is very clever,this individual, far more resourceful than one would expectof an assistant food preparator."

"I always thought him so." Her horizontal mandiblesclicked softly while the verticals remained motionless. Shewas more than a little dazed by this latest revelation.

"It all fits together." The younger supervisor was gesturing corroboration. "Tell me, Jhywinhuran: Did your absentfriend at any time ever express a more-than-passing interestin the composition of poetry?"

This time she could only stare at her interrogators in stupefied silence. It did not matter. Her hush was sufficientlyeloquent.

The senior supervisor continued, his mandibles movingmethodically. "On Willow-Wane there was no Desvendapur.Or Desvenbapur or Desvenkapur. Background investigationdiscovered a Desventapur, an elderly and well-known electronics mapper who lives in the Hive Wevk. Also a Desvenqapur, a harvester drone residing in Upper Hierxex." Heshifted his abdomen on his resting bench.

"There is also a Desvengapur who is not only the right age,but also shows an interest in formal composition for purposeof performance."

"Is that the real person, the one we are talking about?" ashaky Jlrywinhuran heard herself asking.

The supervisor gestured negativity. "Desvengapur is a mid-age female."

The younger of the pair took over, his speech becomingharsh and accusatory, the clicks sharper, his whistles shriller."No living representative of the Hive Ba bears the nameDesvenbapur. But on Willow-Wane therewas an aspiringyoung poet sufficiently accomplished to be assigned the designation of soother. He managed to have himself appointed to the human outpost at Geswixt."

The human male chipped in. "Apparently this individual,for reasons we still do not know, desired contact with mykind."

"His name," the supervisor continued, "was Desvendapur.A real, existing person, according to all personnel background checks and official records."

A poet, she found herself thinking. A designated soother.No wonder her friend's "amateur" efforts had struck her asso wonderfully accomplished. There had been nothing amateurish about them, or about him, she reflected bleakly.

"He changed his name and his records." Her voice wasdull, methodical, the words rising without difficulty to hermandibles. "He falsified his history and learned the trade ofassistant food preparator. But why?"

"Apparently, in hopes of gaining assignment to the colonythere," the female human responded. "Why he did this westill don't know. We'd certainly like to."

"Truly," declared the senior supervisor, "an explanation ofhis motivation would be most welcome. This Desvendapur is an individual who has been driven to take extreme measures."

Jhywinhuran indicated assent. "To make up a false identity, to equivocate repeatedly..." A sudden thought made herhesitate. "Wait. I can see how he could remake himself asan assistant food preparator named Desvenbapur, but whatabout his original self? Wouldn't it be missed, not only atGeswixt but elsewhere?"

"This Desvendapur's cleverness extends well beyond atalent for concocting agreeable phrases." The supervisor'stone was dark. "He participated in a short but unauthorizedflight from Geswixt to the project outpost on Willow-Wane. On the return flight, the lifter that had conveyed him crashedin the mountains. It was presumed that everyone aboard perished in the fiery crash. Shortly thereafter, the name of oneDesvenbapur appeared on the work rolls of the human outpost as an assistant food preparator."

She gestured astonishment. "How fortunate he was. That must have been a remarkable stroke of luck for him and forhis plans, for I assume based on what you have told me thathe must have been intending something like that for a longtime."

"Certainly he was," the other supervisor readily agreed, "however there is now some question as to how 'lucky' hemight have been."

"What are you implying, Venerable?" she stammered.

"The crash of his transportation on its return journey toGeswixt, leaving him an illegal and therefore unrecognized presence in the project outpost, is simply too convenient tobe any longer considered a coincidence. Though much timehas passed since this incident occurred, the appropriate authorities are even now reviewing the relevant records." Hegestured with all four hands. "It is considered a distinct possibility that your friend contrived the crash of his transportation on its return flight to Geswixt in order to obliterate hisold identity while providing an opportunity for him to createand adopt a new one."

While she was digesting this inconceivable volley of information, the female human commented, in that terse, tactlessfashion for which humans were both famed and notorious,"What Eirmhenqibus is saying is that your absent friend, inaddition to putting in jeopardy everything we have worked toachieve here, may also be a murderer." She had some difficulty with the appropriate accents for the thranx term for"one who kills its own kind," but Jhywinhuran had no troublecomprehending what had been said.

"I...I find that hard to believe."

"Then you are in good company in this room," the seniorsupervisor assured her. "Murder, falsification of identity, illegal assignation of profession, and now escapement. ThisDesvendapur has much to answer for."

"It is not something 1 would have expected of a soother."The other supervisor was quietly incredulous. "Your friendmust be found, and quickly."

Both humans nodded assent. "This part of Earth waschosen for the colony not only because the climate is conducive to your kind," the female said, "but because it represents one of the last and largest regions on the planet in whichthe imprint of humankind has not been heavy. Very fewpeople come here, and those that do travel about under strictsupervision or professional guidance. But if anyone shouldsee this Desvendapur, engaged in whatever purpose he is bentupon, he will immediately be recognized for what he is: analien wandering about on a part of the Earth's surface whereno alien is supposed to be."

"I do not think I need remind you," the male roughly toldher, "about the delicate nature of the ongoing negotiationsbetween your species and ours. Your ... appearance ... unfortunately, is off-putting to those of our kind who have notyet learned how to look beyond shape in the course of establishing relations. The great mass of humanity is still not entirely comfortable with the realization that there are otherintelligent species, nor the possibility that some may be moreintelligent than themselves. There exists a historical racialparanoia that is only slowly being eroded by contact withsuch as the thranx.

"The revelation that an illegal colony has been establishedhere, in a part of the world where an alien presence is not officially authorized, could cast a serious pall on future as well ascurrent relations between our respective species. In another ten or fifteen years, when the population of Earth has had a reasonable period of time in which to become used to yourexistence and appearance, the long-term existence of thecolony will officially be made public. Realizing that yourkind has lived among us in harmony and without friction fora studied length of time should, our psychologists tell us,greatly facilitate the formalizing of relations."

"But not yet," the female concluded. Jhywinhuran thoughtshe looked tired, as if she had not slept in several days. "It istoo soon--much too soon. The consequences that could result from premature disclosure are alarming."

The sanitation worker did not hesitate. In spite of any personal feelings she might retain for the engaging individualwhose true name it appeared was Desvendapur, she was a dutiful and conscientious member of a hive. As such, she knew that the security and integrity of the community could not becompromised.

"I understand that he must be found and brought back before his existence is discovered by any passing humans. I willhelp in any way I can." She gestured sharply with a truhand."Knowing him and being somewhat familiar with his nature,I can say that having gone to the trouble and extremes youhave described, he may prove reluctant to comply."

It would have been better had one of the supervisors responded, but with the abruptness for which they were noted,it was the male human who replied first.

"If that proves to be the case, then of course we'll have tokill him."

Chapter Nineteen

An irritated Cheelo was about to respond to the alien'squestion, but before he could, a muted hum began to tickle his ears. Scanning the surrounding rain forest, he found hisgaze being drawn to the tributary from which the striking anaconda had erupted. Ignoring the thranx's queries, hewalked to the water's edge and squinted upstream. The humgrew no louder, but neither did it disappear.

"What are you doing?" Putting tentative pressure on hissplinted middle leg, Desvendapur eyed the silent human curiously. "If you think after all this time that you're now going topersuade me that you are a naturalist by pretending to be engaged in some kind of profound observational behavior ofthe local fauna, you are--"

"Shut up!" Cheelo snapped. His tone more than the curthuman words induced the poet to hold his peace. Or perhapsit was the hand gesture that accompanied the admonition; asharp, downward chopping motion that Desvendapur had not encountered before.

The poet waited until he could stand the continuing silence no longer. Mindful of the human's warning, he kept hisvoice low as he moved forward to stand alongside the biped.The human's aspect and attitude were indicative of a suddenwariness.

"What's going on?"

"Don't you hear it? That vibrating sound?"

Desvendapur gestured affirmatively, then remembered tonod. "Certainly. While our sense of hearing is not as acute as yours, it is perfectly adequate." He tested the air with his antennae, seeking some radical new aroma, but caught nothing."Some local animal, a forest dweller."

"Like hell it is." Putting out a hand, Cheelo urged the alienback into the undergrowth. Together they concealed themselves as best they could behind and beneath houseplants that here in their natural habitat grew to the size of small trees.

Wordlessly, he pointed at the eagle as it came gliding downthe creek, its head panning slowly from side to side. Puttingaside the queasiness that arose as a consequence of contactwith soft, flexible mammalian flesh, Desvendapur indicatedthat he understood the situation. Only when he was certainthat the eagle had passed well out of sight did Cheelo emerge from the brush and indicate that the thranx could do likewise.

"I do not understand." Antennae dipped and weaved balletically as Desvendapur gazed down the streambed, thenturned back to the still-watchful human. "That was a particularly dangerous creature? Poisonous, perhaps, or strongerthan it appeared?"

"That wasn't no damn bird at all. Eaglesscream. Theydon't hum." Single-lensed brown eyes regarded the alien. "Itwas a machine. I've seen it before, or another one like it. I'mhoping it was nothing more than a routine, preprogrammed forest service overflight. I don't know what their inspectionand censusing schedule is like. Didn't realize until I camehere that the forest service used such sophisticated scanners.I guess they disguise them like the local critters so as not toalarm the fauna."

"This forest service you speak of may in fact not do that."Desvendapur eyed his human companion evenly.

Cheelo frowned. "Bug, is there something you're not telling me?"

Truhands crocheted the atmosphere. "There might be. Just as there is something you are not telling me. If I explain myself, will you reciprocate?"

Ay.Yeah, sure." Still listening for any indication that thecamouflaged scanner might be returning, Cheelo crossed hisarms over his narrow chest and settled himself back againsta tree.

"I suspect that cloaked device does not belong to any recognized human agency."

The perplexed human's expression contorted. "What doyou mean, 'recognized'?"

"I think I know why it was so well disguised. It was not meant to be identified by your local authorities. It was designed to blend in with the local life-forms. And I think it was looking forme?

"Foryou?"Cheelo hesitated, then nodded knowingly. "Oh,right. Your fellow expedition members are looking for you.What is it? Past time for you to rejoin them?" Though stillhopeful of finding some way of making money off the alien, Cheelo remained ambivalent about its presence and realizedhe wouldn't exactly be averse to its departure, either. It wasslowing him down.

"Truly. But it has been time for me to rejoin them eversince I left."

The human shook his head impatiently. Explanations werenot supposed to further confuse. "I don't get it."

"I am not supposed to be here."

"What? You snuck off on your own?" Cheelo chuckledsoftly. "How about that? A bug with balls."

"Since I have yet to master your extensive catalog of colloquialisms I will not comment on that observation. What I amsaying is that I am not supposed to be here at all. In this place.On this planet."

This time Cheelo did not laugh. He stood away from thetree, his expression turning serious. "You mean your research expedition is an illegal one?"

Desvendapur hesitated only briefly. "How much can I trustyou, Cheelo Montoya?"

"Completely." Expression blank, the human waited patiently.

"There is no research expedition." Turning his upper bodyslightly, the poet pointed eastward. "With the aid of certainselect representatives of your own kind, a colony has been established in this part of your world."

"Colony? Ofbugs?"Cheelo digested this, then shook hishead sharply. "That's crazy! Even in a place as isolated as the Reserva Amazonia something like that would've beenspotted before it got started."

Desvendapur begged to disagree. "Everything was donebelow the surface. Research, design, excavation, construction: everything. The colony's human sponsors providedand continue to provide the necessary cover to maintain ourseclusion. Once the initial excavating was completed, expansion was not difficult. Or so the history that I studied of the colony declaims. I was assigned here. Unauthorized egressfrom the hive is strictly forbidden."

"This 'colony' of yours ..." Cheelo hesitated uncertainly.This was bigger than he'd suspected. Much bigger. "It hasn'tbeen authorized by the government, then? I mean, I don't exactly scan the media every day, but the big things, the majorstories, you hear about them from other people. I've heardabout your kind, but never anything about a bug colony."

"It is not authorized by yourvisible government," Desvendapur admitted readily. "Apparently only a few individualsfrom certain departments are involved. They have moved forward with this project on their own."

Like a child's building blocks, a crude but recognizablestructure was assembling itself in Cheeio's brain. "So if thiscolony's been planted here on the sly, and nobody's supposedto know about it, and nobody from inside is supposed to gooutside, then you're illegitimate twice over."

"That is correct."

Cheelo stood stunned, gaping at the calm, composed alien.Here he thoughthe was the one who had to be wary of discovery, and all along he had been traveling in the companyof someone who had committed an offense beside whichCheelo Montoya's entire lifetime of minor misdeeds and infractions paled into insignificance. Every felony the part-time resident of Gatun and Golfito had committed had been provincial in nature, even the accidental killing in San Jose.Standing quietly before him was malfeasance on an interstellar scale.

He frowned. "Why're you tellingme this?"

"To observe your reaction. I collect reactions." The thranxshifted on its trulegs, trying to spread his weight away fromthe injured, splinted limb. "I am not a researcher any morethan you are a naturalist. I am a poet who seeks inspiration. Iarranged to come here, to your world, in search of it. I illegally exited the colony in search of it." Like accusatory fingers, twin antennae were pointed directly at the biped. "It wasin hopes of finding it that I went in search of humans who had not had prior contact with my kind."

Cheelo's thoughts swirled and collided. All the time thebug had been tagging along, it hadn't been studying theforest--it had been studyinghim. Not for scientific purposes, either. His bug was a goddamn artist, all right.

In his comparatively short lifetime Cheelo had thoughtof himself, envisioned himself, imagined himself as manythings. A source of poetic inspiration was not one of them.

"What'll they do to you if they find you out here?" heasked pointedly.

"Take me back to the hive, to the colony. Debrief me. Ship me offworld as soon as proves feasible. Punishment will follow. Unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Unless my unauthorized sojourn here results in composition the likes of which has never been beheld before. I do notknow how it is among humans, but among my kind greatart excuses a multitude of transgressions. Additionally, alleminent artists are presumed to be at least partly mentallyderanged."

Cheelo nodded. "Ay, I can see similarities." His expression darkened. "Just a minute. If nobody except these covertfriends of your colony are supposed to know about its existence, and you've just told me all about it, then I'm compromised. You've compromised me." His eyes widened. "Shit,what'll they do tome if they find me in your company? I ain'tgoing off to no bug world with you!"

"Obviously not. I imagine that either my people or yourswill have to kill you to ensure your silence on the matter."

"My silence on the...?" At that moment Cheelo wantedto reach out and choke the alien, except that constricting itsneck would not result in a reduction in the supply of air toits lungs. It might be subject to suffocation in the coils of ananaconda, but not by any human. He could, however, by exerting diligence and all his strength, possibly break its neck."Why'd you have to tell me all this?Why?"

"You deserved to know. If that disguised scanner had discovered us and we had been picked up, you wouldn't haveknown the reason for it. Now you do. I did not have to tell youabout the colony to compromise you. Simply being found inmy company by searchers from the hive would be enough todoom you."

The biped stiffened. "Who's doomed? Not Cheelo Montoya! I've been hiding from searchers all my life! I've slippedsafely in and out of places nobody else would go near. Unless I want them to, no bunch of goddamned illegal sweet-stinking bugs is going to find me, either!"

A thranx could only smile inwardly. "An intriguinglyaggressive response for a self-proclaimed naturalist."

Cheelo started to shout something more, only to find himself strangling in mid-declaration. His lower jaw closed andhis voice changed to a dangerous, angry mix of accusationand admiration. "Why you ugly, burrowing, big-eyed, toothless bug bastard. You think you're pretty clever, don't you?"

"That is a proven fact, not hypothesis," the thranx repliedcalmly. "Why not tell me whatyou are, man?"

"Sure. Ay, sure, why not? It doesn't matter. You can't exactly walk into the nearest police depot and turn me in, canyou? Sure, I'll tell you." He gestured at the alien's thoraxpouch. "Why don't you get out that scri!ber of yours and takeit all down? You might get a goddamn poem or two out of it."

Oblivious to the human's sarcasm, an excited Desvendapur hurried to comply. Holding the compact instrument outtoward the biped, the poet waited eagerly.

"I take things from people," Cheelo told him pugnaciously."I was born without anything, I saw my mother die withoutanything, and I had a baby brother who died before he had achance to know anything. I grew up learning that if you want anything in this world you've got to go out and get it, becausenobody's going to give it to you. This is a pretty advanced planet. Lots of nice new technology, good medicine, easy to get around, a lot cleaner than it used to be. That much Ilearned from history. I do read, you know."

"I never doubted it." Desvendapur was absorbing not only the human's words, but his attitude, his posture, his wonderfully distorted facial expressions. Truly, the biped's rantingwas a veritable fount of inspiration.

"Humankind's managed to get rid of a lot of things, a lotof the old troubles. But poverty isn't one of them. Not so far,not yet. I hear the sociologists argue about it a lot: whether there'll always be poor people no matter how rich the species becomes. Somebody always has to be on the bottom, no matter how high you raise the top." He shook his headsharply. "Me, I ain't going to stay on the bottom. When Ifound out I'd never be able to rise any other way, I started figuring out methods to take what I needed to lift me up. I'm notthe only one, not by a flicker, but I'm better at it than some.That's why I'm standing here talking to you right now insteadof licking my hospital dressings waiting to go in for a court-ordered selective mindwipe." There was something deeplygratifying about spilling his guts, even if only to an alien bug. Feeling more than a little reckless, he plunged on.

"I'm here right now because I killed somebody."

Desvendapur felt a thrill run through him. This was morethan he could have hoped for: inspiration taken to and beyonda degree he could not have imagined in his wildest dreams."You murdered another of your own kind?"

"It wasn't intentional," Cheelo protested. "I never meant tohurt nobody. Killing's bad for business. It just--happened. Ineeded the money. So I had to get away, to someplace where Icould lose myself for a while." He gestured at the wild, all-enveloping rain forest. "This is a good place for that. Or itwas, until I ran into you."

"You are still 'lost,' " Desvendapur assured him. "I willnot give you away."

"You don't have to 'give me away.' " Cheelo's tone was accusing. "Like you said, all your brother bugs and their humanfriends have to do is find me with you and I'm history. Don'tmatter anyway. I was on my way out when you found me. Igot an appointment. And you ain't helping me make it." Quietly, his hand strayed toward his gun.

"One more day." The thranx glanced skyward. "They haven't found me yet. I don't think they will, if I chooseto continue hiding, but all I ask for is one more day in yourcompany."

Cheelo's fingers hovered. Why wait? he told himself. Kill it now and move on. They'll find the body or they won't. Either way, he wouldn't be connected to it. As far as thisunauthorized colony and its allies were concerned, he'd bejust another solitary wanderer in the vast reaches of the rainforest.

But there was something in the alien's manner--an unrestrained eagerness, a desperation to learn, a need to achieve--that appealed strongly to something deep inside CheeloMontoya. It wasn't that they were in any way alike: That wasan absurd thought. Cheelo had never had a poetic or artisticimpulse in his life, unless one counted the skill with which herelieved the unsuspecting and the unlucky of their valuables.

The camouflaged scanner had already passed this way. It was unlikely a second would be following it. Surely the resources of this secret colony were limited and any search itinstituted, however frantic, must necessarily be circumspect. Otherwise it would attract the attention of the Reserva rangers or their own automatic monitoring devices. If he and thebug kept moving in the direction the eagle scanner had come from, they ought to be free of observation and safe from detection for quite a while.

Without really knowing why, he heard himself saying,"One day?"

The thranx nodded. Cheelo no longer thought the familiargesture strange when executed by the alien. "One day. So thatI may finish my note taking and observations and round themoff smoothly and completely."

"I'm not sure I know what the hell you're talking about. Idon't owe you nothing."

"No, you do not. Even though we are, in a way, spirituallyof the same clan."

Cheelo frowned. "What are you babbling about?"

The thranx's tone did not change. "We are both outcasts,antisocials. And takers of life. I too am responsible for thedeath of another. All because I wish to compose something ofimportance."

There it was. This alien, this grossly oversized bug fromanother world, wanted to do something big, just like CheeloMontoya.No, he thought angrily, refusing to accept the analogy. Wedon't have anything in common! Not me and a goddamn bug!He said nothing aloud. What was there to say? He knewnothing of thranx society, of what it considered acceptableand what it did not, though he felt he could be certain of onething: Surely among any intelligent species, the murder ofone's fellows was considered inappropriate. He was wrong,but correct where the thranx were concerned.

"And if at the end of that time you remain tormented by uncertainties," Desvendapur was saying, "you can still kill me."

Cheelo started, his eyes widening slightly. "What makesyou think I'd want to kill you?"

"It would be the logical thing to do." Two hands gestured inthe direction of the human's bolstered pistol. "I've seen your hands moving, up and down, back and forth in the directionof your concealed weapon, your gestures reflective of yourchanging mood. You have been thinking about it ever sincewe met. You could do it at any time."

"You're mighty confident I won't."

"No, I'm not." Antennae bobbed in a complex pattern. "Ihave been monitoring your pheromones. The levels rise andfall according to your state of mind. I know when you'rethinking about killing me, and when you are not."

"You're reading my mind?" Cheelo gazed unblinkingly atthe thranx.

"No. I'm reading your body odor. As I mentioned before, itis very strong. Even it is a source of suggestion to me." Theheart-shaped head dipped slightly. "One more day."

"And then I can kill you? You just said yourself it would be the logical thing to do."

Again the alien nodded. "Very much so. But I don't thinkyou will do it. If I did I would already have slipped awayduring the night."

Cheelo's tone was challenging. "What makes you so sure I won't do it?"

"Because you haven't already. And because doing the illogical thing, the unexpected, is what separates the exceptional individual from the great mass of the hive. Sometimesthat individuality is not well regarded. In both our societies,iconoclasts and eccentrics are viewed with great suspicion."

"Well, I've sure as hell always been viewed with suspicion.One day." He considered. "All right. Tomorrow afternoonyou go your way and I go mine."

"Agreed." The thranx gestured with both his scri!ber andwith a foothand. "I already have enough material to nourishcomposition for several years. It wants only some framing,some greater context. If you would consent in the time wehave remaining to us to answer a few questions, I will departyour company tomorrow very much content."

"Yeah, sure. But right now let's concentrate on gettingaway fromhere, okay?" Raising a hand, he pointed upstream."Let's put some more distance between us and that airbornescanner."

Falling in alongside the human, Desvendapur held hisscri!ber out, the better to pick up the biped's voice moreclearly. "Please tell me: When you killed your fellow human, what did it feel like?"

Cheelo glanced over sharply, wishing he could read thosecompound eyes. But they only stared back, glittering in thelight that filtered down through the canopy, siliceous gems setin blue-green chitin.

"What the hell kind of question is that?"

"A difficult one," the alien replied. "Easy answers make forweak poetry."

The interrogation, as Cheelo came to think of it, was relentless, continuing all through the remainder of the day andon into the night. What the thranx gained in response to queries that Cheelo felt waned from the irrelevant to the inanehe could not imagine, but the alien seemed pleased by everyreply, be it fleeting or lengthy. Cheelo endured it all, not reallyunderstanding the purpose, knowing that tomorrow he wouldbe free of questions and questioner alike. Free to make theappointment in Golfito that would forever change his life.

He was awakened not by the sun or the chorusing of monkeys, not by demonstrative macaws or buzzing insects, but by a gentle prod to the shoulder.

"Later," he grumbled. "It's too early."

"I agree," came a familiar, soft, gently modulated voice,"but it is necessary. I do not think we are alone any longer."

Cheelo sat up fast, throwing off the blanket, instantly awake."Your friends, come looking for you?"

"That is the peculiar thing. I see only evidence of passing, and it is not of the sort that traveling thranx would leavebehind."

Cheelo frowned. "What sort of evidence?"

"Come and look."

Following the alien into the undergrowth, Cheelo wasbrought up short by a sight as expected as it was shocking.The pelts had been neatly stretched and hung to dry on racksfashioned of trimmed poles bound together with vine. There were signs of recent cooking as well as places where the soilhad been compacted by repeated bootprints. No biologist, hestill recognized the skin of the jaguar and the two margays.There was also a lightweight container that, on inspection,proved to be full of feathers plucked from dozens of macawsand other exotic rain forest birds.

Lowering the lid on the container, he found himself scanning the surrounding jungle anxiously.

"What strange human activity is this? Some peculiar ritual the local officials are required to perform?"

"It's a ritual, all right." Cheelo was already backing carefully out of the small, cramped clearing. "But it has nothing to do with local officials. Just the opposite." He noddedtoward the forlorn skins drying in the heat of early morning."This is a poacher camp."

"That is a term I am not familiar with." Scri!ber out, Desvendapur paralleled the human's retreat. He could not keepfrom turning to look back at the hollow-eyed skins hangingforlornly from their crudely rigged racks.

Cheelo's eyes darted from side to side, tree to bush, as he nervously scrutinized the surrounding forest. "Poachers slipinto places like the Reserva to steal whatever they can sell.Rare flowers for orchid collectors, rare bugs for insect collectors, exotic woods for furniture makers, mineral specimens,live birds and monkeys for the underground pet trade." Hegestured at the covert encampment. "Bird feathers for decoration, skins for clothing."

"Clothing?" Desvendapur lowered his scri!ber as he lookedback once more. "You mean, these people kill animals andstrip off their skin so that humans can put them on?"

"That's about right." Alert for ants, snakes, and saw-jawedbeetles, Cheelo pushed through a dense overlay of brightgreen leaves.

"But humans already have skin of their own. Beyond that,you manufacture what appears to be perfectly adequate artificial outerwear to protect your soft, sensitive exteriors fromthe elements. Why would anyone choose to wrap themselvesin the skin of another living creature? Does the act involvesome religious significance?"

"Some people might look at it that way." His mouth widened in a humorless grin. "I've seen rich folk who treatfashion like a religion."

"And they eat the flesh of the dead animal, too." Desvendapur struggled to convey his distaste but was not yet fluentenough to do so, having to resort to gestures to properly express his feelings on the matter.

"No. These people throw the rest of the animal away."

"So each creature is killed only for its epidermis?"

"Right. Unless they sell the teeth and claws, too. You getting enough inspiration out of this?"

"It all sounds vile and primitive. This mystifying mix ofthe sophisticated and the primal is all part of what marks youas a very peculiar species."

"You won't get no argument from me."

Though Desvendapur had no trouble keeping up, and infact even with his broken middle leg moved more supplelyand easily through the forest than did the biped, he wondered aloud at the human's sudden desire for speed.

"The people running that camp would shoot you just ascasually as they would a representative of an endangeredspecies. Poaching in the Reserva is punishable by extensivemindwipe and a program of enforced social correctness.That's something I wouldn't ever submit to, and neither willwhoever's smuggling out macaw feathers and cat pelts. We'vealready got your people looking for us. That's enough."

"Not quite enough."

Cheelo sucked in his breath. He could have kept going,could have tried to go around the muzzle of the weaponpointed in his direction, but that probably would have resulted in a journey of very brief duration.

There were two of them: very short men with very bigguns. Their skin was the hue of burnished gold, their longblack hair was tied unfashionably back, and they wore junglemimic suits that allowed them to blend almost seamlesslyinto the landscape of bush and vine and tree. The tip of onerifle hovered uncomfortably close to Cheelo's nose.

He might have tried ducking, or slapping the barrel asideor grabbing it, or pulling his pistol if his antagonist had beenoperating alone. Unfortunately, he was not. His companionstood nearby but too far away to tackle, his own weaponheld at the ready. Cheelo's fingers fell in the direction ofhis concealed holster. The poacher holding the rifle on himdid not smile, did not speak. Only shook his head slowly,twice. Cheelo's hand drifted prominently away from his ownweapon.

The other poacher stepped forward. After removing thepistol from its hiding place, he proceeded to pat the strangerdown and remove his pack. Slinging Cheelo's belongingsover one shoulder, he stepped aside to regard the thranx.

"What the hell is this,carbon?"

Cheelo dropped his hands to his sides as the point of the rifle lowered from his nose to his chest. "That's an alien. Athranx. Don't youninlocos watch the tridee?"

"Yeah, man." The other poacher laughed once, curtly. "And we have our own sensalude emporium here, too."

"It's a lonely life," the poacher shouldering Cheelo's backpack told him. "But it was good enough for my ancestors.Hapec and I do okay." The man's gaze darkened. "As long asnosybodies leave us alone to do our work." Dropping thebackpack, he knelt and began going through its contents.After a while he looked up at his companion. "Not a ranger.Not a scientist, either." He eyed Cheelo speculatively as herose. "He's apesadito,a nobody."

"Good." His companion gestured with his rifle. "Thatmeans nobody'll miss him." The man's hard, unyielding gazesearched beyond the edgy Cheelo. "What do we do with thebig bug?" Using the muzzle of the rifle he prodded Cheeloungently in the stomach. "Where'd you get it, man, and whatgood is it?"

"Yeah," added his comrade. "What's an ugly alien thinglike that doing in the Reserva, anyway? Does it speakTerranglo?"

Keeping a careful eye on the rifles, alert for any opportunity, Cheelo thought fast. "No, it doesn't. Something that looks like that? Are you kidding? It doesn't understand aword we're saying." Turning, he stared daggers at Desvendapur. "Its kind communicate by gestures. See, watch this."Raising both hands, he contorted his fingers strenuouslyat the thranx.The poet eyed the human's wiggling fingersaskance. While he was not entirely sure of the newcomers' intentions, the fact that they were pointing weapons at Cheelowas something other than a testament to peaceful intentions.Their comments about his appearance did not trouble him,but their words, which despite Cheelo's ingenuous denial heunderstood with considerable faculty, caused him more thana little concern. The human's expressions he still could notread, but his companion's intent was clear enough: It might prove useful for one of them to feign ignorance of ongoingconversation. This he proceeded to do, replying to Cheelo'saimless manipulations with contrastingly eloquent gesturesof his own. None of the humans had a clue what he was elucidating, but that was not the point. All that mattered was thatthey believed he and Cheelo were communicating.

"What did it say?" the nearer of the two poachers demanded to know.

Cheelo turned back to them. "It wants to know your intentions. I'd like to know myself."

"Sure," responded the other poacher agreeably. "First we'regoing to kill you, and then we're going to kill it, and thenwe're going to dump you both in the river." The muzzle of thesecond rifle shifted to point at the silent poet.

"You don't want to do that." Cheelo fought to keep hisvoice from shaking. He'd never begged anyone for anythingbefore and he wasn't about to start now, but he wasn't readyto die, either.

The nearer poacher glanced over at his colleague andsmiled unpleasantly. "Hear that, Hapec? Now he's telling uswhat we want." The rifle in his hands hummed softly withbarely contained death. "We know what we want, man."

"I'm on my way up to Golfito, Costa Rica, to see RudolfEhrenhardt," Cheelo declared importantly. "He's expectingme on a matter of real importance."

"Too bad," responded the other poacher mirthlessly. "You'renot going to make it."

He had wanted to lose himself, Cheelo reflected, and haddone so. If theseninlocos didn't recognize the name ofRudolf Ehrenhardt, then he was in the middle of nowhere indeed. In a city, that name would have meant something,would have carried weight. Here, in the vast expanse of theReserva, it was just a name. Of course, Ehrenhardt could notgive a fig whether a hardscrabble lowlife like Cheelo Montoya lived or died. It was nothing to him. The cherished franchise promised to Cheelo would go to someone else. Sincethis pair did not know the name, it didn't matter anyway.

"Let us go," Cheelo pleaded. The second rifle was nowpointed at the thranx, but he doubted he could wrestle the firstaway from its owner before his companion adjusted his aimand got off a shot. "We won't tell anyone you're around. Whatyou're doing here is nothing to us." He spread his hands imploringly. "You don't understand. 1got to make this appointment! It's my whole life, man."

"Sure." The poacher opposite laughed darkly. "We'll justtrust you. That's how come Hapec and I have managed tobring this off for the past ten years: by trusting people. NowHapec, he'd just off and shoot you right now. But me, I'mkind of a traditionalist. So I'll let you have any last words."He squinted past the thief, swatting away a hovering botfly."You can ask the bug if it has any last gestures."

"Youcan't kill me!" Cheelo argued. "If you do, I won't beable to make my appointment!"

"Boy, that's tough. I'm all weepy inside." A ringer nudged a trigger booster, and the hum from the rifle rose audibly.

Cheelo thought frantically. "Also, you'll have no way tocommunicate with the thranx."

The poacher shrugged. "Why would I worry about communicating with a dead alien body?"

"Because--because it's valuable. Probably valuable dead,but a lot more valuable alive."

The two wiry forest pillagers exchanged a glance. "Okay,cabron.Talk. What's valuable about it?"

"You guys collect for the underground animal trade." He jerked a thumb in Desvendapur's direction. "Here's a specimennobody's got, not even your richest, most private collector.If they'll buy a spotted tapir or a black jaguar, think whatthey'd pay for a live alien."

"Hey," declared the other poacher, "we know a couple ofguys who got a number of aliens in their private zoos, butnone of them are intelligent. That'd be pushing the limit."

"Who's going to know?"

On the verge of personal and financial triumph for the firsttime in his life, Cheelo was not to be denied now. He reasonedwith all the skill at his command. Somehow, some way, hewas going to make it back to Golfito in time to present thepayment to Ehrenhardt. As for the thranx, he had ceased tothink of it as a person, as a living, intelligent being like himself. It was a commodity, nothing more. He was bargainingwith that commodity for his life.

"The bug doesn't talk, so it can't object. Nobody but yourbuyer and whoever he trusts will ever see it again. It can survive on terrestrial plants and stuff, so food's no problem.Come on, guys, you're not thinkingbig enough. Imagine whatyour top buyers would pay for something like this!"

It was evident from his expression that the nearest poacherwas giving this heretofore unconsidered prospect carefulconsideration. Cheelo tried not to give him time to think itthrough.

"And if nobody bites on the offer, you can still kill us bothlater."

"We can kill you right now, man." Again the rifle bobbed. "We sell it, we don't need you."

"Sure you do. Because I'm the only one who can communicate with it. If you want it to come along peacefully, youneed me to convince it to do so. You could try and catch it, rollit up in a net, fight with it, but it might get injured. Isn't an undamaged specimen always more valuable?"

"You stay right where you are," the poacher warned him."You move, you try to run, you cross your eyes funny, you'redead. Understand?" Retreating slightly, he and his comradeentered into a conversation marked by intense whispering.Cheelo listened hard but could not make out what they weresaying.

Eventually the discussion concluded, and the first poacherresumed his previous stance. "You still haven't told us whatit's doing here."

"It's a naturalist," Cheelo informed them without hesitation. "Part of a small survey and study mission. But it's notauthorized. So if this one turns up missing, the others can't gopublic for help. They're probably searching for him rightnow."

The other poacher reflexively glanced skyward. "If it's partof some alien science project, why would it come along quietly with us?"

Cheelo took a deep breath. "Because it wants to learnabout humans. It trusts me. If I tell it we're going to go someplace where it can learn a lot about humankind, it'll takemy word for it. Its cooperation will spare you a lot of trouble.By the time it catches on to what's going on, you'll alreadyhave it sold, crated, and shipped. Then it won't matter what itthinks."

Desvendapur listened to this exchange in silence. It wasclear that his human companion was making up his story to forestall these two exceedingly antisocial types from shooting them. In this he so far appeared to be succeeding admirably. Meanwhile the poet kept silent and, as Cheelo hadexplained to the poachers, devoted himself to learning abouthumankind, a subject that was at present forcefully on display. He did not have to worry about either of the antisocialsinterpreting his hand movements because they were whollyunfamiliar with their meaning. As for them reading an expression, the inflexibly faced thranx had none to give awayhis true feelings.

"Why are you offering to be so helpful,carbon?" Thenearest poacher was studying him shrewdly. "What makesyou think we won't kill you after we've sold the bug?"

Cheelo did his best to affect an air of disinterest. "I'd ratherlive for as long as possible. Besides, maybe whoever buys itwill want to talk to it. That'd mean including me as part of thedeal."

"You'd go along with that?" The other poacher was openlydubious.

"Sure, why not? The police are after me anyway."

"No shit? What'd you do, man?"

"Killed a tourist I was skragging. Bad luck, but that's notmuch of a defense in court. So you see, I'm probably on more wanted lists than you guys."

"And you think that maybe makes us some kind of brothersor something?" the nearer poacher asked.

Cheelo eyed him coldly. "No. If you thought that, I'd thinkyou were pretty stupid."

For the first time, the poacher's expression softened."You're okay, man. Twitch the wrong way and I'll still blow your stinking head off, but you're okay. All right. Explain tothe bug that we're, um, collectors authorized to cull certainReserva species that have bred to excess. We're carryingweapons to protect ourselves from dangerous forest predators. Tell the bug that we sympathize with its aims, that we'veno love for the Reserva rangers who sometimes interfere with our work, and that we're going to take him to a museum." He glanced over at his colleague and chuckled. "Amuseum where he can learn alot more about humans. Explain that it'll be well looked-after, and that you're comingalong to translate. Tell it that after a couple of days we'll bringit back here so it can rejoin its colleagues. It'll have lots ofswell stories to tell." He gestured with the rifle."Tell it."

Turning, Cheelo stared into those expressionless compound eyes and began making snaky motions with his fingers. Would the bug understand? It had heard everything, butwould it comprehend the need to keep silent and go along with the story? If not, at least one of them wasn't going toleave this patch of rain forest alive, and it would in all likelihood be the one with the fewest appendages.

He need not have worried. Desvendapur understood thesituation quite well. He had no intention of speaking out.Clearly his human acquaintance had something in mind, aplan that would result in their salvation from these two virulently antisocial representatives of his own species. What thatmight be he did not know and could not imagine, unfamiliaras he was with the myriad mysterious workings of the humanmind. Meanwhile he was delighted to observe and to listen.Already the experience had generated raw material enoughfor an entirely new suite, one that he would hopefully livelong enough to render.

After several minutes of aimless, meaningless writhing, Cheelo turned around to confront their captors. "It has accepted my explanation and wants to know when we're goingto leave."

"Tonight, man." The poacher gestured at his companion.Setting his rifle aside, Hapec moved off into the undergrowth."I'm not going to tie you up because that might give your bug friend the wrong idea. Just don't do anything stupid."

Cheelo raised both hands, palms facing the poacher. "We'vegot an arrangement. Why should I risk it? If you can get me out of this hemisphere I'll be better off than I would if we'dnever met." His gaze wandered to the patch of forest that had swallowed the other poacher. "We're going to walk at night? A GPS will show you the right way, but it won't light it foryou."

The poacher hesitated uncertainly, then laughed anew."You think we're going to walk? Man, if we had to rely on ourfeet the rangers would've caught usyears ago. We've got anairtruck back in the trees. Mesyler two-ton carrying capacity,stealth construction, heat-signature-masked engine. Paid for, too. Not many people know this country like Hapec and me or how to get around the Reserva security net. We'regood,man. We'll/?y out. In an hour we'll be at a little place we keep just outside the Reserva boundary. You get to rest there while we put the word out to our regular people that we've got something special for sale." He grinned again. "You didn'tthink we were going to march you into Cuzco and stick you ina street stall with a price tag on your forehead, did you?"

Cheelo shrugged, trying to appear neither too smart norunreasonably ignorant. "I don't know youvatos. I don't know how you operate. I wasn't assuming anything."

"Good, that's good." Extracting a smokeless stimstick froma shirt pocket, the poacher waited for it to ignite before slipping the aromatic mouthpiece between his lips. "Just don't assume that I won't fry your head the first time you piss meoff."

Chapter Twenty

While the poacher named Hapec busied himself breakingdown the camp and carefully obliterating any memory of itsexistence, his colleague, whose name was Maruco, kept awatchful eye on their two prisoners. He concentrated hisattention on the fidgety Cheelo, allowing Desvendapur toroam freely through the evaporating encampment. Wheneverit looked as if the thranx might be wandering too far afield,Maruco directed his human prisoner to "call" the alien back.This Cheelo proceeded to do with much meaningless flailingof fingers. Desvendapur continued to fulfill his part in themasque by waiting for Cheelo to finish each charade beforecomplying, not with the human's gestures, but with the directives the poet had already perfectly comprehended.

In this manner the two poachers remained ignorant of thealien's cognizance. Had Desvendapur possessed a weapon, he could simply have shot both of them. But all he had wasthe small cutting tool in his improvised survival kit. Grantedcomplete surprise, he might have employed it successfully toincapacitate one of the two antisocials, but not both of them. They were too lively, too alert, too attuned to a life of imminent threat and danger. Additionally, while not directly suspicious of the alien in their midst, neither were they especially comfortable in the thranx's presence. Consequently, he wasnever able to get within a few meters of either of them beforethey began acting uneasy.

One such experimental advance caused Maruco to comment. "Tell the bug to keep its distance, man. God, but it'srepulsive! Smells good, though. Myself, I think you're personally bent, but your suggestion is straight: Somebodywill pay plenty for it." He shrugged, holding his rifle casually--though not casually enough. "Me, I wouldn't keep another intelligence in captivity, but I never understood the people whodo keep animals. Hapec and I, we don't even keep monkeys."

"Why do you guys stick with this?" Cheelo was genuinely curious. His attention wandered without ever entirely ignoring the poacher's weapon. Given a reasonable chance of success, he'd make a grab for it. Such an opportunity had not yetpresented itself. "Rangers and security scanners must be allover the Reserva. Is poaching a few skins and feathers thatprofitable?"

"Hapec and me, we do all right. But it's more than that. Ourancestors lived free here, hunting and fishing all over thiscountry. They took what they wanted, when they needed it.When the Reserva was drawn up and its boundaries formalized, everybody who lived here was kicked out and resettled on the borders of their former homelands. All in the name of preserving a lousy bunch of plants and animals and a naturalCO2exchanger for the atmosphere. Like the planet was goingto run short on oxygen, anyway." His tone was bitter. "This is Hapec's and my way of getting a little back, of reasserting our ancestral claims to this land."

Cheelo nodded somberly. "I can understand that." Privately he thought the poacher's explanation was a facile rationalization heavily layered with pretentious bullshit. Their twocaptors kept slipping into the Reserva not to honor their ancestors but because they were making a nice, cushy, illicitliving, and for no other reason. Taking revenge for some long-forgotten, sketchily remembered great-grandpa had nothing todo with it. He'd known small-timeninlocos like Hapec andMaruco all his life, had grown up with them. Maybe it madethem feel a little better to conduct their miserable, self-serving offenses under the cover of an agreeable fiction.Cheelo Montoya didn't buy it for a minute. What the ingenuous insectile in his company thought of the situation hecouldn't imagine. Nor could he find out if he wanted to, atleast not for a while. To ensure that Cheelo's captors kept him alive it was necessary for the bug to continue to play mute.

Rustling noises rose from behind the encampment, backamong the denser undergrowth. Cheelo strained to see. "So,this little place of yours: Where is it?"

"You'll see soon enough." As Maruco spoke, his partnerbegan to remove from their stretchers and carefully fold thepartially cured jaguar and margay pelts. When he had finished with that, he resumed breaking camp, reducing everything to a pile of poles, bindings, and disparate organic waste. This was then scattered among the concealing brush, to decayand disintegrate, along with any indication that people hadever spent any time at this particular spot.

"Must be rough." Cheelo was under no illusion that his attempts at casual conversation would ingratiate him with theircaptors, but in lieu of any alternative activity, it would have tosuffice. "Having to tear down and make a new camp everytime you come into the Reserva."

Maruco was dismissive. "Gets easier with practice. You learnwhat trees make the best hide stretchers, what vines are themost supple and easiest to work. Why do you give a damn?"He grinned nastily. "Thinking of going into competition?"

"Not me." Cheelo shook his head. "I'm a city boy."

"I figured. You skin different game."

As soon as the airtruck was loaded, the two captives wereherded on board. Cheelo found nothing exceptional about thevehicle. He'd seen camouflaged stealth transport before. ButDesvendapur was fascinated. It was the first complex piece ofpurely human technology he had encountered in person, andevery facet of it, from the layout of the instrumentation to thedesign of the climate-controlled interior, was new to him.There was, of course, no place for him to sit down. For thranxpurposes, the floor was more accommodating than the seatsdesigned for humans. He chose to stand, balancing himselfas the vehicle lifted in virtual silence from its hiding place torise into the canopy.

Though it took four times as long as a straight flight wouldhave, Maruco followed a course that kept them below spreading crests of the forest emergents, utilizing the canopy forcover whenever possible and only rising above it when theairtruck threatened to leave too expansive a path of destruction in the form of broken branches and snapped lianas in itswake. From time to time the closely entangled rain forestgave way to meandering streams and the occasionalcochathat allowed him to fly low at higher speeds without leaving atrail behind.

Only when the first foothills hove into view among themists and low-hanging clouds was Cheelo moved to comment. "I thought you said this place of yours was just outsidethe Reserva?"

"It is." Maruco spoke without turning while his partnerkept a watchful eye and the muzzle of a rifle trained on theirhuman captive. "If you're familiar with the area, then youknow the western border of the Reserva runs right up this sideof the Andes."

Cheelo watched the foothills give way rapidly to steep,green-shrouded slopes. "I know. I just assumed your placewould be down low, where you could hide it in the trees."

Maruco smiled knowingly as the airtruck, following agorge, commenced a steady climb. "That's what any rangerspatrolling the fringes would think. So we set ourselves upright out in the open, up where it's barren and cold and uncomfortable. What stupidchingons would stick themselvesout on a treeless ridge for everybody to see? Not anybodyrunning a poaching operation, right?"

"We've never had any trouble," Hapec chipped in. "Nobody checks on us or our little shack." He revealed a mouthful of gleaming, artificial, ceramic teeth. Light gold wascurrently a fashionable dental tint. "Anybody asks, we tell'em we're running a private bird-watching operation."

"It's not a whole lie." Maruco was in a jovial mood. "We dowatch birds. And if they're rare enough, we also snare and sell'em."

As the airtruck entered the zone of cloud forest and thepermanent mists that cloaked the mountainsides in lugubriously wandering blankets of gray and white, the poacherswitched from manual to instrument driving. Earlier, the de-humidifier had shut down and the vehicle's internal climatecontrol had switched over from cool to heat. Meanwhile Cheelocontinued the meaningless banter that fooled no one. If provoked, either of the two poachers would as soon shoot him asspit on him. He knew it, and he knew they knew he knew it. But it was better than dead silence or trading insults. At leasthe might learn something.

Desvendapur certainly was. Not only the journey but theedgy conversation taking place between the three humanscontinued to provide him with an unbridled flow of suggestion, stimulation, and inspiration. Unable to freely utilizehis scri!ber for fear that their captors might appropriate it,he concentrated on observing and remembering all that hecould. Tenseness and barely concealed agitation were racialcharacteristics his kind had abandoned in favor of polite communion hundreds of years ago. In a highly organized societythat chose to dwell underground in eternally close quarters,courtesy and politeness were not merely encouraged, theywere an absolute necessity.

Humans, apparently, fought and argued at the slightest provocation. The energy they expended in such recurrentconfrontations was breathtaking to behold: wasteful, but fascinating. It seemed they had stamina to spare. The mostexcitable thranx was more circumspect and conservative. Theknowledge that they intended to sell him into some kind of captivity did not engage him half so much as their constantbickering. Captivity, if it occurred, would not be so bad. It would allow him to continue studying humankind at closequarters. He doubted, however, that his troubled human companion felt similarly.

It was him these antisocial humans wanted, not CheeloMontoya. Neither did the poet have further need for the self-confessed thief. More than once Desvendapur thought aboutspeaking up, revealing to the two poachers his fluency in theirlanguage. The only reason he did not was because he knew itwould mean the death of his companion. While that wouldbe, based on what he knew of Cheelo and what the man hadtold him, small loss to the species, it contravened any numberof thranx rules of conduct. Recreant that he was, Desvendapurwas not prepared to break with custom and culture tothat extent. At least, not yet. For the moment it was moreamusing to play the game, to listen to the new humans makecomments about him convinced that he understood nothingof what they were saying.

After a substantial interval the airtruck rose out of theclouds and into sunshine so bright and unfiltered it was painful. In the pure, cerulean distance rose peaks that effortlesslycrested five thousand meters. Just ahead, a stony, intermittently green plateau rolled off to the west: hills standing atopmountains. The only signs of habitation were a few detached farmhouses and long stretches of mountainside covered withphototropic sheeting to protect the potatoes and other cropsthriving beneath.

On the eastern edge of a high ridge stood a modest, unspectacular domicile attached by a pedestrian corridor to aslightly larger structure. A roll-up door retracted as the air-truck approached. Guiding the vehicle in manually--use ofits automatic docking system ran the risk of sending out faintbut detectable signals curious rangers might pick up-- Marucobrought it to a stop in the exact center of the garage when the appropriate telltale on the truck's console turned green. A flipof one switch and the vehicle settled gently to the smooth, impervious floor. The door rolled noisily shut behind them asthe structure's internal heating panels roared to life.

Flanking their captives, the poachers led them through the access corridor to the main building, which was sparsely but comfortably furnished. Halfway there Hapec frowned at thealien.

"What's the matter with it?" He nodded pointedly.

Cheelo, who had been paying little attention to the thranxas he tried to memorize every detail of their prison, nowturned to see that the bug was quivering. It took him only amoment to realize what was happening.

"He's cold."

"Cold?" Maruco let out a snort of disbelief as they passed awall readout. "It's twenty-three in here."

"That's too cold for thranx. It told me it found the rainforest brisk. And it's much too dry in here. It needs at leastninety percent humidity and more like thirty-three, thirty-four degrees to be really comfortable."

"Shit!" Hapec muttered."I'll die."

"No you won't. But it's liable to."

Grumbling under his breath, the other poacher addressedthe house system, directing it to ratchet the interior climateup to something approaching the reported thranx minimumlevel of comfort.

"Maruco!" His companion protested as both the humidityand the temperature began to climb.

"Quit your bitching," the smaller of the two poacherssnapped. "It's only for a little while. Couple of days, until we can finalize a deal. Shouldn't take any longer, not for something as special as this." He smiled fatuously at Desvendapur. "You're going to make us rich, you sickening pile of legs and feelers. So be comfortable for a while. We'll live with it." Thepoet regarded the antisocial human blankly and with perfectcomprehension.

"And now you," the poacher informed his other captivecoldly, "get tied up."

"You can't do that," Cheelo protested. "It'll...it will upsetthe alien. It's convinced you two are friendlies. Necklace me and you'll unsettle it."

"So let it be unsettled. If we have to, we'll tie it up as well."Hapec was already removing fasteners from a drawer.

"You could lose it. It could hurt itself struggling to get free,or even choke to death."

"We'll take the chance." Both poachers were movingtoward the apprehensive Cheelo, Maruco with a rifle stillaimed at him. "If it protests, we can always untie you. Don'tmake this hard for us, or for you."

"Yeah," Hapec warned him. "Consider yourself lucky.By rights, the ants ought to be scooping out the last of youreyeballs right now."

Having no choice in the matter, Cheelo submitted to having the plastic restraints secured around his wrists and ankles.When the poachers judged them tight enough, Maruco removed the safety strips and the plastic sealed itself, melt-welding shut at the joints. Glancing behind him, the poachernoted the alien's lack of reaction.

"Doesn't look like your bug buddy is too upset. Make iteasy on yourself. Tell it this is all part of some weird humanwelcoming ritual."

"Tell it yourself," Cheelo spat, his anger making himthoughtless.

Hapec's hand started to come up, but he was restrained byhis companion. "Don't give him any excuses. And we reallydon't want to upset our prize pretty if we can avoid it." Leaning close, Maruco stared hard into the snugly manacledthief's eyes. "You, on the other hand, I don't mind upsetting.Behave yourself, and you'll end up with a nice, free, privatesuborbital ride. Make trouble and we'll just have to sell the bug without an interpreter." Straightening, he turned to regard the thranx, which was presently engaged in a detailedexamination of the kitchen facilities.

"What does it eat? Is it hungry?"

Subdued and unhappy, Cheelo replied in a reluctant mumble."It's strictly vegetarian: hates the sight of meat. It can digest alot of terrestrial plants. I don't know what kind are the mostnourishing. I'll have to ask it." He held up his bound wrists."Of course, I can't talk to it with my hands tied."

Maruco's expression twisted. It was clear neither poacherhad thought of that when they'd secured him. With a knife, heslit the wrist bindings. "Okay, but as soon as you get the answers we need, you get tied up again. And no tricks."

Cheelo spread his palms wide. "What am I going to do?Tell it to call the rangers? Remember, it's here covertly, too."Turning his attention to Desvendapur, he began an elaboratewiggling and twisting of his fingers.

The poet paid dutiful attention to these meaningless gestures before replying with truhand and foothand gesticulations of his own. What he said with his hands was that Cheelowas apontik,a particularly slow and stupid kind of grub. Thetwo antisocials werepepontiks,orpre-pontiks, an even lowerclass of intelligence not bright enough to be classified asstupid. None of the three humans had the slightest idea what his complex gestures meant, of course, but it amused him torespond so.

Determining how best to reply not to Cheelo's meaningless inquiry but to the antisocial's actual query was a biggerproblem. Since he could not speak, he would have to establish his dietary requirements in some other fashion. Turning away, he embarked on an up-close examination of the sink,leaving Cheelo to fend for explanations himself.

Deprived of support, Montoya improvised. "It's not hungryright now, and when it's not hungry it doesn't like to talkabout food."

Maruco grunted. "We'll thaw out a selection of fruits andvegetables. It can pick out what it wants or needs. Meanwhile, I've got a sale to advertise. Hapec, you unload thetruck." His partner nodded and headed for the access corridorthat linked the two main buildings. The other poacher's gazenarrowed as he considered his one bound prisoner. "Youbounce around enough to make me think you're trying to slip out of those seals, and I'll put a couple of 'em over your face."His smirk widened. "You can tell the bug it's part of theritual." He glanced in Desvendapur's direction.

"I'm not going to check its pack, or container, or whateverthat thing is riding on its back, because I don't want to upsetit. I know it's not carrying any weapons because if it was itwould have tried using them by now."

Cheelo nodded. "Like I told you: It was doing research.That's why it has cooperated so far. It's not armed." This, insofar as Cheelo knew, was the actual truth.

"Fine. We'll leave it at that--for now, anyway." Reachingdown, the poacher slapped another self-sealing strap on theother man's wrists. In seconds they were tightly bound again."That's so you can't 'talk' to it behind my back while I'mworking."

Turning, he walked to a desk near the rear of the room andsettled himself into a chair. Within minutes he was communicating with faraway places and the representatives of anorderly succession of individuals whose ethics were as impoverished as their bank accounts were expansive.

While a helpless Cheelo sat and fumed silently, the ever-inquisitive Desvendapur continued his exploration of thepoachers' quarters. The temperature and humidity had risento levels the poet found tolerable, if not entirely comfortable,and he was thoroughly enjoying a respite that he knew couldnot last. As he continued his examination of the room and itscontents, Cheelo's expression underwent an extraordinarysuccession of contortions. None of them held any meaning for the poet, though it was clear by their frequency and urgency that the human was urging him to do something.

Desvendapur could not let himself be sold, of course. If noalternative presented itself, he was convinced that he couldsurvive and even thrive in human captivity. But it was not the preferred option for the future. In human captivity, his performances would not be properly appreciated. He needed athranx audience. Therefore, if possible, he had to find a wayto return to the colony. Unable to see a way clear to doing thathimself, he realized he would need Cheelo's assistance. Thatdid not mean it was necessary to rush matters, and he had nointention of doing so. While the two antisocial humans desired to profit from his existence, Desvendapur suspected they would not hesitate to kill him if they felt sufficientlythreatened. Surely Cheelo understood that.

Hapec soon returned from unloading and stabilizing the airtruck. Establishing himself in the kitchen area while hispartner continued his steady stream of secured-transmissionintercontinental conversation, the other poacher began mealpreparations. For the moment, both captives found themselves largely, though never entirely, ignored.

Faced with a situation for which a lifetime of study andlearning had not prepared him, Desvendapur was compelledto fall back on that one aspect of his personality that hadnever failed him: his imagination. As he pursued his examination of the domicile, he proceeded to lay out in his mind a sequence of actions in much the same way he would designan extended recitation, complete with appropriate revisionsand adjustments.

None of this was apparent to the anxious Cheelo, whogrew progressively more distraught in his bonds. Thanks tosome fast thinking he had managed to buy some time, but,unlike a new communicator or tridee subscription, it was notguaranteed: There was no return policy in place in the event of dissatisfaction. The two poachers were not deep thinkers.Any little thing, any irritation of the moment or insignificant occurrence, might set them off. In that event he knewthey might cast careful consideration and practicalities to the tepid wind that seeped upward from the cloud forest below,and blow his head off. He knew this because he and they wereof a kind, representatives of that same subspecies of humanity that tends toreact to awkward circumstance as opposed to thinking about it. Maruco and Hapec were too much like him for him to be comfortable around them. The devil heknew was himself.

Convinced he was at least not in imminent danger of beingexecuted, he switched from watching them to tracking themovements of the thranx. It was impossible to know what thealien was thinking since he could not talk to it without givingaway the fact that it understood Terranglo. He had to contenthimself with imagining. What did it make of all this? Did itcare what happened to him? Cheelo knew he didn't care whathappened toit, but right now his future prospects rested entirely with the many-legged insectoid. His life was in thebug's hands--all four of them.

If it forgot the scenario, if it deviated from the play and spoke aloud, then the poachers would quickly realize thatthey had no need of a translator. He would be rendered instantly extraneous. There were many steep precipices justeast of the prefab abode into which a body could be thrown to be swallowed forever by rain forest, gully, and cloud. Silentlyhe importuned the thranx to keep silent. Even if they foundthemselves sold, at least they would still be alive. Futureprospects seemed considerably more promising when viewedfrom a perspective of abiding survival. Who could tell? With luck he might be able to persuade their buyers to make a briefstopover in Golfito.

He tried to cheer himself up. If the poachers and the bug just kept their heads this wouldn't turn out so bad. Didn't heneed to hide out for a while? Wasn't that what he was doingdown in the untrammeled rain forest in the first place? Whatbetter place to lie low--after he had finalized arrangementsfor his future with Ehrenhardt, of course--than the privatezoo or collection of some incredibly rich patron who had just made a very expensive and very illegitimate purchase? As hehad so many times in his desperate, frenetic life, he set abouttrying to mentally arrange events to his advantage. Even thebug was cooperating, maintaining silence while pretendingto examine every object within the building.

He was giving Desvendapur too much credit. The thranxwas not pretending. While the poachers ignored him, he tookthe time to study each individual example of human manufacture in great detail, paying particular attention to how the two humans operated their manifold devices. Once, the one called Hapec caught the thranx peering over his shoulder ashe ran the cooker. The human gestured clumsily and orderedhim to step farther back. Maintaining the fiction that he couldnot understand the man's speech, the poet obediently interpreted the gestures and moved away.

By mealtime Cheelo, though still nervous and worriedabout the poachers' state of mind, had resigned himself tohis captivity. He cooperated while Hapec fed him listlessly,and he watched with as much interest as the poachers whileDesvendapur picked through the assortment of rehydratedfruits and vegetables he was offered. When their prize captiveseemed satisfied, the two men sat down to their own meal.Dinnertime conversation on their part consisted of coarsejokes, inconsequential natterings, and an impassioned discussion of how much money they were going to clear forselling the only representative of a recently contacted intelligent species into involuntary captivity. While salt, pepper,and hot sauce played a part in their dining, their conversationwas seasoned by neither ethics nor morals.

When Desvendapur had eaten his fill, he stepped backfrom the exotic but nutritious banquet his captors had laid outbefore him, ambled over to a far corner, and casually pickedup one of their rifles, cradling the lethal device in his righttruhand and foothand. It took a moment before Hapec noticed the alien aiming the muzzle of the weapon at him.

"Hey. Uh, hey, Maraco!" The human's lower jaw descended,and his mouth remained open to no apparent purpose.

"Shit!" His eyes darting rapidly back and forth between histwo prisoners, the other poacher pushed carefully away fromthe table. "Cheelo! Man, you tell the bug to put thatdown. It'sholding a full charge, and the safety is off. Tell it it's liable to hurt itself. What's it doing, anyway? We're its friends, helping it to see and study more of our world. Go on, man: Remind it!"

"I can't tell him anything," Cheelo replied tersely. "Myhands, remember?"

This time Maruco didn't hesitate. Rising slowly from hischair and keeping his eyes on the enigmatic thranx, he nervously edged his way over to where his other prisoner wassecured. Using his knife, he once again released the captive's arms.

A relieved Cheelo promptly began rubbing circulation backinto his wrists. "Hey, what about my legs?"

"What about your legs?" the poacher growled. "You don'ttalk to it with your feet."

"Free his legs." Desvendapur gestured with the rifle. Designed for thicker-digited, clumsier human hands, the weaponfelt light in his arms. Manipulation and activation would be asimple matter.

"Sure, just be careful with that. .." Maruco paused, theknife halting in midswipe, as he stared wide-eyed at the alien."Son-of-a-bitch-whore!"

"You can talk!" Both poachers were gazing in open-mouthed disbelief at the suddenly voluble alien in their midst.

"Not very well, but my fluency is improving with practice.His legs?" Again the rifle moved.

Slowly, the poacher knelt and ran the blade across the restraining plastic. With a curt gasp of relief, Cheelo kicked his feet apart.

A thranx did not need to look out of the corner of its eyes tosee action transpiring off to one side. Multiple lenses scanneda much wider field than human eyes could see, allowing forconsiderably greater peripheral vision. He shifted the tip ofthe weapon significantly in the direction of the larger human, who had risen and taken a step in the direction of theother gun.

"Although I am not familiar with the kind of result it produces, I believe I know how this weapon operates. I also believe that you should move the other way and stand alongside your friend."

"It's bluffing." Maruco began edging away from Cheelo,who had risen from the chair where he had been imprisoned and was now stomping about in an attempt to get circulationflowing to his feet again. "It doesn't know how to fire thegun."

"Yeah?" Keeping his hands in plain sight, Hapec slowly and carefully came around behind the table to join his colleague. "Thenyou go pick the other one up."

As he studied the weapon-wielding bug, Maruco spreadhis hands innocently wide, ignorant of the fact that the subject of his supplication did not know the meaning of thegesture.

"Okay, so you can talk. There's no need for this. We mean you no harm." Smiling ingratiatingly, he nodded at the now-standing Cheelo. "Our tying him up is just part of a specialgreeting and guest ritual."

"No it isn't," Desvendapur responded in his whispery butincreasingly articulate Terranglo. "You forget that while I didnot speak, I could listen. I have heard and understood everything that has been said since you first appeared before us inthe forest. I know that you meant to kill us until Cheelo convinced you to sell us instead." He did not need to be familiarwith the extraordinary diversity of human facial expressionto interpret the one that now dominated the muscles of thepoachers' countenances.

Still rubbing his wrists and flicking out his feet to stimulatethe long-restrained muscles, Cheelo walked over to his alien companion. Having resigned himself to being sold as part ofa package deal, he now found himself in a position he thought not to experience again for some time.

"You're full of surprises, bug."

The heart-shaped head and its great golden eyes turnedtoward him. "My name is Desvendapur."

"Ay, right." He reached out with both hands. "I'll take that now. Not that I don't think you can use it, but I'm probably abetter shot than you." As the poet complaisantly handed overthe weapon, Cheelo added by way of afterthought, "Youdoknow how to use it, don't you? You weren't bluffing?"

"Oh, I'm sure I could have activated it. The firing mechanism is simple, and although the weapon is designed forhuman arms and hands, it fits well enough in mine. I wouldnever have done so, of course."

"What's that?" Maruco strained to make certain he hadheard properly.

"Although we have had to fight to defend ourselves in the past, and have evolved from primitive ancestors who battledconstantly among themselves, we have become a peacefulspecies." Antennae bobbed elaborately. "I could never haveshot you unless my life was directly threatened."

"It was threatened!" Cheelo reminded him.

The thranx shook its head, further surprising the poachersby its mastery and utilization of a common human gesture."My freedom of movement was at risk, not my life. Although my preference is to return to the colony, I could have toleratedbeing transported to another part of your planet, could have lost myself in exposure to an entirely new environment andsurroundings."

Maruco blinked. "Then why did you pick up the gun in the first place?"

"As I said, because for many reasons I would prefer to return to the hive. Also because my life and freedom of movement were not the only ones at stake." Both antennae dippedin Cheelo's direction.

A welter of conflicting emotion surged to the fore within the thief as the thranx's words sank in. It didn't object tobeing sold. It had picked up the rifle for his sake as much as for its own. Confronted by the rara avis of actual, genuineemotion, he had no idea how to respond, did not know whatto say.

Screw it.

"Come on, Deswhel--Desvencrapur. We're outta here."With the rifle, he gestured at Maruco. "I want the airtruck. I told you, I've got an appointment to keep. If coaxed right, Ithink that truck'll make it all the way up to the isthmus."

Keeping his hands in plain sight, the angry poacher nodded in the direction of the accessway that connected theridge-top living quarters to the shop and garage. "You'll leave us marooned here."

"Bullshit." Cheelo laughed, enjoying the turn of eventsfully. "Your buyers are going to come running, and they'll bebringing their own transportation." He grinned broadly. "Of course, they're not gonna be real happy with you when they find out that the prize you offered them decided not to hangaround. Now, what about that truck?"

"It's an open design," Hapec told him. "Take it. I just haveto unlock the navigation system."

"Like hell. All you have to do is activate the cencomp. Youthink I'm gonna give you a chance to program the engine forself-destruct? D'you think I was born dumb, like you two?"Maruco's expression tightened, but the poacher said nothing.

"Let's go." Cheelo gestured with the muzzle. "Despindo--Des, you follow me. We'll get as close to this colony of yours as you think we safely can, and I'll drop you there."

"Colony?" Maruco's small black eyes blinked. "Whatcolony?"

Cheelo ignored him, waiting for the thranx's reply.

"Among my people I am guilty of the most egregious antisocial activity. They would confine me until I could be sentoffworld for more formal punishment. So if you do not object, Cheelo Montoya, I would rather continue to travel inyour company. For a little while longer, at least."

"No can do, big-eyes. This boy's jungle jaunt is over. Igot to fly a long ways now, or I'm gonna be late for the dance.Besides, don't you have your poems, your compositions, toperform for your fellow bugs?"

The blue-green head swayed gently from side to side. "Insufficiently mitigating circumstances, I am afraid. I would farrather continue my ruminations, would much prefer to seekadditional inspiration. Some day, of course, I will reveal themto all the hives. But not yet." Overhead lighting sparkled inhis eyes, imparting to the multiple lenses a muted crystallinegleam. "There is still so much more I wish to do."

"Have it your way." An indifferent Cheelo gestured againwith the rifle. Plenty of time to decide what to do with the bugonce they were safely back down in the rain forest. As the twopoachers stumbled off ahead of him, Maruco looked backover his shoulder.

"What were you saying about a colony? There's a wholecolony of 'em here on Earth? Down in the Reserva? I neverheard nothing about anything like that."

"Shut your face and keep moving. I know the truck'scoded, so you're going to start it for me."

"Then it's true! There's an alien outpost in the Reservathat's being kept from the public." Rising excitement dominated the poacher's voice. "And you didn't say outpost; you said colony." He looked over at his partner. "This might bethe biggest secret on the planet. Any one of the fifty big mediagroups would pay a lifetime annuity for that kind of information. It's worth a helluva lot more than one live bug." Oncemore he looked back at the stony-faced Cheelo."

What do you say,vato ?We've got the facilities here forcommunicating worldwide while hiding the source of thesignal. We sell the information to the highest bidder and splitit three ways. Nobody gets sold; nobody gets hurt. Plentycredit for everybody." When Cheelo failed to respond, Ma-ruco's agitation increased. "Hell, we don't need vow to sell it.But the Reserva's a big place, and this colony or base or whatever it is must be really well hid. Hapec and I are down there alot, and we've sure never suspected anything like this wasthere.You know where it is. Whatever media group buys inain't going to want to go hunting for the place. They'll want to set down right on top of it, before some competitor gets windof what's going on." His voice fell slightly. "Youdo knowwhere it is?"

"Pretty much," Cheelo lied. "Close enough so that anybody interested could find it within a week."

"Well come on then, man! Don't waft this off. We can bepartners. All of us, we'll be rich."

"First you were going to kill me," Cheelo reminded him,his tone chilly. "Then you were going to sell me as a talkingaccessory to a bug."

"Heyyy," the poacher demurred, "it was nothingpersonal."They were approaching the garage. "That was justbusiness. You're a businessman,chingon. That was businessthen; this is business now. You need our business contacts; weneed what you know."

Cheelo found himself growing confused. The poacher's insinuating spiel was beguiling. "What about the bu--aboutDes. He may be an outcast among his own people, but he'dnever agree to the premature exposure of the colony."

"Chingathe bug," Maruco snapped. "If it has a problemwith this, blow its stinking guts out. We don't need it no more.What do you care? It's just a big, ugly, alienbug"

"It's intelligent. Probably more so than either of you two.Probably... probably more than me. It's... it's an artist."

Maruco laughed madly as they entered the garage. Theairtruck rested where it had been parked, sleek and silent, itspropulsion system fully recharged and awaiting only codedreactivation. With it at his disposal Cheelo knew he couldreach Golfito. Or at least Gatun, where he had friends andcould safely refuel.

His finger tightened imperceptibly on the rifle's trigger."It's not funny. I used to think it was, but I've changed mymind. So now what the hell am I supposed to do? Trust you?"

"Yeah, you can trust us. Can't he, Hapec?"

"Sure. Why should we do anything? We need you to showthe site to whoever buys the story," the other poacher observed. As he spoke, he was drifting to his left, toward a walllined with tools.

"Don't even think about it." The muzzle of the rifle flickedsideways so that it was aimed straight at the bigger man'sback. As soon as it shifted away from him, Maruco whirled. Acompact, high-strung bundle of muscle and furious energy,he threw himself at Cheelo.

Chapter Twenteone

As he tried to bring the rifle around to bear on his attacker, Cheelo's finger contracted reflexively on the trigger.A tiny, very intense, and highly localized sonic boom echoedthrough the building. Hapec gazed down in disbelief at thesmall but lethal hole that the sonic burst had punched throughhim from stomach to spine. Even as he clasped both handsover the perforation, blood began to gush forth between hisfingers. Mouth gaping in a silent "O" of surprise, he staggered toward the two combatants before sinking to his kneesand then toppling languidly forward, like a brown icebergcalving from the face of a glacier, to the floor of the garage.

Maruco managed to grab the muzzle of the rifle before Cheelo could bring it around for a second shot. Theystruggled violently and in complete silence for possession ofthe weapon--until a second boom rattled the diminutive oneway windows that lined the walls of the enclosure.

Thorax pumping, Desvendapur pressed back against the airtruck and contemplated the bloody panorama spread outbefore him. Two humans lay dead on the floor, their bodyfluids leaking from their ruptured circulatory systems. Onlyone remained standing, the weapon dangling loosely from a hand. Heart pounding, chest heaving, Cheelo stood staring down at the body of Maruco lying at his feet like a broken doll.

Desvendapur had of course read of such violence, andhe knew of it from the evidence of his own family history.Here was the sort of confrontation that harked back to thetime when the AAnn had attacked Paszex and wiped out mostof his ancestors. But despite holding the weapon earlier himself he had not really expected to have to use it. This was thefirst time he had ever witnessed such savagery in person."This--this is barbaric! A terrible thing!" Wonderful newphrases were already evolving unbidden in his brain, refusingto be ignored.

Cheelo took a deep breath. "It sure is. Now we'll neverlearn the activation code for the truck. We're stuck."

The poet's eyes rose to fix the surviving biped in their multilenticular stare. "I don't mean that. I mean that twosapient beings are dead."

Cheelo pushed out his lower lip. "Nothing terrible aboutthat. Not as far as I'm concerned." His voice rose in protest."Hey, you think Iwanted to shoot them?" Desvendapur tooka wary step in the direction of the accessway. "Take it easy.The conversation got kind of tense, I got a little confused, andthey tried to jump me." When the alien did not respond,Cheelo became upset. "Look, I'm telling you the truth. Theythought I was going to shoot them after they activated thetruck. I wasn't going to. Sure, Iwanted to, but I was going toleave them alive. All I wanted was out of here so I could get tomy meeting. And before you go getting all bent out of joint, remember that they'd figured it out, about your being from a colony and all. If they'd been left here they still could've soldthat information. Look at it like this: I had to shoot them toprotect your people down in the Reserva."

"They might have tried to persuade others to go looking for the hive, but without specific coordinates they wouldnever have found it. Never." Desvendapur continued to eyethe biped accusingly, or at least in a manner that the defensiveCheelo continued to interpret as accusing.

"It doesn't matter," Cheelo finally declared curtly. "They're dead and we're not. Believe me, it's no loss to the species."

"The death of any sapient is a loss."

His human companion uttered several sharply intoned wordswhose meaning the thranx did not recognize. "I don't knowabout species wide, but there are sure some variations in ourindividual values." With the muzzle of the rifle he roughlynudged the corpse at his feet. Maruco the poacher did notmove and would not poach again.

Walking over to the tool rack, Cheelo snapped the rifle intoan empty charging cradle and turned to ponder the silentairtruck. "I can try to start this big bastard up, but unlessthese guys were completely confident in their isolation here,or were total idiots, there are probably about two million possible key codes." His gaze rose to the nearest of the one-waywindows. "You saw the country around here on the way in.This place is really isolated. There's nothing nearby but some automated farming projects. We can try for one."

"I do not think so." Desvendapur argued.

"Why not?" His respiration slowly returning to normal,Cheelo stared at the thranx.

"While you were fighting with our captors I was hearing voices from their communicator. Someone with an especially authoritative voice was demanding to know where theone called Maruco had gone. When no response was forthcoming, the transmission was terminated with the words 'See you soon you little shit.' While I do not interpret that to meanthat the speaker's appearance is imminent, it struck me as apromise to arrive in a finite period of time."

"You're right. Dammit!" Cheelo thought furiously. "I forgot about their bug buyers. We'd better not be around whenthey show up." A look of distaste on his face, he calmly contemplated the human debris staining the floor. "Help me withthese two." Moving off, he searched for the manual dooropener he knew had to exist.

"What are we going to do? Carry out some kind of formalburial ritual?" Despite his dismay at the carnage that had occurred, it would not prevent the poet from recording thedetails of what promised to be a particularly fascinating human rite.

"More like an informal one." Locating a control panel,Cheelo brushed touchplates, activating lights, servos, and anautomatic washer before finding the one that operated thegarage door. Cold, intenselydry air swept in from outside asthe barrier rattled upward.

Working together, they hauled the bodies of the two poachers one at a time to the rim of the nearest obliging precipiceand shoved them over the edge, watching as each limp lump of dead meat rolled and bumped its way into cloud-swathedoblivion. Desvendapur was disappointed by the lack of ceremony, having anticipated a certain amount of exotic alienchanting or dancing. But the biped who had become his companion mouthed only a few words, and none of them struck the poet as especially complimentary to or respectful of thedeceased.

That onerous duty done, they returned to the deserted outpost where Desvendapur did his best to assist the human incleansing the garage floor of blood. When he was satisfied,Cheelo stepped back to survey their work, wiping sweat fromhis forehead. Though the exudation of clear fluid by the biped's body as a means of maintaining its internal temperature was a process Desvendapur had already observed in theforest, he never ceased to be captivated by it.

"There!" Cheelo sighed tiredly. "When their buyers arrive,they won't know where their favoriteninlocos have hopped off to. They'll see that the airtruck is still here--we can't doanything about that--but that won't automatically lead them to assume that something's happened to them. They'll start a search, but one that's considered and unhurried. By the timethey find the bodies,if theyfind the bodies, and figure out thatmaybe they ought to be looking for somebody like us--or like me, anyway--we'll both be safe and out of sight backdown in the Reserva. I know if I follow the river it'll take me into Sintuya, where I can book a flight back to Lima. I stillhave enough time to make it to Golfito." Walking back to the wall, he yanked the sonic rifle free from the charging bracket.

"Expensive little toy, this." He rotated the sophisticatedweapon in his hands. "So our trip up here wasn't a total loss.Let's help ourselves to the pantry and get out of here beforenanny shows up."

"I cannot."

Cheelo blinked at the alien. "What d'you mean, 'you cannot'? You sure as hell can't stay here." He indicated a windowthat revealed the barren plateau outside. "Whoever comeslooking for those twoninlocos won't hesitate about shoving you in a cage." Nobody'd make any money off it, either, hereflected.

"I will explain matters to them. That I wish to study them."Antennae bobbed. "Perhaps a mutual accommodation can bereached."

"You can take your goddamn studying for inspiration and ... !" Cheelo calmed himself, remembering that the visibly flinching thranx was sensitive to the volume ofthe booming human voice. "You don't understand, Des.These people who are coming, they're gonna be nervous andon edge because they're unable to contact their two guys here.They'll come in fast and quiet, and if the first thing they seeis a giant, big-eyed bug wandering around loose instead ofproperly caged up, they might not stop to smell the roses--orthe alien that smells like one. They're liable to blast you intohalf a dozen pieces before you get the chance to 'explain matters' to them."

"They might not shoot first," Desvendapur argued.

"No, that's right. They might not." He pushed past thethranx, striding toward the corridor that led to the outpost'sliving quarters. "I'm going to start packing. You want to stayhere and put your life in the hands of a bunch of seniorninlocoswho aren't exactly experienced in the formalities of unanticipated interspecies contact, you go right ahead. Me, I'drather put my trust in the monkeys. I'm heading down into theforest."

Left behind in the garage to meditate on his limited options, Desvendapur soon turned to follow the biped into theother part of the station.

"You don't understand, Cheelo Montoya. It is not that Iwantto remain here. The fact is that I have little choice in thematter."

Cheelo did not look up from where he was stuffing hand-fuls of concentrates from the outpost's food locker into hisbackpack. "Ay? Why's that?"

"Did you not notice that I was barely able to help you remove and dispose of the two cadavers? It was not becausetheir weight was excessive. It was because the air here is fartoo dry for my kind. More importantly, the temperature isborderline freezing."

Pausing in his scavenging, Cheelo turned to regard thealien. "Okay, I can see where that could be a problem. Butfrom here it's all downhill into the Reserva. The lower we go,the hotter and more humid it'll become and the better you'llfeel."

The heart-shaped head slowly nodded acquiescence whiletruhands and antennae bobbed understandingly. "I know thatis so. The difficult, and critical, question is: Will it becomehot and humid enough soon enough?"

"I can't answer that," the human responded evenly. "I don'tknow what your tolerances are."

"I cannot answer it myself. But I fear to try it. By the wingsthat no longer fly, I do."

From hidden, long-unvisited depths Cheelo dragged upwhat little compassion remained in him. "Maybe we can rigyou some kind of cold-weather gear. I'm no tailor, and I don'tsee an autogarb in this dump, but I suppose we could cut upsome blankets or something. Your only alternatives are towait here and hope you can talk faster than the people whoare coming can shoot, or to strike out across this plateau andtry and find another place far enough away that they won'tsearch it."

The thranx indicated negativity. "If I am to walk, better toaim for a more accommodating climate than one I alreadyknow to be hostile." Turning, he gestured at the terrain beyond a window. "I would not make it across the first valleybefore my joints began to stiffen from the cold. And remember: I have one bad leg."

"And five good ones. Well, you think about it." Cheelo returned to his foraging. "Whatever you decide to do, I'll helpyou if I can--provided it doesn't cost me any more time."

In the end, Desvendapur decided that despite his increasing mastery of the human's language, he was neither confident nor fluent enough to risk an encounter with the deadpoachers' customers. Already he had experience of the volatile nature of human response and its reaction to unforeseenevents. Not knowing what to expect within the outpost thatnow failed to respond to their queries, whoever was comingin search of the absent poachers might well unload a rush oflethality in his direction before he could explain himself.

Whatever the chastisement meted out to him upon his return to the colony, it would not include summary execution.The question was, could he make it all the way down to thesalubrious surroundings of the lowland rain forest? It seemedhe had no choice but to try. Certainly the biped thought so. Having made the decision, the poet fell to scrounging supplies of his own from the outpost's stores, relying on thehuman to elucidate the contents of the bewildering variety ofmultihued food packages and containers.

When their respective packs were bulging with supplies,human and thranx turned their attention to the question ofhow to insulate someone whose anatomy did not remotelyresemble that of an upright mammal. Utilizing the clothing of the deceased proved impossible: None of it would fitover Desvendapur's head or around his body. They settled forwrapping his thorax and abdomen as best they could in several of the high-altitude, lightweight blankets that coveredtwo of the station's beds. Unfortunately, these relied for theirgenerous heating properties on picking up waved energyfrom a broadcast coil located in the floor of the single bedroom. Outside the buildings and beyond the coil's limitedrange, the caloric elements woven into the blankets would goinert.

"That's the best I can do," an impatient Cheelo assured hischitinous companion. "There's nothing else here that'd work any better. It's all tech stuff. Stands to reason they'd bring inthe most basic of everything they'd need. In a town we couldprobably find some old-style, heavier wrappings." He noddedcurtly toward the nearest window. "No telling how far it is to the nearest village. I know I didn't see one on the way here."

"Nor did I," conceded Desvendapur. Wrapped in the blankets that the human had clumsily cinched around him withcord, the thranx knew he must present a highly incongruoussight. Contemplating himself in a reflective surface, he removed his scri!ber from the thorax pouch that was nowhidden beneath the artificial covering and began to recite.

Cheelo looked on in disgust as he tightened a strap onhis own pack. "Don't you ever take a break from thatcomposing?"

Winding up a stanza that oozed systemic emotion, thethranx paused the instrument. "For someone like myself, tostop composing would be to start to die."

The human grunted, one of its more primitive sounds, andactivated the doorplate. The composite barrier began to rollupward. Cold, searingly dry air rushed hungrily into the insulated structure, overwhelming any warmth before it. Desvendapur's mandibles clacked shut to prevent the deadly coldfrom entering his system via his mouth. At such times it wasuseful not to have to open one's jaws to breathe. The bipedhad cut two long, narrow slits in the blanket that covered thepoet's thorax, allowing his spicules access to the air. Internally, his lungs constricted at the intrusion of the frigid atmosphere. Trying not to shudder, he took a hesitant step forward.

"Let's go. The sooner we start downward, the sooner theair will start to warm and to thicken with moisture."

Cheelo said nothing, nodding curtly as he followed himout of the garage.

There was a path, of sorts, made by what animal or animalsCheelo did not know. It was just wide enough for them to proceed along it in single file. Possibly the poachers themselveshad enlarged it to allow access to the cloud forest and the rarecreatures that dwelled in the little-visited ecosystem lying between plateau and jungle. Llamas would not have made sucha track, but far-ranging carnivores like jaguars or the spectacled bear might have tramped back and forth along the sameroute for enough generations to have worn a path through theunrelenting greenery.

Far more comfortable in the cool mountain air than hiscompanion, Cheelo would have quickly outdistanced him butfor the fact that the thranx, utilizing all six legs, was much more sure-footed on the narrow path. Where the thief wasforced to take extra care before negotiating an awkward dipor steep drop, Desvendapur simply ambled on, so that the distance between them never became too great.

At midday they paused to eat beside a miniature waterfall.Huge butterflies fluttered on wings of metallic hue, skating the edge of the spray, while mosquitoes danced among thelush ferns that framed the musical cataract. Cheelo was feeling fit and expansive, but it was plain that his many-leggedcompanion was not doing nearly as well.

"C'mon, pick your antennae up," he urged the thranx."We're doing good." Chewing a strip of reconstituted meat,he nodded at the clouds scudding along mournfully belowthem. "We'll be down to where it's revoltingly hot and stickybefore you know it."

"That is what I am afraid of." Desvendapur huddled as besthe could beneath the thin blankets that hung all too looselyaround him. "That it will happen before I know of it."

"Is pessimism a common thranx characteristic?" Cheelochided him playfully.

Without much success, the poet tried to tuck his exposed,unprotected limbs more tightly beneath him. "The humanability to adapt to extremes of climate is one we do not share.I find it difficult to believe that you are comfortable in thesesurroundings."

"Oh, it's on the brisk side; make no mistake about that. Butnow that we're off the high plateau and down in cloud forestthere ought to be enough moisture in the air for you."

"Truly, the weight of the air is improving," Desvendapuradmitted. "But it's still cold, so cold!"

"Eat your vegetables," he advised the thranx. How manytimes as a child had his mother admonished him to do justthat? He smiled to himself at the remembrance. The smile did not last. She had told him things like that when she wasn't hitting him or bringing home a different visiting "uncle" everyweek or so. His expression darkened as he rose.

"C'mon, get up. We'll push it until you start feeling better." Gratefully, the poet struggled to his six feet, taking care not toshrug off any of the inadequate blankets or put too muchpressure on the splinted middle limb.

But he did not start feeling better. Cheelo could not believehow rapidly the thranx's condition deteriorated. Within a shortwhile after their meal the alien began to experience difficultyin walking.

"I...I am all right," Desvendapur replied in response tothe human's query. "I just need to rest for a time-part."

"No." Cheelo was unbending. "No resting. Not here."Even as the thranx started to sink down onto its abdomen,Cheelo was reaching out to grab the bug and pull it back to itsfeet. The smooth, unyielding chitin of an upper arm wasshockingly icy to the touch. "Shit, you're as cold as theserocks!"

Golden-hued compound eyes peered up at him. "My system is concentrating its body heat internally to protect vitalorgans. I can still walk. I just need to rest first, to gather mystrength."

Cheelo's reply was grim. "You 'rest' for very long and youwon't have to worry about gathering any strength." Why washe so concerned? What did it matter to him if the bug died? Hecould kick the body over the side of the narrow trail and intothe gorge where the rich friends of the deadninlocos wouldnever find it. Continuing on alone, he would make better time.Soon he'd find himself down by the river, and then back inthe outpost of civilization called Sintuya. Climate-controlledhotel rooms, real food, insect screens, and a quick flight toLima or Iquitos, then on to Golfito and his appointment withEhrenhardt. After a rapid electronic transfer of credit, his ownfranchise. Money, importance, fine clothes, sloe gin, and fastwomen.Respect, for Cheelo Montoya.

It had been promised to him and was all there for thetaking. With all that in prospect, why should he exert himselfon behalf of a bug, even an oversized, intelligent one? Thethranx had brought him nothing but trouble. Oh sure, maybeit had saved his life up on the ridge, but if he'd never met it,he would never have found himself in that life-threateningsituation. As if that wasn't reason enough, the insectoid was acriminal, an antisocial, among its own kind! It wasn't like hewould be extending himself to help rescue some alien saint or important diplomat.

Des's limbs folded up against his abdomen and thorax ashe sank down and huddled beneath the blankets. Even his upstanding antennae folded up, collapsing into tight curls tominimize heat loss. Cheelo stared. Ahead, the trail beckoned:a slender, rutted, dirt-and-mud track leading to one pavedwith gold. With luck--and if the trail held--he'd be down bynightfall and in Sintuya the following evening. He felt good,and as he went lower, the increasing amount of oxygen gave an additional boost to his spirits.

He took a couple of steps down the trail, turning to lookback over a shoulder. "Come on. We can't stop here if wewant to get out of the mountains by nightfall."

"A moment, just a moment," the thranx pleaded. Its voicewas even wispier than usual.

Cheelo Montoya waited irritably as he gazed at the impenetrable, eternal clouds crawling up the green-clad slopes."Ah, hell." Turning, he walked back to where the alien hadslumped to the ground, all blue-green glaze and crumpledlegs. Swinging his pack around so that it rested not againsthis spine and shoulders but across his chest, he turned hisback to the poet, crouched, and bent forward.

"Come on. Get up and walk. It's downhill. Let one leg fallin front of the other."

"Fall?" The barely perceptible, protective transparent eyemembrane trembled. "I do not follow your meaning."

"Hurry up!" Annoyed, impatient, and angry at himself, Cheelo had no time for stupid questions. "Put your upperlimbs over my shoulders, here." He tapped himself. "Hang ontight. I'll carry you for a while. It'll warm up quick as we godown, and soon you'll be able to walk on your own again.You'll see."

"You--you would carry me?"

"Not if you squat there clicking and hissing! Stand up, dammit, before I have any more time to think about howdumb this is and change my mind."

It was an eerie, chilling sensation, the touch of hard, coldlimbs against his shoulders, as if a gigantic crab were scrambling up his back. By utilizing all four front limbs the thranx was able to obtain a secure grip on the human's upper torso. Glancing down, Cheelo could see the gripping digits lockedtogether across his chest beneath pack and straps. All sixteenof them. The embrace was secure without being constricting.The thranx was solidly built, but not unbearably heavy. Hedecided he could manage it for a while, especially since itwas downhill all the way. The biggest danger would comefrom stumbling or tripping, not from collapsing beneath themoderate alien weight.

Twisting to look around and down, he saw the other fouralien limbs hanging loose, two on either side of his legs andhips. Exquisite alien body scent filled his nostrils. Envelopedby perfume, he resumed the descent.

"Just hang on," he snapped irritably at his motionless burden. "You'll feel better as soon as it's warmer."

"Yes." Sensing the four alien mandibles moving againstthe flesh of his shoulder, Cheelo tried not to shudder. "Assoon as it is warmer. I do not know how to thank you." The exotic alien syllables echoed eerily against his ear.

"Try shutting up for a while," his human bearer suggested. The poet obediently lapsed into silence.

The more relaxed beneath the extra weight he became, the faster Cheelo found he could move. By afternoon the pace oftheir descent had increased markedly. True to his word, thethranx maintained a merciful muteness, not even requesting that they stop for a meal. The alien's silent acquiescencesuited Cheelo just fine.

By the time the shrouded sun had commenced its swiftplunge behind the Andes in search of the distant Pacific,Cheelo estimated that they had descended almost halfway tothe rain forest below. Tomorrow noontime would see thementer the outskirts of the lowlands, where the temperature andthe humidity would reach levels uncomfortable to Cheelo butcomplaisant for the thranx.

"Time to get off," he told his passenger. Reacting slowlyand with deliberation, the thranx released its hold on thehuman's torso and dropped to the ground.

"I could not have come this far without your aid." Clutching tightly at the blankets with both tru- and foothands, the poet singled out a log on which to spend the coming night,painfully straddling it with all four trulegs. The dead woodwas damp and chilly against his exposed abdomen.

"Ay, you have to be feeling better." Without knowing whyhe bothered, Cheelo tried to cheer his companion. "It's warmerhere, so you ought to be more comfortable."

"It is warmer," the thranx admitted. "But not so warm that Iam comfortable."

"Tomorrow," Cheelo promised him. Kneeling beside hisown pack, he searched for one of the smokeless fire sticks hehad appropriated from the poacher outpost. The stick was intended to help start a blaze, but in the absence of any dry fuelhe would just have to burn one stick after another until theymade their own tiny campfire. They were as likely to find drywood lying on the floor of a cloud forest as orchids sproutingon tundra.

As he prepared his simple meal Cheelo noticed that thethranx was not moving. "Aren't you going to eat?"

"Not hungry. Too cold." Antennae uncurled halfway but nofurther.

Shaking his head, Cheelo rose and walked over to examinethe contents of the alien's pack. "For a space-traversing species you're not very adaptable."

"We evolved and still prefer to live underground." Eventhe thranx's usually elegant, graceful gestures were subdued."It is difficult to adjust to extremes of climate when you donot experience them."

Cheelo shrugged as he rehydrated an assortment of driedfruit. At least water for food rehydration was not a problem in the cloud forest. With the onset of evening it was already beginning to precipitate out on his skin and clothing. Blankets or not, they would be compelled to endure at least one chill,moist night on the steep mountainside. Hot food and drinkwould help to minimize its effects.

Despite its obvious disinterest in the food, the thranxate, albeit slowly and with care. Scarfing down his own meal,Cheelo watched the alien closely.

"Feel better?" he asked when both had finished. As always,it was fascinating to watch the bug clean its mandibles withits truhands. It put Cheelo in mind of a praying mantis gleaning the last bits of prey from its razor-sharp jaws.

"Yes, I do." A foothand traced a discreet pattern in theair while the two truhands continued their hygiene, causingCheelo to reflect on the usefulness of possessing two sets ofhands. "This gesture I am making is one of more than moderate thanks."

"Like this?" Cheelo's arm and hand contorted in an ungainly try at mimicry.

The alien did not laugh at or criticize the clumsy attempt."You have the upper portion of the movement correct, but thelower should go this way." He demonstrated. Once again,Cheelo did his best to imitate the comparatively simplegesture.

"Better," declared Desvendapur. "Try it again."

"I'm doing the best I can." Muttering, Cheelo adjusted hisarm. "Between shoulder and wrist I've only got three joints toyour four."

"Near enough." The foothand extended and pulled back ata particular angle. "This is the gesture for agreement."

"So now I'm supposed to learn how to nod with my arm?"Cheelo smiled thinly.

The lesson was an improvement over charades. In thismanner they passed the time until total darkness. They had tokeep the lesson simple. Not because Cheelo was insufficiently flexible to approximate the thranx's gestures, but because there was no getting around the fact that the moreelaborate ones required the use of two pairs of upper appendages. Despite his desire to learn, the thief could not seehimself lying down and writhing all four limbs in the air likea beetle trapped on its back.

Morning arrived on the underside of a cloud, crisp andmoist. Yawning, Cheelo turned over in his bedroll. Thenight had been clammy and cold, but not intolerably so. Thetemperature had stayed well above that common to the plateau high above.

He stretched as he sat up, letting his blanket tumble fromhis shoulders to bunch up around his waist. Glancing tohis right, he saw that his alien companion was still asleep, huddled beneath its makeshift cold-weather gear, all eightlimbs contracted tightly beneath its thorax and abdomen.

"Time to move," he announced unsympathetically. Rising,he scratched at himself. "Come on. If we get a good start we'll be all the way down by evening. I'll rehydrate somebroccoli or some other green shit for you." Among the litanyof terrestrial fruits and vegetables it had sampled, the thranxhad proven particularly fond of broccoli. As far as Cheelowas concerned, this only reinforced the differences betweentheir respective species.

When no response was forthcoming, either verbally or inthe form of the by-now-familiar elegant gestures, Cheelowalked over and nudged the blue-green torso with a foot."Rise and shine, Des. Not that you don't shine all the time."

To look at the thranx was to see nothing wrong. The samebrushed, metallic blue-green sheen gleamed from wing casesand limbs, head and neck. The multiple lenses of the eyes,each as big as a human fist, threw back the early morninglight in cascades of gold. But something was missing. It tookCheelo a long moment before it struck him.

It was an absence of fragrance.

There was no smell. The delicate, flowery miasma that wasthe thranx's signature perfume had vanished entirely. Bending over, he inhaled deeply of nothing but fresh mountainair. Then he saw that along with the enthralling alien scent something else had departed. Leaning forward, he gave anuncertain shove with both hands.

Stiff as if frozen, the thranx fell over onto its side, scavenged blankets fluttering briefly like dark wings. They hadbecome a funereal shroud. Rigid legs and arms remainedfixed in the positions in which they had last been held, foldedtight and close to the body.

"Des? C'mon, I got no time to coddle bugs. Get up."Kneeling, he tentatively grasped one upper limb and tugged gently. It did not flex, and there was no reaction. Using bothhands, he pulled harder.

A sharp, splintery crack split the air, and the uppermostjoint, together with the truhand, came away in his startled fingers. Blood, dark red tinged with green, began to seep from the maimed limb. A shocked Cheelo straightened and threwthe amputated length of alien appendage aside, The dismemberment had provoked neither reaction nor response. Stunned,Cheelo realized that Desvendapur was beyond both.

Sitting down hard, indifferent to the damp vegetation andthe cold clamminess of the ground, a disbelieving Cheelocould only stare. The bug was dead. No, he corrected himself.No. The poet was dead. Desmelper... Dreshenwn...

Christ,he cursed silently. He still couldn't pronounce the alien's name. Now it was possible he never would, becausethe owner of that appellation could no longer lecture himon the fine points of thranx enunciation. He found himselfwishing he'd paid more attention when the alien had talkedabout himself. He found himself wishing he'd paid more attention to a lot of things.

Well, it was too bad, but it wasn't his fault. Unpredictabledestiny served as every sentient's copilot. Just because thethranx had met his here on a cold, wet mountainside in thecentral Andes didn't mean Cheelo Montoya had any obligation to follow its lead.His fate still lay somewhere in the future, first in Golfito and then in the remunerative flesh pits ofMonterrey. His conscience was clear.

As for the bug, he owed it nothing. Hell, it didn't even belong on hisworld ! The consequences it had suffered were theconsummation of its own unforced, willful actions. No guilt concerning the final outcome attached to Cheelo or, for thatmatter, to anyone else. It was dead; things hadn't worked out;and Cheelo had seen it all before, albeit only among his ownkind. No big deal. No big deal at all.

Then why did he feel so goddamn lousy?

This is ridiculous, he told himself. He'd done his best bythe alien, just as it had by him. Neither of them had anythingto be sorry for. If called before a court of judgment, bothcould have honestly proclaimed the verity of their conductwhile traveling in each other's company. Besides, if the situation were reversed, if he, Cheelo Montoya, had been the onelying dead and motionless among the undergrowth, whatwould the thranx have done? Returned to its own people, forsure, and left him to rot forlorn and forgotten on the surfaceof the sodden earth.

Of course, Cheelo Montoya had nothing to leave behind.

He wavered. There was no one to coerce him, no accusatory visages staring at him from the depths of the cloud forest. Whatever urgency he felt came entirely from within,though from where within he could not have said. It made nosense, and he was nothing if not a sensible man. Everythinghe had ever learned, every ounce of self, all that there wasthat went to make him what was known as "him," shouted athim to pick up his gear and be on his way. Head down, get going, abandon the no-longer-needed campsite by the littlewaterfall. Seek out a comfortable room in beckoning Sintuya, arrange his flight, and claim the franchise that had been promised to him. His life had been one long litany of miseryand failure. Until now.

Tightening his jaw, he rolled the body, blankets and all,into a dense mass of dark green brush. There, it would liehidden from above until the cloud forest claimed it. Not thatthe perpetual clouds needed any help in concealing objectson the ground from above.

Snatching up his backpack with a violent grab, he swung itonto his shoulders, checked the seals, and started resolutelydown the trail. As he did so, he stumbled over something unyielding. Snapping off a muttered curse, he started to kick aside the piece of broken branch, only to see that the obstacle that hadmomentarily interrupted the resumption of his determined descent was not made of wood. It was the upper joint and hand he had unexpectedly wrenched from the thranx's body.

Divorced from the rest of the arm, it had assumed an air ofartificiality. Surely those stiff, delicate digits were detachedfrom some calcareous sculpture and not a living being. Sublime in its design, sleek and functional, it was of no use to its former owner anymore, and certainly not to him. Bending topick it up, he examined it closely for a moment before tossingit indifferently over his shoulder and resuming his descent.

Down among the next line of vegetation he halted. Cloudforest trees bloomed intermittently year-round. Ahead roseone that was like a roaring blaze among green stone, an umbrella of brilliant crimson blossoms. Sunbirds sipped drunkenly at the bounteous nectar while giant electric blue morphobutterflies flitted among the branches like the scoured scalesof some fantastic cerulean fish. Cheelo stood gazing at thebreathtakingly beautiful sight for a long time. Then, withoutreally knowing why, he turned around and began to retracehis steps.

Chapter Twentytwo

Shannon didn't much care for her new posting, but it wasa step up from covering tourism and reforestation projects. At least Iquitos had facilities, something to do at night, and climate-controlled shopping where city dwellers could escape from the oppressive heat and humidity. It could havebeen worse, she knew. The company might have assigned herto report on tropical research. That would have meant weeksat a time living out in the jungle with scientists who wouldcondescend to her questions while resenting the impositionon their time, the access her presence provided to generalmedia notwithstanding. Being assigned to the district officein Iquitos was better, much better.

It also offered the opportunity to do more than just reportnews. Hard to descry in the rain forest, traditional human-interest stories were plentiful in the city and its enjungledsuburbs. Like the one that had presented itself this morning,for example. Plenty of reprobates and lowlifes tried to losethemselves in the vast reaches of the Reserva, but sooner orlater their presence was detected by automatic monitoringdevices and they found themselves a guest of the rangers.

The only thing different about this one was that instead ofpetty misappropriation of credit or common vandalism or illegal entry or poaching, the subject had been booked ona charge of murder. Iquitos could be a rough town, buthomicide was uncommon. Advanced law-enforcement technology coupled with the threat of general instead of selectivemindwipe was usually enough to forestall most killings.

That was not what made this particular case intriguing,however. What made it interesting from a general mediastandpoint was that its progenitor had "a story." She wasmildly curious to see if the teller was as crazy as his tale.

A guard was stationed outside the interview room; not surprising considering that the one incarcerated within stood accused of a capital crime. Having already been scanned forpossession of weapons and other forbidden items, she iden tified herself to the sentry's satisfaction and was grantedadmittance. As the door slid into the wall he stood aside to lether enter.

The aspect of the solitary figure seated on the other side of the interview table was not promising, and she found herselfworrying that she might well be wasting her time. Not that there was any especial demand on it at the moment. Pullingout and activating her recorder, she checked to make sure thatthe protective cover had retracted and that the lens was clean. Treated to repel dirt and grime, it flickered briefly in the subdued overhead light.

The brief flash caught the attention of the prisoner. When he lifted his head, she was able to get a better look at him. Itdid not improve her opinion. Neither did the way he looked ather, used to it as she was.

"I was expecting a reporter, not a treat." He leered unpleasantly. "How about we get the monkey cop to opaque thewindow?" He nodded toward the doorway.

"How about you keep your mouth and your eyes to yourself and you answer my questions?" she retorted flatly. "Otherwise, I'll waft and you can play with yourself until the officialinterrogators land on you again. They won't listen to your lunatic stories, either."

His macho bravado instantly deflated, the prisoner lookedaway. Fingers working uneasily against one another as if hedidn't know what to do with them, he muttered a reply. "Firstyou got to get me my personal belongings."

Her dyed and striped brows drew together. "What personalbelongings? The report on you said you were picked up out in the forest with only the clothes on your back."

Leaning forward, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "When I saw that the rangers had me referenced, Iburied my pack. Without what's in it you won't believe a wordI say."

"I doubt I'll believe a word you say anyway, so what's thebig deal? What's in your miserable pack that you had to hidefrom the rangers? Illegal narcotics? Gemstones?"

He grinned, this time knowingly. "Proof. Of my story."

Shaking her head sadly, she turned off the recorder. Nopoint in wasting the cell. "Thereis no proof of your 'story.'Not in some mysterious buried backpack or anywhere else.Because your story's crazy. It makes no sense."

The smile tightened but did not disappear entirely. "Thenwhy areyouhere?"

She shrugged diffidently. "Because it sounded differentfrom the usual run-of-the mill rubbish we use for backscreen fillers. Because I thought you might be good for a new angleor two on how some miscreants try to mask themselves fromthe attentions of the legal process. So far I'm just annoyed,not enlightened."

"Go dig up my pack and I'll enlighten the hell out of you.The contents will enlighten you."

She sighed heavily. "I skimmed the report. There arenothranx in the Reserva. There are no thranx in this hemisphere.Their presence on Earth, like that of all representatives ofnewly contacted sentient species, is restricted to the oneorbital station that's been equipped with proper diplomaticfacilities. We have occasional closely supervised visits by especially important individuals holding the rank of eint orhigher, but they are not allowed outside the official boundaries of Lombok or Geneva. Even if one somehow managed toend up here, it couldn't survive."

Inclining toward her again, he dropped his voice so lowthat she had to lean forward to make out the words. She did not relish the proximity. Despite the treatment accorded anyincoming prisoner, he still stank strongly of his time spent inthe Reserva and of his own disagreeable self.

"You're right. 'One' couldn't survive. But a properly prepared and equipped landing party could."

She rolled her eyes and looked away. She'd had just aboutenough of this homicidalninloco and his pathetic fantasies."Now you're trying to tell me that there's not one, but a wholelanding party of thranx bashing around undetected inside theReserva? What kind of moron do you take me for, Montoya?If the rangers can run down one human like yourself who'strying his damnedest to avoid them, don't you think they'dfind something as alien as a thranx? Much less a whole landing party?"

"Not if it stayed underground and had human help," heshot back. "And I wasn't trying to avoid the rangers. Not anymore. I wanted to be picked up."

She frowned uncertainly, her irritation diminishing just enough for her to sustain a modicum of interest. "Underground? You're trying to tell me that there's an illegal thranxlanding party operating inside the Reserva and underground?"

His countenance subsided into a complacent smirk. "Not a landing party. A hive. A colony." His tone had become insolent. "There aren't a dozen or so thranx in the Reserva--thereare hundreds. And they're not peeking at plants or collectingbutterflies--they're living there. And breeding."

She stared hard at him, at this slender, vaingloriousmadrinowho sat with arms crossed and smile smug. He did notlook away. She wanted to, but could not. Not quite yet.

"So what's in this pack of yours that would prove a claim asoutrageous as that?"

"Then my 'crazy' story might be a little newsworthy?" Hewas taunting her now. She wouldn't let him get away with it.

"Give me the coordinates for this pack of yours and we'llsee what's in it. If anything. If it exists."

"Oh, it exists all right." He glanced briefly toward the doorway. "But first we need to come to some kind of agreement.Officially recorded and witnessed."

"Agreement?" Shannon was not pleased. Her bureau's discretionary expense file was in proportion to her assignment.Iquitos wasn't Paris. "What kind of agreement?"

For the first time since she had entered the interview roomhe appeared to relax. "You don't think I'm going to give awaythe story of the century out of the goodness of my heart, doyou?" For a moment, his eyes took on a faraway look and hisvoice fell to a whisper. "Ihave to get something back, because I've already missed my appointment. I forfeited thefranchise. For this." He shook his head slowly, his tone disbelieving. "Imust be crazy. One other thing: We tell it myway. I want editorial input."

She started to laugh, but then she saw that he was serious."So now in addition to being a murderer you want to be ajournalist?"

His eyes lowered. "That killing up in San Jose was unfortunate. An accident. It'll all come out at my hearing." The smilereturned, sly and knowing. "It'll be a sealed hearing, you'llsee. I know too much, and the government doesn't like peoplewho know too much to run around loose babbling what theyknow. But it'll be worth it to you. I promise."

She sat up straight and turned her recorder back on. "Nevermind all that other nonsense: What makes you think youknow anything about telling a story?"

Pursing his lips, he blew her a kiss. She recoiled distastefully. "You just bought mine, didn't you?"

The pack was there, surprisingly far to the south, buried in ashallow pit between two gnarled strangler figs. Right where he'dsaid it would be. That in itself meant nothing. The presence of an identifiable, functioning thranx device inside was likewiseconclusive of nothing except the owner's ability to obtain contraband through channels with which he was clearly familiar.The section of thranx arm, however, was another matter. It wassufficiently fresh and well-enough wrapped so that it had not yetbegun to decompose, even under the relentless assault of the opportunistic rain forest. Taken together, they lent veracity ifnot proof to the prisoner's story.

The next time Shannon visited Montoya, she had company. Not rangers, but a pair of commentators from her company and one wizened, white-haired senior editor.

The prisoner eyed them with an amiable wariness. On the table between them lay the section of alien limb and the device that had been removed from the buried backpack. Neither appeared to have been touched, though in fact both had been carefully examined with a view toward verifying theirauthenticity. This had been done. Now it remained for the exceedingly curious media representatives to find out how theseunlikely objects had come to be in the possession of a minorcriminal whose erstwhile home lay far to the north on theAmerican isthmus.

One of the reporters pushed the device across the table in Cheelo's direction. "We know that this is of alien manufacture, but we don't know what it does."

"I do. It's a scri!ber. I told you--Des was a poet. Thatmeans he did more than just put words together. Among thethranx, poetry is a performance art. I know: He performeda couple of times for me." A gaunt, regretful smile splithis features. "I didn't get much out of it. Didn't understandthe words or the gestures. There was a lot of clicking andwhistling, too. But God, it was beautiful."

The reporter who had asked the question was about tolaugh, but her companion put a restraining hand on her arm.Leaning forward, he spoke understandingly. "I'm RodrigoMonteverde, from the parliament district. I haven't seenthe kind of performance you're referring to myself, but I'vetalked to those who have. Your description fits."

"These thranx have performed for ranking officials. Acouple have been on the tridee." The senior editor did not stir as he spoke. "He could have seen a recording."

Shannon gingerly pushed the length of amputated limbtoward the prisoner. "What about this? What's this?"

Montoya lowered his gaze to the blue-green fingers. Hisinsides knotted and a sharp pain shot through his gut, but toall outward appearances he was unaffected. "That? That wasmy friend." He looked up, smiling at Shannon before shifting his attention to the gray-hair who obviously called the shots.

"I'm offering you the biggest story of the last hundredyears. You want it, or should I put out the word that I'm readyto talk to another media conglomerate?"

The senior editor retained his unshakable composure, but a hint of a smile toyed with one corner of his mouth. "We wantit--if there's anything more to it. The question is, what doyouwant?" He nodded in the reporter's direction. "Ms. Shannon here has apprised me of your petition but did not supply anydetails."

All eyes were on him, components of expectant expressions. He reveled in the attention. It made him feel... big."That's better! First, I want all charges pending or planning tobe filed against me dropped."

"I understand you committed a murder." Shannon's tonewas dry as dust. She didn't like him, Cheelo knew. That didnot matter. What was vital was that she saw the opportunity towork on a big story. He was not the only one to whom theword was important. Much of the world still worked that way."It was accidental, like I told you. The idiot had to go machoand grab the gun and there was a struggle. Nobody couldprove premeditation. Scan the wife and you'll see that I'mtelling the truth."

"Nevertheless," declared the senior editor inexorably, "youleft an innocent man for dead."

"Fix it." Cheelo's tone was harsh and uncompromising. "Iknow what the media can do. After all charges are dropped, Iwant my permanent record expunged. I'd like to start over,clean."

"So you can fill it up again?" The editor sighed. "What youask is doable. Expensive and awkward, but doable. Especially if what you say about scanning the wife holds up. Whatelse?"

"Some credit in my account. I haven't settled on a sum yet.We can work that out together." His tone turned wistful. "Youprobably won't believe me, but by letting myself get pickedup I sacrificed a lot more money than you can imagine. Morethan that, I gave up a career."

"How noble of you." As the editor spoke, all three reporterswere taking notes.Notes, Cheelo thought silently. That's allany of us are: a bundle of somebody else's notes. When wedie, we're all dependent on the notes made by others. Unlesswe take the time to make some ourselves.

"One more thing." He pushed the alien scri!ber towardShannon. "I want everything that's on here published. I don'tknow what that means in this case, or how you'd go aboutdoing it, because it's not like human poetry. But I want itdone.I want it all published and disseminated. Among thethranx as well as here on Earth."

" 'Disseminated'?" Shannon eyed him archly.

"Hey, I'm poor, not stupid. I want Des's art--out there. Foreverybody to see."

"It won't mean anything to us, to humans," the second reporter pointed out.

"Maybe not, but the thranx are going to be exposed to itwhether they like it or not. Once disclosed, they won't be ableto ignore it. It's great stuff, important work.Big work." Hesqueezed his eyelids together. Hard. "Bigger than anythingI'llever do."

For the first time, the open hostility and contempt Shannonhad been feeling began to give way to incertitude. "How doyou know that, if you couldn't understand any of it?"

"I know because of the way Des believed in it, the way hetalked about it, the way he showed it to me--even if I didn'tunderstand much of it. I know because he gave up everythingto try and achieve something important. I'm no artist--Ican't sculpt, or paint, or weave light, or write real well. But Iknow passion when I see it." He brightened. "Yeah, that'swhat it was about Des. He was passionate." He tapped the scri!ber's protective casing. "This gadget is full of passion,and I want it splashed out there for everybody to see."

For the first time, the senior editor showed some animation. "Why? Why should you care what happens to the workof some obscure alien artist? The art means nothing to you.Hemeant nothing to you."

"I'm not sure. Maybe--maybe it's because I've always felt that everybody should stand for something, even if the rest of society doesn't agree on what that is, and that nobody shoulddie for nothing. I've seen too many people die for nothing. Idon't want it to happen to me, and I don't want it to happento Des." With a shrug, he looked away, toward the singlewindow that was too small for a prisoner to crawl through.Outside lay the city and beyond, the rain forest.

"It'll probably happen to me anyway. I'm not anything special. Never was and probably never will be. But I'm going tosee to it that it doesn't happen to him."

While the reporters waited respectfully, the editor considered the prisoner's words. Eventually he looked back up atCheelo. "All right. We agree to your terms. All of them.Providedthere'ssomething significant and real at the end of thisalien rainbow of yours."

A mollified Cheelo leaned back in his chair. Despite thebackpack, despite its unarguably alien contents, he was notsure until the very end that the media people would go forit. Unless he was very much mistaken, he would soon bewalking the streets again. A dead thranx poet had cost him acareer but bought him his freedom.

What the consequences of that freedom would be he couldnot have foreseen. He expected to be free. He did not expectto be famous.

Searching only within the section of rain forest specifiedby the thief allowed the reporters and their staff to locate thehive within a few weeks of Cheelo supplying them with coordinates. Worldwide revelation followed and outrage ensued.Exposed and confronted, the representatives of the colonyand their covert human allies pleaded a case which for themcould have only one outcome.

Their careful, cautious diplomacy undone, human andthranx emissaries scrambled to salvage what they could ofa shattered process of prudent negotiation. Forced to advance all interspecies colloquy and bring forward proposalsthat were barely in the preliminary stages of synthesis, theyhastened to compose and then sign the first formal treatiesbetween humans and thranx some twenty to forty years before they were ready. Both species would simply have to dealwith the unpredictable consequences. The alternative was aformal break in relations coupled with the possibility of open hostilities.

As for the Amazonian colony, it was allowed to remainonly because humans were hastily granted reciprocal colonization privileges on the thranx homeworld of Hivehom in addition to the much smaller installation on Willow-Wane. Asite was selected on what the bipeds soon came to call theMediterranea Plateau, a dominion too bleak and cold and dryfor the thranx to settle. Forced together by the circumstanceof revelation, human and thranx rapidly discovered that they complemented one another in ways that could not have beenpredicted by formal diplomacy. The first tentative steps weretaken to overcome each species' abhorrence of the hideousappearance of the other.

As for Cheelo Montoya, who only wanted to sink back intothe backstreet society in which he had grown up, albeit with abit more money, he found himself transformed from petty, remorseless street hustler into a paragon of interspecies firstcontact. It was a celebrity he did not seek and did not want,but once his part in the business was revealed he no longer had any choice in the matter. Eagerly sought out for interviews, thrust beneath world-spanning tridee pickups, he wasrepeatedly reminded of his personal inadequacies by questions he could not answer and requests for opinions that werebeneath his ability to formulate. With his face thrust relentlessly before an inquisitive world, he lost any semblance ofpersonal privacy. Poked, prodded, queried, challenged, theobject of rumor and the subject of speculation, before long hefound himself regretting that he had ever tried to make asingle credit off his unsought relationship with the dead alien poet. Harried and harassed by a pitiless media and a bastard-loving populace, he died sooner than he should have, ennobled by a public whose historical appetite for falselyinculcated minor deities verged on the unbounded. His funeral was a sumptuous, splendid affair, trideed all over theplanet as well as to all human and thranx-settled worlds. Hewould have decried the waste of money.

The monument they placed above his coffin, at least, wassomething big.

The thranx were less ingenuous. Forced by its exposure toaccept on its merits the work of a monstrously antisocialartist who normally would have been resolutely ignored,the highly conservative thranx performance establishmentproved unable to repudiate its worth. The power and passionwith which the deceased Desvendapur had endowed his compositions would not be denied.

So it was that Cheelo Montoya, who did not want it, wasforced to endure the fame that the renegade poet Desvendapurhad sought. Offered a shocking amount for his memoirs, he had laboriously transcribed them for the media withthe help of a small army of ghost writers. As he told it, the taleof his encounter and relationship with the renegade thranxartist took on a glamorous, heroic mien. Poetic, even, so thatwhile later generations knew that a murderer and a poet wereresponsible for the forced, accelerated pace of human-thranxcontact, the line became blurred as to who was which.

With tentative, cultivated, ceremonial contact shattered bythe unscheduled revelations, relations between the specieswere advanced by perhaps half a century in spite of, and notbecause of, the exertions of well-meaning, hard-working,professional emissaries. There was precedent. History is oftenfashioned by insignificant individuals intent on matters ofpetty personal concern who have motives entirely irrelevantto carefully planned posterity. It was just as well.

Had humankind contacted the next intelligent race theyencountered prior to formalizing relations with the thranx,the Commonwealth might very well never have come into existence. As for the duplicitous AAnn, their upset verged onoutrage as they saw their traditional competitors for habitableworlds forge an ever-deepening relationship with the militarily strong but mentally unpredictable humans. Bereft ofstratagems for countering the seemingly inevitable alliance,the government of the emperor sought the advice of any whomight have an efficacious solution to propound.

As it happened, Lord Huudra Ap and Baron Keekil YNstood ready to supply one.

***************************************************

CLASSIFICATION OF PLANETS

This is the Commonwealth-standard system devised by the United Church Bureau of Supra-Commonwealth Registry for the protection of less-developed worlds that may not be ready to join galactic civilization, to give them an opportunity to develop on their own, and for regulation of commercial purposes.

Class I

Full Commonwealth membership with all rights, privileges, and responsibilities, including a voice on the Commonwealth Council, unrestricted commerce and cultural exchange, and transfer of information. This class is comprised of planets with native or imported population having high technology, and colony worlds that have achieved a specified level of development.

Class II

Associate Commonwealth membership. Population must have achieved a world government and an atomic or better level of technology. Population has some voice on the Council, and may send observers off-planet. Exchange of goods and transfer of technology is regulated.

Class III

Wardship planet is under Commonwealth and United Church protection. Status similar to Class II, but a world government as such is not required.

Class IVa

Dominant native sentients live at pre-atomic level of technology. Trade and exchange of information is restricted.

Class IVb

Dominant native sentients live at a pre-steam level of technology, or lower. Trade and exchange of information highly restricted. Feudal states often found at this level.

Class V

Pre-state culture(s). Clan to tribal society. Inhabited worlds not aligned with the Commonwealth, and newly-contact inhabited planets of which little is known.

Class VI

Hardship planetary conditions restrict native development to the point where Commonwealth assistance is necessary for the species to survive.

Class VIIa

Potential colony. Registered and surveyed worlds about to be colonized.

Class VIIb

Potential colony. Registered but not surveyed.

Class VIII

Frontier colony planet not developed enough in resources or population to qualify for Class I or II.

Class IXa

General colony planetary conditions and/or political situations make it unlikely higher status is likely to be granted. Commonwealth citizens on such worlds are represented via their respective home worlds.

Class IXb

As above, only with an appointed Resident Commissioner.

Class X

Commercial interests. In this class are worlds, moons, asteroids, and other bodies considered unsuitable for colonization, but presenting sufficient worth or characteristics deemed necessary for formal registry.

UNDER EDICT

Stellar bodies on which a general or specific threat has been determined, or for other reasons that warrant a strict "hands off" policy. No communication made be made with any resident native species, and no landing may be made. Under guard by automated or manned vessels.

General Addenda:

1-All habitable planets are to be reported to the Church Bureau of Supra-Commonwealth Registry. Application for development may be filed within the specified time period thereafter. Any outpost or proposed colony site must be

inspected and approved by the Bureau.

2-All habitable worlds have at least one scientific outpost or trading center.

3-No advanced weaponry may be imported to planets of Class IV or V. Such imports are permitted on Class II worlds under specified conditions.

4-Under regulations for Class IV planets, exploration by Commonwealth representatives or citizens must be pre-approved by the native government.

GALOGRAPHICS

Location in Galaxy, Side View,Top View , General Map

THE AANN EMPIRE:

The AAnn Empire occupies a portion of the Galaxy proximate to the Commonwealth, in the Orion Arm. Approximately 1600 x 700 parsecs in size, it is divided into at least 14 Quadrants, and contains a minimum of 32 inhabited systems.

Blasusarr

(N Class I)

Homeworld of the AAnn race; largely desert. Also known as the Imperial Home World. Protected by a highly efficient detection and defense network. Exceptionally large surface-to-space shuttles operate here.

Pregglin

(N Class I)

The major military and commercial hub for the 14th Quadrant. Pregglin Base is located here.

Sectorcav

(N Class I)

Imperial sector headquarters; also a center of military/scientific research.

Torsee Provinces

Ill-defined boundaries; partly within and partly outside formal Imperial space.

THE BLIGHT:

Created by the ancient Tar-Aiym using a "photonic plague" weapon against the Hur'rikku. Contains hundreds of safe, habitable worlds where nothing intelligent lives. Total area unknown. Preliminary mapping of only 3000 x 1500 area complete.

Booster

(N Class X)

Humanx-normal world, though its atmosphere contains an unusual concentration of helium and other rare gases. One abandoned Tar-Aiym city exists, built around the base of the artifcact known as the Krang.

Branner Systems

Three star systems inhabited by an ancient race, located on the periphery of The Blight, opposite Moth. The Krang is mentioned in its legends.

Cannachanna System

[K-type star]

C-II was inhabited by the Hur'rikku. One of the four moons of gas giant C-III was also inhabited.

Hominid's World (N Class IV-B)

Located near the Blight. Apparently once home to an interstellar civilization that sank to a pre-atomic level of

technology. By 549 A.A. they were beginning to advance gain.Native sentients peaceful & non-aggressive.

Quofum

(N Class X)

Fabled world with high, pink skies. Oceans average 9% alcohol. Rarely visited, due to unexplained spacetime distortions that cause it to appear only occasionally at the listed coordinates. Located along inner edge of the Orion Arm.

Vom's last world

Before the Vom's arrival, circa 501,000 B.C., this planet apparnetly had a moderately successful ecosystem with typical terrestrial forms.

THE HUMANX COMMONWEALTHMap of:

The Humanx Commonwealth is part of the Orion Arm of the galaxy containing many

races and planets of incredible variety. Much trade and additional exploration takes place within and beyond its borders. The Commonwealth is about 2400 x 1300 parsecs in size.

Alaspin

(H Class VIII)

Two moons. Largely jungle surrounded by vast savannas and river plains. Thousands of abandoned native cities. Sentient species died out around 75,000 B.C. Home to Flinx's pet minidrag, Pip.

Almagee

N Class V)

No data currently available.

Alpha C

N Class V)

Located near Terra.

Amropolous

T Class I)

Leading producer of electronics. Home to the major thranx hive, the Yhu. Home of the Elecseed Corporation.

Analava System

(N Class I)

Vandy sector. Two habitable worlds, whose inhabitants went to war with one another in 527 A.A. despite Church intervention. 120 million died.

Annubis

(H Class VIII)

Home of the Hyperion forests from which the drug Bloodhype is dervied. In 545 A.A. the forests were burned, and the tree thought to be exterminated.

Armelia

H Class V)

No data currently available.

Assurbanipal

H Class I)

One habitable moon (Nineveh) on which the vast estate of Rashalleila Nuaman is located.

Balthazarr-Beersheba

H Class I)

Twin pleasure worlds.

Barabas (H Class III)

Primarily agricultural world. Notable export: a mint-flavored liquor distilled from a gengineered pine tree.

Burley

H Class VIII)

Extensive mining interests.

Cachalot

H Class IX)

99% ocean world, with small ice caps. Exceptional even, mild climate. Home to the intelligence-enhanced Cetacea transferred from Terra.

Calaroom

Agricultural world.

Calm Nursery

(T Class I)

Major thranx colony world.

Carmague-Collangotta

(H Class I)

Twin worlds located near the Velvet Dam nebula. Carmague has the 4th largest human population in the Commonwealth, and Collangotta the 14th.

Carson's World (N Class II)

Natives are small, intelligent, primates.

Centaurus

(H Class II)

B No data currently available.

Centaurus System (H Class I)

Eight planets in system: III and IV have been colonized. About A.D. 2300, Exploration Control was sited on V. A manned station is in orbit around VII.

Chikasakasoo

(N Class I)

Homeworld of the Quillp.

Comagrave

(Class VIII)

Desert, semi-desert world. Home to a now extinct race, the Sauun, who left behind impressive monuments.

Crnkk

(T Class I)

Important thranx colony world.

Dawn

(H Class VIII)

Recent Human colony.

Dis

(H Class I)

Four large moons: Cerberus, Charon, Pluto, and Chetani. Every three years they line up with the sun to create the surf condition known as the Monster of Dis. Gravity slightly less than T-standard, which enhances the effect.

Dust-Dune

(H Class VII)

Rough, lawless, and mostly desert.

Drax IV

(T Class V)

Mostly jungle; normal climate for a thranx-settled world. Major commercial center.

Entebbe

(H Class VIII)

No data currently available.

Everon

(T Class I)

One of the first to be colonized by the thranx.

Evoria

(T Class II)

Noted for the "Season of High Pollen" that lasts 8 T-standard months.

Eurmet

(T Class VIII)

Small thranx colony.

Fluva

(T Class V)

No data currently available.

Floran III

(N Class II)

Fairly advanced native race.

G'Dim

(N Class IVa)

Two major continents, several minor ones. Native sentients exist in a constant state of warfare.

Gestalt

(H Class VIII)

Human colony world with a single moon.

Goldin IV

(H Class II)

Human colony world; home to Interstellar Lubricants.

Goodhunting

(T Class V)

Quillp colony world with a population of 295,000 as of 500 AA.

Gorisa

(T Class II)

SCAAM and other military research center.

Greenwitch

(H Class IX)

Coordinate world considered the galographic center of the Commonwealth.

Hivehom System (T Class I)

Twelve planets; four inhabited. Hivehom is the homeworld of the thranx race; also co-capitol of the Commonwealth. Home to several human settlements on the less tropical Mediterranea Plateau.(Map)

Horseye

(N Class IVb)

Four moons. Native name is Tslamina. Home to three distinct intelligent species, who live at different levels of the enormous Guntali Plateau, which is cut by the immense Skar River.

Humus

(T Class I)

Home to the famous Elvor Laboratories, from which the latest in surgical instrumentation is exported.

Kansastan-Inter Kansastan Bryan Sector

(H Class I)

Farming worlds noted for grain production.

Largess

(N Class II)

Friendly, intelligent natives are seal-like in appearance. Open and friendly, though their culture is dull and strait-laced. Diverse spice exports.

Long Tunnel (Class IX)

Underground civilization living in vast caverns. Home to the uniquely gengineered Verdidion Weave.

Loser's World

(H Class I)

Culture belies its name.

Mantis

(H Class I)

Capitol is Locust. Ozmidene mine located in the center of the capitol city. One of the first human-settled worlds.

Midworld

(N Class V)

UNDER EDICT.

One moon. World is dominated by a thousand-meter high rainforest that may be the most biologically diverse place in the entire Commonwealth.

Moth

(H Class III)

Humanx-normal world encircled by "broken" rings. Diverse but regressive human colony.

Myra IV

(H Class II)

Famous simispins located in pleasure parks. Sometimes known as Myla IV.

New Paris

(H Class I)

Temperate human colony world.

New Riviera

(H Class I)

Perhaps the most idyllic world yet settled by humans.

Osiria

(N Class II)

Quillp colony world.

Perth

(H Class II)

Human colony world; highly active maritine culture.

Pitar System

UNDER EDICT.

Formerly home to a nearly human mammalian species. Remarkable instance of convergent evolution. One world (Treetrunk) colonized by humans. All three destroyed in the Humanx-Pitar

War of 2368 AA.

Plutarch

(H Class II)

Human colony world.

Powerline

(H Class X)

Twelve light-years (approx.) from Moth.

Praxiteles

(H Class X)

Human colony world.

Prism

(N Class V)

Entire ecosystem, still little understood, is silicon instead of carbon-based. Native intelligences based on specialized individual sentience poorly understood.

Proycon

(H Class II)

Settled by an off-course Sleeper ship.

Puritan

(H Class II)

Home to the Sinspinner Sect of religious zealots.

Qatar System

(H Class II)

Minor human colony world.

Repler System

(H Class VIII)

R-III has two moons, August and September. R-VI and VII are gas giants.

Rhyinpine

(N Class IX)

Troglodyte natives and many tunnels. Anar teas are grown here.

RNGC 11432

This star is a K-9 supergiant. Orange in color, it rotates clockwise.

RNGC 11433

Smaller than 11432, yellow-green in color. Rotates counterclockwise.

Samstead

(H Class VIII)

Minor human colony.

Santos V

(H Class VIII)

Mining center. Challis Co. has an interest here.

Sensiran

(N Class IVb)

Tropical/semi-tropical ocean world notable for thousands of individual tribal/state groups, each confined to its own island group or archipeligo.

Tehuantepec

(N Class IVa)

Human normal world inhabited by native species called "indians". Native legends tell of God-king and his wife

whose ruled an empire consisting of three islands, or half the galaxy. Local Pim-Bird is sacred to the natives.

Terra

(H Class I)

One moon. Homeworld of humankind, and co-capitol of the Commonwealth.

Thalia Major

(H Class I)

Sun is slightly smaller and yellower than Sol. Capitol is Barragash.

Thalia Minor

(H Class I)

Slightly smaller than Thalia Major, and trails behind it in a Trojan orbit.

Tharce IV

(H Class I)

Major colony world.

Tippendemos

(H Class II)

Major colony world.

Tolus Prime

(N Class I)

Home of the racoon-like Tolian race. Large land masses, tree-farming, and metals industries. Local religious practices are highly regional.

Treetrunk

(H Class II)

Fifth planet of the Argus system. Genocidal attack by the Pitar in 2365 AD led to start of the Humanx-Pitar War.

Tran-ky-ky

(N Class IVb)

Perterbation of orbit creates a warm-cold climate cycle lasting approximately 50,000 T-standard years, seriously inhibiting native development.(Map)

Trix

(T Class I)

Original thranx name was Dixx. One of the first worlds settled by the thranx.

Twosky Bright

(T Class I)

23rd in population and 15th in economic production in the Commonwealth. Located in the region of the Velvet Dam nebula.

Tundra V

(H Class II)

Home of a sizable Church Task Force. Located near the Repler system.

Ulru-Ujurr

UNDER EDICT

Fourth planet of its star. 20% larger than Terra, but gravity only minimally higher due to composition. Highly mountainous surface. Irregular orbit is moving it further from its sun. Home to unique species of bearlike "primitive" natives.

Unatha

(N Class I)

Homeworld of the gentle, inoffensive space-going Unop-Patha.

Velvet Dam

A dark nebula some 24 light-years wide. Of such density that no electromagnetic energy can penetrate it.

Visaria

(N Class I)

Highly industrialized human colony world.

Willow-Wane

(T Class I)

Discovered about 1940 AD. Six planets in system. Even more perfectly suited to the thranx than Hivehom. Hive Zex is based here.

Wolophon III

(T Class I)

Name in Low Thranx is Colophon. Thranx colony world.

Commonwealth Chronology

B.C. 1,000,000,000 - A.A. 13,000

Exploration, Extent of:

Human & Thranx 2300AD

Human & Thranx 2400AD (0 AA)

Humanx 100AA

Humanx 300-550 AA

(NOTE: Where "c" is used, the date given is approximate.)

Relevant novels are inORANGE CAPS , short stories inGreen

1 billion B.C.

The Xunca are at their height. They discover something connected with the Great Emptiness and begin setting up their transmitter network.

400,000,000

The Xunca create the Groalamason Ocean on Horseye and modify the orbits of the planet's moons. They set up a transmitting station in the polar ice cap. A minor relay station is set up on Terra, but is destroyed by continental drift. A Mutable is stationed on every planet set up with a component of the system.

50,000,000

A massive earthquake shakes much of Horseye, shifting the course of the Skar River, and causing minor damage to the transmitter.

950,000

The Hur'rikku begin to explore outward from near the Galactic Center.

800,000

Anticollapsar weapon destroys collapsar near the Shapley Center.

501,000

The Vom arrives on the last world it will consume. Prior to this it has obliterated all life on nearly a thousand worlds.

500,000

Tar-Aiym Empire is at its height. The Vom makes contact with the Tar-Aiym and panics, destroying the fleet sent to investigate it. The Tar-Aiym then send a robot fleet to contain the Vom. Peot becomes the Guardian, and is placed in orbit around the Vom's planet.

499,000

Tar-Aiym make contact with the Hur'rikku. Total war ensues.

480,000

After enduring several attempts to be forced into the Tar-Aiym Empire, the Hur'rikku threaten to use their anticollapsar weapon on Tar-Aiym worlds. The Tar-Aiym respond with intensive weapons research. As a consequence of this activity, the Krang is constructed on Booster. The fleet containing the Vom is called away to help in the war with the

Hur'rikku, leaving a minimal force to aid the Guardian in its duties.

479,000

Animate photonic storm released by the Tar-Aiym as a plague destroys all sentient life in their galactic vicinity before finally burning itself out, including both its Tar-Aiym creators and the Hur'rikku. A dying race on the edge of the plague area broadcasts a warning. Surviving space-faring species within detection range act together to quarantine the region. This section of space becomes known as The Blight.

7,000

Alaspininan civilization at its height. Alaspinians explore space in an area larger than the Commonwealth, but establish no colonies.

75,000

Alaspinians die out, possibly by racial suicide.

67,500

Last monumental achievements of the culture of the Sauun, on the world later named Comagrave.

27,000

Latest warm cycle begins on Tran-Ky-Ky.

17,000

Warm cycle ends, present cold cycle begins.

10,950

Tunneling begins on Ulru-Ujurr.

c8,000

Birth of Thranx civilization on Hivehom. Founding of the "Eternal City" of Daret, later capitol of the Thranx Great Hive.

c7,000

Seminal confrontation between Twentieth Emperor Thumostener and King Vilisvenqen on Hivehom.

c6,000

Last intraspecies war fought on Hivehom.

c5,700

Birth of human civilization on Terra.

c2,000

Establishment of the Priory of the Brotherhood "Evonin-ta-ban" on Tran-ky-ky.

cA.D.500

Christian religion calendar change on Terra.

c1800

Thranx achieve rudimentary space travel. Piloted rockets sent to Hivehom's three moons.

c1850

Three other habitable planets in the Hivehom system colonized.

c1900

Thranx discover posigravity drive.

c1930

Thranx discover Calm Nursery.

c1940

Thranx discover Willow-Wane.

c2045

Terrans work to perfect slow but practical deep space travel. All killing of Cetacea outlawed.

c2080

Off-course robotic Terran "sleeper" colony ship reaches the Centaurus system. Planets III and V are colonized.

c2100

Thranx have first contact with the AAnn.

c2105

Diplomatic relations established between Thranx and AAnn. General wariness ensues.

c2200

Off-course Terran sleeper colony ship is forced to unload its human cargo at Midworld.

2243

AAnn attack Paszex on Willow-Wane for the first time.

2270

Mammalian neural system enhancement serum gengineered.

2280

Independent invention of the posigravity drive by Terrans Alex Kurita and Sumako Kinoshita. Re-discovery of the Centaurus system colonies.

2285

Discovery of Mantis.

2290

Discovery of Cachalot. Birth of Ryozenzuzex on Willow-Wane.

2300

Covenant of Peace enacted with serum-enhanced Cetacea. Agreement of Transfer vowed. Transfer of surviving Cetacea to Cachalot begun.

2310

The Terran exploration ship Seeker is attacked by the AAnn, and later rescued by the Thranx ship Zinramm and taken to Hivehom. A mysterious message from Capt. Brohwelporvot sends Ryozenzuzex on a journey to Hivehom to see the aliens.

2311

The Humans escape protective captivity on Hivehom and return to Centaurus VII, taking Ryo with them.NOR CRYSTAL TEARS .

2312

The Humans and Ryo set up the Project on Willow-Wane.

2312

Ship-to-ship contact is made between the Thranx and the Quillp.

2316

The Project is revealed to the general populace of both species.

2320

Transfer of Cetacea to Cachalot completed.

2326

Death of the famous poet Wuuzelansem.

2340

First treaties between Humans and Thranx signed. Closer contact forced by circumstances initiated by human thief Cheelo Montoya and mad Thranx poet Desvendapur.PHYLOGENESIS .

c2350

Discovery of Moth. Cetacean Poleetat has legendary fight with Megalichthyian on Cachalot.

2360

First Human contact with Pitar. Terran-norm world in the Pitar System is colonized.

2365

Destruction of Treetrunk (Argus V) by Pitar. Beginning of the Humanx-Pitar War.DIRGE .

2366

Humanx teams invent the SCCAM missile, and make major breakthroughs in improving the operation of the posigravity drive. SCCAM missiles used in shattering of complex Pitar defenses.

2367

End of the war with the cleansing of the Pitar homeworlds.

A.A.

(After Amalgamation) 0 A.A. corresponds to 2400 A.D.

0 A.A.

The signing of the articles of Amalgamation and the creation of the Commonwealth. The signing ceremony is performed by the Fourth Last Resort David Makezinski and the Tri-eint Arlenduva.DIUTURNITY'S DAWN .

1

The Commonwealth Council meets for the first time, on Terra.

2

Commonwealth Council meets for the first time on Hivehom.

c10

Commonwealth Science Headquarters established near Mexico City.

c20

Formal recognition of the United Church. Island of Bali becomes Church HQ on Terra.

33

The starship Curryon turns inside-out when stellar debris strikes its KK-drive field projector at the instant of activation.

c50

Refinement of the HIPnosis drugs later used on SCAAM stingships. Bril de-Panltatal hears legends of the City of the Dead on Horseye for the first time.

86

Marriage of Eitienne and Lyra Redowl, shortly after graduation.

c88

Alaspin discovered.

c95

Horseye discovered by Terrans.

c97

Satellite survey taken of Horseye.

98

Commonwealth relations with the Quillp are formalized.

c99

The Thranx build and staff Steamer Station on Horseye.

c100

Krigsvird-ty-Kalstund founds the Fortress of Wannome on the island of Sofold on Tran-ky-ky.

106

Eitienne and Lyra Redowl arrive on Horseye, and after five months start their trip up the Skar RiverVOYAGE TO THE CITY OF THE DEAD .

c150

Brisbane, Australia becomes the capitol of Terra.

c175

First human settlers arrive on Cachalot. The CusnunC begins developing a mind-control polyp.

c300

Discovery of the Blight. Survey ships do preliminary mapping. RNGC 1632 (Cannachanna) discovered by a Visarian probe.

c361

Establishment of the Commonwealth-wide surfing contest on Dis.

448

Birth of Mother Mastiff on Moth.

449

Birth of Truzenzuzex on Willow-Wane. The Horde begins taking tribute from Sofold on Tran-ky-ky.

470

Birth of Knigta Yakus.

474

Birth of Bran Tse-Mallory.

c480

Birth of Hellespont duKane.

493

Joao Acorizal born on Thalia Major.

496

Birth of Aljean on Moth.

497

Commonwealth drone probe discovers a collapsar near the Velvet Dam nebula. Birth of Skua September. Founding of the Meliorare Society on Terra.

c500

Repler system discovered by Johannes Repler. The AAnn Empire contests the claim, and are eventually granted a small concession on Repler III. AAnn attack on the Quillp colony world of Goodhunting is foiled by Commonwealth Task Force.

c511

Anasage (Flinx's mother) born on Terra.

512

Idonian Mask discovered by a prospector on Alaspin.

513

Acorizal marries Kirsi.

c515

Tran-ky-ky discovered. Humanx outpost of Brass Monkey founded on the island of Arsudun. Lord Estes Dominic Rose begins dealing in forbidden pharmaceuticals. Lumpjaw is born on Cachalot.

518

Birth of Ethan Frome Fortune. Birth of Lauren Walder on Moth.

521

Janwin's first time in the surfing competition on Dis.

524

Nuotuan has a complete ride on the Monster of Dis, but dies.

c525

Brothers Skua and Sawbill September break forever over Sawbill's becoming an emoman. Death of Skua's lover by Sawbill's drugs. Birth of Yu Hwoshien.THE EMOMAN .

527

The Analava System War-120 million perish. Skua September's possible involvement in the start of the conflict remains uncertain. Birth of Flinx's sister Teleen.

530

Meliorare Society is broken up; its most "normal" experimental subjects are dispersed throughout the Commonwealth.

c532

Birth of Kitten Kai-sung.

533

Birth of Philip Lynx (Flinx).

534

Joao Acorizal wins surfing contest on Dis.SURFEIT .

537

Death of Anasage. Truzenzuzex and Bran-Tse Mallory begin joint research on the Tar-Aiym.

538

Skua September attempts to buy Flinx, but fails. Mother Mastiff does buy him. Flinx finds his pet minidrag Pip.

543

Atha Moon hired as starship copilot by Maxim Malaika. Rashalleila Nuaman finances the building of an illegal research station on Midworld.

545

Hyperion trees on Annubis destroyed. Destruction of covert commercial outpost on Midworld by the natives.MIDWORLD .

546

Agreement between Nuaman Enterprises and the AAnn result in the building of an illegal station on Ulru-Ujurr. The

first Janus jewels are mined and put on the market.

548

Attempted kidnapping of the duKanes fails; lifeboat crashes near Sofold on Tran-ky-ky.ICERIGGER . Planet Booster and the Krang found by a prospector in The Blight. Isili Hasboga begins prospecting in Mimmisompo on Alaspin; Habib and Pocomchi arrive there. Sawbill September working as an emoman on Thalia Major. Deaths of Terence Wu, Jasper Jordan, and Joann, due to Sawbill's drugs. Mother Mastiff is kidnapped by the Meliorare Society. Death of Cruachan and destruction of Meliorares. Flinx meets Lauren Walder while pursuing the kidnappers.FOR LOVE OF MOTHER-NOT .

549

Expedition to the Blight investigates the Krang. Flinx discovers its function.THE TAR-AIYM KRANG . KK-drive plant on Terra destroyed by scientist Endrickson while under Janus Jewel influence. Destruction of the nomadic Horde on Tran-ky-ky. Tran-ky-ky downgraded in Commonwealth status from IVB to V, possibly due to machinations of Resident Commissioner Jobius Trell.MISSION TO MOULOKIN .

550

Death of Rashalleila Nuaman. Flinx meets Sylzenzuzex. He breaks a Church Edict by traveling to Ulru-Ujurr. He solves the mystery of the Janus jewels, and discovers clues to his parentage. Ujurrians begin "Game of Civilization". Death of Teleen Rudanuaman.ORPHAN STAR . The Slanderscree arrives back in Brass Monkey. The duKanes leave Tran-ky-ky. Ethan Fortune, Skua September, and Milliken Williams leave Brass Monkey to form the Union of Ice.THE DELUGE DRIVERS .

551

Flinx travels to Alaspin. Deaths of Habib and Pocomchi Expedition to the Cannachanna system in the Blight discovers the anticollapsar weapon. Hur'rikku weapon creates a "rainbow star" from the collapsar near the Velvet Dam.THE END OF THE MATTER . Flinx returns to Moth. He meets Kniga Yakus and accompanies him to a Hallowseye mine in Dead-Place on Map.SNAKE EYES .

551

Flinx returns to Alaspin, meets Clarity Held. With aid of Ulru-Ujurrians, he is projected sufficiently to brush the fringe

of the threat that drove the Xunca from the known universe-and discovers more about himself.FLINX IN FLUX.

552

Fleeing pursuers, Flinx discovers Midworld-and it discovers him.MID-FLINX.

553

Flinx encounters another great artifact of the Tar-Aiym...and an old relation.REUNION .

c561

AAnn explorers in the Blight encounter the Vom and transport it to Repler III. Death of Lord Estes Rose. Vom destroyed by the revived Tar-Aiym Guardian and Flinx. Its assignment terminated, the Guardian Peot commits suicide. Birth of Cora Xamantina.BLOODHYPE . Mother Mastiff tells Flinx what she knows of his background.

c558

Birth of Sam Mataroreva.

c564

Hwoshien appointed Resident Commissioner of Cachalot.

570

Dewas Hazaribagh starts his fishing/salvage company on Cachalot.

571

A group of observers from Horseye visit Cachalot. In surviving on Prism, Evan Orgell learns the true nature of the unique local sentients.SENTENCED TO PRISM .

572

Crisis on Cachalot with destruction of five floating towns. Investigation leads to discovery of the CusnunC.CACHALOT .

573

On Senisran, Pulickel Tomochelor and Fawn Seaforth discover a native ritual that activates an intact transportation gate left behind by the long-vanished Xunca.THE HOWLING STONES .

583

Flinx turns fifty, the reality and ultimate threat emerging from the Great Emptiness makes itself known to the civilizations of the galaxy, and the Final Confrontation commences.

c1530

Light from the Rainbow Star reaches Midworld.

12,550

Tunnel digging ends on Ulru-Ujurr; the planet shifts to a closer orbit to its sun. The Ulru-Ujurrians undergo an epiphany.

c13,000

Cold cycle ends, warm cycle begins anew on Tran-ky-ky.

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About The Author

Born in New York City in 1946, Foster was raised in Los Angeles. After receiving a Bachelor's Degree in Political Science and a Master of Fine Arts in Cinema from UCLA (1968, l969) he spent two years as a copywriter for a small Studio City, Calif. advertising and public relations firm.

His writing career began when August Derleth bought a long Lovecraftian letter of Foster's in 1968 and much to Foster's surprise, published it as a short story in Derleth's bi-annual magazine The Arkham Collector. Sales of short fiction to other magazines followed. His first attempt at a novel, The Tar-Aiym Krang, was bought by Betty Ballantine and published by Ballantine Books in 1972. It incorporates a number of suggestions from famed SF editor John W. Campbell.

Since then, Foster's sometimes humorous, occasionally poignant, but always entertaining short fiction has appeared in all the major SF magazines as well as in original anthologies and several "Best of the Year" compendiums. Five collections of his short form work have been published.

Foster's work to date includes excursions into hard science-fiction, fantasy, horror, detective, western, historical, and contemporary fiction. He has also written numerous non-fiction articles on film, science, and scuba diving, as well as having produced the novel versions of many films, including such well-known productions as Star Wars, the first three Alien films, and Alien Nation. Other works include scripts for talking records, radio, computer games, and the story for the first Star Trek movie. In addition to publication in English, his work has appeared and won awards throughout the world. His novel Cyber Way won the Southwest Book Award for Fiction in 1990, the first work of science-fiction ever to do so.

Though restricted (for now) to the exploration of one world, Foster's love of the far-away and exotic has led him to travel extensively. After graduating from college he lived for a summer with the family of a Tahitian policeman and camped out in French Polynesia. He and his wife JoAnn Oxley, of Moran, Texas, have traveled to Europe and throughout Asia and the Pacific in addition to exploring the back roads of Tanzania and Kenya. Foster has camped out in the "Green Hell" region of the Southeastern Peruvian jungle, photographing army ants and pan-frying piranha (lots of small bones; tastes a lot like trout); has ridden forty-foot whale sharks in the remote waters off Western Australia, and was one of three people on the first commercial air flight into Northern Australia's Bungle Bungle National Park. He has rappelled into New Mexico's fabled Lechugilla Cave, white-water rafted the length of the Zambezi's Batoka Gorge, driven solo the length and breadth of Namibia, crossed the Andes by car , sifted the sands of unexplored archeological sites in Peru, gone swimming with giant otters in Brazil, and surveyed remote Papua New Guinea and West Papua both above and below the water. His filmed footage of Great White Sharks feeding off South Australia has appeared on both American television and the BBC.

Besides traveling he enjoys listening to both classical music and heavy metal. Other pastimes include basketball, hiking, body surfing, scuba diving, collecting animation on video, and weightlifting. He studied karate with Aaron and Chuck Norris before Norris decided to give up teaching for acting. He has taught screenwriting, literature, and film history at UCLA and Los Angeles City College as well as having lectured at universities and conferences around the country and in Europe. A member of the Science-Fiction Writers of America, the Author's Guild of America, and the Writer's Guild of America, west, he also spent two years serving on the Planning and Zoning Commission of his home town of Prescott, Arizona. Foster's correspondence and manuscripts are in the Special Collection of the Hayden Library of Arizona State University, Tempe, Arizona.

The Fosters reside in Prescott in a house built of brick salvaged from a turn-of-the-century miners' brothel, along with assorted dogs, cats, fish, several hundred houseplants, visiting javelina, porcupines, eagles, red-tailed hawks, skunks, coyotes, bobcats, and the ensorceled chair of the nefarious Dr. John Dee. He is presently at work on several new novels and media projects.

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Content

Фостер Алан Дин Phylogenesis