Foster, Alan Dean – Humanx 01 – Midworld – Library. Read online. Free books read online. Read books without registering

World with no name.

Green it was.

Green and gravid.

It lay supine in a sea of sibilant Jet, a festering

emerald in the universeocean. It did not support

life. Rather, on its surface life exploded, erupted, mul-

tiplied, and thrived beyond imagining. From a soil

base so rich it all but lived itself, a verdant magma

spilled forth to inundate the land.

And it was green. Oh, it was a green so bright

it had its own special niche in the spectrum of the

impossible, a green pervasive, an everywhere-all-at-

once, omnipotent green.

World of a chlorophyllous god.

Save for a few pockets of rancid blue, the oceans

themselves were green from a surfeit of drifting plant

life that nearly strangled the waters. The mountains

were green until they blended into green froth; only

at the heights did lichens battle with creeping ice as

on most worlds waves warred with the land. Even

the air had a pale green cast to it, so that looking

through it one would seem to be staring through

lenses cut from purest peridot.

There was no question of the planet’s ability to

support life. Rather, it was a question of it’s support-

ing too much life, too well.

Even so, in all the life that grew and flew and

fought and died on the most fertile globe in the heav-

ens, there was not a single creature that thoughtnot

in the manner in which thought is usually and com-

fortably denned.

It must be considered that that which inhabited the

world with no name regarded the universe in a fash-

ion other than usual … if anything did so at all.

Oh, there were the furcots, of course, but they had

not even a name that could be called a name until

the people came.

They arrived, these people did, on the way to

some place else. To the commander and officers of

the colony ship, who studied and cursed and ranted

at their controls and coordinates, it was a clear case

of a malign accident. This was not the planet to which

their automatic pilot should have brought them. Now

they were in orbit, with no fuel to go anywhere else,

without proper equipment to settle on this world, with-

out time or way to call for help. They would have

to make do with this calamitous landfall.

The colonists voted a Soviet ballot and set about

the matter of bringing civilization to this world. They

were tired and desperate and overconfident, but un-

prepared.

They put down in that green hell. It filtered out

the preponderance of human chaff from the seed

grain right quick and neat, and ate them alive. And

it changed those it did not.

Mankind in those early days was used to controlling

the universe, by force if necessary. Those who held to

such practice did not beget a second generation on

the world with no name. A few, less constrained by

pride and more resilient, survived and had children.

Their offspring grew up with no illusions about the

supremacy of humankind or anykind. They matured

and observed the world around them through different

eyes.

Roll the log.

Give and take.

Bend with the wind.

Adapt, adapt, adapt.. .1

Born watched the morning mist rise and dreamed

of the sun. He snuggled deeper into the cranny in the

thomabar tree and wrapped his cloak of green fur

more tightly about himself. Thoughts of the sun

cheered him a little. Hard work, much climbing, and

courage had gifted him with that sight three times in

his modest lifetime. Not many men could boast of

that, he prided himself.

To see the sun one had to climb to the top of the

world. And crawl to the crown of one of the Pillars

or emergents that were the world’s buttresses. To as-

cend to such places was to court death from the host

of ravenous shapes that drifted and soared in the Up-

per Hell.

He had done it three times. He was among the

bravest of the braveor as some in the village in-

sisted, the maddest of the mad.

The damp mist thinned further as the rising sun

sucked moisture from the Third Level. He shivered.

It was dangerous as well as uncomfortable to rest

comparatively exposed so early in the day, when all

sorts of unpleasant things roamed the canopy world.

But dawn and dusk were the best times for hunters

to hunt, and Bom counted himself their equal. A

good hunter did not hide away safe while others took

the best game.

He thought of calling to Ruumahum, but the big

furcot was not close by, and a yell now would surely

scare away potential kill. For the moment he would

have to do without the comfort of his companion’s

hulking warmth.

That Ruumahum was within calling distance Bom

did not doubt. Once a furcot was joined to a person

it never strayed far until that person died. When

he died . . . Born angrily shrugged off the thought.

These were useless musings for a man engaged in a

hunt

Three days out from the village now and he had

encountered nothing worth taking. Plenty of bush-

ackers, but he would walk the surface itself before he

would return to the village with only a bushacker or

two. He burned with remembrance of Losting’s return

with the carcass of the breeder, remembrance of the ad-

miration and acclaim accorded the big man. Small

things, frivolous things, but nevertheless he burned.

The breeder had been as big as Losting, all claws

and pincers, but it was those threatening claws and

pincers that were filled with the best white meat, and

Losting had laid them at the feet of Brightly Go and

she hadn’t refused them. That was when Bom had

stormed out of the village on his present, and thus

far futile, hunt.

He had never been able to match Losting in size

or strength, but he had skill. Even as a child he had

been clever, faster than Tlis friends, and had taken

every opportunity to prove it. Though none questioned

his abilities now, he would have been appalled to

learn that everyone considered him a bit reckless, a

touch crazy. They wouldn’t have understood Bom’s

constant need to prove himself to others. In this one

way, he was a throwback.

Now he was soloing again, always a dangerous sit-

uation. He concentrated on shutting himself off from

the world, blended with the foliage, became a part of

the prickly green, virtually invisible in the meandering

pathway of the cubble.

The mist had fled, rising into the Second Level.

The air was clear although still moist. Bom’s view of

the big epiphytic bromeliad several meters down the

vine was unobstructed. The huge parasitic blossom

grew from the center of the cubble, parasite feeding

on parasite. Broad spatulate leaves of olive and black

backed the green bloom. Thick petals grew tightly to-

gether, curving out and up to form a water-tight basin.

As was usual following the evening rain, it was now

filled with fresh water a meter deep. Eventually, some-

thing worth killing would come to partake of it.

Around him the forest awoke, the hylaeal chorus of

barks, squeaks, chirps, howls, and screeches taking up

where less loquacious nocturnal cousins had left off.

He was discouraged enough to consider trying an-

other place, when he detected movement in the

branches and lianas above the natural cistern. He

risked edging forward, momentarily breaking the cam-

ouflage of his wavy green cloak. Yes, a definite

rustling, still well above the cubbleway, but traveling

downward.

Moving as little as possible, he shifted the snuffler

from its resting place. The meter-and-a-half-long tube

of green wood was six centimeters around at its back

end, narrowing to barely one at its tip. Gently he

slid it out on the hump of wood in front of him. It

rested there motionless, like a leafless twig. He sighted

it on the cistern. Reaching into the quiver slung across

his back under the cape, he pulled out one of the

ten-centimeter-long thorns it held. Holding it care-

fully by its fan-shaped tail end, where it had been

snapped from the parent plant, he slid it into the open

back end of the snufiler.

The sack slung next to the quiver produced a tank

seed. It was bright yellow, veined with black and

slightly bigger around than a man’s fist. Its leathery

surface was taut as a drum. Bom eased it into the

back of the snuffler, then latched the backblock in

place. Above, the rustling had become a crashing and

bending of thick branches.

Wrapping his right hand around the pistollike trig-

ger and using the other to steady the long barrel,

he settled himself on the weapon, still as a statue.

Concentrating on the bromeliad, he strove to reach

out and become one with the plant.

See what a fair resting place I offer, he thought

tensely. How spacious this cubble limb, how broad

and tasty its companions, how clear and fresh and

cool the water I have caught so patiently just for you.

Come down to me and drink deep of my well!

A lost breeze blew, rifBing leaf tips on the bromeliad.

Bom held his breath and prayed it would not carry

his scent to whatever was making its ponderous way

downward.

A last loud crunching of parted vegetation, and

the vertical traveler showed himselfa dark brown

cone shape, covered with stubby brown fur. At the

flat end of the cone two long tentacles reached out.

Red-irised eyes tipped them. Evenly spaced around

the cone-shaped body of the grazer were four thickly-

muscled arms, which held it suspended between upper

and lower branches with the aid of the prehensile

tail that extended from the point of the cone.

Nearly two meters of bulk, five times Bora’s weight,

the grazer would be difficult to kill. The thick, close-

matted fur would be hard to penetrate, but only a

thin bristle covered (he flat base of the cone. To

strike there Born would have to wait until the creature

turned toward him. The tiny round mouth set in the

center of the base was harmless, lined with four op-

posing sets of flat grinding teeth. But those arms could

reduce the cubble path to splinters. A man would

come a part much more easily.

One arm shifted its grip, grabbed a lower branch.

The tail curved down to grip the same support. Then

the upper and left arm let go and the grazer swung

lower still. Born wished he had prepared a little more

thoroughly, setting out a second tank seed and jacari

thorn. Now it was too late. A single slight movement

from him and the grazer would be gone in a blur

of arms and tail. It could travel up, down, or sideways

through the forest with tremendous speed. It could

also circle behind a man almost before he had time

to turn.

It paused on the liana directly above the cistern.

The tail and double-handed grip rotated it slowly as

it looked in all directions. Once, it seemed to Born

that the weaving eyes stared straight at his hiding

place, but they neither stopped nor hesitated and

swung on past. Apparently satisfied with the state of

the neighborhood, the grazer dropped to the cubble.

Three arms supported it in a semistanding pose on

the outer edge of the bromeliad. It leaned forward,

the broad flat face dipping down to the water. Born

could hear slurping sounds.

The real problem was when he whistled, would

that massive head turn left or right? If he guessed

wrong, he would lose precious, perhaps decisive, sec-

onds. Making his choice, Born slid the tip of the

snumer slightly in the grazer’s direction. He pursed

his Ups and let go with a low, stuttering whistle. The

grazer wouldn’t touch meat, but flowerkit eggs were

a delicacy.

At the sound of Bom’s imitation of a female flower-

kit’s danger call, the big head came up and around

and stared directly at him. Letting out a short, nerv-

ous breath, the hunter pulled hard on the trigger. In-

side the barrel a long, sharpened sliver of ironwood

shot backward, punctured the tank seed’s stretched

skin. There was a soft bang as the gas-filled seed

exploded. The compressed gas was further compressed

by the narrowing barrel of the snufiler. Thus pro-

pelled, the jacari thorn shot outward and hit square

center of the grazer’s flat, bristly face, just above

the mouth and between the two eye stalks.

All four jaws dilated. There was a horrid choking

shriek. The aural catalyst set off the surrounding

forest, and the panicked howling and crying continued

for long moments.

The grazer took a hopping, threatening jump to-

ward Born, shook briefly as it landed barely two

meters away, and collapsed down off the cubble. But

the paralyzed hands and tail held it firm to the big

vine. Those powerful, multidigited fingers would have

to be cut or pried open.

He watched the creature steadily. Grazers had a

way of playing dead until their attacker came close,

when they would unexpectedly reach out to clutch

and rend with limb-tearing violence. But this one

didn’t even quiver. The thorn had pierced its brain

and killed it instantly.

Bom sighed, put the snumer down and stood up,

stretching cramped muscles. The green fur cloak fell

freely from his neck. Taking his bone skinning knife

from his belt, he stepped free of the sheltering crev-

ice and walked down the broad vine toward the limp

shape.

Easily five times his mass. Born mused, and almost

all of that edible! But tasting it in one’s mind and

cooked over a hot fire were two different things.

There was now the small matter of getting the prized

carcass back to the village and dealing with hungry

scavengers along the way. The sooner they left here,

the better.

Bending over the edge of the cubble, he got busy

with the knife. Muscle and tendon parted as he cut

at the hands and tail which held it fast. The grazer

fell into the foliage just below.

A voice like an idling locomotive sounded sud-

denly behind him. Bom leaped instinctively, sailed out

and down before grabbing a branch of the cubble

and jerking to a muscle-biting stop. Panting, he turned

and looked back up. He had recognized the rum-

bling even as he jumped, but too late to stay the

reflex action.

Ruumahum stood looking down at him from the

main bole of the cubble. The furcot moved closer,

all six of his thick legs gripping the wood. The ursine

face peered at him, the three dark eyes set in. a curve

over the muzzle staring down mournfully. Great claws

scratched at the branch.

Born shook his head and swung himself onto the

vine.

“I’ve told you often, Ruumahum, not to sneak up

on me like that.”

“Fun,” Ruumahum protested.

“Not fun,” Bom insisted, making use of a herba-

ceous stalk to return to his former level. A short

jump and he was back on the cubbleway. Grabbing

Ruumahum by one of his long floppy ears, he pulled

and shook by way of making his point.

The furcot was as long as the grazer, though not

quite as massive. He was also incredibly powerful,

quick, and intelligent. A furcot pack would be the

scourge of the canopy world were it not for the fact

that they were lazy beyond imagining and spent most,

of their lives engaged in fulfilling a single passion-

sleep.

“Not fun,” Bom finished, with a last admonishing

yank. Ruumahum nodded, walked around-the hunter,

and sniffed down at the grazer below.

“Too old not,” he rumbled. “Good eating . . 9

much good eating.”

“If we can get it back Home,” Bom agreed. “Can

you manage?”

“Can manage,” the furcot replied, without a mo-

ment’s hesitation.

Bom bent over the edge, studied the corpse. “It

struck a pretty solid branch, but it could easily slip

off. Do you want to pick it up, or circle beneath

and catch it when I shove it free?”

“Circle, catch.”

Bom nodded. Ruumahum started downward, mak-

ing a wide circle to take him below the grazer. Once

positioned, Bom would move directly down until he

could push it off. Neither of them wished to descend

after a tumbling carcass to unpredictable depths, to

levels unknown.

There were seven levels to the forest world. Man-

kind, the persons, preferred this, the Third. So did the

furcots. Two levels rose above this one, to a sun-

bleached green roof and the Upper Hell. Four lay

below, the Seventh and deepest being the Lower and

True Hell, over four hundred and fifty meters below

the Home.

Many men had seen the Upper Hell. Bom had seen

it three times and lived. But only two legendary fig-

ures had ever made their way to the Lower. To the

surface. To the perpetually dark swamp, a moist land

of vast open pits and mindless abominations that

crawled and swam and ate.

Or so they had claimed. The first had not been

of whole mind when he returned and had died soon

after. The second had returned with several important

parts of himself gone, but had confirmed the ravings

of his companion, though he, too, screamed almost

every night.

Not even the furcots, hunting back through ancestral

memories, could tell of one of their kind who had ever

descended below the Sixth Level. It was a place to

be shunned. Understandable, then, that neither man

nor companion desired to go hunting there for fallen

prey.

Ruumahum appeared beneath the grazer and

growled. Born shouted an answer and started down.

The grazer was still hanging from the branch when

he reached it, but a single shove was enough to dis-

lodge it. Bracing himself, Ruumahum dug the claws

of rear and middle legs into the hard wood of the

cubble. Reaching out slightly, he slammed both fore-

paws, either of which could crush a man’s skull

with much less effort, deep into the body of the

grazer, just below the tail. –

With Bom’s aid, the grazer was then balanced

evenly on Ruumahum’s back. Forepaws steadied the

dead weight while Bom tied it securely with unbreak-

able fom from the loops at his waist, passing the line

several times round the carcass and under the furcot’s

two bellies. He knotted it and stood aside.

“Try it, Ruumahum. Any shifting?”

The furcot dug all three pairs of claws into the

wood and leaned experimentally to the left, then

right. Then he shook deliberately, raised his head, and

lowered his hips.”Shift not. Born. Good rest.”

Bom studied the huge bulk with concern. “Sure

you can make it all right? It’s a long way Home,

and we may have to fight.” The load was consid-

erable even for a mature furcot as big as Ruumahum.

The latter snorted. “Can make . . . not sure of

fighting.”

“All right, don’t worry about it. Kill or no kill,

if we get into any real trouble I’ll cut you free.” He

grinned. “Just don’t go to long sleep on me halfway

between here and Home.”

“Sleep? What is sleep?” Ruumahum snorted. The

furcots possessed a peculiar sense of humor, all their

own that only occasionally coincided with that of per-

sons. As Bom was a bit peculiar himself, he under-

stood their jokes better than most.

“Let’s go, then.”

Back to the hiding place to retrieve the snuffler

and sling it snugly across his back. Then there was

only one more thing to do. Born walked back past

the heavily laden Ruumahum and stopped at the

brim of the bromeliad which had attracted such ex-

cellent prey. He ran his hands caressingly over the

broad leaves and strong petals. Hands cupped, he

bent to drink deeply from the clear pool .that the

unlucky grazer had sought. Finishing, he shook the

droplets free and wiped wet palms on his cloak. He

stroked the nearest leaf again in silent tribute to the

plant, and then he and Ruumahum started the ar-

duous trek Homeward.

It was a green universe, true; but its stars and

nebulae were brilliantly colored. Cauliflorous air-trees

growing on the broad branches of the Pillars and

emergents bristled with fragrant blossoms of every

conceivable shape and color, some exuding fragrances

so pungent they had to be avoided lest olfactory

senses be smothered forever. These perfumed blooms

Bom and Ruumahum avoided assiduously. Their lo-

calized miasmas were as deadly as they were sensu-

ous. Vines and creepers put forth flowers of their

own, and in places aerial roots bloomed with their

own flowerings. There were color and variety to make

Earth’s richest jungles seem pallid and wan in com-

parison.

. Although plant life held dominance, animal life was

also abundant and lush. Omithoid, mammaloid, and

reptiloid arboreals glided or flew through winding

emerald tunnels. They were outnumbered by crea-

tures that swung, crawled, and jumped along gravity-

defying highways of wood and pulp.

The steady cycle of life and death revolved around

Bom and Ruumahum as they made their way over

crosshatched tuntangcles and cubbies and winding

woody paths back toward the village. A drifter with

helical wings pounced upon an unwary six-legged

feathered pseudolizard, was swallowed in turn when it

chose to land on a false cubble. The false cubble

looked almost identical to the thick wooden creepers

Bom and Ruumahum strode across. Had Bom stepped

on it he would have lost a foot at the least. The

false cubble was a continuous chain of interlocking

mouths, stomachs, and intestines. Both drifter and

pseudolizard vanished down one link of the toothed

branch.

It was close to noon. Occasional shafts of light

reached the Third Level, some digging even deeper

to the Fourth and Fifth. Mirror vines shone every-

where, their diamond-shaped reflective leaves bounc-

ing the sun and sending life-giving light ricocheting

hundreds of meters down green canyons to places it

otherwise would never reach. Noontime was the cres-

cendo of the hylaeal symphony. Comb vines and

resonators formed a verdant vocal background for the

songsters of the animal kingdom. They would have

astonished a curious botanist, as would the mirror

vines.

Born was no botanist. He could not have defined

the term. But his great-great-great-great-great-

grandfather could have. That knowledge had not kept

him from dying young, however.

Eventually the damp night mist slid about them

with feline stealth. The cheerful raucousness of the

creatures of light gave way to the sounds of awaken-

ing nightlings, whose grunts were darker and deeper,

their cries closer to hysteria, the booming howls of the

nocturnal carnivores a touch more menacing. It was

time to find shelter.

Bom had spent much of the last hour searching

for a wild Home tree. Such trees were rare and he

had encountered none this afternoon. They would have

to settle for less accommodating temporary quarters.

One such lay ten meters Overhead, easily reached

through the interwoven pathways of the forest canopy.

What disease or parasite had caused the great woody

galls to form on the branch of the Pillar tree neither

Bom nor Ruumahum could guess, but they were grate-

ful for their presence. They would serve to gentle

the night. Six or seven of the globular eruptions were

clustered together on the branch. The smallest was

half Bom’s size, the largest more than spacious enough

to accommodate man and furcot.

He tested the biggest with his knife, found it far

too tough for the sharpened bonejust as he had

hoped. If his skinning blade could not penetrate the

woody gall, the chances of some predator coming in

on them from behind were small. He untied the dead

grazerit was already beginning to smellfrom

Ruumahum’s back, slid the hulk onto the branch.

Ruumahum stretched delightedly, fur rippling as the

muscles in his back popped. He yawned, revealing

multiple canines and two razor-sharp lower tusks.

Under Bom’s direction, the furcot went to work on

the gall with both forepaws, ripping open nearly all of

one side. Together they wrestled the carcass into the

cavity. Working carefully and smoothly, Bom tied his

remaining jacari thorns into the length of vine until

they formed a crude barricade across the opening. Any

scavenger who tried to sneak in now risked a fatal

pricking. The barbed thoms crisscrossed the opening

neatly. An intelligent scavenger could work around

them easily, but they would stop anything that was not

a man.

Their kill safely secured for the night, Ruumahum

went to work on the gall next in line, cutting a

smaller opening in it for them to enter. Bom knelt,

peered inside. It was long deaddry and black. As

he entered, he pulled a packet of red dust from his

belt; Ruumahum was already scraping some of the

dust-dry gall lining into a pile near the opening they

had made. Bom poured a little of the red powder on

a thin scrap of wood and pressed his thumb into it

A few seconds of contact with his body heat was

enough to cause the dust pile to explode in flame

just as the hunter withdrew his thumb. The incendiary

pollen served as a especially effective form of defense

for a certain parasitic tuber. Bom’s people had dis-

covered its usefulness the hard way.

He built the tiny blaze into a modest fire that

burned freely on the smooth, dead floor of the gall.

Its dance and crackle was a great comfort in the

blackness of night. Only one more thing to do. He

had to shake Ruumahum violently to awaken him

long enough to cut a tiny hole two-thirds of the way

up the far side of the gall. Circulation and smoke

exit assured, Bom took a piece of dark jerky from

his belt pouch and chewed at the spicy, rock-hard

meat.

The evening rain began. It would rain all night

not an occasional downpour, but a steady, even rain

that would cease two hours before dawn. With few

exceptions, it had rained every night Bom could re-

call. As sure as the sun rose in the morning, the rain

came down at night. Water drummed steadily on the

roof of the gall, flowed down its curved sides to drip

away to depths unseen. Ruumahum was fast asleep.

Bom studied the fire for several minutes. Putting

the rest of the jerky away for the next night, he

nestled himself into Ruumahum’s flank. The furcot

stirred slightly in sleep, pressing against the inner wall

of the gall, his head curved into his chest. Born

sighed, stared at the solid wall of blackness beyond

the fire. He was satisfied. They had met no scavengers

on this first day of return, and Ruumahum had han-

dled the massive load of the great grazer without fall-

ing asleep even once. He stroked the furcot’s fur

appreciatively, running his fingers through the thick

green coat.

A warm, dry shelter for the night, too. Many nights

spent in wetness made him appreciate the dry gall.

Pulling the green fur cloak tightly about him, he

tamed on his side. His knife was close to his right

hand, the snuffler ready at his feet. Relatively con-

tent and more or less confident of not waking up in

the belly of some nightcrawler, he fell into a sound,

dreamless sleep.

It had been a fairly hard rain, Bom reflected as he

stared out through the bole cut in the gall. Behind

him, Ruumahum slept on oblivious. The furcot would

continue to do so until Bom woke him. Left to

his own devices, a furcot would sleep all but a few

hours a day.

Droplets still fell from the green sky above, though

the rain had long since ceased. A couple struck Bom

in the face. He shook the tepid moisture away. Walk-

ing would be slippery and uncertain for a while, but

they would start immediately anyway. He was anxious

to be Home. Anxious to see the look on Brightly

Go’s face when he dumped the grazer at her feet.

Rising, he booted Ruumahum in the ribs a couple

of times. The furcot moaned. Bom repeated the ac-

tion. Ruumahum got to his feet two at a time, grum-

bling irritably.

“Already morning… ?”

“Long day’s march, Ruumahum,” Bom told him.

“Long rain last night. There should be red berries

and pium out before midday.”

Ruumahum brightened at the thought of food. He

would have preferred to sleep, but . . . pium, now.

A last stretch, extending forepaws out in front of

him and pulling, digging eight parallel grooves into

the alloy-tough dead base of the gall. Persons, he had

to admit, were sometimes useful to have around. They

had a way of finding good things to eat and making

the very eating more enjoyable. For such rewards

Ruumahum was willing to overlook Bom’s faults. His

triple pupils brightened. Humans flattered themselves

with the idea that they had done an awesome job of

domesticating the first furcots. The furcots saw no need

to dispute this. The reality of it was that they had

stuck with the persons out of curiosity. Human persons

were the first beings the furcots had ever encountered

who were unpredictable enough to keep them awake.

One could never quite predict what a person might

doeven one’s own person. So they kept up the pact

without really understanding why, knowing only that

in the relationship there was something worthwhile

and good.

Keeping hearts of pium in mind enabled Ruumahum

to arrange the grazer carcass on his back without fall-

ing asleep more than once in the process. So Bom

lost little of bis precious time.

Either no scavenger had blundered into their camp,

or else they had elected not to risk those deadly in-

terlocking thorns. Bom recovered all the vine-entwined

jacaris, reset the poison darts in the bottom of his

quiver, looped the vine around his belt, and started

off again.

“Close Home,” Ruumahum muttered that evening,

pausing to send a thick curving tongue out to groom

the back of a forepaw.

Bom had been recognizing familiar landmarks and

tree blazes for over an hour. There was the storm-

treader tree that had killed old Hannah in an unwary

moment. They gave the black and silver bole a wide

berth. Once they had to pause as a’ Buna floater

drifted by, trailing long stinging tentacles. As they

waited, the floater let out a long sibilant whistle and

dropped lower, perhaps to try its luck on the Fourth

Level where scampering bushackers were more com-

mon.

Born had stepped out from behind a trunk and

was about to remove his cloak when abov e them

sounded a shriek sufficient to shatter a pfeffennall,

more violent than the howl of chollakee hunting. So

sudden, so overpowering was the scream that the

normally imperturbable Ruumahum was shocked into

a defensive posture, backing up against the nearest

bole despite the restrictive mass of the grazer, fore-

paws upraised and claws extended.

The scream dropped to a moan that was abruptly

subsumed by an overpowering, frightening roar of

crackings and snappings. Even the branch of the near-

by Pillar tree shook. Then the branch they stood

on rocked fiercely. With his great strength, Ruuma-

hum was able to maintain his perch, but Bom was

not so secure. He fell several meters, smashing through

a couple of helpless succulents before he hit an

unyielding protrusion. He started to bounce off it be-

fore he got both arms locked around the stiff fom.

The vibrating stopped, and he was able to get his

legs around it, too.

Shaking, he pulled himself up. Nothing felt broken,

and everything seemed to work. But his snuffler was

gone; its restraining tie had snapped, sending it bounc-

ing and spinning into the depths. That was a severe

loss.

The crashing and breaking sounds faded, finally

stopped. As he had fallen, Bom thought he had seen

in the distance through the green an impossibly wide

mass of something blue and metallic. It had passed

as swiftly as he had fallen. As he stared that way

now there was nothing to be seen but the forest.

Peepers and orbioles came out of hiding, called

hesitantly into the silence. Then bushackers and flow-

erkits and their relatives joined in. In minutes the

hylaea sounded and resounded normally again.

“Something has happened,” Ruumahum ventured

softly.

“I think I saw it.” Bom stared harder, still saw

only what belonged. “Did you? Something big and

blue and shining.”

Ruumahum eyed him steadily. “Saw nothing. Saw

self falling to Hell and gone. Concentrated on staying

here with grazer weight pulling there. No time for

curious-looking.”

“You did better than I, old friend,” Bom admitted,

as he climbed up toward the furcot. He tested a liana,

found it firm, and started off in the direction of the

murderous sounds. “I think we’d better”

“No.” A glance over his shoulder showed the furcot

with his great head lowered and moving slowly from

side to side in imitation of the human gesture of

negation. Three eyes rolled toward the path they had

been following.

“So far, lucky be we, person Bom. Soon though,

others grazer to smell will begin. We will fight have

to every step to Home. To Home go first. This

other”and he nodded in the direction of the break-

ing and crashing”I would talk of first with the

brethren, who know such things quickly.”

Bom stood thinking on the woody; bridge. His in-

tense curiosityor madness, if one believed many of

his fellowspulled him toward the source of the

sounds, however threatening they had been. For a

change, reason overcame. Ruumahum and he had

been through much in the killing and carrying of the

grazer. To risk losing it now for no good reason was

unsound thinking.

“Okay, Ruumahum.” He hopped back onto the

bigger branch and started toward the village again.

A last look over his shoulder still showed only speckled

greenery and no unnatural movement. “But as soon

as the meat’s disposed of, I’m coming back to find

out what that was, whether or not you or anyone

else comes with me.”

“Doubt it not,” Ruumahum replied knowingly.

III

They reached the barrier well before darkness. In

front of them, the hylaea seemed to become a single

treethe Home-tree. Only the Pillars themselves were

bigger, and the Home-tree was a monstrously big

tree for certain. Broad twisting branches and vines-d-

own shot out in all directions. Air-trees and cubbies

and lianas grew in and about the tree’s own growth.

Born noted with satisfaction that only plants which

were innocuous or helpful to the Home-tree grew on

it. His people kept the Home-tree well and, in turn,

the Home-tree kept them.

The vines-of-own were lined with flowers of bright

pink, with pollen pods which sat globelike within

them. These pods were akin to the yellow tank

seeds that made the snufflers such deadly weapons,

but far more sensitive. A single touch on the sensi-

tive pink surface would cause the paper-thin skin to

rupture, sending a cloud of dust into the air that

would kill any animal inhaling it, whether through

nostril, pore, or other air exchanger. The vines en-

tangled and crossed the tree in the middle of the

Third Levelthe village levelforming a protective

net of deadly ropes around it.

Bom approached the nearest, leaned over and spat

directly into the center of one of the blossoms, avoid-

ing the pod. The blossom quivered, but the pod did

not burst. The pink petals closed in on themselves.

A pause, then the vines began to curl and tighten

like climbing vines hunting for a better purchase. As

they retracted, a clear path was formed through which

Bom and Ruumahum strode easily. Even as Ruuma-

hum was through, the outermost vines were already

relaxing once again, expanding, coming together and

shutting off the pathway. The bloom into which Bom

had spat opened its petals once more to drink the faint

evening light.

A casual observer would note that Bom’s saliva had

disappeared. A chemist would be able to tell that it

had been absorbed. A brilliant scientist might be able

to discover that it had been more than absorbed

it had been analyzed and identified. Bom knew only

that carefully spitting into the bloom seemed to tell

the Home-tree who he was.

As he walked toward the village proper he tried

to whistle happily. The song died aboming. His mind

was occupied with the mysterious blue thing that had

come crashing down into the forest. Rarely, one of

the greater air-trees would overreach its rootings, or

overgrow its perch, and fall, bringing down creepers

and lesser growths with it. But never had Bom heard

such a smashing and shattering of wood. This thing

had been far heavier than any air-tree. He knew that

by the speed with which it had fallen. And there was

that half familiar, metallic gleam.

His thoughts were not on bis expected triumph as

he entered the village center. Here, the enormous trunk

of the Home-tree split into a webbing of lesser boles,

forming an interlocking net of wood around a central

open space, before joining and growing together high

above to form once more a single tapering trunk

that rose skyward for another sixty meters. With

vines and plant fibers and animal skins the villagers

had closed off sections of the interweaving trunklets

to form homes and rooms impervious to casual rain

and wind. For food, the Home-tree offered cauliflorous

fruits shaped like gourds, tasting like cranberry, which

sometimes grew within the sealed-off homes them-

selves.

Small scorched places lay within the houses and

beneath the canopy in the central square. These mi-

nute bums did not affect the enormous growth. Each

home also possessed a pit dug into the wood itself.

Here, many times daily, the inhabitants of the tree

offered thanks for its shelter and protection, mixing

their offerings with a mulch of dead, pulpy plants

gathered for the purpose. The mulch also served to

f n

kill strong odors. When the pits were full they were

cleaned out. The dry residue was thrown over the side

of the Home-tree into the green depths, so that the

pits could be used again. For the tree accepted and

absorbed the offerings with great speed and matchless

efficiency.

The Home-tree was the greatest discovery made

by Bom’s ancestors. Its unique characteristics were

discovered when it seemed that the last surviving col-

onists would perish. At that time no one wondered

why a growth unutilized by native life should prove

so accommodating to alien interlopers. When the hu-

man population made a comeback, scouts were sent

out to search for other Home-trees, and a new tribe

was planted. But in the years since Bom’s great-great-

great-great-great-grandfather had settled in this tree,

contact with other tribes had first dwindled and then

stopped altogether. None bothered to reopen such

contact, or cared. They had all they could do to

survive in a world that seethed with nightmare forms

of death and destruction.

“Bom is back . . . look, Bom has returned . . .

Born, Bomi”

A small crowd gathered around him, welcoming

him joyously, but consisting entirely of children. One

of them, ignoring the respect due a returning hunter,

had the temerity to tug at his cloak. He looked

down, recognized the orphan boy Din who was cared

for in common.

His mother and father had been taken one day

while they were on a fruit-gathering expedition, by

something that had coughed once horribly and van-

ished into the forest. The rest of the party had fled

in panic and later returned to find only the couple’s

tools. No sign of them had ever been found. So the

boy was raised by everyone in the village. For rea-

sons unknown to anyone, least of all to Bom, the

youngster had attached himself to him. The hunter

could not cast the youth away. It was a lawand

a good law for survivalthat a free child could

make parents of any and all it chose. Why one would

pick mad Bom, though …

“No, you cannot have the grazer pelt,” Bom

scolded, as he gently shoved the boy away. Din, at

thirteen, was no longer a child. He was no longer

pushed so easily.

Following at the orphan’s heels was a fat ball of

fur not quite as big as the adolescent. The furcot cub

Muf tripped over its own stubby legs every third

step. The third time he tripped, he lay down in the

middle of the village and went to sleep, this being

an appropriate solution to the problem. Ruumahum

eyed the cub, mumbled disapprovingly. But he could

sympathize. He was quite ready for an extended nap

, himself.

Bom did not head directly for his home, but instead

walked across the village to another’s.

“Brightly Go!”

Green eyes that matched the densest leaves peeked

out, followed by the face and form of a wood

nymph supple as a kitten. She walked over to take

both his hands in hers.

“It’s good that you’re back, Bom. Everyone wor-

ried. I… worried, much.”

“Worried?” he responded jovially. “About a little

grazer?” He made a grandiose gesture in the direction

of the carcass. Beneath its great mass Ruumahum

fumed and had unkind thoughts about persons who

engaged in frivolous activities before considering the

comfort of their furcot

Brightly Go stared at the grazer and her eyes

grew big as ruby-in-kind blossoms. Then she frowned

with uncertainty. “But Bom, I can’t possibly eat all

that!’

Bom’s answering laughter was only slightly forced.

“You can have what you need of the meat, and your

parents, too. It’s the pelt that’s for you, of course.”

Brightly Go was the most beautiful girl in the vil-

lage, but sometimes Bom found himself thinking unflat-

tering things about her other qualities. Then, he

would eye her thin wrapping of leafleather and forget

everything else.

“You’re laughing at me,” she protested angrily.

“Don’t laugh at me!” Naturally, that encouraged him

to laugh even more.

“Losting,” she said with dignity, “doesn’t laugh at

me.”

That shut him up quickly. “What does it matter

what Losting does?” he shot back challengingly.

“It matters to me.”

“Huh . . . well.” Something had suddenly gone

wrong somewhere. This wasn’t working out the way

he had imagined it would, the way he had planned

it. Somehow it never did.

He looked around the silent village. A few of the

older people had stared out at him when he had re-

turned. Now that the novelty of his survival had

worn off, they had returned to their household

tasks. Most of the active adults, naturally, were off

hunting, gathering edibles, or keeping the Home

clear of parasites. The anticipated adulation had never

materialized. He had risked his life, then, to return

to a cluster of curious children and to the indifference

of Brightly Go. His earlier euphoria vanished.

“I’ll clean the pelt for you, anyway,” he grumbled.

“Come on, Ruumahum.” He turned and stalked angrily

off toward the other side of the village. Behind him

Brightly Go’s face underwent a series of contortions

expressing a broad spectrum of emotions. Then she

turned and went back inside her parent’s compound.

Ruumahum let out a snort of relief when the dead-

weight was finally untied and he could shake it from

his back. Whereupon he walked directly to his comer

in the large single room, lay down, and entered

that region most beloved of all furcots.

Muttering to himself Born unpacked his hunter’s

pouch-belt, removed his cloak, and set about the busi-

ness of preparing the grazer. He wielded the bone

knife so angrily he almost cut through and ruined

the skin several times. The layer of fat beneath the

skin was next. Turning the carcass was a laborious

job, but Born managed without having to wake

Ruumahum. The fat was slung into a wooden

trough. Later it would be melted down and rendered

into candles. Then he was at the meat, cutting away

huge chunks to dry and preserve. Organs and other

nonedibles went into the pit at the back of the room.

This he covered with the ready mulch mixture, add-

ing water from a wood cistern. The Home would be

pleased.

The hollow backbone and the huge flaring circular

ribs he separated, cleaned and scoured, and set out-

side where the sunlight would dry them. The thick

bone would make tools and ornaments. The teeth were

valueless, not worth wearing, unlike those of the

carnivorous breeder Losting had killed. He would

make no necklace of these flat, grinding molars to wear

at ceremonies. But he would eat well.

Once the grazer had been reduced to its useful

components. Born cleaned his hands and arms. Moving

to a comer he pulled aside a curtain of woven fiber.

Rummaging behind it he found his other snumer. He

would have to secure a second one now. He studied

it and thought over the problem. He would get

Jhelum to make one. His hands were far more skillful

at working the green wood than Bom’s, and quicker.

He smiled slightly. He would lose most of his grazer

in trade for the new snuffler, but he would still have

good eating for a time. Jhelum, who did not hunt

and who had two youngsters and a wife, would be

appreciative of the meat.

“I am going to see Jhelum, the carver, Ruumahum.

I’ll–”

A long low whistling came from the furcot’s comer.

Born uttered an angry word. It seemed no one cared

whether he lived or died. He ripped the leafleather

screen aside and marched off toward Jhelum’s place.

Most of the remainder of the day was taken up

in ^working out the arrangements of the exchange. In

the end, Jhelum agreed to prepare the new snuffler

in return for three-fourths of the grazer meat and

the whole skeleton. Ordinarily Born would never have

gone so high. He had worked nearly a week to get

the grazer, and taking such prey involved uncommon

risk. But he was tired, frustrated by the indifferent re-

ception, and confused by Brightly Go. Besides, Jhelum

showed him an exquisite section of green wood pipe,

almost blue in spots, that could be used for the

weapon. It would make an exceptionally handsome

snuffler. He would not be cheated, but neither would

he get a bargain.

He climbed alone into the upper reaches of the

village, to where trunklets started to rejoin to form

a single bole. From there he could look back at

the village and out at the forest wall.

The village center was the largest open space he

had ever seen in his life, save for the Upper Hell,

of course. Here he could relax and study the world

without fear of attack. As he watched, a glass flitter

touched down alongside a pink vines-of-own blossom.

Red and blue wings fluttered lazily, the sun shining

through the transparent organic panes.

This was another thing that prompted some in the

village to call Born a little mad. Only he sat and

wasted his time watching things like flitters and

flowers, which could neither nourish nor kill. Bom

himself did not know why he did such things, but

something within him was gratified when he did.

Gratified and warmed. He would learn all there was

to know about everything.

Reader, the shaman, had tried numerous times to

exorcise the demon that drove Bom to such waste-

fulness, and had failed as many times. Bom had

submitted to such ministrations only at the urgings of

the worried chief couple. Sand and Joyla. Eventually,

Reader had given up, pronouncing Bom’s aberrations

incurable. As long as he harmed no one, all agreed

to let Bom alone. All wished him well.

All save Losting, naturally. But Losting’s dislike

had its roots not in Bom’s aberrations, but in one of

his obsessions.

A drop of lukewarm rain hit Bom on the forehead,

trickled down his face. It was followed by another

and more. It was time to join the council.

He made his way back through the trunklets into

the village. The fire had been lit in the center of the

square on the place scorched tough and black by

many such fires. A broad canopy of woven leafleather

kept the rain off and there was room beneath for all

the villagers. Already most of the people were as-

sembled, Sand, Joyla, and Reader foremost among

them.

As he trotted down through the now steady rain,

he spotted Losting. Entering the circle, Bom took his

place among the men opposite his rival. Losting had

apparently learned of Bern’s return and his offer of

the grazer pelt, for he glared with more venom than

usual across the fire at him. Bom smiled back pleas-

antly.

The steady patter of warm rain falling on the leaf-

leather and dripping to the wood-ground murmured in

counterpoint to the sounds of the assembled people.

Occasionally a child laughed, to be shushed by his

elders.

Sand raised an arm for silence. Beside him, Joyla did

likewise. The people became quiet. Sand, who had

never been a big manperhaps about Bern’s size-

now, shrunken and bent with age, appeared even

smaller. Nevertheless, his presence was still impres-

sive. He was like a weathered old clock that spent

all its time patiently, solemnly ticking, but struck

startlingly loud and clear at the necessary moment.

“The hunting was good,” someone reported.

“The hunting was good,” the assembly echoed ap-

provingly.

“The gathering has been good,” Sand intoned.

“The gathering has been good,” the chorus agreed

readily.

“All who were here last are here now,” Sand ob-

served, staring around the circle. “The sap runs strong

in the Home.”

“The faring of the ready pod,” announced one of

the women in the circle. “The seed of Morann and

Oh ripens. She will ripen within the month.” Sand

and everyone else nodded or murmured approval.

Somewhere far above, thunder pealed, echoed down

cellulose canyons, rolled off chlorophyllous cliffs. The

evening litany droned on how much and what kinds

of fruit and nuts gathered; how much of what kinds

of meat killed and cured; the experiences and ac-

complishments and failures of each member of the

tribe for that day now past.

There was an appreciative, admiring murmur from

the crowd when Born announced the taking of the

grazer, but it was not as strong as he had wished.

He did not take into account the fact that there was

something else paramount in everyone’s mind. It was

for Reader to bring it up.

“This afternoon,” he began, gesturing with his totem

of office, the holy axe, “something came out of the

Upper Hell into the world. Something gigantic beyond

imagining”

“No, not beyon d imagining,” Joyla interrupted. “It

must be assumed the Pillars are greater.”

Appreciative mutters sounded in agreement.

“Well considered, Joyla,” Reader admitted. “Some-

thing for its size, heavy beyond imagining, then,” and

this time he looked satisfied as Joyla remained silent.

“It entered the world northwest of the stormtreader

and passed on to the Lower Hell. Probably it was

a denizen of that Hell visiting its cousins in the Up-

per, and it has returned now to its home.”

“Might we not be wrong about the demons of the

Upper?” someone in the crowd ventured. “Might they

not in truth grow as large as those below? We know

Httle enough of both Hells.”

“And I for one,” someone else put in, “have no

desire to know more!” There was sympathetic laughter.

“Nevertheless,” the shaman insisted, gesturing with

the axe at the dweller who had preferred his com-

fortable ignorance, “this particular demon chose to

descend near to us. What if it has not returned to its

home in the depths? It has made no sound or. move-

ment since its arrival. If it remains near us, who can

say what it might do?” There were nervous stirrings

in the crowd. “There is a chance it might be dead.

While the opportunity to inspect a dead demon would

be interesting, so much meat would be more valuable.”

“Unless its relatives come around to claim its

corpse,” someone shouted, “in which case I’d rather

be elsewhere!” There were mutters of agreement.

Lightning crackled above the tallest emergent, and

thunder rolled down to them again. To his amazement

Bom found himself suddenly on his feet, speaking. “I

don’t think it was a demon.” There was a mass shift-

ing of bodies as all eyes came to focus on him. The

abrupt attention made him acutely uncomfortable, but

he held his ground.

“How do you know? Did you see the thing?”

Reader finally asked, recovering from Bom’s unex-

pected pronouncement. “You said nothing of this to

anyone.”

Bom shrugged, tried to sound casual about it. “No

one rushed to ask me about it.”

“If it was not a demon, this thing you say you

saw, then what was it?” asked Losting suspiciously.

Bom hesitated. “I do not know. I had but the

briefest glimpse of it as it fell through the world-

but see it I did!”

Losting sat back in his place, his muscles rippling

in the firelight, and smiled at those near him.

“Come, Bom,” prompted Joyla, “either you saw

the thing or you didn’t.”

“But that is exactly it,” he protested. “I was falling

myself. I saw it, yet did not. As the breaking sounds

and shaking of the world reached its peak, I saw a

flash of deep blue through the trees. Shining bright

blue, like that of an asanis.”

“Maybe that’s what you saw, a drifting asanis

bloom,” Losting said with a smirk.

“No!” Bom spun to glare angrily across at his rival.

“It was that color, but brilliant, deep, and too . . .

too sharp. It threw back the light.”

“Threw back the light?” wondered Reader. “How

could this be?”

How could it? They were all staring at him, half

wanting to believe he had seen something that was

not a demon. He struggled to recall that instant of

falling, that glimpse of alien blue among the branches.

It caught the light like an asanis leafno, more

like his knife when it was polished. His eyes roved

absently as he thought furiously for something to com-

pare it with.

“Like the axe!” he blurted, pointing dramatically

to the weapon dangling in the shaman’s hand. “It was

like the axe.”

Everyone’s gaze automatically shifted to the holy

weapon. Reader’s included. Soft whispers of derision

sprang up. Nothing was like the axe.

“Perhaps you are mistaken. Bora,” Sand ventured

gently. “It did, as you say, happen very fast. And

you were falling when you saw it.”

“I’m positive about it, sir. Just like the axe.” He

wished he was as certain as he tried to sound, but

he could not back down on his story now without

sounding like a complete fool.

“In any case,” he found himself saying, to his hor-

ror, “it is a simple enough matter to prove. We need

only go and look.”

The mutterings from the crowd grew louder; they

were no longer derisive, but shocked.

“Born,” the chief began patiently, “we do not know

what this thing is or where it has gone. It may have

already returned to the depths from which it probably

came. Let it stay there.”

“But we don’t know,” objected Born, leaving his

place to stand close by the fire. “Maybe it hasn’t

returned. Maybe it’s down only a level or so, sleep-

ing, waiting to catch the scent of the Home to come

seeking us one by one in the night. If it is such a

monster, then we would do better to seek it out first

and slay it as it sleeps.”

Sand nodded slowly, stared around at the people.

“Very well. Who will go with Born to sniff out the

trail of this demon?”

Born turned to look at his fellow hunters, silently

imploring. Long silence, defiant stares. Then, star-

tlingly, a response came from an unexpected quarter.

“I will go,” Losting announced. He stood and stared

smugly across at Bom as if to say, if you’re not

afraid of this thing, then there can be nothing to be

afraid of. Bom did not meet the other man’s eyes.

Reluctant assent came from the hunter Drawn and

the twins Talltree and Tailing. The other hunters

would eventually have given in and agreed out of

fear of appearing cowardly, but Reader raised the

axe. “It is enough. I will go, too, despite my better

judgment It is not appropriate that men should visit

one of the damned without an authority on damnation.”

“That’s for sure,” someone muttered. The laughter

this provoked was a welcome release from the solem-

nity of the proceedings.

Sand put a hand over his mouth delicately to hide

an unchiefly chuckle. “Now let us pray,” he intoned

forcefully, “that those who seek out the demon shall

find him sickly and weak, or not find him at all, and

return to us whole and sound.” He raised both hands,

lowered his head, and commenced a chant

No Earthly theological authority would have recog-

nized that chant. No minister, priest, rabbi, or witch

doctor could have identified its source or inspiration,

though any bioengineer could. What none of them

could have explained was why this chant seemed so

effective there under the crying night sky and leaf-

leather canopy.

Triple orbs glowed like hot coals, reflecting the dance

of the distant flickering fire. Ruumahum lay in the

crook in the branches and stared down doubtfully at

the gathered people. His muzzle rested on crossed

forepaws. A clumsy scratching and clawing sounded

on the limb alongside bis resting place. A moment

later, forty kilos of awkwardly propelled fur and flesh

crashed into his flank. He growled irritably and glanced

back. It was the cub who had attached itself to the

orphan young person. Din.

“Old one,” Muf queried softly, “why are you not

at rest like the others of the brethren?”

Ruumahum turned his gaze back to the distant

leafleather canopy and the chanting humans beneath.

“I study Man,” he murmured. “Go to sleep, cubling.”

Muf considered, then crept up close to the massive

adult and likewise stared down toward the fire. After

a pause, he looked up questioningly. “What are they

doing?”

“I am not certain,” Ruumahum replied. “I believe

in some ways they are trying to become like the

brethren … like us.”

“Us? Us?” Muf coughed comically in the rain and

sat back on his several haunches. “But I thought

we strive to become like the persons?”

“So it is believed. Now, go to sleep, shoot!”

“Please, old one, I am confused. If Man is trying

to become like us and we are trying to become like

Manthen who is right?”

“You ask many questions, cub, you do not fully

understand. How can you expect to understand the

answer? The answer is . . . That-Which-Is-Sought, a

meeting, a conjoinment, a concatenation, an inter-

woven web.”

“I see,” whispered Muf, not seeing at all. “What

will happen when that is achieved?”

“I do not know,” Ruumahum replied, looking back

to the fire. “None of the brethren know, but we

seek it anyway. Besides, Man finds us interesting and

useful and believes himself master. The brethren find

Man useful and interesting and care not about master-

ing. Man thinks he understands this relationship; We

know we do not. For this contented ignorance we

envy him.” He nodded in the direction of the as-

sembled persons below. “We may never understand it.

Revelation is never promised, only hoped for.”

“I understand,” murmured the cub, not understand-

ing at all. He struggled awkwardly to his feet and

turned to go, then paused to look back. “Old one,

one more question.”

“What is it?” Ruumahum grumbled, not turning his

gaze from the prayer gathering.

“It is rumored among the cubs that we neither

spoke nor thought till the persons came.”

“That is no rumor, budding, that is truth. Instead,

we slept.” He yawned and showed razorlike teeth and

tusks. “But so did Man. We wake together, it is

thought.”

“I know,” Muf admitted, not knowing at all. He

turned and rambled off to find a sleeping place for

the night.

Ruumahum turned his attention to the persons once

more, considered how fortunate he was to have a

person as interesting and unpredictable as Bom. Now

there was this new thing they would go out to find

tomorrow. Well, if the world was to change tomorrow,

he thought as he yawned, it was better to face change

having had a good night’s sleep. He rolled over on

his side, tucked his head between fore- and midpaws,

and went instantly and peacefully to that country.

Bom was all for starting before the morning mist

had lifted, but Reader and the others would not hear

of it. Losting viewed the originator of such a pre-

posterous, dangerous idea with pity. Anyone who

would even consider moving about the world in mist,

when a man could not see what might be stalking him

from behind or above until it was right on top of

him, had to be more than a little crazy.

There were twelve in the partysix men and six

furcots. The men traveled in single file through the

treeways, while the furcots spread out above, below,

and on both sides, forming a protective cordon around

the persons. Bom and Reader shared the lead, while

Losting, by choice, guarded the rear. The big man

had mixed feelings about this expedition and was

striving to stay as far away from its originatorBorn

as possible. Besides, as much as he disliked Bom

for the other’s interest in Brightly Go, Losting was

not so stupid that he failed to recognize Bom’s skills.

As such, Bom belonged in the lead. But then, Losting

told himself comfortingly, the mad are always clever.

Their progress through the sunny Third Level

branchings was rapid and uninterrupted. Only once did

distant warning growls, from the left of their course

and below, cause the party to pause and set snufflers.

Taandason, who had made the warning sounds, ap-

peared a short while later on the cubble running

parallel to the persons’ path. He was panting slightly

and puffing with anger.

“Brown many-legs,” the furcot reported. “A mated

hunting pair. Saw me and the she spat, but her mate

turned her. Gone now.” The furcot turned, leaped to

a lower branch, and disappeared in the undergrowth.

Reader nodded with satisfaction and waved the column

forward. Thorns were returned to quivers, tank seeds

to pouches.

A single brown many-leg wouldn’t hesitate to charge

two or three men. Born reflected. A mated hunting

pair would take on almost anything in the hylaea.

But a group of man and furcot in such numbers

would cause even the greater forest carnivores to

think twice before attacking. Whether a demon would

think likewise remained to be seen.

They must be nearing the place. Born recognized

a distinctive- Blood tree, its pitcherlike leaves filled

with crimson water caused by the plant’s secretion

of tannin. Soon after passing the Blood tree they

found themselves walking into a steady breeze. A

responsive murmur sprang up among the marchers.

Within the forest world the wind rarely blew steadily

in any single direction. Instead, gusts of air came and

went like wraiths, darting and curling around branches

and boles and stems like living things. But this breeze

was steady and purposeful and warm. Warm enough,

Born reflected, to come from Hell itself.

Reader brandished his axe, defying any evil spirits

in the area who would dare to come near. Each

man pulled his green cloak more tightly and protec-

tively around him.

Bom motioned the party to slow and spread out.

Ahead of him the world seemed suddenly to change

perspective. He took another couple of steps along

the cubble, pushed aside a drooping whalear leaf,

and cried out at what he saw, one hand tightening

convulsively around a supporting liana. Similar cries

sounded nearby, but he was momentarily paralyzed,

unable to look for his companions.

Not a hand’s breadth away the thick wood of the

cubble he stood on had been shattered like a rotten

stem, as had that of other lesser and greater growths

nearby. A vast well had been opened up in the

world. Bom looked up, up, to a circle of strange

color two hundred meters overhead. A patch of deep

blue flecked with white cumulusthe blue of the

Upper Hell.

Belowhe gripped the liana ever tighterbelow

and down an equally great distance, somewhere at

the Fifth Level, lay a brilliant blue object that caught

the sun like the axe. In its center was something even

more shiny, something that made rainbows from sun-

light, an uneven half-globe of material like a flitter’s

transparent wings. Its top was ragged and open to

the air.

Already vines, creepers, cubbies, tuntangcles, and

other growth were destroying the smooth sides of the

well, pushing outward in furious competition for the

wealth of unaccustomed sunlight.

Bom studied the spreading epiphytes and rampaging

growers and estimated that in another twice seven-

days the new vegetation would cover the well com-

pletely. They would have to avoid this area for some

time, however, until some denser growth filled it in.

“Here, Born!” a voice called.

He turned to see Reader standing on the broken-off

limb of a Pillar, leaning out as far as he dared and

gesturing with the axe. It flashed like lightning in the

greenish light. In a few minutes every member of the

party had assembled on the meters-wide broken

branch. The furcots had gathered to themselves and

sat silently on one side to see what the persons

would do.

“It is a demon for sure, and it sleeps,” began one

of the twinsTalltree, Bom noted.

“I still do not think it is a demon,” Bom coun-

tered firmly. “I believe it is a thing, an object that

has been fashioned,” and he nodded toward Reader,

“like the axe.”

Various exclamations greeted Bom’s blasphemous

opinion. Reader held up a hand for quiet. “People,

this is no place for loud noises. The demons of the

Upper Hell could surely come down to this place

through the hole the larger demon has made. We will

discuss this matter further, but I say, quietly.” Conver-

sation and argument continued, but in whispers. “Now

then, Bom,” continued Reader, “what makes you so

certain this blue thing below us is not a demon, but

an object made like the axe?”

“It has the look of it,” Bom replied. “Notice how

regular are its outlines and the way it throws back

the light.”

“Might not a demon do this as well? Does not

the skin of the orbiole throw back the light? Are

you certain, Bom?”

Bom found himself looking away. “There is no way

to be sure, shaman, save,” and he stared across at the

older man, “to go down to it and see for oneself.”

“But if it is a demon?” Drawn wondered loudly,

“and it sleeps, and our pokings awaken it?” The

hunter rose from his squatting position, holding his

snuffler firmly. “No, friend Born. I respect your

guessings and honor your skill, but I will not go with

you. I have a mate and two children and I’m not

ready to go knocking on the skull of a demon to see

if anyone is home. No, not I.” He paused, thinking.

“But, I will consider what the shaman and my brothers

say.”

“Whay say the hunters, then?” asked Reader.

The other twin spoke. “Truly, it may be as Born

says. Be it only a made thing, with no life in it,

then it seems to me no threat to the Home. Or it

may be, as Drawn says, a sleeping demon waiting

only for some careless person to stumble blindly in

and waken it. If we leave it alone it may sleep

forever, or go peacefully on its way. Myself, I think

it is a demon of a new kind, one injured in its fall

from the Upper Hell. We must leave and not disturb

it, but let it die in peace, lest it arise in anger

and destroy us.”

Tailing and Talltree rose together and offered fur-

ther opinions. Sometimes one of the twins would begin

a sentence and the other would finish it. They did this

without looking at one another, which was not sur-

prising, for in the forest does one branch of a tree

have to consult with another before putting out leaves?

Some thought the twins were more of the forest than

of Man.

“Whatever it is, shaman,” Talltree concluded, “it

seems we have nothing to lose by leaving it undis-

turbed and everything to gain by returning Home

quietly the way we came.”

“Don’t you care about it at all?” Bom asked

openly. “Aren’t you at all curious? Do you not care

if it is a benign demon?”

“I’ve never heard of a helpful demon and I care

only about surviving,” Drawn responded. The others

listened attentively. After Bom, Drawn was the most

skillful hunter in the village. “As it lies”he nodded

toward the world-well”it threatens us not, nor the

Home. I do not see a close inspection improving

that. I vote to return Home.”

“I also … and I… and I…”

The word passed around the little circle of persons

in the trees, and it was all against Born. Always

against Born, he thought, furious.

“Go back, then,” be shouted disgustedly, moving

from the circle to a higher branch. “I’ll go down

alone.”

The other hunters muttered. Reader and Drawn,

the eldest among them, looked sympathetic, but they

agreed that Bom had not yet acquired caution to

match his other abilities. The village would miss him

if he failed to return. If he would go, then let him go,

but do not match madness with him.

So Born crouched alone on his higher limb and

pouted while his companions made themselves ready.

Their furcots fanning out around them, they started

down the cubble toward the Home.

Despite his feelings, he was half tempted to join

them and try further talk. Only Losting’s barely

veiled grin steeled him. Nothing would please that

overripe pium fruit more than to see Bom vanish

forever, leaving him a clear path to Brightly Go. But

Bom would not vanish so conveniently. He would

learn the truth of the blue monster below and return

to tell of it to all. The others who had left would

be ashamed, and Brightly Go would smile favoringly

on him.

Still, it was to be considered that there had been

only brave men in the little group, and that wise

Reader was not an idiot. There still existed the chance

he was wrong and everyone else was right. He put

aside this unpleasant possibility and whistled once,

softly.

Ruumahum appeared in a minute, the small branch

sagging under their combined weight. The furcot eyed

him expectantly, promptly Crossed all four front paws

and went to sleep. Bom studied the massive form ab-

sently before turning his attention to the right. There,

past a few thick fronds and several dangling vines,

lay the pit open to the Upper Hell. At the bottom of

the pit lay an enigma he would have to resol ve alone.

Well, not quite alone.

He whacked Ruumahum along one side of his

head, a h(ow that would have jolted a large man.

The furcot merely bunked, yawned, and started

preening itself with a forepaw.

“Up and out,” Born said firmly.

Ruumahum stared at him drowsily. “What to do?”

“Come, good for nothing. I want a close look at

the blue thing.”

Ruumahum snorted. Didn’t the person have two

perfectly good eyes of his own? But he conceded

that Born was right. Someone would have to watch

the open spaces above and to the sides while Bom

was exposed in the clearing.

Bom crawled, alone, without loaded snufflers to

back him up, without ironwood spears to reinforce

his confidence, to the edge of the pit and stared

downward. The glistening blue circle lay as before. It

had not moved and showed no sign of moving.

Even as he watched, a loud crackling sounded, and

the object appeared to drop a little lower. The well

it had made was ample testament to its great weight,

and it seemed to be sinking deeper, branch by shat-

tered branch, cubble by overstressed cubble. It might

continue to sink, falling to the Sixth Level and even-

tually to the Lower Hell itself. Bom would not seek

it at that depth for all the meat in the forest, not even

for Brightly Go. He had to proceed now, before the

chance was forever denied him.

He leaned out further over the abyss, tightening his

grip on the seemingly unbreakable liana nearby. The

liana might have been unbreakable. His grip wasn’t.

Something clutched him around waist and neck and

yanked hard. The yell in his throat turned to anger

as he disengaged himself from the gentle grasp of

Ruumahum.

“What the-?”

Ruumahum glanced significantly upward, rumbled

softly. “Devil comes.”

Bom peered up through a crack in the well wall.

At first he did not see the dark speck against the

sky, but it grew rapidly larger. When the shape be-

came recognizable, Bom retreated another meter into

the forest and loaded the snuffler.

The sky-devil had a long streamlined body sus-

pended between broad wings. Four leathery sacks,

two to a side, inhaled air and expelled it out rub-

bery nozzles near the monster’s tail. It moved in

gaspy jerks as it circled lower and lower. A long-

snouted reptilian head weaved atop a snakelike neck.

Two yellow eyes stared downward, and needlelike

teeth flashed in the pale green sunlight. Ideally

equipped for skimming silently across the treetops

hundreds of meters above and picking off careless

arboreals, the sky-devil found itself drawn to some-

thing deep hi the well. Three-meter wings left it little

room for maneuvering within that crude cylindrical

gap, but it managed, circling, spiraling lower and

lower in tight circles, examining each section of the

green wall as it dropped.

Bom sat very still on his branch, concealed behind

a broad leaf taller than Losting, wrapped tight in his

green cloak. The devil reached his level, circled, and

passed on. Staying close to the branch, Bom edged his

way to the precipice once again. Far below he saw the

scaled back and wings winding down toward the blue

object. Eventually it reached bottom, folded its wings,

and stopped. The devil walked clumsily on the blue

surface, making its way awkwardly to the half-dome

at the object’s apex. It poked at the globe with its

toothed beak, stabbed again. Bom could hear it yell-

ing, a distant, muffled croak.

Another sound drifted up to him. One that pene-

trated above the normal din of comb vines and reso-

nators and chattering chollakees. It was a human

scream, and it came from somewhere near or in the

object!

Bom started downward without thinking, plunging

recklessly from branch to branch, shoulder muscles

straining at the shock, taking meters at a jump.

Ruumahum followed close behind. They were making

enough noise to attract half the afternoon forest

predators, and the furcot told him as much. Wrapped

in other thoughts. Born ignored the furcot’s warnings. ‘

Once he nearly dropped square onto the back of ;

a Chan-nock, the big tree-climbing reptile’s knobby

back the perfect imitation of a tuntangcle vine as

it lay stretched between the boles of two air-trees.

Bom’s foot hit the armored back. Instantly he was

aware he had met flesh and not wood. But he was

moving so fast he was meters below as the Chan-

nock whipped around to crush the interloper. Furious

at missing its prey, the blunt snout swung round for a

stab at Ruumahum. Not even pausing in his down-

ward rush, the furcot stuck out a paw in passing and

crushed the flat, arrowhead-shaped skull.

If Bom had stopped to think about what he was do-

ing, he might have fallen and hurt himself seriously.

But he was traveling on instinct alone. Unhindered,

his reflexes did not fail him. Only when Ruumahum

put on an extra burst of speed, got in front of him, and

slowed down, did Born become conscious of how

fast he had been moving. He nearly dislocated a

shoulder as he slowed to a halt behind the furcot.

Both were panting heavily.

“Why stop now, Ruumahum. We”

The furcot growled softly. “Are here,” he mut-

tered. “Air-devil is near. Listen.”

Bom listened. He had been so excited he had

nearly shot past the level at which the blue thing

lay. Now he could hear the horrible half-laugh, half-

coughing of the devil and a scratching sound, a sound

similar to the one Reader produced by running his

nails over the axe blade during the invocations.

Then he was right about the composition of the blue

thing! He had no time to bask in his own brilliance.

A moan sounded now, not a scream; but it was no

less human.

“There are people there and the sky-devil is after

them,” Born whispered. “But what people live on the

Fifth Level? All persons known live on the Third

or Second.”

“I do not know,” Ruumahum answered. “I sense

much strangeness here. Strangeness and newness.”

“It needs killing.”

“Air-devils die slowly, Bom person,” advised Ruum-

ahum. “Go carefully.”

Bom nodded and they backed deeper into the

brush. “The air-devil may not be able to penetrate

here. It is too big and clumsy on the wood. But if

it does…”

He started searching, working around the well cir-

cumference, always staying well back from the open

pit where the nightmare-in-life scratched and clawed

at the blue thing. He found what might servea

certain epiphytic orchid that nestled in the crotch

formed by the great lower limbs of an emergent. The

bottom of the plant overreached the limbs on both

sides, the great ball of self-made soil sending long

air-roots downward in all directions. Above, long

thick petals of dark chalcedony color curled toward

the sky. A wonderful limelike fragrance issued from

the huge flower’s depths, its creamy petals many

meters long.

Keeping a careful distance from the gigantic bloom,

Bom moved cautiously back toward the well.

“Softly,” Ruumahum urged anxiously. Born looked

back at the furcot and made quieting motions, but he

took the advice. There was more open space here

where the light did not penetrate as well. There

were fewer places to hide, fewer webs of vines and

lianas to lose a big meat-eater in. Surely there was

nowhere near enough open space for the sky-devil to

spread its wings. But it had thick clawed legs and

just maybe could scramble through the open places.

Hence his enlisting of the orchid as a silent ally.

Bom reached the edge of the well bottom. A

cluster of shattered wood and herbaceous growth

bordered it. Everything here was sticky and slippery

from spilled sap. He would have to watch his footing.

Then suddenly he was staring at the sky-devil from

between the leaves. It battered and dug in frustration

at something deep within the blue metal disk. The

moaning, Born now was sure, came from somewhere

inside. Taking a deep breath and wishing for a more

stable footing, he lined up the end of the snufBer

with the skull of the demon, a difficult target that

was bobbing and weaving on a long flexible neck.

Born jerked the trigger. There was a tiny explosive

puff as the tank seed popped. The jacari thorn hit

the devil just behind the left eye. It quivered, its slow

nervous system reacting dully to the poison, then it

spun to look in the direction of the shot. At the same

time Born yelled, “Be strong!” at the top of his

lungs, to alert those within the blue metal, then he

turned and raced ba«sk along the branch.

A tremendous thrashing sounded immediately be-

hind him as the sky-devil, showing unexpected

strength, smashed through the outer wall of branches

and vines in its drooling desire to get at him. Born fan-

cied he could feel its fetid breath hot on his neck.

The giant orchid loomed ahead.

That crawling leathery horror was at his spine. At

any second long teeth might close on his neck and snip

his head off. There was no time to look back, no

time to think or consider. He dove past the soil ball

of the flower, reaching out with the end of the snuf-

fler so that the green wood pipe brushed several of

the dozens of dangling rootlets.

Born fell another couple of meters before landing

with a jolt in a bed of hyphae below. Above him,

the tiny rootlets he had brushed and everything around

them curled protectively inward against the bulk of the

plant. The sky-devil burst through the undergrowth,

reaching with claws and jaws for Bom, who stared up

in helpless fascination at that descending abomination.

Too quick to see, the thick white petals of the

pseudo-orchid thrashed in blind fury in all directions.

Three of the petals struck the rampaging devil, curled

shut about it and contracted. The devil seemed to

explode, eyes shooting like ripe seeds from the skull,

wings crumpling, guts and innards shooting in all di-

rections. The plant continued thrashing about for s ev-

eral minutes before the petals began to relax.

As it returned to its normal shape and form, the

orchid released the mangled pulp that had been the

sky-devil. The shattered corpse fell bouncing into the

depths. Born sat up and watched it fall, his heart

beating fast. The devil had died too quickly to scream,

never knowing what had hit it.

Using his snuffler as a brace. Born pulled himself

erect and climbed over to where Ruumahum lay,

watching him quietly. “I think,” he said, trembling

slightly, “we can go help the people now.” The furcot

nodded silently.

They started back toward the world-well, once again

giving the now quiescent pseudo-orchidknown in

Bern’s village as “Dunawett’s plant”plenty of room.

Born parted the broken stems and walked out into

something he had experienced only a few times in

his life. Something few people ever experienced

the open air. He stared upward, but from here the

sky was a distant circlet of blue pasted against an

otherwise green heaven,

“Will watch Upper Hell,” Ruumahum announced,

sitting himself down by the edge of the well. His

head inclined and he studied the distant blue disk

stolidly.

Born extended a cautious foot, set it down easily

on the deep blue surface of the object. It was cool

and hard, just like the axe blade. Reassured, he

walked out onto the curving surface, making his way

toward the half-dome in the center. As he neared it,

he saw it covered a circular cavity in the metal.

Looking down at the broken, jagged edges of the

dome he saw tangles of tiny vines and roots inside,

which were also made of some shiny, hard substance.

An inspection of the interior of the disk showed

one side made of more metal that was filled with

dents and abrasions from the claws and probing beak

of the sky demon. Bom thought he heard a slight

moaning coming from behind it.

“Hello. Is anyone alive here? It is safe to come out.

The devil has gone to its cousins in Hell.”

The moaning ceased abruptly and was followed by

clicking, metallic sounds. Then the section of rectan-

gular metal began to disappear inward, on hinges.

A man peered out and up at him uncertainly. Some-

thing small and reflective shone in his hand. Born

caught his breath. It was an axeNo, no … a

knife made of the same material as the axe, only

far cleaner and smoother. After a long stare the

man’s gaze went around the open cavity in the metal.

When he satisfied himself that Born’s words were true

and the sky-devil was safely gone, he emerged into the

open space and commenced a detailed survey of the

mass of tangled instrumentation and components while

keeping a watchful eye on Born.

Born studied the giant. Though he was only a

normal-sized man by normal man standards, he tow-

ered a good twenty-five centimeters over Born. He dis-

played other surprising characteristics, as well. He

was undeniably a person, but the differences were

striking. His hair was orange-red instead of brown,

his eyes blue instead of green, and his skinhis skin

was so pale as not to be believed, though among his

own people he was considered moderately well tanned.

His build was slim and his face freckled and friendly.

“Jan?” A second voice, slightly higher. “Is it clear

to?” Then the speaker caught sight of Born, stand-

ing quietly on the surface of the skimmer. She was

a couple of centimeters taller than the man. Her body

beneath the torn single-piece jungle suit was bony and

athletic. Short hair the color of tarnished silver in-

dicated she was somewhat older, as well. Strong, long

legs showed from the beige shorts and their color was

also, to Bom, unbelievably pale; She seemed less nerv-

ous than the man, a little more assured.

“Who the hell is that?” she asked with a jerk of

her head. The man she had called Jan continued

picking disgustedly at the crushed remnants of the

skimmer’s controls.

“The man who just saved our lives, I think. For

the moment.” He stared up at the sky uneasily.

“The sky-devil is dead,” Bom informed him. “It

went too near a stimulated Dunawett’s plant. It will

not trouble you again.”

The man digested this information, grunted some-

thing noncommittal, and turned back to his discouraged

probing. “Board’s shot to hell and gone, Kimi,” he

finally declared. “What didn’t come apart in the touch-

down, that flying carnivore pecked to shreds. This

skimmer isn’t going anywhere except the scrap yard.”

The woman sat down in the ruins of a swivel

chair, bent now at an angle its designers had never

intended. Bom stared curiously at her. She suddenly

became conscious of his attention and looked up at

him.

“What are you staring at, short stuff?”

Born bristled, more at her tone than the words. “If

my presence makes you uncomfortable .. .” He hefted

the snuffler, turned to go.

“No, no, wait a minute, fellow.” She rested her

head in crossed arms for a minute. “Give me a sec-

ond, will you? We’ve just been through a pretty rough

time.” She looked up again, locked fingers. “You’ve

got to understand, when our drive went . . .” She

noticed Born’s questioning frown and tried again.

“When the thing that powered our skimmer . . .” The

frown deepened. She patted the metal wall next to her.

“When this thing which carries us through the air . . .”

Bom’s face showed an expression of disbelief, but she

pressed on. “. . . crashed here, we thought we were

already dead. Instead we crawled out of what was

left of our chairs and found we were still alive. Shaken,

but alive.”

She gestured at the surrounding green walls. “This

incredible planetthree-quarters of a kilometer of

stratified rain forestcushioned our fall just enough.”

Her voice dropped. “Then that long-necked horror

landed on top of us. We barely got through the

engine-access hatch when it started working on the

door. I thought we were dead all over again. Now you

show up and insist some local vegetable has slaugh-

tered something it would take an arm’s-length laser

to discourage. And then there’s the matter of yourself,

which is no small shock to us, either.”

“What about myself?” queried Bom, unaccountably

self-conscious.

She made a fluttering, tired gesture. “Just look at

you.” Bom declined to do so. “You’re an anomaly,

you don’t belong here, according to what we’ve been

told,” she added hastily. “This is supposed to be an

unreported, barely surveyed, uninhabited world known

only to-”

“Careful, Kimi,” the man said wamingly, glancing

back over his shoulder.

She waved him off. “What for, Jan. This”-and she

nodded toward Bom”native obviously knows noth-

ing that could complicate our presence here.” She

looked back at Born as she got to her feet. “As I

said, this is supposed to be an uninhabited world. All

of a sudden, on the heels of a series of rather dis-

concerting events, we’re faced with accepting your

presence. I presume you’re not a solitary freak? There

are others of your kind?”

“The village supports many,” Born told her, in what

he hoped was an adequate answer. These giants were

fascinating.

“I said native, but what kind remains to be deter-

mined.” She studied Bom openly. He bore her exam-

ination because he was engaged in one of his own.

“You’re nearly a whole foot shorter than an average

adult, but you’ve got the arms and shoulders of a

weight-lifter.” Her gaze lowered considerably. “And

what look like awfully long, probably prehensile toes.

You’re dark as old redwood and with hair to match

. . . but green eyes. Altogether, the most remarkable

specimen I’ve seen in a long time. Though not,” she

added in an odd tone, “for all that, unappealing.” The

man made a sound which Born interpreted as one of

distaste, though for what reason he could not imagine.

Strange and fascinating these giants! Yet it was

they who were calling him strange.

“If your people developed here,” the woman was

concluding, “despite your coloring and size and grabby

toes, it has to be the most unlikely case of parallel evo-

lution on record. And you speak Terranglo. What do

you say, Jan?”

The man looked up briefly at Born, then sighed and

made a gesture of helplessness toward the board he

had been working on. “I don’t know why I’m fooling

with this. It’s hopeless. Even if we could fix the drive

without the aid of a full machine shop, that flying

beast chewed up the controls like so many worms in

a paper bag. We’re stuck here. The tridee’s in no

better shape. And all that talk about dying’s probably

still appropriate.”

“You give up too soon, too easily, Jan,” she ad-

monished him. She looked at Bom. “Our small friend

here appears to have unpredictable resources. I don’t

see why he couldn’t”

The man whirled, confronting her with outrage

barely held in check. “Are you crazy? It’s hundreds

of kilometers to the station through this impenetrable

morass…”

“His people seem able to negotiate it,” she said

quietly.

“. . . and if you’re thinking of hoofing it, guided

by some ignorant primitives!” he continued.

The language of the giants was peculiar, high and

distorted, but Bom could make out the meaning of

many of their words. One word he recognized clearly,

despite the twisted accent, was “ignorant.”

“If you are so much the smarter,” he interrupted

sharply, “how come you to be here like this?” And

he kicked the blue skin of the skimmer.

The giant called Kimi smiled. “He’s got you there,

Jan.” The man uttered another disgusted sound and

made a related gesture. But he didn’t call Bom ig-

norant again.

“Now then,” the woman said formally, “I think in-

troductions are in order. First off, we’d like to thank

you for saving our lives, which you most surely did.”

She glanced at the man. “Wouldn’t we, Jan?”

He made a muffled sound vaguely intelligible as

“yes.”

“My name,” she went on, “is Logan . . . Kimi

Logan. This sometimes buoyant, occasionally depressed

associate of mine is Jan Cohoma. And you?”

“I am called Bom.”

“Bom. That’s a fine name. A fitting name for one

so brave, for a man who’d tackle a meat-eater like

that winged monster single-handed.”

Bom expanded with pride. Strange the giants might

be, but this one at least could be properly admiring.

Maybe one day Brightly Go would regard him as

well as this peculiar giant did.

“You mentioned a village, Bom,” she continued.

He turned, pointed up and southwest. “The Home

lies that way, a fair walk through the forest and two

levels higher. My brothers will greet you as friends.”

And admire the hunter who had braved the sleeping

blue demon and killed a sky-devil to rescue them, he

thought to himself.

He jumped up and down several times on the blue

metal, then noticed that both giants had drawn away

and were watching him. “I’m sorry,” he explained. “I

mean you no harm. Of all who came here only I had

the courage to descend and find you out. I guessed

this . . . thing . . . was not alive, but something

carved.”

“It’s called a skimmer,” Cohoma told him. “It car-

ries us across the sky.”

“Across the sky,” Born repeated, not really believ-

ing the words. It seemed impossible that anything so

heavy could fly.

“We’re glad you did. Born. Aren’t we, Jan? Aren’t

we?” She nudged him and he muttered assent. His

initial antagonism toward Bom was weakening rapidly

as he realized that the small native posed no threat

to them. Quite the contrary, it seemed.

“Yes, it certainly was a brave act. An extraordinary

act, now that I think of it.” He smiled. “You’ve come

this far, Bom. Maybe you could help us at least try

to get back to our stationour home on this world.”

“We got a last fix before we went down,” Logan

told him. She hesitated, then pointed in a direction

toward the Home tree. “It’s in that direction, about

. . . let’s see, how can I get some idea of the distance

across to you?” She thought a moment. “You said

something about levels in the forest?”

“Everyone knows the world is made of seven lev-

els,” Bom explained, as though lecturing a child,

“from the Lower Hell to the treetops.”

“Figure the average height of one of the big

emergents,” she murmured. “Say a little over seven

hundred meters.” She engaged in some mental com-

putation, translating meters into levels, and told Bom

how far away the station lay.

Now it was Bom’s turn to smile; he was too cour-

teous to laugh. “No one has ever traveled more than

five days’ journey from the Home,” he told them. “I

myself only recently went two, and that proved dan-

gerous enough. Now you are talking of a journey of

many seven-days. It cannot be done, I think.”

“Why not?” Cohoma objected. “You’re not afraid,

are you? Not,” he added quickly as Born took a step

toward the bigger man, “an exceptional hunter like

yourself?”

Bom relaxed slightly. He had already decided that

of the two giants, he liked the man far the less.

“It is not a question of fear,” he told them, “but

of reason. The balance of the world is delicate. Each

creature has its place in that balance, takes what is

needed, and returns what it can. The further one

moves from one’s own niche, the more he disrupts

the order of things. When the balance is upset se-

verely, people die.”

“I think what he’s saying, Jan,” Logan said to her

companion, “is that they believe the further they go

from their home village, the more the chances of suc-

cessfully returning to it are reduced. An understandable

feeling, but the explanation is interesting. I wonder

how they came to that world-view way of thinking. It’s

not natural.”

“Natural or not,” Cohoma objected, “I still don’t

see why”

“Later,” she cut him off. He turned away, mutter-

ing to himself. “I think the first thing we should do,”

she suggested, “is get out from under this open space

before a relative of the monster you so smoothly dis-

patched, Born, gets curious and comes round to in-

vestigate.”

That was the first sensible thing the giants had said.

He beckoned for them to follow. Cohoma filled his

pockets with small packages from various compart-

ments, then let Bom lead the way into the trees.

Despite the comparative openness of this level and

the absence of accustomed vines and branches, Bom

was startled to see how clumsy the giants were and

how hesitantly they advanced. He inquired about their

obvious difficulty as tactfully as possible and was glad

when neither seemed offended.

“On the world we come from,” Logan explained,

“we’re used to walking on the ground.”

Bom was shocked. “Can it be that you live in

Hellitself?”

“Hell? I don’t understand, Bom.”

He pointed downward. “Two levels below us lie the

Lower and True Hell, the surface Hell of mud and

shifting earth. It is the abode of monsters too hor-

rible to have names, so it is said.”

“I understand. No, Bom, our home’s not like that.

It’s solid and open and lightnot full of monsters.

At least,” she said with a grin, “not any monsters we

can’t live with.” Like the Church Bureau of Supra-

Commonwealth Registry, she reflected.

Bern’s head was swimming. Everything the giants

said seemed to go against all reason and truth, yet

their very presence and the solid evidence of their

sky craft hinted that yet greater wonders might exist.

For now, though, he must restrain his curiosity in

favor of more immediate concerns. “You both look

tired and hungry, and you must be exhausted by

your ordeal.”

Cohoma added a heartfelt “Amen!”

“I will take you to the Home. We can talk further

there, and more easily.”

“One .question, Bom,” asked Logan. “Are the rest

of your people as receptive to strangers as you are?”

“Think you we are not civilized?” Bom asked. “Any

child knows that a guest is as a brother and must be

so treated.”

“A man after my own heart,” sighed Cohoma. “I’ve

got to apologize, friend Bom. I had some wrong ideas

about you, at first. Lead on, short stuff.”

Bom pointed upward. “To the Home level first

a fair climb.” Both giants groaned. Judging from what

he had seen of their climbing ability thus far, Bom

could understand their reaction. “I will try to find an

easier route. It will cost us some time”

“We’ll risk it,” said Logan.

Bom located a spiraling branch root, descending in

a tight double helix from an air-tree somewhere far

above. They would have several dozen meters of sim-

ple ascent. He started upward, and as he did a scream

sounded behind him. He reached for the snuffler, re-

laxed when he saw it was only Ruumahum. The fear

displayed by the two giants at the sight of the af-

fectionate furcot was amusing.

“It’s only Ruumahum,” he informed them. “My

furcot. He’d no more harm you than me.”

“Persons,” grunted Ruumahum sardonically, sniffing

first at the waist of a frozen Logan, then Cohoma.

Neither giant moved, relaxing only when that great

fanged head moved away.

“My God,” Logan muttered, staring in awe at the

massive form as it bounded into the canopy overhead,

“it talks. That’s two sapient forms Survey missed.” She

looked at Bom with new respect. “Carnivorous hexa-

podhow’d you ever tame that?” she asked wonder-

ingly.

Bom considered in confusion, then understanding

dawned. “You mean,” he said in amazement, “you

have no furcots of your own?” He looked from a

stupefied Logan to Cohoma.

“Furcots of our own?” echoed Logan. “Why should

we?”

“Why,” Bom recited without thinking, “every person

has his furcot and every furcot its person, as every

flitter its blossom, every cubble its anchor tree, every

pfeffermall its resonator. It’s the balance of the world.”

“Yes, but that still doesn’t explain how you tamed

them,” pressed Cohoma, staring after the departed

carnivore.

“Tame.” Bom’s expression twisted. “It’s not a ques-

tion of taming. Furcots like persons and we like the

furcots.” He shrugged. “It is natural. It has always

been so.”

“It talked,” noted Logan aloud. “I distinctly heard

it say ‘persons.'”

“The furcots are not very bright,” Bom admitted,

“but they talk well enough to make themselves under-

stood.” He smiled. “There are persons who talk less.”

For some reason this caused both giants to launch

into a long discussion between themselves, full of

complex terms Bom did not understand. This made

him uncomfortable. Anyway, it was time they started

Home, time he received the adulation and accolades

due him.

“We must go now, but there is a condition.”

That veiled threat was enough to cause the giants

to break off their argument and stare at him. “What

condition?” Logan asked apprehensively.

Bom stared at Cohoma. “That be no longer calls

me short stuff. Otherwise I will call him clumsy-cub

every time his foot slips on a pathway.”

Cohoma managed a tight smile, but Logan guffawed

openly. “He’s got you there, Jan.” The latter just

grunted, muttered something about getting on then-

way, and started up the root after Bom. “No time

to waste,” he added gruffly.

As they moved upward, Bom considered Cohoma’s

last remark. The concept of “wasting time” was per-

sonally intriguing, since in the Home it usually had

been applied only to him. Was it possible there

were others who felt as he did about the way time

was spent? If so, there was another reason for getting

to know these giants better. He already knew of sev-

eral others.

The forest had been burned back to leave a clear

zone around the armored, domed station which sat in

the largest open spacefor that matter, the only open

spacein the hylaea, a silver-gray bubble rising from

an ocean of green, like the exhalation of a colossal

diver swimming far below.

The circular, domed structure rested on the sheared-

off trunks of three Pillar trees, whose neatl y trimmed

branches formed a system of braces and struts as

strong as any artificial supports the builders could

have provided. Eventually the cut-off giant trees would

die and topple over, but by then the station would no

longer be necessary, having been supplanted according

to the master plan by much larger, more permanent

structures built elsewhere.

The cleared zone around the station was designed

to prevent any further deaths from the local saw-

tooth, hook-clawed^ predators, who had killed three of

the station’s builders before its major defenses were

installed and powered up. Discovering that no creature

of the forest cared to cross an area open to the sky

-and to the sky-bome killersthe construction en-

gineers had burnt back the green ramparts many

meters from the station, as well as several meters

down below its bottom level.

Two occupants of the station had been carried off

by aerial predators while walking along the peripheral

strollway. Again the station’s defenses were strength-

ened, until it resembled a small fortress. The lasers

and explosive guns were hardly fitting to a structure

dedicated primarily to research and exploration. The

less lethal instrumentation was located within the gray

building. It was that nexus of inner laboratories that

the wall of weapons was erected to protect.

Scouting parties went out in armed skimmers to

search the endless forest for useful products. They

brought back one revelation after anotherthe forest

proved to be an inexhaustible source of surprises

which were metamorphosed into commercial possibil-

ities within the labs. These findings were relayed to

other men who in turn relayed the information to

a deep space beam operator, who by various devious

meanssince the presence of the station was illegal,

as it had neither been registered nor inspected nor

officially approvedpassed it on to a distant world.

There one man with a machine transcribed the myriad

discoveries into figures, relayed them to a second, who

took them to a third, who laundered them for a

fourth, who laid them carefully on the desk of a person

withered in body but not in mind. That person

-studied the figures. Every so often she would smile

crookedly and nod, and then orders would go back

along the carefully concealed chain of command until

eventually they were disseminated within the dome on

The World With No Name.

So closely guarded was the location of the world

with no name that few of those who worked within

the dome had any idea where it was, and no pilot

was sent to it twice. Pilot relayed information to

successor, for the coordinates could not even be

trusted to mechanical safekeeping. This was chancy

since the coordinates could be lost forever, but the

advantage of absolute secrecy made it worthwhile.

Since no one knew its location, no one could divulge

it voluntarily or otherwise to agents of Commonwealth

or Church. Anyone questioned on the subject could

admit freely to what he knewwhich was nothing.

The whole operation was very professional.

In the largest of those inner laboratories, the most

intelligent of the station’s researchers studied the huge,

ovoid chunk of dark wood that dominated the far

end of the chamber. It had been cut open. This piece

of wood had made all the expense and secrecy and

effort worthwhile, and Wu Tsing-ahn had been work-

ing with it even before the construction of the station

had been completed.

He was a small man, with delicate, tortured fea-

tures and black hair turned prematurely white at odd

places. The private agony which strained his face had

not affected the clarity of his mind, or dulled his

analytical abilities. Like everyone else in the station,

he was aware that his activities on this planet were

not in keeping with the Ordainments of the Church

or Commonwealth law. Most were there for the

money.

Tsing-ahn showed a certain fluttering of the hands,

a twitch of both eyelids. Both were by-products of the

drug which gave great pleasure at great expense.

Tsing-ahn required it now, required it regularly in

large doses. He had been forced to suspend his moral

principles to satisfy the craving. But he didn’t care

any more. Besides, the work was not especially dif-

ficult and was intellectually pleasing. There was emo-

tional refuge in that.

There was a knock on the door across the room.

Tsing-ahn acknowledged the knock, and a large man

entered, his slight limp noticeable and unavoidable,

contact lenses reflecting the steady overhead light.

The man was no giant, but each of his biceps was

bigger around than the biochemist’s thigh. He wore a

bolstered sidearm, prominently displayed.

“Hello, Nearchose.”

“Hello, Doc,” the big man responded. He crossed

the room, nodded toward the pierced and cut section

of wood. “Found out what makes it tick yet?”

‘Tve been reluctant to risk chancing its drug-

producing properties until just now, Nearchose,” Wu

replied softly. “Full dissection could destroy that.” He

reached out and touched the wood.

Nearchose studied it. “How much you think a burl

that size is gonna be worth. Doc?”

Tsing-ahn shrugged. “How much is a doubled life-

span worth to a man, Nearchose?” He gazed at the

burl with something more than scientific detachment.

“I’d guess a burl this size would yield enough extract

to double the life-span of anywhere from two to

three hundred peoplenot to mention what it will do

for general health and well-being. No price has been

put on the drug yet since it hasn’t been exported ex-

cept in small, experimental doses. The proteins have

proven complex beyond belief. Synthetic production

appears out of the question. Dissection may offer

clues as to further lines of research.” He looked up.

“What would you pay for it, Nearchose?”

“Who, me?” The security guard smiled a crooked

smile, showing metal teeth, which had replaced ones

that had not been lost naturally. “I’ll die when my

natural time comes, Doc. A man like me … I

couldn’t ever afford the stuff. I’d give or do any-

thing for it, of course, if I thought I could get away

with it.”

Tsing-ahn nodded. “Far wealthier men will do like-

wise.” He winked. “Maybe I’ll slip you a vial of the

next batch. How would that appeal to you, Near-

chose?”

The guard’s genial manner faded. He looked sol-

emnly down at his friend, whom he could break with

one hand. “Don’t tease me Hke that, Doc. It’s not

funny. To live a couple of hundred years in good

health, instead of decomposing into pieces at seventy,

maybe eighty . . . Don’t tease me with stuff like that.”

“Sorry, Nick. It’s a defense mechanism with me.

I’ve got my own hurts, you know. It’s small and

mean, but I fight back in these ways.”

Nearchose nodded. He knew of the biochemist’s

addiction, of course. Everyone at the station did. The

brilliant researcher Tsing-ahn was deficient in body,

though he was not crippled or broken. Nearchose was

deficient in mind, though he was neither stupid nor

ignorant. Each recognized his superiority over others

of his own kind at the station, so the friendship that

sprung up between them was one between equals.

“I’ve got outside patrol this shift,” Nearchose an-

nounced, turning to leave. “I was just curious to see

how everything’s going, that’s all.”

“Surely, Nick. Come in anytime.”

After the big man had left for his patrol duty,

Tsing-ahn set up his instruments for the first full dis-

section of the invaluable burl. The operation could

be put off no longer, despite the fact that this was

the only burl of its kind found so far. Others would

be located by the scout teams, he was certain. It

was merely a question of time.

When extract from the burl’s center was given

casually to an experimental carew, the results were

unexpected, astonishing, overwhelming. Instead of two

days, the hyperactive mammal had lived for nearly

a week. He had repeated the experiment twice, not

believing his own results. When they were confirmed

the third time, he had announced his discovery to

Hansen, the station director. The reaction of those

funding the project had been predictable More burls

must be found. But exploring by skimmer was er-

ratic and difficult. Land parties had been sent out, but

they had been discontinued by Hansen despite com-

plaints from above. Too many parties, no matter

how heavily armed, had failed to return.

Tsing-ahn was still fascinated by the fact that this

unhealthy protrusion of the tree might prove more

useful than the tree itself. He thought of ancient Ter-

ran whales and ambergris. He was extremely anxious

to study the internal structure of the burl. It had a

softish, center, according to long probes, quite unlike

most burls, which were solid hardwood. And there

was other evidence of a unique inner construction.

He worked at the dissection for several days, saw-

ing and probing and cutting open. At the end of that

time, a most unnatural and horrible scream shattered

the peace of the station and sent people running from

their posts to the laboratory of Wu Tsing-ahn.

Nearchose was the first one there. This time he

didn’t ask permission to enter, but wrenched the door

open, breaking the bolt. To his enormous surprise,

Tsing-ahn stood facing him and looked up at him

calmly. One hand was trembling slightly and an eyelid

flickered, but that was only normal.

A crowd had gathered behind Nearchose. He turned,

shooed them away. “Nothing to see. Everything’s okay.

The Doc had a bigger bad-dream than he’s used to,

that’s all.”

“You sure. Nick?” someone asked hesitantly.

“Sure, Maria. I’ll handle it.” The crowd dribbled

away muttering among themselves as Nearchose

closed the broken door.

“What’s the trouble. Nick? Why the indelicate en-

trance?”

The guard turned to him, studied the man whom

he often did not understand, but whom he unfailingly

respected. “That was you that screamed, Doc.” It

wasn’t a question.

Tsing-ahn nodded. “That was me, yes. Nick.” He

looked away. “I’m flying on my morning dose and

… I thought I saw something. I don’t have your

mental resilience, Nick, and I’m afriad I let it get a

hold of me for a second. Sorry if it disturbed every-

one.”

“Sure, yeah,” Nearchose finally replied. “Worried

about you, that’s all. Everyone does, you know.”

“Sure, yeah,” Tsing-ahn echoed bitterly.

Nearchose fidgeted uneasily in the silence, looked

past the scientist toward the far end of the lab. “How’s

the work coming?”

Tsing-ahn answered absently, his mind obviously

elsewhere. “Well. Better than one might expect. Yes,

quite well. I should have some definite announcements

to make in a couple of days.”

“That’s great. Doc.” Nearchose turned to go,

paused. “Listen, Wu, if you need anything, anything

you’d rather not go through channels for . . .”

Tsing-ahn smiled faintly. “Of course, Nick. You’ll

be the first one I turn to.”

The security guard grinned reassuringly and closed

the door quietly behind him. Tsing-ahn returned to

his work. He proceeded calmly once more and with

his accustomed efficiency.

Nothing else disturbed the tranquility of the station

until that evening, when a passerby thought he smelled

something unusual in the corridor outside the lab.

Following the odor led to visual confirmationdark

wisps of smoke issuing from the cracks around Wu’s

laboratory door. The man yelled “Fire!” and hit the

nearest all-purpose station alarm.

This time others reached the lab well ahead of

Nearchose. He had to work his way through the

personnel who were putting out the last pockets of

flame. Containment had been achieved before the

blaze could spread beyond the confines of the lab,

but the lab itself was a complete wreck. The fire had

been brief, but intense. Not only was there plenty of

flammable material within the lab, but Tsing-ahn had

apparently utilized white phosphorous on stubborn

materials and acids on anything that refused to ignite.

The little biochemist had been as methodical in de-

struction as he had been in research.

Everyone clustered around the few charred scraps

of wood that were scattered around the back of the

lab. They were all that remained of the burl which

had been worth untold millions. Nearchose’s main

concern lay elsewhere, so it was he who first found

the body sprawled under a table across the room. At

first he assumed the scientist had died of smoke in-

halation, since there were no marks on his body. Then

he rolled him over and the white cap slid off. Near-

chose saw the needier still clutched convulsively in one

hand, saw the tiny holes of equal diameter on both

the front and back of the skull. He knew what a

needier did, knew he could slip a pencil neatly through

that hole.

The man’s eyes were closed and his expression, for

the first time that Nearchose could remember, was

content.

Nearchose stood up. The pitiable, weak genius below

him had run across something that had impelled him

to his own death. Nearchose had no idea what that

thing might be and was not sure he would care to

know. No man is perfect. An old sergeant had first

repeated that cliche to him. For all his brilliance,

Tsing-ahn had been less perfect than most. A scrap

of note here, a page of book there were all that

had survived.

Employed at the station were a lesser biochemist

named Celebes and a botanist named Chittagong. To-

gether they did not quite make up one Tsing-ahn,

but they were the best Hansen had. They were

taken off their projects of the moment, and given the

carefully gathered bits of paper and scraps of note-

book, and ordered to undertake the reconstruction of

Tsing-ahn’s work. Eventually, a second burl of the

type carbonized in the fire was located and brought

back. It was presented to Chittagong and Celebes,

who worked with it, while newly installed security

monitors watched constantly, checking everything

from the scientists’ heartbeats to the growls in their

stomachs. Both men were less than enthusiastic about

the project, especially concerning the manner of their

comrade’s death. However, the orders came down

from an enraged person at a large desk many parsecs

away. They were not to be disputed.

Nearchose returned to his duties. He sat at his

gimbal post and brooded on what there was in a

simple hunk of wood that impelled someone as ra-

tional as Tsing-ahn to go off the deep end. Such

things happened, and he need not concern himself

with them. But he could not help it.

He sighed, and forced himself to turn his gaze and

attention to the surrounding wall of forest.

God damn, but he was sick of green.

“Ouch!”

Born stopped, looked back at his charges. Logan

was hopping awkwardly on one foot on the cubble,

holding a trailing liana for support. Bom let go of

the vine-root he was holding and dropped next to

her. She sat down, holding her left leg. She seemed

more angry than hurt. Cohoma was studying some-

thing Logan was concealing with a hand.

“What is it?”

She smiled up at him. Beads of sweat were begin-

ning to form on her forehead. “I stepped on some-

thing.” She looked around, gestured. “That flower

there … went right through my boot.”

Bom saw the tiny collection of bright orange thorns

sticking up from the middle of the miniature bou-

quet of six-petaled lavender blooms. His expression

changed. A hand reached under his cloak and he

brought out the bone blade.

“Hey!” Cohoma started to move between them.

Bom shoved the bigger man aside. Cohoma stumbled

and nearly fell off the cubble.

“Lie down!” Bom instructed Logan harshly, put-

ting a hand on her chest and shoving. She went down,

hard, then started to sit up slightly, bracing herself

with her hands.

“Bom what are you doing? It stings a little, but”

He yanked the boot off and she fell backward

again, hitting her head on the wood. Then he raised

her leg and held the knife over it.

“Now wait a minute, Bom!” Her voice turned

panicky. Cohoma had recovered his footing, took a

threatening step toward the hunter.

“Just a second, you misplaced pygmy. Explain”

There was a warning growl just overhead and he

looked up. Ruumahum was leaning over the cubble

just above him, holding on with four legs, the front

paws dangling and claws extended. The furcot

smiled, showing more ivory than a concert grand.

Cohoma looked into three eyes and clenched his fists,

but kept them at his side.

“This will hurt a little,” Bom said quickly. He cut

into the sole of her foot, directly over the three punc-

tures.

Logan screamed violently, fell back and tried to

twist free. Holding her foot tightly, Bom put his

mouth over the freely bleeding wound, sucked and

spat, sucked and spat. When he finished, she was

crying softly and trembling. After a cautious glance

at Ruumahum, Cohoma moved to comfort her.

Bom ignored the giant’s tense questions while

searching the surrounding foliage. He found what he

needed, a cluster of herbaceous cylinders growing from

a nearby limb. Finding an old one, he cut it off at

the base. It was half the length of his arm. The knife

took the top off, revealing a hollow tube filled with

clear liquid. He drained it, sighed, and tried another

one. This he offered to the injured woman. Logan

finished rubbing at her eyes, stared at him.

“Drink it,” he advised simply. She started to take

it and recoiled at the feel of the mushy stem. Then

she put her lips hesitantly to the rim and drained half

of it, despite Cohoma’s warnings. She passed the

remainder to him.

Cohoma studied it warily. “How do we know he’s

not trying to poison us?”

“If he wanted to kill us,” she sighed, “he could

have left us for the flying meat-eater, Jan. Don’t be

a fool. There’s nothing harmful in it.” Cohoma sipped

at it reluctantly, but finished what was left.

“Your foot . . . how does it feel?” Bom inquired

solicitously. Logan drew her knee up, pulled it in to

where she could see the bottom. The wound was not

as deep as she had feared, certainly not as deep as

it had felt when Bom was cutting it. It was already

beginning to heal. Around the multiple punctures,

though, the skin had turned a dull red.

“Like someone took a knife to it,” she shot back.

“How should it feel?”

“You feel nothing besides the cut?” Born pressed.

She considered. “A slight tingle, maybe, around

where I stepped on the thorns . . . like when your

foot goes to sleep. But that’s all.”

“Tingle,” Bom said thoughtfully. He started search-

ing the brush again. Both giants watched him curi-

ously. He paused before one plant, then plucked a

pale yellow fruit from a branch far above, where it

hung in neat clusters of three. “Eat this,” he instructed

Logan when he rejoined them again.

She examined it doubtfully. Of all the fruits and

edible vegetation Born had introduced to them, this

appeared the most formidable. It was shaped like a

squat barrel, with brown riblike extrusions running

around its circumference. “Skin and all?”

“Skin and all,” Bom said, nodding, “and quickly.

It will be better for you.”

She brought it to her mouth. So much of the fo-

liage on this world was deceptivemaybe this tough-

looking specimen would have a … then she bit into

it. Her face screwed up in disgust. “It tastes,” she

told Cohoma, “like spoiled cheese seasoned with vin-

egar. What happens,” she asked Born appealingly, “if

I don’t finish this thing?”

“I believeI think, I got all of the poison out of

your system. If not, you have a few moments left

before the remaining poison spreads to your nervous

system and kills you. Unless it is countered by the

antitoxin in fruit.”

Logan finished the yellow pulp with speed t hat

belied her nausea. Still, she found time to wonder at

how words like “antitoxin” and terms like “nervous

system” had lasted in these people’s vocabulary down

through the years of their fall from knowledge. Un-

doubtedly, she reflected, these expressions were con-

stantly used in this ever-threatening environment. As

she reached this conclusion, her eyes widened, her

cheeks bulged, and she turned and retched with such

violence that Born and Cohoma had to move fast

to keep her heaving body from falling off the cubble.

Minutes later she was lying on her back gasping for

air and running a forearm slowly across her mouth.

“Holy orders!” she wheezed. “I feel like I’ve been

turned inside out.” She put both hands to her ab-

domen and felt around gently. “Still thereyou could

have bet me it wasn’t.”

Bom ignored her gasps and complaints. “How does

your foot feel now?”

“Still tingles a little.”

“Just your foot?” he persisted, staring intently at

her. “Not your ankle, or your lower leg, here?” He

touched her calf. She shook her head. Bom grunted,

got to his feet. “Good. If your leg tingled, the poi-

son would have spread past my ability to halt it.

Then it would have been too late. But you will be

all right, now.”

She nodded and started to get to her feet with

Cohoma’s help. Then she stared sharply at Bom.

“Heyif it was so vital that I eat that fruit right

away, Bom, why did you hesitate before picking it

and bringing it down? According to what you just said,

I could have died in the interim.”

The hunter stared back at her with the patient look

one reserves for very young children. “I had to be sure

the tesshanda would not object to my taking its fruit,

since it was not yet quite ripe.”

Both Logan and Cohoma appeared confused. “Are

you saying,” she went on, “that you had to ask that

plant’s permission? That you talked to it?”

“I did not say that,” Bom explained easily. “I

emfoledit.”

“Emfoled? Oh, you mean you felt the fruit to see

if it was ripeenfolded it.”

Bom shook his head. “No . . . emfoled. You do

not emfol with your plants?”

“I guess not, since I’ve no idea what you’re talking

about, Bom.”

He looked satisfied without being pleased. “Ah,

that explains much.”

“Not to me, it doesn’t,” Cohoma replied. “Look,

Bom, are you saying you talked or conversed with

that plant and that it gave you an okay to pick a

fruit before it was ripe?”

“No, no, I emfoled it. If the fruit was ripe, I

would not have had to, of course.”

“Why of course?” Logan asked, feeling the con-

versation growing steadily more tenuous.

“Because then the tesshanda would have emfoled

me.

“Some kind of ritual superstition,” she muttered.

“The logic trappings are intriguing. Wonder where it

sprang from? Give me a hand up, Jan.” He did so

and she immediately winced, bent over and held her

stomach.

“Can you walk?” Born inquired, still patient.

“No, but I’m an accomplished stumbler.” She forced

a sickly grin. “Talk about the cure being worse than

the disease … I don’t think you’d make it as a

Commonwealth physician, van Born, but this is the

second time you’ve saved my life. Thanks.”

“Third time,” Bom told her without explaining.

“We are near to the Home, now. Another half-level

up and two or three levels distant.” Both giants

groaned.

“I’ve never seen a tree like that, not on Survey or

in any of the other reports,” Cohoma announced when

they had their first sight of the Home.

“You haven’t been keeping up, Jan,” his partner

admonished. “The next to the last eastward skimmer

brought back the details on it. It’s called a weaver.

The central trunk hardly narrows at all till it attains

the five- or six-hundred-meter level. Then it splits

and resplits into an interlocking maze of trunklets

that form a … well … a kind of enormous

central basket in the tree. Then the subtrunks re-

combine a few dozen meters higher to form a single

bole again that reaches all the way to the forest top.

According to the report the branches of the trunklet

cage are lined with a red fruit, mostly sugar pulp

around a nutlike center, that’s about as rich in nour-

ishment components as anything found locally so far

and rich in niacin, of all things.” She pointed as

they neared the first trunklets and walked along a

thick tuntangcle. “See those pods growing from the

pink blossoms? According to the report, if you brush

against one, you get a face full of pollen. If you

breathe that stuff, it’s good-bye, according to the lab

analysis. Fungal spores settle in the lungs and esopha-

gus, spread instantly and choke you inside two min-

utes.”

She was suddenly aware that Bom showed no sign

of swerving from the deadly flower-sprouting vines.

“We’re going around this tree, aren’t we, Bom?

There can’t be a poison here your people don’t know

about.”

“Go around?” Bom eyed her oddly. “This tree is

the Home.” He approached the tangle of flower-laden

vines and branchlets.

“Bom . . .” She followed him slowly, her eyes on

the deadly pods. One touch would send a shower of

suffocating pollen into the air.

Bom stopped at the first vine, leaned over, and

spat directly into one of the broad blooms, avoiding

the swollen pod. A shiver appeared to pass through

the vine as the glistening petals closed on themselves.

The shiver continued. Then, like a twig curling back

from flame, the vines tightened, retracted on them-

selves, revealing a clear path through the brambles.

“Quickly now,” Bom urged, starting between the

passage.

A streak of emerald lightning shot past the two giants

as they began to follow. Ruumahum had not waited

for them to make up their minds. When they were

through and safe, both turned to watch the tension

slip out of the vines. They relaxed, once again bar-

ring the way as effectively as a duralloy wall.

“Remarkable,” Cohoma murmured. He questioned

Bom as they strode deeper into the heart of the

Home-tree. “What would happen, Bom, if I were to

spit in one of the flowers?”

“Nothing,” the hunter told him. “You are not of

the Home. The Home recognizes only its own.”

“I don’t see how” he began, but Logan was al-

ready analyzing the possibilities.

“Tell me, Bom,” she asked, “do your people eat

the fruit of the weaverthe Home?”

Born looked back at her, aghast. At times these

giants seemed to possess knowledge beyond imagin-

ing; at other times, they. could be incredibly stupid.

“Is there anything better to eat except perhaps

fresh meat?” He had heard Logan’s recital of the

Survey report on the weaver, but had not understood.

“Why would we not eat of what is so readily pro-

vided for us?”

“Interesting,” Logan agreed. Then she again began

using words of no meaning to Born and he willingly

ignored their conversation. “You see the connection

yet, Jan?”

Her companion nodded. “I think so. They eat the

tree’s fruit on a regular basis; it’s their staple food.

Chemicals from the fruit mass in their system. When

they spit into one of the flowers, chemicals from the in-

gested fruit are included in the saliva. No wonder the

Home recognizes its own!”

“I can see what’s in it for the people,” Logan

confessed. “Food and shelter. What, if anything, does

the tree get out of it?”

Their musings were interrupted by a shout, then

another, and another. Soon they were surrounded by

a group of goggling childrenperfectly normal chil-

dren in every way, if one discounted the predominance

of deep brown skin, hair, and green eyes, plus their

shortness. The youngsters eyed the two giants with

the kind of awe they would have reserved for a pink

furcot.

Din was there, too. He fell in step alongside Bom.

Puffing out his thin chest, he matched the hunter

stride for stride, except for an occasional skip needed

to keep up. Bom muttered an indifferent greeting to

the boy. Would the youth never cease pestering him?

Muf tagged along behind his person, his presence

unusual for a furcot. Normally he would have been

off with his brethren somewhere in the trunklets, sleep-

ing. The cub nosed his way through the group of chil-

dren and sniffed questioningly at Logan. She shied

away at first, then reached out and hesitantly patted

the cub on the head. A low rumble began to sound

from somewhere deep within the six-legged ball of fur.

The cub edged closer to Logan, nearly knocking her

over.

A streamlined, rippling green shape was alongside

her in a second. “If cub troubles, slap,” Ruumahum

advised Logan in his rumbling bass.

She gazed down at the cub, who was staring up at

her with worshipful multiple eyes. “Slap himcertainly

not!” she objected. “He’s only being affectionate.”

Ruumahum snorted derisively, padded on ahead.

This unlikely paradeone person, two furcots, a

gaggle of softly chattering children, and two giants

finally came to a halt by the side of the central leaf-

leather pavilion.

Bom’s gaze swept over the surrounding homes.

Somewhere an adult furcot yawned loudly. No crowd

came running from the half-open doorways. No covey

of adolescent girls hurried to feel his arms and torso

and to make cooing sounds. No hunters arrived to

study his giants with the awe the children had shown.

There was no praise, no admiring compliments, no

adulation or expressions of proper commendation for

his courage and boldnessonly the curious stares of

a few oldsters peeping out from behind leafleather

doorways.

Something hit Bom at the back of his knees, and

he fell forward, landing in a puddle of stagnant

night-water. Muf scrambled and hid among the chil-

dren. They laughed delightedly. Getting slowly to his

feet, Bom tried to regain his dignity while shaking the

water free from the cloak. The laughter continued. He

turned and yelled at them. They drew back slightly,

but the s miles did not entirely vanish. He took a step

toward the nearest child, his hand going threateningly

to his knife. This time they scattered, naked brown

bodies darting nimbly into the doorways of homes,

or behind ridges and humps in the wooden paving of

the square. Bom found he was breathing hard. His

capacity for making a fool of himself seemed limitless.

“Not quite the reception you hoped for, hmmm?”

Cohoma ventured with surprising sympathy. “I know

exactly how you feel. I’ve experienced the same lack

of appreciation myself.” He shot a significant glance

at Logan that she missed.

All at once the anger flowed out of the hunter,

and he relaxed somewhat, feeling at the same time an

unexpected sense of kinship to this strange man who

claimed to travel the Upper Hell in a boat made of

axe metal.

“Where is everyone, anyway?” Logan wondered.

Born just shrugged and led them on toward his own

vestibule, located high in the trunklets at the far end

of the Home cage. “Gathering fruit, caring for the

Home…”

“Parasite control,” Cohoma murmured to Logan.

“One point for the tree. Better the human parasite you

know than the unreasonable animal or plant you

don’t.”

“Symbiote, not parasite,” Logan countered. “Both

tree and man benefit. I wonder, though, what the

weaver trees did for protection before Bom’s ances-

tors made them their home.”

“. . . or hunting, perhaps,” Bom concluded, ignor-

ing their whispers. “All will return before the night

comes.” He smiled to himself. He could still count on

Brightly Go’s reaction when he introduced the giants

to the council tonight.

Bora’s own living quarters elicited more peculiar

words from the giants. “See,” Logan went on, indicat-

ing the walls and ceiling, “the smaller branches and

vines grow so close together here that it’s a simple

matter to close off the remaining space with woven

material.”

Cohoma murmured agreement, sat down and ran a

finger along the smooth wood of the floor. An idea

was forming that he needed additional proof to con-

firm. Bom gave it to him when he explained the func-

tion of a circular crevice in the floor located near the

back of the big room.

“I just wonder,” he mumbled aloud, “who has

adapted to whom, hereman to tree, or tree to man?

Maybe nothing lived in the weavers before the colo-

nists discovered them. But I don’t understand how

such detailed, specialized interdependence could have

developed in a few generations.”

Logan considered silently. Bom eyed the two of

them without understanding as they continued to talk

between themselves. What did they mean, man adapt

to tree or tree to man? The Home was the Home. It

was only sensible that a man should take care of his

dwelling. What was it like, he wondered, on the world

Where these giants came from, that they found the nat-

ural order of things here so astonishing? He did not

think he would care for it. Then a freak thought

struck him-freak, because it seemed so impossible.

“Can it be,” he said, the incredulity plain in his

voice, “that on your world there is nothing that

grows?”

“No,” Logan corrected, “there’s much that grows,

but nothing we live in, as you do. But we use our

growing things, as your people do.”

“Use? I don’t understand, Kimilogan.”

She settled herself back against a branch. “Some

plants we eat the fruit of, others we make into foods

we can eat, some we still, but rarely, use in the build-

ing of our homes. Some we use for medicinal pur-

poses, as you did the tesshanda. We use the forest

world much as you do.”

“I still do not understand,” Bom said. “We do not

use the forest. We are a part of the forest, the

world. We are part of a cycle that cannot be broken.

We no more use the forest than the forest uses us.”

Cohoma murmured something unintelligible at that.

“Your people serve this tree,” Logan explained

slowly, “even if you don’t realize it. You’re its ser-

vants, in a sense.”

“Servants.” Bom thought hard, spread his hands

helplessly. “What is a servant?”

“Someone who performs a service at the bidding of

another,” she explained.

Madder and madder! Truly the giants had spells of

idiocy, Bom mused. “We do not serve the tree, the

Home. The Home serves us.”

Logan eyed him a little sadly, then she looked over

at Cohoma. “They don’t understand, all right. Probably

wouldn’t want to.

“And why not?” Cohoma added. “They seem per-

fectly happy with the arrangement.”

“It ties them down mentally, though,” she coun-

tered. “With shelter and basic food provided by nature,

there’s neither reason nor motivation to regain the

knowledge they’ve lost. We’ll have trouble trying to

re-educate them. Tell me, Bom,” she asked gently,

turning to him as he laid out a meal of fruit, nuts, and

dried grazer meat, “would you ever consider leaving

your tree?”

Born was so shocked he stood momentarily frozen.

“Leave the Home? You mean, forever? Not to

come back?” She nodded.

That confirmed the giants’ madness. Why would

anyone even think of leaving the Home? Here

was shelter, food, companionship, security and pro-

tection from the unpredictable jungle outside. Away

from the Home lay only uncertainty and eventual

death.

Then he understood the reason, and it explained

many of the giants’ strange words. “I see,” he told

them as gently as possible. “I truly did not under-

stand before. It is evident that you have no Home of

your own.”

“We have homes,” Cohoma shot back. “Mine would

overwhelm you, Bom. It does what I tell it to, offers

food when I wish it, and I come and go from it as

I please.”

“You do not have to care for it?”

“Well, yes, but-”

Logan’s chuckle cut him off. “He’s got you there,

Jan.”

Cohoma looked upset. “Not at all. I can leave any-

time I want, for as long as I want, without worrying

about it. But these people can’t.”

“That is not a Home, then,” Bom argued. “One

cares for a Home, and one’s Home cares for its own.”

“Well, it’s my home,” Cohoma grumbled, sampling

a spiral nut from the cluster spread before him. It

offered a faint flavor of pepper and celery. He took

a second.

“I see,” Born replied. He was too polite to add what

he knew. Though there had been no talk of material

construction, of artificial abodes, Bom knew that the

giants’ homes were not living, but were dead things,

rotten with indifference. For all their wonders, Bom

would not live in a dead thing, dead like the axe. You

could not emfol a dead thing.

Thoughts of axes and the waning daylight reminded

him that the hunters and gatherers would soon return.

He would present the giants to them then and perhaps

someone would finally venture to say that the hunter

Bom was a bit more daring and brave and worthy

than the average hunter.

As he sat and ate and composed what he would

say, he noticed toes below the leafleather doorway. He

got to his feet, shoved the partition aside. Din jerked

back, startled, but Bom was too preoccupied with the

anticipation of his own triumph to be angry. Instead,

he invited the boy in to eat, putting a foot in the

face of the cub Muf when it tried to follow. The

cub whimpered, but stayed outside. Bom found some

food for the youth and the orphan consumed it ea-

gerly.

So much for his audience an orphan child and

two giants afflicted with inherent insanities. He bit

angrily into a tough slab of meat.

“A number of colony transports,” Cohoma explained

to the wary but politely attentive audience gathered

around the evening Home fire, “were reported lost,

sometimes in a natural disaster, sometimes through a

careless shift in records by an incompetent clerk.”

He swallowed, aware he was treading on quasire-

ligious grounds. “It seems likely,” he continued, stress-

ing the word likely, “that you people are descended

from the survivors of one such ship and are trapped

here. Though considering the inimical nature of this

world I find it incredible that any of the misplaced

colonists were able to survive after the initial supplies

were exhausted.” He sat down again. “That’s our best

guess, anyway.”

No one seated around the evening blaze said any-

thing. Cohoma and Logan eyed their shorter, better

armed cousins a mite apprehensively.

“All this,” Chief Sand finally responded slowly, “may

be as you say.” Both giants relaxed visibly. “But

while we have not the benefit of your peculiar

knowledge, we have explanations of our own for our

existence.”

He glanced over at Reader and nodded. The

shaman rose. He was clad in his ceremonial raiment

of spotted gildver fur, brilliant brown and red with

orange stripes, and the feathered headdress wrought

,from moltings drifted down from the Upper Hell. And

the axe, of course, which he brandished prominently

as he rose. Swinging it like a conductor’s baton, he

told the story of how the world happened.

“In the beginning there was the seed,” Reader in-

toned solemnly. The people listened reverently. They

had heard the legend a thousand times, yet it still

commanded their attention. “And not a very big seed

at that,” the shaman continued. “One day the thought

of water descended, and the seed took root in the wood

of emfol.” That word again, Logan mused. “It grew.

Its trunk became strong and tall. Whereupon it put

out many branches. Some of these formed the Pillars

which dominate the world. Others changed and be-

came the two hells which envelop the world. Then

buds appeared, buds uncounted, blooming. We are

the offspring of one such bud, the furcots another,

the peeper that lies still in the hyphae yet another.

The seed prospers, the world prospers, we prosper.”

Cohoma held his knees up and together. “If that’s

so, and if you believe we come from a planet different

from this one, how does all that fit into your uni-

verse?”

“The branches of the seed tree sprea d far,” Reader

replied. There were appreciative murmurs from the

circle.

“What if one of your branches was transplanted to

another part of this tree?”

“It would die. Each blossom knows its place on its

branch.”

“Then you can understand our situation,” Cohoma

went on. “The same is true with us. If we don’t

return to our particular branchor seed, or home,

or stationwe will surely die, too. Won’t you help

us? We would do as much for you.”

Logan and Cohoma did their best to appear indif-

ferent while the villagers discussed the situation among

themselves. Someone threw another rotted section of

log onto the fire. It blazed higher, tossing off angry

sparks, slim smoke trails rising lazily to curl skyward

around the edges of the leafleather canopy. Warm

rain dripped down through the smoke.

Sand, Joyla, and Reader conferred in whispers. Fi-

nally, Sand raised a hand and the muttering subsided.

“We will help you return to your branch station,

your Home,” he announced in a strong voice that

sounded as if it came from a distant loudspeaker and

not that thin frame. “If it is possible.”

Born held his place in the inner circle and stared

groundward so his smile would not be visible to the

chief or to Reader or to any of his fellows. He could

hardly wait for their response when they found out

how far away this precious station of the visitors ac-

tually was.

No one laughed when Logan told them.

“Such a journey is unthought of,” Sand announced

when Logan had concluded. “No, impossible, impos-

sible. I cannot direct anyone to accompany you, can-

not.”

“But didn’t I make it clear?” Logan said pleadingly,

scrambling to her feet and gazing anxiously around at

the silent brown faces. “If we don’t get back to our

station we’ll . . . we’ll wither, wither and die. We’ll”

The chief cut her off with a calming hand. “I said

I could not direct anyone to accompany you. This

is so. I would not order any hunter to undertake such

a journey, but if one wished to go with you . . .”

“This is foolish talk,” the gatherer Dandone com-

mented from her place. “No one would return alive

from such a trek. There are tales of places where

the Lower and Upper Hells are joined and the world

stops.”

“You confuse bravery and foolishness,” Joyla coun-

tered. “A foolish person is merely one who does brave

things without thought. Would not any among us risk

her life to return to the Home from a far place, no

matter the distance or hazards? And would we not

seek help from whomever we found ourselves

among?” She looked over at the giants. “If these peo-

ple are like us, they will go despite our entreaties

and warnings. Perhaps we have some among us

brave enough to go with them. I am no hunter, so I

cannot.”

“K I were a young man,” Sand added, “I would

go, despite the dangers.”

But you are young no longer. Born thought to him-

self.

“But since I am young no longer,” the chief con-

tinued, “I cannot. Let this not restrain others, those

among you who may be eager to go.”

He stared around at the assembly, as did Cohoma

and Logan, as did the men and women, as did the

wide-eyed children who peered inward from behind

shoulders and heads and between calves. No one

stepped forward. The only sounds were the brisk

crackle of dead wood in the fire, the soft, indif-

ferent murmur of falling rain. Before he had time to

think it out, Bom found himself saying, “I will go

with the giants.”

Innumerable stares of varying intent and intensity

pinned him in his place. Now, at last, he hoped for

some show of admiration and appreciation. Instead,

those stares held sadness and pity. Even the two

giants gazed on him with expressions of satisfaction

and relief, but not of adulation. Bitterly he reflected

how that might change in the many seven-days ahead.

“The hunter Bom will accompany the giants,” Sand

noted. “Will any others?” Bom looked around at his

friends. There was stirring within the inner circle, but

it came from men finding excuses to study the ground

before them, to feel the warmth of the fire, to examine

the seams in the leafleather canopy overheadany-

thing but meet his eyes.

Very well. He would go alone with the giants, and

he alone would learn their secrets. “Possibly,” he said

coldly, getting to his feet, “it would not be too much

to ask for some to see to the provisioning of our

party.” Then he turned and stalked out of the gather-

ing, back toward his bower. As he did so, he thought

he heard someone murmur, “Why waste good food

on those already dead?” More likely, he had imag-

ined it; nevertheless, he did not stop to find out.

Successful hunts, the killing of the grazerall had

brought him nothing. When he alone of all the hunters

had been brave enough to descend to the giants’

sky-boat he had gained only the accolades of chil-

dren. Now he would do something so overawing, so

incredible, that none would be able to ignore him any

longer. He would take the giants to their station-Home

and return, or he would die. Maybe that would make

them realize his worth, if this time he failed to return.

They would be sorry then.

In his anger, he stumbled on a protruding rootlet

and turned furiously to hurl imprecations at his

thoughtless enemy. It made him feel a little better.

The central fire was well behind him now, and the

darkness snuggled close around him. He pulled his

cloak down over his head to shield himself from the

rain.

If the giants felt they could reach their mysterious

station, then why should he not feel as confident? Why

not indeed, unless…

What if there were no station? What if these two

giants were imps of the Lower Hell sent here to tempt

him to stray from the Home?

Bah, nonsense! They were as human as he, despite

their great size and strange garb. How else could it

be that they spoke the same language of man? Though

what strange modulations and phrasings they used!

And they did not emfol. Bom could not conceive of a

person who could not emfol, so he conveniently forgot

about it-

He parted the leafleather dooring and entered his

home, closed it carefully behind him. Untying his

cloak, he slung it into a far comer. A muffled sound

came from the darkness. Immediately he crouched,

the bone knife jumping reflexively from belt to hand.

A dim figure whimpered. Moving carefully in the

blackness, he brought out the little packet of incendi-

ary pollen, sprinkled it over the pile of deadwood in

the center of the floor. A touch, and the wood coughed

and blazed, revealing the huddled form of Brightly

Go.

Relaxing, he replaced the knife in its sheath. After

a curious glance at the girl, he sat down beside the

fire and crossed his legs. Its yellow-bright depths were

soothing, friendly, undemanding. They would leave

tomorrow, the giants and he, and he would have liked

a long, quiet sleep but…

“You come to laugh at me like the others,” he

muttered, without rancour.

“Oh, no!” She crawled timidly toward the fire. The

light made olivine patterns deep in her eyes, and Born

found the attraction of the fire waning steadily. “You

know my feelings. Born.”

He huffed, turned nervously away. “Losting you like,

Losting you loveme, I amuse you!”

“No, Bom,” she protested, her voice rising. “I like

Losting, yes, but … I like you as well. Losting is

nice, but not nearly so nice as you. Not nearly.”

She looked at him imploringly. “I don’t want you to

do this thing. Born. If you go with the giants you’ll

never come back. I believe what everyone says about

the dangers so far from Home and what is whispered

about the places where the two hells come together.”

“Stories, legends,” Bom grumbled. “Cub tales. The

dangers far from the Home are no different than they

are a spear’s throw from this room. Nor do I believe

there is a place where the two hells join. But if there is,

we will go around it or through it.”

She moved around the fire on hands and knees, to

sidle close and put one hand on his shoulder. “For me,

Bom, don’t go with the giants.”

Looking at her, he started to lean close, started

to agree, started to give in. Then the thing that drove

him to lie in wait for grazers and to go down into

the depths of wells reached out, interceded, crossed

him up. Instead of saying, “I’ll do whatever you

desire. Brightly Go, for the love of you,” he whispered

huskily, “I’ve given my word and said before the

whole tribe I will go. And even had I not, I will do

this thing.”

Her hand slid from his shoulder. She half-mumbled,

“Bom, I don’t want you to,” then bent over and

kissed him before he could draw away. Then she was

on her feet and out the door before he could react.

The night-rain swallowed her up.

He was silent a long time, thinking, as the fire

consumed itself and the tepid drops trickled off leaf-

leather roof. Then he mumbled something there was

no one to hear, rolled back onto his sleeping fur, and

drifted off to a troubled, dream-filled slumber.

Ruumahum’s left eye opened halfway, cocked side-

ways. A dark bulk stood on the branch by his resting

crevice. He coughed, shook droplets from his muzzle,

and snorted in the sibilant rumbling way of the furcot.

“Where is your person, cub?”

Muf jerked his head, in imitation of the human

gesture, down toward the cluster of enclosed branches

below. “Somewhere there, asleep.”

“As you should be, nuisance.” The eye closed, and

Rnumahum rearranged his massive head on his fore-

paws.

Muf hesitated before blurting out, “Old one, please?”

Ruumahum let out a furcot sigh and lifted his head

slightly to face the cub, all three eyes open this time.

The cub dropped his head and eyed the village

sleeping below.

“My person, the boy Din, is troubled.”

“All persons are troubled,” Ruumahum replied. “Go

to sleep.”

“He fears for his half-father, the person Bom. Your

person.”

“There is no blood attachment,” the big furcot

mumbled, dropping his head down again. “The cub-

person’s emotional reaction is unreasonable.”

“All cub-persons’ reactions are unreasonable. I fear

this time my person’s reaction is reasonable.”

Ruumahum’s eyebrows rose. “Offspring of an ac-

cident, can it be that you enter into wisdom?”

“I fear,” the cub continued, “the boy-cub-person

will do something rash.”

“His elders will restrain him, as I would restrain

you. I will do worse if you don’t leave me to my

rest.”

Muf turned to go, looked back over a shoulder, and

grumbled defiantly, “Don’t say I didn’t tell you of it,

old one.”

Ruumahum shook his head, wondered why it was

that cubs were so questing and inquiring, so disrespect-

ful of an elder’s rest. They rose with questions at all

hours and times. The drive to dispel ignorancea

drive, he reminded himself, he also had been subject

tothe drive was still there, but mellowed by ex-

perience. Mellowed also by the quiet assurance that

death explained everything.

He snugged his head back into his crossed paws,

ignored the steadily dripping rain, and was instantly

asleep again.

VII

Born angrily broke off another of the dead

branches from the trunk of a tertiary parasite, careful

despite his rage not to harm any of the healthy, living

shoots.

They were four days linear march out from the

Home, and his anger at the now distant group of

sullen hunters had not abated. But some of the anger

was directed inward at himself for locking himself into

this crazy expedition.

Ruumahum patrolled the hylaea off to Bom’s left.

He sensed his person’s discomfort and kept his dis-

tance. A person made blind by anger was as unpre-

dictable as any of the forest denizens, and one furious

at himself the most unpredictable of all.

Adding to Bom’s discomfort was the total incom-

petence of the giants. They seemed to know nothing

of normal walking or climbing. A child held better

footing than they. Had he not been close at hand, there

would already have been some serious falls. What

would they do if a brown many-legs or a Buna floater

charged them? Ruumahum moved below them when

they came to a more difficult place, but even the fur-

cot’s superfast reflexes might not be enough to stay a

fall of several levels. It would take only one such fall

to end the expedition.

He broke, off the last branch, gathered up the wood

in his arms, and started back toward the wide section

of cubble he had chosen for this evening’s camp.

Today it appeared the giants were doing a little bet-

ter, moving a little less hesitantly through the trees.

Cohoma no longer showed the same tendency to slip

every time he jumped for the next vine, or to over-

extend his grasp for same.

Logan had finally been convinced it was dangerous

to reach for each new bloom and plant they passed.

Bom did not smile as he recalled the incident two

days past, when she had sought a drink from the

gobletlike vermilliot. Only a quick step and a crisp

blow on the forearm had kept her from touching it.

She had glared angrily at him until he had shown her

the minute differences in the vermilliot and the sur-

rounding vermillion plants the vermilliot had two ex-

tra petals, an unusual thickening of the base, a darker

red color, and telltale spottings near the lip of the

cylinderall flaws in otherwise perfect mimicry.

Finally he had used the bone knife. Making sure

both giants were well clear, he moved above the

plant. With the point of the blade he had tipped the

green cylinder so that the clear liquid inside spilled

free. The vermilliot’s water was clear, but rainwater it

was not. The stream struck the meter-thick liana be-

low, splashed, and sizzled, forming a dense cloud that

rose into the air. When the mist finally faded, he

beckoned them nearer. Cautioning them not to step

on the lingering dampness, he showed them the hole

the clear liquid had made through a meter of wood and

into the depths beyond.

Lastly, he had carefully tapped the green wall of

the false bromeliad. They heard the deep, almost

metallic bong, utterly unlike the soft tap when he

struck one of the true vermillions.

From that point on neither of the giants so much as

brought a finger close to a new growth without first

consulting Bom. That made him only slightly happier,

for innumerable questions slowed them down as effec-

tively as a wound or a broken limb. They moved at

perhaps a third of the speed he would have managed

alone.

With a short jump he dropped down to the’huge

cubble selected for camp. From the first day, deciding

on a camp had proved a problem. It seemed the

giants could not tolerate many evenings without shel-

ter from the night-rain. They insisted on protection

despite the time and effort it cost, and Born had

grudgingly complied. Their excuse was that constant

exposure would engender a strange sickness in them,

which they called a cold.

Bom failed to understand. No person could be so

fragile. Indigestion was the only illness he was familiar

with, and that occurred only when he ate food other

than the fruit of the Home tree. But the descriptions

and assurances of sickness the giants, gave him were

so horrid he could hardly deny them their necessary

protection.

‘There he is,” he heard Logan say to her com-

panion as he approached. He wondered why they

lowered their voices so often, speaking at a less than

normal volume. The thought that they might be trying

to keep something from him never occurred to him.

Anyway, he could hear them clearly enough, even

when they conversed in what was called a whisper.

Who was he to question the peculiarities of those who

could fly through the sky?

They might have spent more time, he mused as he

dumped the load of wood on the main branch, im-

proving and perfecting their own bodies instead of con-

structing new artificial ones to shield them from the

world.

“We were getting a little nervous, Bom,” Logan ex-

plained with a broad smile. “You’ve been gone a long

time.”

He shrugged, set about constructing a crude lean-

to from the accumulation of dead branches and ex-

traneous leaves. “It is difficult to find adequate ma-

terials for a dry shelter,” he told her. “Most dead-

wood and old leaves fall to Hell to be eaten, like all

else that falls.”

“Eaten’s the word, I’ll bet,” Cohoma agreed, peeling

the skin from a large purple spiral. “There should be

bacteria down there big as your freckles, Kimi. The

amount of dead vegetable matter that must fall to

the ground here each day”

There was a crash of leaves, and he jumped to his

feet. Logan hurried to ready the bone spear she had

been provided with. It was only Ruumahum. Bom

smiled as he studied the giants’ expressions. Despite

protestations to the contrary, it was clear they would

never quite get used to the big furcot’s presence.

“Person and furcot come,” the emerald hexapod

declared.

“Stranger or?” Born stopped as a tall figure

stepped into the light, and his hand moved instinc-

tively for his knife. A second furcot, not quite as

big as Ruumahum, was at the man’s side.

Losting.

The big hunter did not smile as he met Bom’s

gaze. Logan eyed Bom questioningly. He ignored her.

Nor did he move his hand from the hilt of his knife.

The two furcots exchanged soft growls and moved

on to converse on a nearby limb. Losting took a

couple of steps forward.

“When two lone hunters meet on the trail,” the big-

ger man said, taking his gaze from Bom long enough

to study the giants, “it is meet that the one who has

made camp invite the latecomer to share with him.”

“How come you here, now?” Bom asked sharply,

ignoring ritual courtesy for the moment. He looked

groundward so Losting could not see the anger in his

eyes. “I saw you last standing with Brightly Go as we

left the Home.”

“That is so,” Losting admitted without gloating. “I

think now, as I have these past days, that I should

have stayed with her, as she will need someone to

comfort her and make a life with her when you are

dead.”

“You did not follow alone for four days to taunt

me,” Bom noted tensely. His anger was melting under

the illogic of the situation. “Why then did you follow?”

Now it was Losting’s turn to look away. Walking

past the two giants, he squatted and rested chin on

forearm as he examined the shelter being built. “I tried

to forget what you said that night in council. I could

not. Nor could I forget that you alone had gone down

into the well in the world, to discover that the blue

thing was not a demon, but a thing of axe metal. To

discover them.” He nodded at a curiously watching

Logan and Cohoma. “I was ashamed I had been

afraid, even though the others of our party who had

returned are not. They excused themselves by saying

you were mad. I could not so excuse myself.” He

looked back at Born. “Then when you said you would

try to go with these giants to their Home, I too thought

you mad. Born. And when you left, I was happy, for

I had Brightly Go in my arms.” Bom tensed, but

Losting put up a restraining hand. “I thought how

good it would be now, with Brightly Go to myself.

How good not to have you around, Bom, always to

come back with another, greater kill. How good not

to have to compete for her with a madman. How

good not to fumble with hard words while you always

said the soft, proper ones.”

The last of Bom’s anger vanished. An astonishing

thought occurred to him. Could it be that Losting

massive, muscular Losting, mighty hunter and warrior

Lostingcould it be that he was jealous of Bom?

“I stayed while you left,” the other hunter continued,

“but I stayed troubled. When Brightly Go left me,

I went to the edge of the Home and sat there, star-

ing into the world where yo u had disappeared. Think-

ing. Ashamed. For, I thought to myself, what if you

should reach the giant’s station-Home as you had

reached then- sky-boat? What if you should come back

with this success on your shoulders? What then would

Brightly Go think of me? And what, what would I

think of myself?” Losting’s face was twisted.

“You persecute me, Bom, whether you are near or

not. So I found myself thinking, maybe you are mad,

but mad and skilled, even still you are no braver than

Losting. None is braver than Losting! So I followed.

I will follow to the giants’ home or to the death.

You will not have this triumph over me, you will

not!”

“Bom, what’s this all about?” Cohoma asked.

Logan shushed him. “Can’t you see it’s personal,

Jan? Something deep between these two. Let’s not

intrude.”

“As long as it doesn’t affect our return.” Cohoma

said.

“What of this, then?” Bom queried, relaxing a little.

“Why do you not continue to follow as before? Clearly

it was the better course of plan.”

“And would keep me from your eyes,” Losting

finished, without anger. “And you from mine. But

we cannot go on.”

“You’ll not discourage me with”

“No, not I, Bom.” Losting’s tone was conciliatory.

“Not having to pause to construct shelters for the

giants, I’ve traveled a little ahead of you each day,

not behind. I’ve only just now come from,” and he

named a modest figure, “ahead. What I’ve seen

prompts me to make contact.”

“And what have you seen?”

“Akadi.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then keep on this path, and be food for busy

mouths. I’ve seen the column.”

Bom considered. Losting would not jest about some-

thing so seriousnot even to embarrass Bom before

BrighflyGo.

“What’s going on?” Cohoma finally asked impa-

tiently. “What’s this talk about not going on? What’s

this acoti… whatever?”

“Akadi,” Bom corrected heavily. “We must go

back.”

“Now look” Cohoma began, getting to his feet.

Logan restrained him, but this time he shook her off.

“No, I’m going to tell these regressives what I think of

’em. First they make a big show of helping us. Then

they get a little ways away from the home fires, and

they have second thoughts.” He turned to Bom. “Or

maybe you’re getting close to that five-day limit no-

body’s ever exceeded and” Suddenly aware he was

overdoing his frustration, Cohoma stopped.

“You do not know of the Akadi,” Bom murmured

with quiet fury. “Or you would say only, when do we

run.”

“Bom,” Logan began, “I don’t think that’s”

“You talk of delays, and bravery, and intentions.

Do you think I’m risking my life out of the goodness

of my heart? Do you think I’m doing it for either of

you? I care nothing for the both of you, you great,

col4 people!” He calmed slightly and turned his at-

tendon to Cohoma. “You are different in size and color

and mind. You come to us in a sky-boat of axe metal.

I went down the well you made in the world not to

save you, but to see what your boat was. To find

out things. To please myself. I go to your station for

the same reasonnot to save your lives, but for me,

me! And it is for me that we turn back, for myself

and Losting and our people, not for you. You can

go on and die, or hide and rot before the column

catalogs your scent. It is nothing to me. But we can-

not go on. We may never go on again. We must

return to the Home.”

“Bom,” Logan said after a long silence, “we are

still ignorant of your ways and much of your world.

You must pardon us. What are the Akadi, and why

do they force us back?”

“We must warn the Home,” said Losting. “The

Akadi may pass it. If so, all will be well. If they do

not . . .” He shrugged. “We must try to stop them.”

“I believe you, Losting,” Bom confessed hesitantly.

“But I would have final proof.” He indicated Cohoma

and Logan. “And I think it would speed our return if

the giants were to see the sign of Akadi passing.”

Losting nodded agreement and rose. “It is not far,

not as far as I would wish. We can be near and

return before the water falls.”

Both hunters started off down the limb. Cohoma

and Logan had to hurry to follow. Logan stumbled and

twisted her way through the clutching thorns and

branches and saw-edged leaves. Ruumahum paced be-

low her as a precaution. The first two days had ac-

customed her to living the death of a thousand cuts

every sunrise to sunset, and she was getting tough-

ened. She marveled at how Bom never seemed to get

cut or scratched despite the thickness of the brambles

he led them through. It was positively uncanny. No

doubt, she reasoned, it was his smaller size, his lithe

build, coupled with the innate knowledge of the

hylaea’s construction that enabled him to slip smoothly

between the most closely packed webs of leaves and

stems and twigs.

A bulky green shape appeared next to her. She

didn’t jump this time, just quivered a little inside. She

was growing used to the furcot’s size and silent ap-

proach.

“Ruumahum, what are the Akadi?”

The furcot sniffed. “A thing that eats.”

“One thing, or many?”

“There are thousands of them, and there is one of

them,” Ruumahum replied.

“How can there be thousands and only one?”

Ruumahum growled irritably. “Ask Akadi.” He

plunged off the branch and downward.

Logan followed his path in her mind’s eye, repeating

to herself theatrically, “into the foliage below! . . .

foliage below . . . foliage below . . . foliage. Fol

emfolEmpathetic foliation?” Precise terminology for

an acquired superstition, she mused. That might ex-

plain the term, but not the rationale for the belief’s

intensity. She was missing something. It would have

to wait. Losting had been right, they did not have

far to go.

Now they were moving through a densely packed

thicket of aerial greenery striped with bright yellow.

It grew at right angles, forming a living checkerboard.

Losting indicated they would have to pass around it,

a detour of some dozens of meters.

Cohoma put out a hand and grasped the nearest

of the interlocking, finger-thick stems. “Why go

around?” he asked Bom, with a gesture at the lat-

ter’s broad-bladed knife. He squeezed the branch.

“This stuff is herbaceous, soft, pulpy. If we’re in a

hurry, why not cut our way through?”

“You consider death with such indifference,” Bom

told him, eyeing him in much the way Cohoma would

study a bug under a microscope. “Can it be that on

your own world you are a hunter of sorts, too?” There

was a certain unidentifiable stress laid on the word

sorts.

It was Cohoma’s turn to stare at Bom. “It’s just

some big succulent.”

“It is alive,” Bom said patiently. “If we cut through

it, it will become not-alive. Why? To save time?”

“Not only that. If there’s some kind of multiple

omnivore around here, I’d rather not be caught in

tight quarters. The more spase cleared around me,

,the better.”

Bom and Losting exchanged glances. The two fur-

cots waited nearby. “He would kill for a few minutes

of better light,” Bom observed wonderingly. “Your

priorities are strange, Jancohoma. We will go around.”

Cohoma had additional questions, and Logan as well.

However, neither Bom nor Losting would answer them

now.

Eventually they rounded the copse of the checker-

board succulents. In another minute they were walk-

ing in dense jungle. A turn, cut, and suddenly they

entered an unexpected open space, much as Cohoma

had wished for, tunneled out of the forest. The tunnel

was taller than a man, taller than Logan or Cohoma.

It was a good five meters wide, stretching in a

straight line to left and right until it merged into

green.

“Akadi made this. They are mindless and of

one purpose. They eat their way through the world,

leavingthis.” He indicated the clear space. Within

that tunnel, life had ceased to exist. It had simply

disappeared into … what?

“Is the line always so straight?” Logan asked.

“No. The column sends out scouts. If the food lies

thicker in another direction, the Akadi swerve and

eat in a new path. Once started, nothing turns them

but their own hunger. See.” He pointed down the tun-

nel. “They will eat through anything, consuming any-

thing living in their path that cannot get out of their

way. I have seen them eat through the heart of a Pil-

lar tree and come out the other side. It is said that

one can stand by the very edge of their, tunnel and,

though one could reach out and pull you in, they will

not deviate from their chosen path. As those in front

are sated, they drop back, letting new members eat

themselves full. By the time the last has eaten, the first

are hungry again. They stop only to rest and breed.”

Cohoma looked relieved. “No problem, then, is

there? Don’t tell me you’re concerned because they

seem to be heading toward your village?” Born

nodded.

The giant spread his hands. “What’s the trouble?

All you have to do is pack up your kids and furcots

and get out of the way until they’ve eaten their way

through, then move back in, right?”

Bom shook his head slowly. “No. The pods will

kill some of them, but not very many. You do not

understand. We could do what you say, but it is not

ourselves we fear for. They are on the village level.

They will reach the Home and eat their way through

the trunk itself. Once the bark is pierced they will eat

through to the heartwood. The Home will lie defense-

less to parasites and disease. It will blacken and

die, unless we can stop the column, or turn it.”

There was nothing more to be said. They left the

tunnel, Logan and Cohoma trailing.

“But Bom,” Logan persisted, “surely the presence

of you two will not make any difference in the defense

of the tree! Two men more. Take us on to our sta-

tion. We have devices there which could halt this cam-

age before it reaches the Home, devices you can’t imag-

ine or conceive of.”

“That may be so,” Born conceded, “but we are

uncountable days from your station-Home. At their

normal rate of march the Akadi will reach the Home

well before we could reach your station. We must warn

the others and help prepare. You will help, too.”

“If you think,” Cohoma shot back, “that we’re go-

ing to hang around while”

“Of course we’ll do what we can, Bom,” Logan

said soothingly, after a sharp glance at her partner.

“We’ll be honored to help after what you’ve already

done for us.” She put a hand on Cohoma’s shoulder

and held him back. They dropped behind Bom.

“What the- hell’s the matter with you, Kimi?” whis-

pered Cohoma angrily. “If you’d just let me argue

with them a little more I might have convinced

them that we’re of no use to them. They could leave

us on the nearest branch and we’d”

“You shortsighted idiot! We’ve no choice but to

cooperate. We might as well. If this defense of the

tree fails, we’re as dead as if the Akadi had eaten

us. Or do you think we can make it through this

greenhouse Hades without help? You’ve seen what

it’s like. We’d be dead a dozen times over by now if

it weren’t for Born. Remember the false bromeliad I

thought was full of water that turned out to be full

of add? We’ll fight, sure. H it begins to look as

hopeless as Born makes it sound, why, then we’ll

have plenty of time to skip clear.” She stepped care-

fully over a magenta and blue fungus. “Until then,

we’d better do our best to see that they survive. Unless

you’d prefer to strike out on your own.”

“Okay, I wasn’t thinking,” Cohoma admitted. “I’ll

go along as long as they’re able. But I’m not dying

for any damn tree. I’d rather take my chances in the

hylaea.”

Bom would have wondered at this strange talk,

but at the moment his mind was filled with thoughts

that drowned out any other sound. The Akadi were

marching toward the Home, marching toward Brightly

Go. He suspected the giants would not fight to the

death, if it came to that. He did not bother to tell

them that once the Akadi had their scent, they would

follow the smell of an enemy until it dropped. Once

the conflict was joined and the Akadi senses height-

ened, all within range of their olfactory sense were

doomed to death, unless the Akadi died first. If they

somehow managed to stop the ravaging column and the

giants discovered this information, they could berate

Bom all they wished.

Brightly Go had hurried back from gleaning the

Home when word of Bom’s return reached her. She

saw him talking excitedly with Sand and Joyla and

started toward him, pleased and surprised at his sud-

den, unexpected safe return. Then she noticed that

Losting was with them and talking easily with Bom as

well as with the elders. She slowed, stopped, stared

for a long moment. Then she whirled and began walk-

ing slowly back toward the house of her parents. Now

and then she would glance back over her shoulder,

talk quietly to herself, and shake her head.

“How long?” asked Sand solemnly.

“Two days march for a man,” Losting told them,

gesturing back into the forest.

“No chance they will pass to one side or the

other?”

Bom shook his head. “I think not.”

“They’ll cut right through the middle of your vil-

lage.” Bom turned as they were joined by the two

giants and Reader. “You’re all seeing this cockeyed,”

Cohoma continued. “You’re going to sacrifice your-

selves trying to save a tree? Listen, how long would it

take for the tree to die when the Akadi have finished

with it, eaten their way through?”

It was Reader’s turn to respond. “By the old cal-

endar, perhaps a hundred years.”

Cohoma’s face mirrored his feelings. “You could

raise two or maybe three more generations here, be

searching safely in small armed groups for a new tree.

But if you stay and fight these Akadi, you’ll all die, it

seems. What’s the point of that?”

“The Home will live,” explained Joyla with dignity.

“Right,” commented Cohoma bitterly. “Throw away

your lives for a damned holy vegetable.” He directed

his words to Logan. “They’re not human enough to

be repatriated to the Commonwealth any more.

They’ve regressed too far. The normal survival fac-

tor’s been bred and cut out of them by this dunghill.”

The chief shook his head sadly while both hunters

simply studied the giants as they would a new variety

of Chollakee.

“Giants who claim to come from another world,

I do not understand you. It may be as you say, we

are more different than we appear.”

“And it’s going to be left at that?”

Joyla and Sand nodded in unison.

“We don’t pretend to understand you completely,”

Logan admitted in a conciliatory tone, while Cohoma

cursed softly. “But some of our ways might be of

some help to you.”

“We certainly will consider any suggestions you

would like to make,” Sand replied politely.

“Okay,” she said enthusiastically, “the way I under-

stand it, the only thing these Akadi will turn for is

to defend themselves against an attacker, right?”

“That is so,” Born told her.

“Well then,” she continued brightly, “why not hit

this column from the side. Once they turn to defend

themselves, won’t they continue on the new pathway?”

Sand smiled, shook his head. “The Akadi remem-

ber. They would pursue and kill any creature foolish

enough to assault them, then return to their original

line of march.”

“Oh,” Logan murmured, crestfallen. “I’d wondered

why nobody suggested a diversionary attack. All it

would gain would be a little time.”

“A very little time,” Losting added.

“Swell, terrific,” a frustrated Cohoma put in. These

people were getting on his nerves. Here they had ac-

tually found someone to guide them back to the sta-

tion and safety, and now this ridiculous bit of logic

demanded they kill themselves off trying to save a

tree for the fourth generation, instead of simply pick-

ing up and moving for a day or so. It went against

reason!

But despite his earlier outburst, Cohoma had no il-

lusions about their chances in the jungle by them-

selves. They would end up in the grip of some cyanide-

spitting cabbage, or something equally bizarre.

He took a deep breath. It was essential, then, that

these Akadi be destroyed. To that end, both he and

Logan were vocal in volunteering their full coopera-

tion. If the fight was won, they would get credit for

great bravery and comradeship. If it were lost, well,

they would take their chances in the forest. Neither

knew of the Akadi’s ability to follow the scent of

their enemy down to the last straggler.

The two giants willingly helped raise the ramparts

of sharpened ironwood stakes. These were wedged

and then tied with woven vine into place on the side

of the Home where the Akadi assault was expected to

come. The bristling poisoned stakes and spines would

blunt, not halt, the Akadi surge. The latter would

overwhelm such pedestrian defenses by sheer weight

of numbers, the living using their dead and impaled

cousins as a bridge.

But the inhabitants of the great tree had other de-

fenses, defenses which, despite their considerable ex-

perience in researching the vegetation of this world,

Cohoma and Logan were unfamiliar with.

What, for example, was the purpose of the large

nuts twice the size of a terran coconut that had been

gingerly suspended over the cubbies the Akadi would

use to enter the tree? Unlike the mountain of deadly

jacari thorns and tank seed pods which had been

gathered, there was nothing in the nuts to hint at

concealed deviltry.

Cohoma came up with what he thought was an

obvious, yet brilliant, solution. He overlooked some-

thing Logan did notthe fact that while Bern’s people

were primitive, they were not stupid.

“Why not,” he suggested to a small group of busy

men, “just cut away all the vines and cubbies and

lianas leading into the Home tree? Unless these

Akadi can fly, too, they’ll be forced to go around.”

By way of reply, Jaipur, an elderly craftsman,

handed Cohoma a finely honed bone axe and directed

him to try it on the nearest big liana, which was

about as big around as a man’s thigh. Cohoma pro-

ceeded to do just that, hammering away at the in-

credible substance for a good ten minutes. .The axe

blade was finally dulled to the point where it would

no longer cut. All he had achieved was a notch barely

a couple of centimeters deep in the protective bark.

“You might have guessed, Jan,” Logan reminded

him, “that none of the natives would suggest deliber-

ately hurting anything growing unless they knew you

had no chance of success, even with a vine.”

Jaipur made an expansive gesture, grinning a

crooked grin out of one side of his face. The other

had been paralyzed by an encounter in childhood

with a certain spiny plant. “There are many thousands

of such pathways, twining and entwining, leading to

the Home from every direction. Many are far thicker

than a furcot’s body. There are not enough axes in

the Home, or enough time in the world to cut them

all, could they be so cut.”

Before moving to sharpen yet another ironwood

spear Jaipur also showed Cohoma how each cubble

had six others supporting it. Cutting one or two

without cutting its dozen or more supports would be

a waste of time.

“You’d need a tripod rifle to make a start,” Logan

observed. “Hell, the undergrowth here is so entangled

you’d have to cut down half the forest to make a

decent gap between it and the tree.”

Reader passed the group and regaled the two giants

with tales of how the Akadi could cross considerable

open spaces without any support by forming a living

bridge of interlocked bodies. This story of rending al-

ien limbs engendered a desire in both Cohoma and

Logan for a little more instruction in the handling of

available weaponry. Both had been presented with

ironwood spears, plus bone axe and knife. Logan

would have preferred a snuffler, but the bazookalike

blowguns required time and skill to make. There

weren’t enough for all who knew how to use them.

They would have been abashed to know that one

reason they had not been offered snufflers was that

Born had convinced the chiefs that in a difficult

spot, they were more likely to prick themselves on

one of the toxic thorns than .kill Akadi.

Requests for a more detailed description of the

enemy resulted in Bom’s displaying an unexpected

talent for illustration. Using a white chalklike sub-

stance, he drew on a plate of polished black wood.

“You must try to strike here,” he instructed them,

“between the forelegs, or here between the eyes. Each

Akadi,” Born continued, “is about half the size of

a man … myself.”

“About the size of a German shepherd,” Cohoma

mused.

Bom went on. An Akadi had a thick flexible body

with no tail; it walked on six thin but very powerful

legs, each leg terminating in a single long, curved

claw that enabled the Akadi to scurry slothlike along

any part of a branch or cubble. The front of the

body tapered slightly, ending in double jaws with

no neck, surrounded by muscle. The double jaw ar-

rangement fascinated Logan. One set worked up and

down in the usual fashion, while the opposing ones

moved from left and right. Working in unison they

created a biting phalanx which could cut through the

toughest wood or bone as neatly as a laser could slice

sheet metal.

The teeth set in the upper and lower jaws were

triangular and razor-edged, while those on the side

were square, serrated on top, and curved slightly

backward to shove food into the ever-hungry gullet.

Three eyes, spaced across the top of the head, lay

just back of the jaws. There were three tentacles, one

on either side of the head and another below that

were equipped with jagged, tearing suckers on the

tips for holding prey. In color the Akaki were a

distinctive rusty orange, eyes and legs bright black.

Despite the triple oculars their sight was rumored to

be poor.

“This is countered somewhat by their sense of

smell and of touch,” Born concluded, “which is very

good indeed.”

“An eating maching in multiples,” Logan declared

quietly. “Very well designed, very efficient.” She shook

her head, murmured, “God on a seat, I wouldn’t

care to tangle with one of them. And we have to

fight thousands.” She looked evenly at Born. “You

people really think you can stop something like this

armed with a few glorified blowguns and spears?”

“No,” said Bom, wiping the polished wood clean

with a forearm. “I have things to do now.” He turned

to leave.

“There’s no hope for them, no hope at all,” a dis-

gusted Cohoma blurted when Born was out of earshot.

“I’m afraid there’s not much left for us, either,

Jan.”

VIII

They heard the sound while they were resting just

outside the first ring of the Home’s pod-laden vines.

Initially it was only a soft rustling in the distance, like

wind moving through far-off branches. It grew stead-

ily louder, became a hum, a buzzing like a billion

bumblebees aswarm at a new nest.

It intensified, swelled, and resolved into a deafen-

ing crackling sound neither Cohoma nor Logan would

ever be able to forget. The sound of hundreds of tons

of organic matter vanishing down innumerable throats.

A familiar form bounded up from a liana below. “Be

ready, giants. The Akadi near,” Losting advised them.

Logan’s grip tightened on the shaft of the ironwood

spear and she checked to make certain bone axe and

knife were still strapped securely to the belt of her

rapidly disintegrating shorts, though she intended

never to get close enough to one of the carnivores

to use either. They would run before that.

Losting moved to go by them. Cohoma gestured at

him to pause. “We haven’t seen Bom for a couple

of days now, Losting. I know he’s been busy. Is he

manning another part of the line?”

“Born.” Losting’s face went through several changes

of expression ranging from satisfaction to disgust.

“You’ve not see Born for some days because he’s

been gone for some days.” Losting clearly relished the

shock on the faces of the two giants. “He left the

Home one night and has neither been seen nor heard

from since. It is certain he did not go toward the

Akadi. We have had scouts out marking their prog-

ress toward the Home. His furcot has vanished with

him.” The implication was clearthe hunter had run.

“Born, a coward?” Logan sounded confused. “That

doesn’t make sense, Losting. When the rest of you

were afraid, he was the only one who would come

down to our skimmer.”

“Those who are mad act for reasons of their own,

which no man can comprehend,” Losting countered.

“Your sky-boat was an unknown quantity, unlike the

Akadi, who are known too well. With them, one

knows exactly what to expect. Death. Born is a hunter

and a solitary person by habit. If the Home dies and

the village dies with it, he could survive alone. There

is no doubt he is the cleverest among us.” His expres-

sion darkened. “But he has not been clever in this,

for if there is any village to come back to, he will not

be allowed to live among us. The chiefs and the sha-

man have ordained this already.” He spun. Gripping

the vine nearby, he pulled himself up to the branch

immediately above to check on the readiness of the

defenders there.

“I still don’t believe it,” Logan whispered, turning

back to face the forest. “I consider myself a better

judge of human nature than that.”

“I told you they’d abandoned their humanity in

making concessions to this world,” Cohoma grumbled.

“Oh, come on, Jan! How could they have regressed

so much in so short a time? The earliest colony ships

only go back a few hundred years.” She quieted. “I

could swear I had that Born figured.”

“There’s another possibility, you know, Kimi,” Co-

homa ventured after a pause. He eyed her appraisingly.

“Even someone like Losting, who doesn’t like him,

admits he’s a smart boy. Maybe . . . maybe he’s

figuring on us bailing him out.”

Logan looked at her companion curiously. “How

do you mean?”

“Well, think a minute,” he said, warming to the

subject. “He’s out there somewhere”he gestured

back through the palisade of sharpened stakes toward

the other end of the village”waiting for us to join

him if the battle goes as badly as everyone expects.

We circle clear as soon as the end is in sight. He

joins us, we make it to the station, he gets that burn-

ing curiosity of his satisfied plus he saves his life.”

“That would imply,” she countered vociferously,

“that he cares nothing for his Home or his friends.

I don’t believe that. I think the tie is as strong, if

not stronger, in Born than in any of these folk. I

could understand such an attitude in some soldier-of-

fortune, the kind of gun for hire you might meet in the

back streets of Drallar or LaLa or Repler, but not

in Bom.”

Cohoma grinned. “I think you see a little too much

of the noble savage in our stunted cousins. Our friend

Born is just resourceful enough to make the break,

just iconoclastic enough to”

The first line of Akadi broke through the dense

wall of green and all conversation died. The column

measured seven or eight Akadi across and extended

into the forest until it disappeared in verdure. They

were packed body to body, so close that the front

resembled a single monstrous snake, all woolly orange

fur, clawed legs, weaving tentacles. Filtered green

light shone on orbs like ebony cabochons, dark wells

of unsapient malignance.

Tiny explosive pops sounded as the ring of care-

fully positioned hunters let loose with a dozen tank

seeds at once. The Akadi crumpled, tentacles and

clawed legs digging in blind fury at the pricking

thorns, chewing at themselves. Even before the frantic

Sailings of legs and tentacles ceased, the first row had

been shoved aside and tumbled and bounced off

branches and epiphytes into the depths below.

A metropolis of scavengers was going to form be-

neath this place, Cohoma reflected.

While the first dozen hunters reloaded, the second

group fired and more Akadi died. Then the first

fired, and the second reloaded. Such elementary tac-

tics were only temporarily effective. It was like fight-

ing the sea, wave upon wave, a living red-orange ocean

of suckers and teeth moving forward as though

squeezed from a tube.

As the lesser hunters slowed, the firing of the snuf-

flers grew more erratic, less deadly. Now men and

women armed with long lances of ironwood moved

forward to stab and cut at the furry bodies. Others

holding axes and clubs stood ready around the spear-

men, prepared to fend off any Akadi that tried to

escape the spears on either side, above or below.

The blood of the Akadi, Logan noted with the

eye of a trained observer, was a dark dirty green,

like thick pea soup with streaks of brown in it. The

spears were more effective than she would have

thought. Each time one of them moved, an Akadi

died, clutching briefly with tentacles and claws until

the lance was drawn free.

Logan had to admire the efforts of the tribe, primi-

tive or not. While the hunters high in the branches

used their snufBers to pick off as many of the at-

tackers as possible, the forward rank of the Akadi

army, reduced in strength, ran into the wall of spears,

were punctured and cut, and plunged in a steady rain

of corpses to a green grave.

The spirited defense would have worked but for one

overriding factor. There was an endless number of

Akadi. The furry killers perished by the dozens, the

hundreds. But the river of death never stopped, never

slowed or rested, but bored steadily onward.

Eventually there would be a pause while a couple

of the hunters waited for a fresh supply of thorns and

tank seeds to be brought up to them. Now and then

one of the spea rmen would grow too tired to strike

any longer and would have to be replaced by a reserve.

Then the Akadi would gain another few centimeters,

would press the line of ironwood back a little further.

Nor were casualties absent among the defending peo-

ple. A man or woman might tire and slip on the

never-too-certain footing of cubble and branch and

would have to be helped back by companions. An-

other few centimeters lost, if not the defender.

Given an endless supply of jacari thorns and tank

seeds, and inhuman reserves of strength, Cohoma

estimated the tribe could continue to fight the Akadi

with minimal losses. But they couldn’t prevent the om-

nivores from gaining ground. Once a centimeter of

footing was lost to the invaders, it could not be re-

gained. That living torrent would not be forced back.

But the line held, held with the determination of

churchmen. Those in the front rank who finally

collapsed from exhaustion continued to be replaced.

Yet, there were only so many fighters in the village,

and now the replacements were growing fatigued as

well. Occasionally an Akadi would slip under a falter-

ing spear to grab a leg or arm with steely tentacles.

Then an axeman would have to hurry to cut the

monster away, for once having a grip they would let

go only in death.

Steadily the little knot of humans was forced back-

ward, back toward the tree-vines themselves which

formed the natural and last line of defense for the

Home-tree. Once through the pods, the Akadi would

begin devouring the body of the tree itself. Then it

would be only a matter of minutes before irreparable

damage was done.

Logan knew what would happen. The villagers

would throw everything into a final futile effort to push

the Akadi back. For a moment, heads, and arms would

rise above the writhing tentacles. Then allmen,

women, childrenwould be engulfed by the unthink-

ing mass, leaving the tree to perish despite their

sacrifice.

The fighting raged continuously. It was not as noisy

as a war between men would have been, but neither

was it silent. Along the line of spearmen, men and

women shouted encouragement to each other, defiance

at their dog-sized tormentors, while the Akadi pressed

blindly forward, chattering like a million castanets.

Slowly, grudgingly, the people gave way to the pres-

sure of the untiring Akadi. The army was three or

four meters from the first winding pod-vine when

shouts traveled up and down the line of defenders.

Logan recognized the voices of the shaman and the

chiefs Sand and Joyla, that of Losting, and several

other hunters. A sudden flurry of thorns from the snuf-

flers held the Akadi for a moment while the line parted

and fell to the sides. But the army did not pursue, so

the living stream moved on, eating as it went. They

began to gnaw at the nourishing bark of the tree,

eager for the living wood beneath, as others rushed

on to the first vines.

Cohoma felt a hand at his arm, saw one of the

hunters pulling at him. The man’s tone was urgent.

He followed him into higher branches, Logan with

.them. Even as they ran, she turned to gaze over her

shoulder as a shout rose behind them. She saw the

big nuts dropping, to land and burst among the

slithering line of Akadi. As they burst, a fine powder

gushed forth. It shone iridescent in the light of the

receding sun. The Akadi slowed, stopped, began to

paw among themselves with legs and thrashing ten-

tacles. They tumbled over and over on each other, fell

and rolled on their backs, beating against one an-

other, against the wood of the Home, in a sudden, in-

explicable frenzy.

Cohoma found himself racing down toward the

Akadi with others, stabbing with his spear, only to

withdraw it and stab again. He was amazed at the

ease with which it punctured the surprisingly soft

bodies. Green blood covered his lance. Nearby he

saw Logan stabbing and hacking with her own spear.

A violent pain stabbed through his ankle. Looking

down he saw that one of the Akadi had somehow

slipped clear of the re-formed line of spearmen and

had locked three tentacles firmly around his leg. Mul-

tiple teeth were chewing at his lower calf. He tried

to get his spear around, couldn’t and found himself

falling as his damaged leg gave way under him. Then

something cut the creature between the second and

third eye, pierced completely through the nightmare

shape.

“Thanks, Kimi. Jesus, get it off me!” She stabbed

again and green ichor squirted all over them, but the

triangular teeth refused to relinquish their grip. Even-

tually she had to use an axe to cut the tentacles clear

and then pry the jaws apart. Bright red circles cov-

ered his calf where the suckers had held. He had a

steadily bleeding square wound in the back of the

ankle. Using Logan as support, he limped clear of

the fight. A small bottle of spray from their one sur-

vival kit stopped the bleeding. Coagulation set in imme-

diately. A simple self-adhesive bandage was slapped

into place.

“Didn’t see where the bugger came from,” he told

her through clenched teeth. Sweat was standing out on

his forehead and he wiped it off.

Logan studied the wound beneath the transparent

bandage. “You’re going to have a square scar. Going

to be fun explaining that.”

“I hope I have someone to explain it to . . .”

His words were drowned out by a roar that shook

the Home-tree itself. The band of humans redoubled

their efforts as they were joined by dozens of powerful

green shapes.

A massive paw would rise and descend. Every time

it did so, an Akadi would die, spine or skull crushed.

For once the furcots roused themselves en masse

from their daily sleep. For once their services were

offered without consideration or discussion. The mus-

cular hexapods wreaked havoc along the line of Akadi.

Logan recognized Geeliwan, Losting’s furcot, among

them; but there was no sign of Ruumahum.

One enormous furcot rose up from the midst of the

fray with several Akadi hanging from him, their ten-

tacles seeking vainly for a vulnerable place in that

thick fur, teeth snapping and biting futilely. A second

furcot appeared alongside the first, began picking the

furious Akadi off his companion’s body, methodically

crushing them.

Occasionally a furcot would be submerged by the

stream, only to rise and dip like a breaching whale.

However, thick fur, tough hide, and tremendous

strength could not prevail forever against the untiring

army. Every so often a furcot would disappear in the

orange-red river of death and not rise again.

Then when it happened, it was unmistakable.

“Look!” Cohoma gasped at Logan for support and

pointed. “They’re turning back, retreating. They’ve

been beaten!”

Indeed, the Akadi had ceased moving forward,

were in fact moving backward, back into the tunnel

they had eaten through the world. They took nothing

with them, leaving their dead and dying behind and

trampling the injured and maimed in their retreat.

Now the people of the Home, some too exhausted

to move, watched as their more energetic comrades

moved about with axes and clubscarefully, lest they

slip on the blood-soaked cubbies and branchesdis-

patching those of the killers too crippled to flee.

The furcots gathered to themselves, idly killing a

still biting Akadi, licking and grooming each other’s

wounds. Some hunted through the branches and vines

for those of the brethren who would no longer gather

with them.

The exhilaration was temporary. Logan and Cohoma

watched as the human survivors went among the le-

gion of corpses, carefully searching among the muti-

lated and bleeding for any who still lived. Some were

missing arms and legs, others heads or parts of same,

while still others lay with their insides strewn over

bright green leaves and blossoms, still beautiful in the

last rays of the distant setting sun.

“By the Ordainments, they’re a courageous bunch.

It’s almost enough to make me regret”

“Shussh,” Logan cautioned him, nodding at the

big hunter walking toward them.

A series of square-edged gashes decorated one side

of his chest. Some had been crudely bandaged with

long thin strips of a certain leaf. A snuffler rested

loosely on his right arm and he carried a club in the

other. There was hardly a centimeter of his body

that was not covered with the tiny crimson circlets

left by the probing suckers of the Akadi.

“You beat them … in spite of everything,”

Logan said, when it appeared the hunter was about

to walk past them.

“Beat them?” Losting turned to stare wildly at them,

and they recoiled at the naked blood-fury in his eyes.

“Beat themno. Do you think they stopped be-

cause of our efforts?” He hesitated. “We slowed them,

true. It was a good fight. One I’d be proud to tell to

my children. We slowed them enough to win the day

. . . the day only. But stopped them, no. They stopped

themselves.”

“Stopped themselves!” Logan blurted in spite of

herself.

“Look about you,” Losting advised. “What do you

see?”

Both giants turned their attention back to the battle-

field. “Very little,” Logan told him. “It’s getting too

,dark.”

“Yes, it is getting too dark. For the Akadi as well

as us. They have stopped because the day is at its

end. While the night-rain falls they will sleep, to rise

again tomorrow and come on with as much determina-

tion as they did today. We have only so many jacari

for the snufflers, only so much blood. I do not see

us holding them for another night. But we will try.

We would not have stopped them today but for the fur-

cotsand for this.”

He bent and reached down with the tip of the club,

apparently slipping its flatter side under something.

Logan and Cohoma leaned forward. At first they saw

nothing. Then a last bit of daylight reflected off some-

thing tiny and bright as a jewel.

“That little t hing?” she wondered, reaching forward

with a thumb. “I can squash it like an ant.”

Losting moved the club aside before she did just

that. “I’m not fond of you giants, though you fought

well enough this day. But I would not allow my worst

enemy to touch the seed of the adderut.” Rising, he

looked around until he found a severed tentacle of a

dead Akadi. He brought it back and laid it before

them.

“Watch.” He tilted the club, shook it gently. The

tiny metallic-hued, multilegged thing slid onto the ten-

tacle. As soon as it made contact it seemed to dis-

appear.

Cohoma stared harder in the fast fading light.

“Where’d it go?”

“Look hard.”

Nothing happened. Then Cohoma thought he de-

tected a slight swelling under the skin of the tentacle.

Several minutes passed, during which the swelling be-

came a bulge as big as a pebble, then a toe. Losting

took out his knife and used it to touch the top of

the bulge. The taut skin burst and a tiny purple ball

popped out. It began rolling, rolling, toward the edge

of the branch. He put out the club and stopped it,

rolled it back. Cohoma and Logan could just see a

tiny, many-legged spot near the base of the bloated

globethe original gemlike creature.

“That is the dust of the adderut,” Losting explained.

“When it bursts, it scatters millions of these,” and he

indicated the tiny bug. “If they touch wood or plant,

nothing happens. But should they touch flesh, whether

of man or furcot or Akadi, they burrow into it and

. . . eat. Ah, how they eat!” This last was uttered

with enough relish to make Logan slightly ill.

Cohoma was feeling none too well himself. This

revelation was enough to make even an experienced,

detached observer a little queasy.

“See,” Losting suggested, nudging the purple ball

with the edge of the club, “how it moves, tries to

run. The flesh under the skin where it burrows is

quickly softened and consumed by the dust-bug. When

one of these scrambles clear of its host and falls to

a soft plant, the legs bury in and become roots. The

pulp contained in this gross obscene body turns green

as it is converted into food. Eventually the sac bursts

and a new adderut plant grows on a new host.”

“Fascinating,” admitted Logan, who was turning

slightly green herself. She was enough of a scientist

100

to hold on to her last meal. But somehow this bo-

tanical marvel nauseated her in a way the day-long

carnage had not. She could imagine several of them

landing on her own body, digging in, eating. “Are

they mobile little plants,” she asked hurriedly, “or in-

sects, or what?”

“Maybe a little of both,” Cohoma suggested.

“You’ve noticed the preponderance of green in animal

life herethe furcots, the blood of the Akadi. I’m

beginning to think, Kimi, that the usual clear-cut di-

viding line between plant and animal may not exist

on this world.”

“Even so,” she replied, “this is one line of research

I’ll be glad to let somebody else pursue when we get

back to the station.”

Losting was not sure of the meaning of all their

words. “True, they are dangerous things to fight with.

One must work hard to emfol an adderut. If one

should burst while being cut clear . . .” He didn’t

need to finish the thought.

“No wonder the Akadi column halted,” Logan ob-

served. “That whole forward section must have been

literally eaten inside out in a couple of minutes.” She

looked nervously at the wooden ground they were

standing on. “What happens to the millions of those

things that didn’t get anything to eat? Are we going

to find them in bed tonight?”

Losting shook his head. “Their furious speed and

energy is necessary, for those that fail to find sus-

tenance immediately upon release die quickly. All will

be dead before the sun is down. You need not

fear them. Nor,” he added regretfully, “need the

Akadi. We have no more adderuts. They grow far

apart and infrequently. Though I wish for a thousand

now, I cannot honestly say this makes me sorry.”

Logan stepped on the pulsating monstrosity. It burst,

purple-green dye staining the wood of the branch.

They followed the hunter back into the village.

“What happens tomorrow, then?” Logan asked. “Is

it completely hopeless?”

“There is always hope till the last is dead,” Losting

reminded them. That did not seem encouraging to the

giants. “We have our snufflers,” he said as he hefted

101

the green wood weapon meaningfully, “and our

spears and axes and our furcots. Then there are still

the pollen-pods of the Home itself. After they are

gone . . .” He shrugged. “I have my hands and my

teeth.”

He left them. Logan looked after him while Cohoma

muttered, “That’s great . . . commendable. I think

we’ll do better taking our chancespoor as they may

bein the forest. I don’t feel quite so indebted to

this noble tree.” He looked around at the sheltering

trunklets. “At least we’ll die on the way home, not in

defense of some stinking vegetable!”

Exhaustion had a single advantage. Sleep was no

problem for even the most worried of the humans in

the Home.

The last drops were still making their way down

from the upper levels of the canopy as the tired tribe

of humans once more prepared for the Akadi assault.

Once again the hunters took up their positions high

in the branches, snufflers ready, making quiet promises

that each precious jacari would take an Akadi with

it. When the toxic thorns were gone, they would lay

snufflers aside and move down with axes and clubs

to fight alongside their families. And once more the

thin line of spearmen set themselves in defiant silence

across the path along which the Akadi army would

soon crawlset themselves there knowing that those

who should back them up now lay supine in the vil-

lage, unmoving, asleep.

Cohoma afld Logan took places well up in the curve

of one of the major Home-tree branches. They would

have an excellent view of the coming fight, be a little

less anxious to throw themselves into battle. If Lost-

ing’s pessimism was born out, they would work their

way back into the village, gather what was available

in the way of provisions, and circle around the Akadi

column. Then they would strike off southwest by

compass, toward the distant station. Maybe they would

reach it, maybe not, but at least they would have

their chance.

Logan thought she heard a distant, feathery rustling

far back in the undergrowth. The Akadi were rising,

102

shaking off the lethargy of night, getting ready to

ravage and destroy and kill again.

The giants readied themselves, as did the snuffler-

armed hunters. So did the line of spearmen and their

covering axe-wielders. They had no scouts out to

warn of the Akadi’s approach. They were not needed.

A few moments of advance warning meant nothing

now. It was known where they would come from. Ev-

ery man, woman, and child hefted a weapon and

stared at the green hole in the forest.

Logan whispered to her partner, her knuckles

around the shaft of the spear turning white. “Re-

member, if the tribe starts going under, we get out

fast.”

“What makes you think the vine barrier will open

for us?”

“There’ll be some last-ditch fighters going through.

Remember, the vines are the tree’s last line of defense.

We can always grab a kid from the line and use him.

Besides,” she added coolly, “we’ve been eating the

fruit from this tree for several days. We might, have

accumulated enough of the appropriate chemicals for

the tree to recognize us, too.”

The rustling increased, but it seemed at once louder

and more distant. The noise was chilling. Could the

Akadi experience anything as complex as anger, she

wondered? Where they preparing themselves with

some furious war cries and speeches? What kind of

brains did those orange horrors possess? Did all

thoughts fuse in a single mindless evil, or were they

capable of emotions beyond desire for killing, eating,

and sleep? She had no way of telling.

Long moments came and went, and the volume of

distant castanetlike sounds neither diminished nor in-

creased, was loud enough to drown out all other

forest sounds. Those manning the line of spears before

the green tunnel were showing signs of edginess now.

The hunters in the branches shifted constantly, nerv-

ously into new positions. All the while the sun climbed

higher in the green sky. And still that orifice of hell

declined to reveal its multiple horror.

Then there was a definite, if slight, motion detected

at the far end of the tunnel, and shouts sounded up

103

and down the line of defendersshouts almost of re-

lief. For it was the steady, nerve-breaking waiting that

eroded the determination and broke the concentration

of the hunters and spearmen and was worse by far

than actual battle. However, there was no mass trem-

bling in the herbaceous fronds fringing the tunnel’s

mouth, no swaying of branches under massed weight.

A few leaves rustled lightly as the first shape became

visible. But it was not the Akadi. A human shout

came from the tunnel, rising above the maddening,

distant din. A second shape appeared alongside the

first, thick green fur matted with rain, triple eyes half-

closed in sleep.

The hunters slid their snumers off their shoulders

and stared, their eyes widening in shock as Born and

Ruumahum walked slowly out of the tunnel. Bom’s

cautionary cry proved unnecessary. Everyone was too

paralyzed to think of prematurely letting loose with a

thorn. If the Akadi had rushed from the tunnel then,

no one could have raised a hand against them.

Then there was a noisy, mass rush, and Bom was

surrounded by men and women, cursing and question-

ing him at once. Ruumahum loped off unnoticed.

While the humans, including an excited and puzzled

pah” of giants clustered around Bom, the furcot joined

his silent brethren and commenced an explanation in

his steady, grumbling tones .

“What happened . . . We thought you’d run . . .

Where did you go … What of the Akadi …

What of… ?” the persons asked Bom.

“Please, could I have a drink?”

A container of water was passed up to him. Ignor-

ing the continuous babble of questions, he put the

wooden cylinder to his lips and drank long and deep.

Then he turned it upside down and let the rest of the

tepid liquid cascade over him.

A deep, commanding voice finally rose above the

noisethat of shaman Reader. “Hunters, to your

posts. Re-form your spear line, people of the Home!

The Akadi-”

Bom shook his head tiredly. “I don’t think the

Akadi will bother us again. Not for a long while, any-

way.” He smiled softly as a fresh wave of astonish-

104

ment passed over the crowd. “The idea was mine, the

stimulation came from Ruumahum’s information.” He

gestured over to where the furcots were gathered.

“He’d been out hunting, ranging far to the north. I

don’t know why, he isn’t sure why, but he brought

back word of what he’d found, and that prompted a

thought in my mind. I thought it might work.”

“What might work?” several people asked at once.

“Why didn’t you tell-”

“Why didn’t you tell someone you were going,

Bora?” came the voice of Brightly Go. She pushed

into the circle of people.

“Would it have mattered? There would have been

loud objections, arguing, demands that I remain to lend

my snuffler to the fighting. I would rather have you

think me a coward and mad, and laugh at me. I’m

used to being laughed at. If my scheme had not

worked, nothing else would have mattered, would it?”

There was some uneasy shuming among the as-

sembled folk. Bom had been respected in the village

as the cleverest of hunters, and simultaneously derided

as the maddest of thinkers. Now it seemed he might

have produced a miracle, so there were some embar-

rassed stares.

“It was not far away, down on the mid-Fifth Level.”

“What was?” Joyla boomed, her penetrating voice

not to be ignored.

“A way of stopping the Akadi.”

“Miracle or no miracle, this truly is madness,”

Reader thought aloud. “Nothing stops the Akadi

nothing!” His voice was adamant. “In my youth I

saw a column rip apart a herd of grazers. The furcot

cannot stand before them. It is said even the demons

of the Lower Hell respect a wandering column.” There

were murmurs of respect from the crowd.

“What could you find, Bom, on the Fifth Level, or

any level, that could stop the Akadi?”

“Come, and I’ll show you,” he said, and he

turned and started back down the tunnel. He had

taken but a few steps when he realized no one was

following. For the first time now, the exhaustion and

effort of the past days was forgotten, and his face

spread in a wide grin of satisfaction.

“Are you all afraid?”

Go into the tunnel? The tunnel from which the

children of hell had poured only the evening before?

On the word of a madman? It would take more than

a little courage.

Losting was the first to step forward. He was as

fearful as the rest, but he had no choiceBrightly

Go stood there, watching. Then the crippled Jhelum

followed, limping on his injured leg. Almost to the

step. Reader and Sand and Joyla joined him. The

little knot of humanity moved down the winding

tunnel.

They walked down the green tube, its floor and

walls and ceiling formed as if by a colossal drill. As

they did so the noise of angry Akadi grew louder,

loud to the point where one had to lean close to his

neighbor and shout to be heard. There was a sharp

bend in the tunnel, an unexpected bend unlike the

usual paths of the Akadi. Born stopped and gave

directions. A few chops with axes broke through the

roof of saliva-cemented growth, and they emerged

into the open forest again. Bpm beckoned them first

upward, and then on again. Finally he went on ahead,

alone, then returned with an admonition to the others

to be silent and to follow.

After carefully and silently crawling among a thick

twisted limb, they were staring down at an eldritch

carnival, an orgiastic celebration of death unrivaled

except in legend.

A second roofed-over tunnel, its faintly translucent

ceiling snaking back many meters into distant forest,

intersected the tunnel they had just come through.

Where the two tunnels joined, Akadi precision and

order had become chaos.

The Akadi column from the north and lower level

was composed of slightly smaller, redder horrors. They

had dark stripes encircling their abdomen. Where they

met the first column the tunnels were shattered, spill-

ing the combat into surrounding foliage. The battle

raged over a great circle dozens of meters in diam-

eter. Within that circle, nothing existed save stripped

wood and dead, dying, fighting Akadi. Green blood

drenched everything.

106

“Ruumahum found the column,” Born told them

softly. “And I had the thought. What could stop the

Akadi, but the Akadi? We attacked before morning

when they were sluggish and slow. We stayed within

strong scent range and they followed. Now they will

continue to fight till only a few of each column are

left. These few will be too weak and disorganized to

offer any threat to the Home. We can easily kill any

who attack, and we have finished with not one, but

two threats.”

“But how did you get them here so fast?” Reader

wondered.

“I was afraid I would not have enough powder,

but Ruumahum continued to fetch more and more dry

wood to keep the torches going. I stayed close enough

to the lead Akadi to keep them awake. They fol-

lowed and the others blindly followed them even in

the dark. I have neither slept nor rested for two days

and nights. I think,” he finished, sitting down on the

branch, “I had better rest now.”

Joyla and Reader grabbed him as his completely

drained body fell from the branch.

Bom opened his eyes, saw a monster Akadi staring

down at him. He sat up like a bursting pod and

blinked, rubbing at his eyes.

“About time you came around,” Logan commented,

stepping back from his mat. “You don’t even recover

slowly, do you?”

Bom looked around. He was in one of the rooms in

the chief’s multi-chambered quarters. “You’ve been

out,” she added, “for about eighteen hours.”

“Hours?” He eyed her questioningly, his mind still

fuzzy with sleep.

107

“A day and a half, and I don’t wonder, with what

they tell me you went through.”

Born had only one thought. “Have I missed the

Longagothe burying time?”

Logan looked confused, stared back to where Co-

homa was sitting and sharpening a knife. “You know

anything about a burying time, Jan?” Her companion

shook his head.

Bom sat up and grabbed her by the shoulder of

her blouse and nearly fell. The tough material didn’t

tear, supported him.

“No, Born,” a strong voice replied. “You have

preserved too many lives for us to proceed with the

Longago without you. Now that you are returned to

us, it can be done tonight.”

“What’s this Longagosome kind of ceremony?”

Logan asked, glancing behind her toward Joyla, who

stood in the portal.

“It is a returning. Those who were killed by the

Akadi must be given back to the world.” She looked

over at Born. “There are many who must be returned.

It has taken this long to find enough of They-Who-

Keep to take so many. The boy Din is among them.”

Seeing the sudden change of expression that passed

cloudlike over his visage, she suddenly became solici-

tous. “How do you feel now? You have slept long,

and sometimes” ‘

“All right . . . I’m all right,” Bom mumbled, letting

go his grip on Logan. He tried to stand, staggered

slightly, then sat down hard on the woven mat and

held his head in both hands. This did not keep it from

spinning, but it helped.

“I’m hungry,” he said abruptly. Since his head was

proving uncooperative, he would concentrate on less

intractable portions of his anatomy.

“There’s food,” Joyla said simply, beckoning him

into the next room. “Do you need help to”

“For half a Home fruit I would crawl on my belly,

dragged by my nails,” he answered. Moving slowly,

he rose from the bed. Logan got out of his way. Still

weaving, he walked unaided into the room from

which a host of smells issued. Joyla held him steady

on the other side.

108

“Mind you do not overload your roots with too

much nourishment too soon,” she advised him, and

then she grinned. “Or I will have this room to clean

yet again. And you will have to start afresh.”

Bom nodded without really hearing her. He stum-

bled into the room, where fruit, fresh meat, and pre-

served pulp was laid out in abundance on the eating

mat. Joyla beckoned to Cohoma and Logan, indicating

they might as well eat too.

“Thanks,” Logan replied.

“You can watch him as he eats and restrain him.”

“Why don’t you?” Logan asked, as she sat down at

the edge of the mat and selected a bright yellow gourd-

shaped fruit with blue striping.

Joyla shook her head, studied Bom, who was shov-

ing food into his mouth at an appalling rate. “I

have already eaten, and there is much to be done

now that the Longago can proceed.” Her’smile be-

came sad. “Tonight I will return many old friends to

the forest, and a daughter as well.” She started to say

something else, reconsidered, and left through the leaf-

leather curtain behind her.

Logan continued thinking on this Longago that now

seemed of paramount importance to these people. She

bit into the gourd, found it had a taste like sugared

persimmon. How did Bom’s people dispose of their

dead, anyway, with no earth to bury them in? Crema-

tion, maybe, in the firepit at the village’s center.

She said as much to Bom. He mouthed contradic-

tions through mouthfuls of food. “The earth? Would

you offer up the souls of your own friends to hell?

They will be returned to the world.”

“Yes, Joyla mentioned that,” she replied impa-

tiently, “but what ex actly does that mean?”

But Bom had returned to his food. She continued

to prod him, arguing that the rest between eating

would do him good. Bom still showed no inclination

to talk, but the giant’s constant pestering compelled

him to satisfy her. “It is plain,” he finally mum-

bled, “that you know nothing of what happens to

people after they die. I cannot describe the Longago

to you. You will see it tonight.”

109

Born had demonstrated a remarkable ability to re-

cover from a totally debilitating experience, Cohoma

mused. He avoided a hump in the funtangcle, hard to

see by torchlight.

The tribe was leading them through one turn after

another in the black forest. Well, this was the kind of

strength you could expect from people who lived in as

harsh an environment as Bom’s did. Only, such re-

gression seemed impossible. He told Logan as much.

“These people,” he said, with a nod at the marching

column ahead and behind, “aren’t that primitive.

They’re the descendants of some long-lost colony ship.

Physically, except for those prehensile toes, they’re as

advanced as we are, but I don’t see how their propor-

tions could change so much in a few centuries.” He

stepped over a tiny dark flower growing in the tun-

tangcle. It held an explosive, poisonous spine. “In less

than, oh, at the maximum, ten generations, they’ve

lost a sixth of their size, developed those toes, under-

gone tremendous expansion of the latissimus dorsi and

the pectoral muscles, acquired uniform coloration of

skin, eyes, and hair. Evolution just doesn’t work that

fast!”

Logan merely smiled softly, gestured ahead. “That’s

fine, Jan. I agree. So, how do we explain this?”

“I refuse to believe it’s parallel development. The

differences are too minor.”

“How about rapid mutation,” Logan finally hypoth-

esized, “induced by consumption of local chemicals

in their foodstuffs?” She eyed an exquisite grouping of

globular chartreuse fruit surrounded by lavender

blooms.

“Possible,” Cohoma finally conceded. “But the scale,

and the speed”

“Yes, that,” Logan interrupted, “coupled with the

need to adapt rapidly or die, could force some ex-

traordinary physiological accommodations. The body

is capable of some remarkable changes when survival

is at stake. Though I admit this would be the most radi-

cal case ever discovered. Still”she waved a hand lei-

surely at the forest”if you’d seen some of the reports

coming out of Tsing-ahn’s or Celebes’ labs . . .” She

shook her head wonderingly.

110

“This planet is a googaplex of new forms, unusual

molecular combinations, combination proteins. There

are structures of local nucleic acids that defy con-

ventional classification. And we’ve only scratched the

surface of this forest, barely probed at the upper levels.

We’ve no idea what the surface itself is like. But as

we dig deeper, I’m sure we’ll find”

Cohoma silenced her. “I think something’s going to

happen.”

They were approaching a brown wall, a monolithic

trunk so vast as to belie its organic origin. Surely

nothing so enormous could growit had to have been

built.

The party was beginning to fan out along one of the

big emergent’s major branches, torches flashing umber

off the meters-thick bark.

“The trunk must be thirty meters thick at this point,”

Logan whispered, impressed. “Wonder what it’s like

at the base.” She raised her voice. “Bom!”

The hunter turned from his place in the line of march

and waited politely for them to catch up.

“What do you call this one?” She indicated the

grandfather growth whose central bole was now be-

hind them.

“It’s true name is lost to the ages, Kimilogan. We

call them They-Who-Keep, because they hold safe the

souls of the people who die.”

“Now I see,” she declared. “I was wondering how

you disposed of your dead, since you never descend

to the surface, to the First Level. And I didn’t think

you’d hold to cremation.”

Born looked confused. “Cremation?”

“Burning the bodies.”

Any of Bom’s older associates. Reader, for example,

or Sand, would have been openly shocked at this

thought. But Bom’s mind did not work like those of

his friends. He merely regarded the question thought-

fully. “I had not imagined such a possibility. Is that

how you dispose of those among you who change?”

“If by change, you mean die,” Cohoma responded,

“yes, it is, sometimes.”

“How strange,” Bom murmured, more to himself

than to the giants. “We come of the world and believe

we should return to it. I guess there are those among

you who are not of the world and therefore have noth-

ing to return to.”

“Couldn’t have put it better myself, Bom,” Cohoma

admitted.

They walked on in silence several minutes more,

until the column began to spread out onto a slightly

wider section of branch.

“We’ve come to the place?” Logan asked softly.

“One of the places,” Bom corrected. “Each has his

place. A proper one must be found for every man.” He

looked upward, considered the black branches in the

sky. “Come. You will see better from above.”

After several moments of ascending the ever-present

stairway of vines and lianas, they found themselves

looking down on the wide section of branch below.

Everyone was bunched tightly around a deep crack in

the branch. It was several meters across and not many

more long. The feeble light from the torches shielded

against the ram made it impossible to tell how deep it

went into the wood.

The shaman was murmuring words too fast and soft

for either Logan or Cohoma to interpret. The assem-

bled people listened in respectful silence. One of the

men who had died fighting the Akadi and a dead fur-

cot were brought forward from the heavily laden lit-

ters.

“They’re buried together, then,” Logan whispered.

Bom studied her sadly, a great pity welling up in

him. Poor giants! Sky-boats and other miraculous ma-

chines they might possess, but they were without the

comfort of a furcot. Every man, every woman had a

furcot who joined them soon after birth and went with

them through life unto death. He could not imagine

living without Ruumahum.

“What happens to those furcots whose masters die

before they do?” Cohoma asked.

Bom looked at him quizzically. “Ruumahum could

not live without me, nor I without him,” he explained

to the attentive giants. “When half of one dies, the other

half cannot long survive.”

“I never heard of such a severe case of emotional

112

interdependence between man and animal,” Logan

muttered. “If we hadn’t observed any sign of it, I’d

probably suspect some kind of physical symbosis had

developed here as well.”

Their attention was diverted from this new dis-

covery by the actions below. Sand and Reader were

now pouring various smelly liquids over the two bodies,

which had been lowered into the Split in the branch.

“Some kind of sacred oil, or something,” Cohoma

ventured. But Logan hardly heard him. Emfol. . . mu-

tual burial . . . half of oneself . . . Thoughts were

spinning around and around in her head without

forming any pattern, refusing to mesh, to reveal . . .

what?

The furcots pining away for their dead masters she

could understand. But for a man to die of loneliness

for his animal, probably Cohoma was right. Bom’s

people had been forced backward along the path of

development by the sheer necessity to concentrate on

surviving. This emotional entwining was a symptom of

that sickness. One of the pounding thoughts swamp-

ing her brain suddenly demanded clarification.

“You said men and women,” she whispered, staring

downward. “Do furcots and people match up by sex?”

Bom looked puzzled. “You know, female furcots to

women, male to male? Is Ruumahum a male?”

“I do not know,” Bom replied absently, involved

in the ceremony playing to its conclusion below. “I

never asked.” As far as he was concerned, that

was the end of the question. But it only stimulated

Logan’s curiosity further.

“And Losting’s furcot, Geeliwan. Is it a she?”

“I do not know. Sometimes we say ‘he,’ sometimes

‘she.’ It matters not to a furcot. A furcot is of the

brethren of furcots. That is sufficient for them and for

us.”

“Bom, how do you tell whether a furcot is male or

female?”

“Who knows, who cares?” This woman’s persistence

was irritating him.

“Has anyone ever seen furcots mating?”

“I have not. I cannot vouch for what others may

have seen. I have never heard it discussed, nor have

113

I desire to discuss it. It is not meet, or seemly, some-

how.”

The thought suddenly went out of focus again. It

was something to be pursued later. Her attention was

directed downward once again. “What are they doing

now. Born?” Leaves, humus, dead twigs, and succulents

were heaped on the bodies, filling the crevice.

“The Keep must be sealed, of course, against

predators.”

. “Naturally,” Cohoma agreed approvingly. “The

oils and mulch speed biological degradation as well as

masking the odor of decomposition.”

They studied the burial procedure while a steady

chant rose from the assembly, oddly soaring and unlike

a dirge. Reader made several passes with his hands

over the tightly packed, filled crack, bowed once, then

turned and walked toward the trunk, heading for an-

other, slightly higher, branch. The rest of the tribe

followed. They had many, many such interments to

perform this night.

The subsequent burials grew repetitious, and the

drenched Cohoma and Logan used the opportunity to

study the design of seemingly crude torches, which

burned steadily despite the unceasing rain.

Torches of slow-burning deadwood were cut and

then treated with the ever-present incendiary pollen.

The globular leaf of a certain plant was then punctured

through, and the pulp inside cleaned out with a knife.

This left a stiff-sided sphere about thirty centimeters

in diameter. The sphere was then sli d over the top

of the torch and a small hole cut in the side. Contact

with a finger through this hole served to ignite the

powder and then the wood, while providing an exit

for smoke and soot, although the wood appeared to

bum almost smokeless. The tough fiber of the leaf

was highly resistant to heat and flame.

The procession wound through the damp darkness

like a chanting, glowing snake spotted with flickering

dots of yellow-green iridescence. Everyone who could

walk, from small children to some older than Sand,

joined in that twisting, spiraling column. None com-

plained, none argued when the column turned upward,

none wished for a rest or return.

Something came out of the forest piercing the normal

night-chitters and the lullaby of falling rain. Born came

back to them. “Stay here with the column. Whatever

happens, do not leave the light.”

“Why not, what’s?” Logan began, but Bom was

already gone. The chlorophyllous sea swallowed him

and the six-legged bulk that shadowed him.

They waited with the others in the rain. Then a great

crashing and moaning sounded above the column and

to the right, echoed by the sound of many voices.

The moan rose in pitch, became a screeching, deep-

throated laugh. It rose and fell in a succession of

thunderous whoops.

It ended with a gurgling, choking sound. Something

massive and distant fell to their right with the sound

of shattering branches and torn vines. The light from

the torches penetrated the forest only faintly.

Though given only the briefest glimpse of what-

ever had stumbled on the column in the dark, neither

explorer had any desire for a closer look at that mon-

strous outline.

The crashing faded, dimmed, as the gigantic bulk

vanished into the dark depths like a pebble down a

dry well. There was no definite final crash. The break-

ing and tearing merely faded to a whisper, then a

memory of a whisper, until the rain replaced it. Born

returned to their side as the column started forward

and up once more.

“What was it?” Cohoma asked softly. “We had only

the faintest sight as it fell past.” He was startled to

notice that his hands were shaking. “Another species

new to us.” It made him feel better to see that not

all of the moisture on Logan’s brow had fallen from

the sky.

“One of the big night-eaters,” Bom informed him,

his eyes never straying from the coal-black walls on

all sides of them. “A diverdaunt. They will not come

near the Home because of the pods, but a man or

two who meet one in the forest will not come Home.

It was crossing our line, and hungry. Otherwise it

would never have attacked. They are very powerful,

but slowno match for a band of hunters and furcots

this large.” This last was uttered with an unmistak-

able hint of satisfaction.

“Couldn’t we have waited till it went past?” Logan

wondered.

Born was shocked. “This is a burial march. Noth-

ing can be allowed to interrupt a burial march.”

“Not even a nest of Akadi?” Cohoma murmured.

Born looked at him sharply, eyes flashing in the

torchlight. “Why say that?”

“I’m evaluating your parameters,” the research scout

explained, knowing full well Born would have no

idea what that meant, and reminding him that there

were things not even a great hunter could understand.

Logan cursed silently at her partner’s lack of tact,

hurriedly asked, “I was just wondering how all these

creatures came by their names, if they were origi-

nally classified by your ancestors?”

Born smiled, back on familiar ground. “When one

is young, one asks. An adult points and says, that is

a diverdaunt, or that an ohkeefer, or that the fruit of

the malpase flower which is not good to eat.”

“According to the reports of the first colonists

trapped here,” Cohoma muttered to Logan, “who were

in no mood to engage in standard scientific classifica-

tion. So the names that stuck were colloquial rather

than generic.”

Born heard this clearly; he heard everything when

the giants engaged in their odd, secretive soft-speak.

But as usual, he gave no indication that he had

heard. It would have been impolite. Though there were

many times when he wished he could understand

more of what he heard.

The column continued onward. Once a series of

spits and squeals sounded from directly above. An-

other time something that thrummed like an unmuffled

navigational computer approached from below and to

their left. Hunters were sent to ferret out the sources

of these threatening sounds, but found nothing. The

people were not attacked again.

Eventually the last who had fallen to the Akadi

were returned to the world. The final words were

chanted, the penultimate song sung.

They returned to the Home. By what method or

116

signs Bom’s folk found their way through the forest

neither Logan or Cohoma could determine. And they

were more relieved than they cared to admit when

the first flowering vines with their multitude of pink

blooms and leathery spore sacs came into view.

It was only later, when the entire troop had re-

entered the comforting trunklets of the Home, when

the last slow-burning torches had been extinguished,

when the last leafleather curtain had been drawn

tight, only then did muffled sobs and the lonely sounds

of weeping become audible, held in check throughout

the Longago. Night closed around the village, a moist

black blanket, and brought the mindlessness and com-

fort of sleep.

So there were none to see the movement at the

fringe of the trees, none to see the long shapes stir

from apparent sleep to gather by the topmost curve

of webbed branches.

A lazy cuff to the side of the head brought a

sleeping cub awake and squalling. Triple pupils blinked

in the near-absolute darkness. Ruumahum stood before

Suv. On Muf’s passing, this new cub had been as-

signed to his care. There was no twinge of regret, no

lingering sadness at the death of the other. He was

with his person, and that was the Law.

“Old one, what have I done?” Suv pleaded.

“Nothing, as you will doubtless continue to do.”

Ruumahum snorted and started to pad up toward

the gathering place. The cub started to follow, stum-

bled over his middle legs, then got all six working to-

gether and shuffled along behind.

“Then what is it?”

“You will see. Be quiet for now, and leam.”

Suv detected an unusual solemnity in his new old

one’s voice and decided that this truly was a time

for cubs to keep tongue close to palate until otherwise

instructed. Already he was used to this new elder,

though not knowing the Law as well, he still felt an

ache for Toocibel, who had died in the great fight.

When Ruumahum and Suv arrived, all were gath-

ered. In a column of twos they filed out from the

Home, moving through the hylaea with a stealth and

silence that belied their bulk. Sensitive nocturnal

117

carnivores on the hunt detected the mass movement

and slinked near, till they smelled or saw what was

pacing purposefully through the treepaths. Then they

froze motionless, or crept away, or tried to become

one with the forestscape until the column had passed.

Other meat-eaters in their lairs stirred at the noise

of many feet moving and prepared to defend their

territories and dens against whatever dared approach.

A chance gust of nightwind rustled leaves and petals

and brought the scent of furcot to flaring nostrils.

Whatever their size or number or species, no matter

how terrible, those who caught that pungent scent gave

up their territories, their dens, and took themselves

elsewhere. Occasionally a living cloud of luminescent

flitters, all growing crimson and green and azure,

would float down between the branches and cubbies to

hover curiously over the column.

The furcots looked neither left nor right, nor up at

the dancing motes performing their chromatic chore-

ography. Now and then a flitter would dip close, bril-

liant wings flashing gemlike in the night. Colors would

dance in triple cat-eyes.

A certain tree was reached, monarchical in size,

a veritable goliath among local growths. But it was

not its bulk which made it significant to the furcots,

who arranged themselves according to age around a

broad series of interlocking lianas.

Leehadoon, who was furcot to the person Sand,

took the place in the center of the semicircle. He

paused to meet eyes with each of the assembled

brethren in turn. Then he threw back his head. From

between machete-sharp canines and upthrust tusks

came an unearthly sound that was part cry, part

mewling, and part something undefinable in human

terms. The rest of the group joined in without in-

structionjust as Suv and the other cubs were able

to participate without knowing how or why, or the

meaning of what they howled in the dark.

Most animals within range of that nerve-tingling

caterwaul fled. But some crept near, curiosity over-

powering fear, to stare and wonder animal thoughts

at the rite that was at once old and new. It was dif-

ferent this time, more complex than Ruumahum or

118

Leehadoon or any could remember. It would be differ-

ent the next time and the next, the chorus always

building, growing toward some inexplicable, unimag-

inable end.

It was two days before sufficient supplies could be

readied for the second attempt to reach the giants’

station-Home. Two days to prepare for a death the

Akadi had not achieved, most of Bern’s fellows be-

lieved.

He had proved himself thrice now in a span of

time no longer than a child’s dream. This did not

alter the belief among his fellows of his madness.

They thought, as Losting did, that there is a peculiar

bravery that is part of insanity. Therefore they exhib-

ited respect toward Born nowbut not admiration.

There is no recompense in admiring madness.

Born felt only their indifference, without sensing

the attitude that provoked it, since no ne would admit

their belief in his madness to his face. This made

him madder, but in a different sense. So he sharpened

axe and loiife till it seemed there would be little

left of either, and he thought private angry thoughts.

He had come back from the fight with the

grazer. He had come back from the giants’ sky-boat

demon. He had come back from the Akadi. And he

would come back from the giants’ station and bring

all the wonders they promised him! Maybe, maybe

then, at last. Brightly Go would see daring and courage

and intelligence whereas everyone else saw only mad-

ness; see that they were worth much more than bulk

and strength.

Of all the hunters, only Losting, for his own pe-

culiar reasons, would come with him still. Had Born

not saved the lives of the others? True, they admitted,

but all the more reason not to carelessly throw them

away. Losting, then, whom Bom could go without see-

ing for the necessary weeks or months of travel and

be blissfully content, would accompany him. He was

secretly glad of the aid the big hunter would provide,

but publicly taunting.

“You think I go to my death. Then why come with

me?” he sneered, knowing the reason full well.

119

“Some say the forest protects the mad. If so, it

surely will save you. And I am as mad as you, for

is not love a kind of madness?”

“If so, then we are surely both mad,” Born agreed,

tightening the clasp on his cloak. “And they have been

right all along, and I am the maddest of the lot.”

“Remember, Born, you’ll not convince me to stay.

I’ll see you die or come back with you.” He turned

his attention to the two waiting giants, who were talk-

ing with the chief.

Both had consented to accept a present of water-

repellent cloaks, though they still insisted unreasonably

on wearing their own tattered clothing underneath.

When Born argued the absurdity of retaining such

fragments, they countered with their old argument of

catching cold. That stopped Born, for who was to say

what strange maladies might exist among the giants?

“They have learned much in the days they have

lived among us,” he observed, “though each is still

as clumsy as a child. At least now they ask before

touching, look before stepping.”

“What do you think of them, Born?” Losting asked.

“We must watch constantly to see that they do not

kill themselves before we reach their station-Home.”

“Not that,” Losting corrected. “I meant, do you

like them as persons?”

Bom shrugged. “They are very different. If all they

claim is true, they can do us good. If not”he made

a noncommittal face”it will be a tale to tell our

grandchildren.”

That simultaneously brought the picture of a certain

young female to both minds.The conversation ended by

mutual agreement. It would not do to begin a journey

longer than any had ever made with fighting. There

would be fighting enough in the world before they

reached their goal. On that one thing, both were

agreed.

Many in the village had come to see them off with

good wishes and gifts of food, though none would

meet Bom’s eyes. They had long since returned to

the daily business of gathering food and caring for

the Home.

So they took their leave of the Home, the chief

120

and one lone child watching them go. A fat ball of

fur rocked near the child, the cub Suv. The sight

reminded Bom of another child, another cub, now

returned to the world.

He turned his gaze outward.

The sky-boat had been equipped with a good Mark

V ranger, new beacon tracker, tridee broadcast unit,

and automatic beam-homing device. Now all this

equipment was so much scrap, broken and twisted by

gravity and by the sky-demon.

Logan took out the tiny black disk with the clear

face and once more blessed whoever among their out-

fitters had seen fit to include the compass in their

tiny boot survival packs. She hoped this planet pos-

sessed nothing in the way of magnetic abnormalities.

At least, they had not been told of any. But then,

skimmers were supposed to be foolproof, too.

Different variations on the same thought had oc-

curred to Bom. In that respect this journey was sui-

cidal, for they had only the giants’ word on where

they were going. The possibility that they did not have

a good idea of where their station lay was something

he preferred not to think on. It did his spirits no good.

Besides, he reasoned, if they did not have a fairly

accurate idea, surely they would not have forsaken

the safety and comfort of the Home on the wild chance

that they would stumble across the station by search-

ing at random. As to what might await Losting and

himself on their arrival at the mysterious station, he

did not know. Handling himself among new people

was not a major concern at the moment.

Many days had passed since they had left the

Home. Though it now lay many rests behind them,

the emotion uppermost in Bom’s mind was neither

homesickness nor apprehension of what might lie a-

head. Rather, he felt a peculiar combination of tedium

and tensiontedium arising from the day-to-day dis-

covery that each new section of the world was iden-

tical to that which lay within throwing distance of the

Home and tension from the inescapable feeling that to-

morrow it might not be.

After the first seven-day the giants kept to them-

121

selves as much as possible, save for an occasional ques-

tion whenever they encountered a plant or forest

dweller new to them. That left Born with no one to

talk to but Losting. Not surprisingly, the expedition

proceeded with a dearth of jovial patter.

The hunters continued to regard each other with a

mixture of hatred and respect. These cancelled each

other out and kept the party operating on an even

emotional keel. Both men knew that this was neither

the time nor the place for a violent settlement of

their differences. Mutual slaughter would have to wait

until their glorious return.

As Born had predicted, the specially designed jungle-

resistant fabric of the giants’ clothing began to rot

away under the steady assault of a forest which had

failed to read the manufacturer’s label. Cohoma and

Logan were more grateful each day for the green

cloaks they had been given. A good cloak offered

its wearer concealment from enemies, and protection

from the night-rain, served as bedding, and had a

dozen and one other uses.

The giants grew more assured, more confident of

their surroundings, as each new day came and went

without incident. Considering their still incredible

awkwardness in negotiating the treepaths. Born felt

the little knot of humans had been exceptionally for-

tunate so far. The only serious encounter they had had

could hardly have been predicted. It nearly cost them

Logan.

“I’ll be damned,” she had remarked to her compan-

ion, pointing up and to their right. “Is that a patch of

clear sky over there, or am I hallucinating?” Bom and

Losting were moving just ahead of them, and neither

hunter was paying much attention to the giants’ con-

versation.

Cohoma looked in the indicated direction. He saw

what certainly looked like an oval section of blue

sky streaked with fluffy white clouds. “Not unless we’re

both seeing things. Must be another hole in the forest,

like the one our boat made coming down.” They an-

gled toward it.

At that moment Losting turned to make sure their

charges were safe behind them. “Stopthis way!”

122

Bom was slightly ahead of Losting. At the other’s

shout, he turned and immediately saw the cause of

the hunter’s concern.

“It’s all right,” Logan answered confidently. “I know

about the sky-demons from first-hand experience.”

She shook her head, smiled. “We’re too far down in

the forest, and this hole’s too narrow to let even the

smallest flier descend. We’re safe.” She took another

couple of steps along the broad cubble toward the

ellipse of clear blue.

Losting yelled again and hurriedly tried to explain,

even as both giants continued walking. Knowing the

ineffectiveness of trying to argue with Cohoma and

Logan, Bom was already running toward them. As

he jumped from branch to cubble, his snuffler clatter-

ing and banging against his back, he was fighting to

untangle his axe from its belt loop. The two blind

giants were almost to it now. He could see the slight

rippling around the edges of the blue. The axe would

be too late.

Fortunately, others had also detected the danger.

Ruumahum and Geeliwan were there. Powerful jaws

closed gently but firmly on tough cloak material. An-

other function of the multipurpose cape was abruptly

demonstrated as the two furcots yanked backward in

unison. Logan yelped. Cohoma’s exclamation was more

detailed.

Bom had the axe out and ready just in case, as

the two giants were dragged clear of the blue patch.

The fluttering around the fringe of that broad blue

circle matched the stuttering of his heart. Both quieted

simultaneously. Thank the Home! An axe would not

have been much good against a clouder, and he would

have hated to depend on Losting’s speed with a snuf-

fler. Either way, the clouder would certainly have

killed one if not both of the giants before the jacari

poison could take effect.

Losting came up alongside him. The big hunter had

his own axe out. Together they examined the oval

section of sky and clouds, ignoring the two giants

who were now struggling angrily to their feet. Ruuma-

hum and Geeliwan had let loose their cloaks, but

rested close by, watching. Born nodded to Ruuma-

hum, once. The old furcot snorted and disappeared

with Geeliwan into the brush.

The hunter studied Logan as she fought to remove

her tangled cloak from between her legs. Her face

was flushed. ”

“What’s the harm in letting us have a look at the

sky again, Bom? Still afraid of sky-demons? Maybe it

doesn’t mean much to you, but we’ve had nothing over

our heads but gre en for two weeks now. Just a glimpse

of normal skyeven if it’s a bit green-tingedis a

visual treat for us. To panic like this just because”

“I would risk leaving you a look at your Upper

Hell were we high enough for it,” Bom replied calmly.

“Well, this’ll do since we’re not. What’s wrong with

it? It’s just another well in your world, a natural one,

unlike the one we made when our skimmer fell.”

Born shook his head. One must force oneself to be

patient with these giants, he reminded himself. They

could not emfol. “You see no sky and no clouds. That

which you see is a clouder resting in killing mode. It

was about to make a meal of both of you.”

If the situation had not been so deadly serious, Bom

might have found Logan’s expression amusing. She

turned a confused gaze on the circle of “sky,” ex-

amined the clouds drifting within it. She eyed Cohoma,

who shrugged and looked blank. “Bom, I don’t under-

stand. Is there some kind of animal that sits around

such openings and waits for something to enter the

open space? I don’t see anything like that.”

“There is no open space,” Bom elaborated carefully.

“Watch.”

They withdrew to a position behind some thick

succulents and waited. Ten, twenty minutes of silence,

at the end of which both giants were growing nervous

and fidgety. At about the twenty-fifth minute a small

bryaa four-footed, four-clawed herbivore about the

size of a pigwandered toward the patch of blue while

rooting in the dense growth beneath it for edible

aerial tubers.

Again Born detected the fluttering around the fringe

of the sky, but didn’t point it out to Cohoma and

124

Logan. He didn’t have tothey saw it for themselves.

The brya wandered into the space beneath the sky.

When it was in the exact center, the sky fell, clouds

and all. The quivering clouder resembled a thick mat-

tress lined on its edges with hundreds of cilia. It

literally enveloped the brya, which squealed only once.

The clouder moved jerkily for a minute or two, then

relaxed.

Five minutes later the fringe of tentacles or cilia

extended. The clouder climbed back up to its nesting

place, stripping the surrounding vegetation in the proc-

ess to keep plenty of clear space beneath it. It settled

into place once more, four meters above the nearest

growth. It was pebbled and green on top. Its under-

side was shaded so much like a section of sky

speckled with clouds that Logan had to blink to make

sure it had really moved. A few bones, too tough for

even the clouder’s supremely efficient digestive juices,

were carefully thrown clear once excreted.

“Camouflage, yes. Protective mimicry, yes,” Logan

whispered. “But a carnivore that imitates the sky”

Cohoma was equally awed, especially when he con-

sidered he might easily have gone the way of the

brya had not the furcots intervened.

Bom sighed and turned to lead on. “I am not sure

what that means, but the sky is the sky and a clouder

is a clouder. Walk under the last and soon see nothing.”

He started back down the cubble. A suitably chastized

Logan and Cohoma followed, looking uneasily to then-

right as they passed the innocent-seeming circle of

blue and white.

“Just when you think you’ve got this ecosystem

figured,” Cohoma mumbled, “got the predators and the

prey identified and cataloged, something like that

nearly snaps your head off. Carnivores that imitate the

sky! Next thing you know, Bom’U be warning us about

something that imitates nothing!”

Three days later they encountered the palinglass and

again barely escaped being consumed.

Weeks had passed. Many nights later they secured

an especially good camp in the hollow of a Pillar

branch. The wood-walled cave was more than large

125

enough to accommodate all six of them comfortably,

if it was unoccupied.

Born and Losting motioned for fhe two giants to

stay behind when they first saw the orifice. They then

approached the cavernous scar cautiously, loaded

snufflers held ready. It seemed unlikely that such a

fine, solid shelter, so spacious, would be devoid of

life.

Such was the case, however. Neither Ruumahum or

Geeliwan had detected any scent. When the hunters

entered the hollow, they found only very old drop-

pings, and more deadwood than they could use in

a hundred fires.

That night a lavish blaze illumined the interior of

the branch, reflecting off dark nodules and twisted

stalactites of cracked wood and bark. Born studied

the giants. Under the soothing effect of the fire and

the excellent shelter, he felt more inclined to talk than

he had for many days.

“I have almost come to believe that you truly come

from a world other than this, Kimilogan.” Cohoma’s

expression didn’t change, but Logan appeared pleased.

“That’s a big step, Bom, and an important one. I’m

not surprised, though, that you made it. You’re ob-

viously the most perceptive of your people, and the

most receptive to change, to new ideas. That’s going

to be very important.” She stirred the coals nearest

her with a twisted stick, listened to the ever-steady

trickle of night-water outside. “You know, Bom,

when you and your people and the other tribes here

rejoin the family of man they’re going to need some-

one to speak for them with our company.” She glanced

up at him evenly. “I can’t think of a better candidate

than yourself. With what you’ve already done for the

company in rescuing Jan and myself, I don’t see

how you can help but be chosen. Such a position would

be very advantageous for you.”

Losting listened to this and said nothing. His respect

for Bom’s cleverness was as great as his dislike for

his person. He snuggled back against Geeliwan and lis-

tened to what Bom, not the giants, had to say.

“The world you say you come from does not sound

126

very inviting,” Bom replied, and then held up a quiet-

ing hand as Cohoma seemed ready to object, “but

that is a matter of personal choice. Clearly you feel

much the same way toward this world. That is of no

matter.” He paused thoughtfully, leaned forward to

lend emphasis to his next words. “What I wish to

know isif you are so satisfied with your own world

and the others you say exist, why come with much

trouble and difficulty to this one?” Suddenly, his face

shadowed by the firelight, the hunter did not look

quite so primitive.

Cohoma and Logan exchanged glances. “Two rea-

sons, Bom,” she finally replied. “One is simple to

understand; the other . . . well, I think you will,

in time. I don’t know if chief Sand or Reader the

shaman would.” She toyed with the stick, flicked a

glowing coal outward into the rain-drenched edge of

the cave. It hissed as the tepid drops struck it. “It has

to do with the acquisition of something called money,

which in turn has to do with commerce. All will be

made clear to you at the station. Once you under-

stand your own special position regarding it, you’ll

see why I’m reluctant to go into details just yet. All

I will say is that youand your peoplewill benefit

considerably, just as Jan and I and our friends will.

“The other thing is lesser for some men, more

important for otherscuriosity. The same thing that

drove you to descend to find out what our skimmer

really was. The same thing that’s driving you, against

your better judgment, against the advice of all your

friends, to try and return us safely to our station. It’s

the same thing that’s carried mankind and the thranx

fromstar to starcuriosity, and the other thing.”

“What are thranx?” Bom asked.

“Some folk I think you’d like, Bom.” She stared

out at the darkness. “And who’d like this world very

much, more so than my people.”

“Are there any of these thranx at your station?”

Losting suddenly asked.

“No. None are a part of our”she hesitated”com-

pany, or group, organization, tribe, if you will.” She

smiled brightly. “Everything will become much

clearer when we reach the station.”

127

“I’m certain it will,” Born mused agreeably, staring

into the dancing flames.

Later, as he rolled himself up in his cloak and over

into the softly snoring bulk of Ruumahum, he won-

dered if he would. He also wondered if he wanted to.

No one knows how silently a big animal can move

until an adult furcot has unexpectedly padded up

close to him. Ruumahum moved that way when the

odor woke him, rising so muffled-ear quiet even Bom,

lightest of sleepers, failed to awake. The aroma came

from outside and above, so heavy with its distinctive

musk it penetrated down through two levels and the

still falling rain. Geeliwan stirred in sleep as Ruuma-

hum padded to the front of the cavern. He stuck his

head outside, stared upward with triple piercing eyes,

which blinked frequently against the stinging rain.

The smell was unmistakable, but there was no

harm in making sure. He gripped the wood with fore-

legs, followed with the middle pair and then the hind,

and swung out onto the side of the trunk. Close-

bunched leg muscles worked in unison as he clawed

his way up the trunk. It was harder than finding

a spiraling path in the thick vegetation, but time was

important if his suspicion was correct. The hair behind

his ears bristled as the threatening miasma grew

stronger and stronger. Few sensory impressions can

raise the hackles of a furcot. Ruumahum was absorb-

ing one of them now.

The long vertical climb was tiring, even for him.

Then he saw it, still far above, but moving steadily

downward, and he knew why their excellent shelter

had been empty This was a silverslith’s tree.

It had their scent, that was certain. They were al-

128

ready dead, unless the persons could devise a new

thing. Turning, he rushed back down through branches

and vines, eating up the meters with prodigious

plunges and leaps. He was making enough noise to

rouse every night prowler nearby, which was the idea.

Perhaps one would be foolish enough to investigate.

The temporary snack might divert the silverslith for

a few precious minutes.

They had little time. The silverslith was moving

slowly, deliberately, playing with its intended prey.

And tile giants would slow them further. He burst

into the cave noisily enough to wake Bom and Losting

instantly. Geeliwan gave a warning growl, relaxed at

the familiar smell.

Ruumahum stood panting before them, wet fur

glistening in the glow from the coals. “Wake others,”

he puffed. While Losting moved to rouse the giants,

Ruumahum whispered something in the talk of furcots,

which prompted Geeliwan to hurry to the cave en-

trance. He stationed himself there, staring upward.

“What’s going on? What is it now?” Cohoma

grumbled sleepily as Losting shook him. Logan had

already moved to a sitting position and waited to be

told.

“We must leave here immediately,” Bom told

them. He fastened his cloak more tightly at his neck,

moved to gather his few things. Losting was doing

likewise. “This is a silverslith’s tree. It explains why

we did not have to fight for this shelter. It is shunned,

as we should have shunned it. There was no reason

to suspect, none. I feel no better for it, though.”

“All right,” Logan asked tiredly, “another pesty

beast. What’s a silverslith, Bom, and what can we do

about it?”

“Leave,” he replied tightly, using a thick fragment

of wood to push the glowing embers from the fire

toward the cave mouth. The rain would put them

safely out.

“In the middle of the night?”

“The silverslith dictates this, not I, Kimilogan. We

can only run and weave, weave and run. There is a

chance it will tire and leave us.”

“Something that will follow us, like the Akadi?” Co-

129

homa wondered. The seriousness of the situation had

finally penetrated his sleep-numbed brain.

“No, not like the Akadi. Compared to the silver-

slith, the mind of the Akadi is as changeable as …

as”he fumbled for a suitable analogy”the desires

of a woman. Once having the scent of one who has

invaded its tree, the silverslith will follow till the in-

vader is eaten. Nor can it be outrun like the Akadi.

And unlike the Akadi, it does not sleep.”

“Now that’s got to be legend,” Cohoma insisted,

rumbling with his cloak. “There’s no such thing as a

warm-blooded creature that doesn’t sleep, and only a

few cold-blooded ones can go without rest.”

“I do not know the temperature of its blood,” Born

commented, moving toward the cave mouth, “nor

even if it has blood. No one has ever seen a silver-

slith bleed. I will not banter with you now.” Oddly

enough, he grinned. “When you are tired from run-

ning, I suggest you stop for a nap and see what wakes

you in the night.”

“Okay, we believe you,” Logan confessed, trying to

arrange her clothes. “We’ve got to, after what we’ve

seen. A creature whose living cycle runs in weeks

instead of days. So many weeks of wakefulness, so

many weeks of sleep.”

“The silverslith does not sleep,” Bom reiterated

forcefully. Deciding it was useless to argue with those

who refused to accept the truth, he finally made a

curt gesture to them to follow.

Losting had prepared torches, bundles of torches.

But they still had to locate the globular leaves that

would shield the flame from the ram, and there was no

time to look. They had to get away from the tree.

Hopefully they would encounter some of the fairly

common growths along the way. Until then they would

be forced to make their way in darkness.

“Quickly,” Ruumahum growled with furcot impa-

tience. “It senses us.”

“Geeliwan!” Losting whispered. The furcot moved to

the nearest liana, jumped from it to a lower branch

growing from another tree, down to another and

another. Then it looked back up, eyes gleaming in

130

the night. They would be the only beacons they had

in the forest.

Losting went next, followed by Cohoma. Logan

looked back up at Bom as she was about to move to

the liana. “I thought it was too dangerous to travel

at night?”

“It is,” he admitted, “but it is death to stay

here.”

She nodded. “Just wanted to make sure this wasn’t

some kind of test,” she replied cryptically, turning and

moving from liana to branch.

Bom hesitated long enough to murmur to Ruuma-

hum as the furcot stared upward into the rain. “How

much time?”

“It will search every niche of cave. Then follow.”

“Any chance we could fight it, old friend?” Ruuma-

hum snorted.

“Bom dreams. Fight silverslith? Not even silverslith-

young.” His gaze went upward again. “Not young.

Old one, big. Very big.”

Bom grunted nonconunittally, glanced upward. He

had another new thought. It was a frightening thought,

but nothing else offered itself in substitution, and there

was no time for detailed speculation. They could prob-

ably stay ahead of the silverslith. But they could not

run away and leave it, nor could they shake it from

their trail, or fight it. Eventually fatigue would slow

them, stop them, and the untiring killer would finish

them at its leisure. Still reluctant to propose the

thought, he moved rapidly with the others away from

the tree.

They had been traveling for some time when faint

thunder boomed across the forest from somewhere

behind them. It was caused by an abrupt displace-

ment of air, but its source was not electrical in nature.

“It has discovered our absence,” Bom explained to

Logan, in response to the unvoiced question. “It will

spend a few minutes voicing its rage and then come

after.”

“Tell me, Bom,” she asked, straggling to stay be-

hind the vague shape of Losting working his way

through the dense growth, “if a silverslith never gives

up till its quarry is killed, how do you know so much

131

about its habits, and what it looks like? You do know

what it looks like?”

The giant was wasting too much energy on talk.

Ever polite, he responded, “There are tales of a

party of twenty or thirty being attacked by one. They

scattered in as many directions. Not even a silverslith

could follow every scent to its source before some

had faded. A few survived to tell of the monster.”

“You’re saying not even twenty or thirty of

you…”

“And as many furcots.”

“. . . and then furcots could fight one of these

things?”

“Too big, too strong,” Bora. told her.

“I thought your jacari poison would kill anything.”

“Silverslith skin is too thick,” he explained. “Also,

jacari poison works on … on”he searched his

memory for the ancient term”the nervous system.”

“Then why wouldn’t it affect a silverslith?” Cohoma

asked. “It’s got to have some vulnerable points.”

“When it comes, you show me,” Bom muttered.

“Anyway, silverslith has no nervous system, the tale

says.”

Logan’s willingness to credit the creature with the

ability to go long periods without rest or sleep did

not extend this far. “Oh, come on, Bom,” she said

with the confidence of superior knowledge, “every

animal has a nervous system.”

“Has it?”

“An animal couldn’t live without a nervous system,

Born.”

“Couldn’t it?”

“At the very least,” she added, “it must have some

kind of rudimentary brain and central locomotor sys-

tem.”

“Must it?”

She gave up. Cohoma hadn’t paid much attention.

He was still musing on the fact that this thing pursu-

ing them could put thirty furcots to flight.

“Look, how much of this is true and how much of

it has been embroidered by the survivors of that at-

tacked party? Naturally they’d want to make out the

invulnerability of anything that forced them to run.”

132

Bom was about to reply, but Ruumahum interrupted

him. It was unusual for a furcot to break into a

conversation between persons. Ruumahum did so to

keep Bora’s adrenalin level low until more energy was

needed later. “Silverslith tree,” he growled softly,

“only thing in world Akadi change march-path for.

Big persons shut up now and watch own path.”

That information was enough to cause Logan and

Cohoma to overlook the fact that they had been

given an order by an overgrown pet. They pondered

it as they hurried on in silence.

Meanwhile Bom continued to turn his earlier

thought over and over in his head. He tried to argue

his way out of it; it held him tight as a grazer’s

arm. He tried to avoid it; it stood firmly in the

way of his thoughts like the silverslith’s Pillar-tree.

Temporarily he managed to forget it by cursing him-

self for failing to recognize the tree for what it was.

That huge, dry, inviting shelter, so empty, so shunned.

Fool! “Fool’s fool!” he muttered aloud.

“And I with you,” Losting muttered nearby, but

Born hardly heard him.

“Don’t berate yourself. Born. You said there was

no way of telling what it was,” Logan told him.

“No. If it had been lower, Ruumahum would have

scented it. But it was far, far up the trunk, near the

very top probably, hell-hunting.”

“Hell-hunting?”

“Fishing the night sky for air-demons,” he ex-

plained. “Reaching up to pull down fliers at the

treetops, like the one that attacked your skimmer

when it fell.”

“Oh,” she murmured. Another sobering thought.

“It did not sense us till it started downward. That’s

when Ruumahum smelled it.”

They finally found the globular leaves growing to

one side of their treepath. Geeliwan saw them, moved

with Ruumahum to stand watch while Bom and Lost-

ing cut and prepared several. Though if the silverslith

attacked, they could give the humans only a couple

of extra minutes.

A little of ihe fire pollen and they had real light

again. It cheered Cohoma and Logan. At least they

133

could see where they were stepping now. At the

same time, Logan expressed a new worry to Bom.

“Won’t these make us easier to see for any other local

predators?”

“It does not matter now. Tha silverslith is too close.

No other creature of the night will come near, having

scented it. They will run, too. Have you noticed the

silence?”

Logan listened and knew what Bom meant. The

usual night sounds, the normal whistles and clicks,

beepings and hums interspersed with an occasional

deep-throated roar, were missing. Only the constant

drip, drip of the rain remained, punctuated by a wan-

dering wisp of lost wind. They hurried on in eerie

silence.

“It nears,” Ruumahum soon rasped. “Slowly, but

it nears.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Bom,” Logan said at the

same time, gasping, fighting for breath. “I can’t keep

this up. I don’t know which’U go first, my eyes or

my legs.”

“Then,” Bom said, sighing heavily, making the de-

cision he had been putting off for hours, “it is better

to start now.”

“Start where?” The query came from Losting.

“Down … to the other levels.”

Neither Losting nor the giants cared if the mon-

strous apparition now close on their trail heard their

shouts and yells.

“What’s the good of descending to another level?”

“We’ll only lose the daylight when it comes.”

“The silverslith will follow us easily,” Losting

added. “Follow us forever. You know that, Bom.”

Bom looked at his ally and rival. “Even to Hell?”

That was the first and last time either Cohoma or

Logan ever heard a furcot produce anything like a

startled grunt. Losting was too stunned to reply as Bom

continued.

“I will not stay to argue with you, Losting, or with

any of you. I am going down to the Seventh Level,

if the silverslith still follows. Down to whatever is

there.”

“Death is there,” Geeliwan sighed.

134

“Death to wait here, sleek friend,” Bom reminded.

He looked ahead to Losting again. “We know what

the silverslith will do when it catches us. At the very

least, we may find a new way to die.”

“Bom, you said yourself that to go to the Lower

Hell, the surface, was certain death,” Logan said

softly.

“Less certain than to stay here. Maybe the silver-

slith will not follow, for it lives here near the top of

the world. It may live equally well among its rela-

tions at its bottom, but we do not know that. I think

it is a chance, at least. I will not try to force any

of you to come with me.”

He would do what he thought best, assuming

the others would see the wisdom of his ways and

follow him. That was what he had always done. It

worked now as he began the slow descent to depths

unseen, plunging into even blacker, more ominous

darkness.

They followed, all of them, but not out of respect

for his greater wisdom, as he thought. They followed

because in a crisis, uncertain people will follow

whatever leader declares himself. In that respect Lost-

ing proved himself as human as Logan or Cohoma.

Cubbies and lianas came and went. Downward-

sloping tree branches, parasitic growths the size of

sequoias and greater passed and were left behind.

One such tree sprouted a thousand thick air-roots all

entwined. They used them to drop with greater speed

for many meters. They left the Fifth Level behind and

entered the Sixth, moving into a region of brown and

white and purple growths that started crowding out

the green.

Then they were through the center of the Sixth,

then through its bottom, to emerge into a ghost world.

A world feebly lit by torchlight that seemed to huddle

close to its parent wood in fear. A world of Pillar-

tree bases with boles as big around as starships.

Buttresses, multibladed and massive, rose on all sides.

There were glowing fungi the size of storerooms, which

thrived and grew in a riotous profusion of obscene,

grotesque shapes. Small glowing things crawled in and

among them and hid from their torchlight.

135

Here there was no morning and no evening, no day

and no nightonly a perpetual darkness that be-

longed neither to the sun or the moon. Even though

the phosphorescent fungi and their twisted relatives

gave enough light to see by, the torches were kept lit.

It was a cleaner, purer radiance than what shone here.

Yellow and red and white light issued from around

them, a ghostly, ethereal evanescence, which sug-

gested outlines rather than whole forms, hinted rather

than described.

At last they came to a stop at the base of one

ridge-backed buttress, the final stairway to the surface.

A cluster of orange saplinglike growths grew here

things that would never know the internal logic-

magic of photosynthesis. They had surely reached the

ground, the Seventh Level, Lower Hell itself. Yet,

there seemed even here to be another level below, for

nearby the ground turned soft, sticky and wet, thicker

than water, thinner than mud.

Logan turned, breathing painfully, and stared back

up the way they had come. The buttress behind her

was like a dark brown-black cliff. Above it she could

detect only darkness and the faint glow of distant

fungi. There was nothing to indicate that a couple

of hundred meters above them was a world of light

and green life that pulsed and rustled with wind and

rain.

It was humid here to the point of suffocation, though

only an occasional persistent droplet from the still

falling night-rain penetrated this far. The rest had

been absorbed or caught high above by a thousand

million bromeliads or other water-holding plants. The

rare drop was a reminder that they had not died, that

a living green world still existed above this dark place.

Bom also turned his gaze upward along the face of

the wood, solid as granite. “Ruumahum?”

“It comes still,” the furcot muttered after testing

the air. “But slower, much slower, even cautiously.”

“We have no time for caution.” He turned to Logan

and Cohoma, indicated the swampy morass which

spread around their tiny, dry peninsula. “I know

nothing of footing like this. Yet we must leave this

spot before the silverslith’s fury overcomes its care.”

Long moments, precious moments, came and went

while all four humans considered the problem. Logan

found herself running a hand up and down the side

of one of the orange trunks that flared from where

the buttress of the great tree entered the water. More

than anything else they resembled bright red-orange

reeds, though they surely were no member of the

reed family.

She took out her bone knife and tried the material.

It cut, but not easily. The fiber was dense, not pulpy

or water-filled, but they had axes. “Bom, see if you

can locate something that would serve as cord. Some

kind of vine or something. I think these will make

a decent rafta machine for traveling on the water-

if we stack them crossways two deep.”

They worked so fast it was a wonder no one lost

an arm or leg in the building. As each orange bole

was felled, it exuded a thick odor redolent of stale

onion. Construction proceeded apace when Bom and

Ruumahum returned with loops and loops of some

sticky, gray waterplant coiled around themselves.

Logan and Cohoma laid and held the “logs” and

instructed Bom and Losting on how and where to set

the ties. All the while, Ruumahum and Geeliwan kept

watch on a ridge above.

Their periodic guttural warnings, shouted down from

high up on the buttress, indicated that the silverslith,

was still moving and with that same unnatural slow-

ness. It did not occur to anyone to wonder at the

monster’s caution.

It did, however, occur to Logan suddenly to ask,

“Bom, we didn’t ask permission, emfol, whatever,

of these, did we? Isn’t that against your religion,

or moral stance, or something?” She indicated the

felled logs.

“They are not of the forest, of my world.” He

looked disgusted. “They are a kind of life I feel only

distantly akin too. I cannot emfol with them. There is

nothing to emfol with.”

“It’s finished,” Cohoma announced loudly, forcing

Logan to stifle further questions. Fascinating as this

still unresolved thing called emfoling was, survival was

more important.

A shout drifted down to them. “Quickly, Bom!”

Ruumahum again. “It sees us. It comes fast now.”

Seconds later, it seemed, both furcots had rejoined

them at the base of the buttress. The hair was erect

on their necks, and they glanced continually upward.

Logan stared up also, as did Cohoma, but as yet there

was nothing to be seen. Their meager equipment

thrown aboard, the two furcots climbed on. At least

there was no space problem. The raft was big enough

to hold twice as many men and furcots. Cohoma,

Bom, Logan, and Losting all shoved, lifted and

shoved. The raft refused to budge.

“Ruumahum, Geeliwan,” Cohoma directed, “move

to the far end of the raft a little!” The furcots did

so, and this time when the humans shoved, the raft

slid cleanly into the brown sludge.

The first thing Cohoma did was test the depth of

the muck. The split section of tapering reed disap-

peared until his fist was immersed. They would not be

wading through this.

The thick liquid made for slow paddling, but by

the same token, it also helped support the makeshift

raft. Everyone pushed furiously, their progress ham-

pered initially by Losting and Bom’s ignorance of

paddle mechanics. But they learned quickly. With in-

creasing speed they made their way out a considerable

distance from the shore.

Above them the black sky arched high overhead.

It was like rowing silently through some unimagi-

nably vast, dark cathedral. The vegetation growing on

the little patches of dry earth and on the trunks of

dead or living, trees was dense, but there was no furi-

ous desire to reach for open space here, since there

was no need to compete for the sun.

“Where’s the tree we came down?” Logan asked.

She squinted back the way she thought they had come.

Everything beyond a certain distance looked the same,

since the light from the glowing fungi did not reach

very far. Then she saw the thing and knew which

bole it was they had come down, and what a silverslith

was, and she screamed.

It stoppe d when it reached the base of the buttress

at least the front part of it stopped there. The rest

138

of it extended back up the tree, up and up into the

blackness beyond for an unknown distance. Its body

was a fifth as big around as the Pillar-tree itself.

It looked like an animated forest, its cylindrical body

bristling with thousands of independently writhing

cilia the color of polished antimony. They reached

and clutched at the air. The head was a bloated hor-

ror, a creation of an aberrant nature. Numerous pul-

sating mouths dotted the globular head, gray teeth

sprouting in every direction. Tentacles grew around

the mouths seemingly at random, and the whole nau-

seating visage was liberally pockmarked with feature-

less black blots that may have been eyes.

It uttered low mewling sounds, incongruously soft.

These rose and shifted to a high, piping titter that sent

icy chills through Cohoma and Logan. The head alone

stretched out many meters over the water. It swung

slowly from side to side as if it were smelling the

surface. Then the head lifted. Though those black

orbs went in all directions, it felt to Cohoma as

if it were staring directly at them.

“Oh, my god, my god,” Logan croaked. “It’s seen

us.”

“Not like this . . . not this way,” Cohoma was

moaning.

“Be quiet andwhat do you call itpaddle!” Bom

growled through clenched teeth, though he was as

frightened as the giants, and fresh sweat dropped from

his forehead.

They had gamed real distance on the raft and were

well out on the water. But the silverslith had pursued

them into Hell itself. Bom sensed that it was not about

to be deprived of its prey.

It reached out for them, mewling loudly. More of

that seemingly endless body flowed in humping motions

down the Pillar trunk and along the buttress, and

still the tail was not visible. It was not yet trying to

swim. Instead it was stretching to the left, reaching

for the buttress of the next major growth.

Bom saw with despair that by moving in this

fashion, it would soon be able to pluck them from the

false safety of the raft without ever having to touch

water. Losting saw it too, and together the hunters

139

began a frantic search for a crevice, a crack in the

base of one of the enormous boles where they might

hide, though such was the strength of the silverslith

that it would rip even those huge boles apart to get

at them.

A faint rushing noise sounded behind them, like a

child stepping into a vat of grazer lard. Then the

water erupted, vomiting forth a colossal, soulless shape

so vast it could not be believed. The thing occupied

the whole broad basin of open water they had just

crossed.

The behemoth ignored them just as Born would

ignore a leaf falling on his head in the forest. They

were not worth bothering with. Long multijointed legs

with claws the size of small trees shot out and hooked

around the stretching form of the silverslith. A single

eye bigger than the giants’ skimmer flashed for a

merciful instant between those taloned legs. What they

could see of its body, where it emerged from the

water, was a mad hybrid of the sacred and the pro-

fane. For it was encrusted with jewelsemeralds and

sapphires, topaz and tormaline, set in weaving patterns

of natural luminescence. It was overpoweringly beau-

tiful, awesome, terrifying.

Everyone fell and held tightly to the orange logs

and gray lashings as the raft began to rock, caught

in the turbulence spawned by that titanic battle. Born

knew nothing of swimming and tried to conceive of

breathing water. He decided he would rather be eaten.

Hours later, it seemed, the rocking finally subsided.

When Born was able to raise his head, the first thing

he saw was Ruumahum and Geeliwan standing side

by side at the rear of the raft. The furcots were star-

ing at the water behind them. Born struggled to his

knees. There was nothing behind them now but silence

silence and the far-off shining shapes of distorted

fungi and lichens lit by their own cold, internal light.

And distantly, a soft bubbling sound, which A child

might have made by blowing into water. Of the silver-

slith and the hell-born that had come to meet it,

there was no sign.

Logan sat up, emotionally and physically exhausted.

She wiped the hair out of her eyes and tried to get

140

her heartbeat under control, with little success. Bom

watched her for a moment, found his paddle where

he had shoved it between two logs, and then resumed

paddling.

“Which way, Jancohoma?” he asked. There was no

reply. “Jancohoma, which way?” he repeated, more

loudly.

Cohoma pulled out the compass, found his hand

was shaking too badly to take a reading. He grabbed

his right wrist with his left hand and stared at the

luminous face. “Better . . . better turn us a little to

the right here, Bom. A little more . . . more . . .

Losting, don’t you paddle yet. There, now paddle to-

gether.”

They forced themselves not to think of what they

might be paddling over, of what a touch of the paddle

might stir to wakefulness. They were almost too tired

to care.

Logan leaned back, lay down on the smelly logs and

stared up at a tiny universe formed by glowing mush-

roomlike things growing upside down from the bottom

of a major branch high above. “You wouldn’t think

hell could be so beautiful.” Her expression twisted, and

she suddenly looked over her shoulder at Cohoma. He

sat behind her, his head between his arms, and he

was shaking. “Jan, if we meet another raft, let’s ask

its pilot directions, even if he’s got a three-headed dog

with him.”

“I don’t like dogs,” Cohoma replied flatly. From his

tone, one might almost believe he took the suggestion

seriously.

There was no sunrise to bring peace to the tiny

knot of humans and furcots who rode the orange speck

between wooden towers, beneath a black sky speckled

with pseudostars. On what should have been the

morning of the following day they were attacked

twice in the space of fifteen minutes. They saw noth-

ing till they were set upon. Fortunately, neither of the

creatures was bigger than a man. They encountered

nothing which approached the size of the armored

colossus which had attacked the silverslith.

The first assault came from the air, in the form of

a four-winged flier equipped with a long mouth full

141

of needlelike teeth. It dove silently at them from be-

tween the soaring roots of a great tree. Enormous

goggling eyes gave Losting time to sound a warning.

Its first dive missed completely and it hooked around,

wheezing like an old man. Both hunters were readying

their smuflers for the second swoop. They never had

a chance to use them.

Rearing up on hind legs, Ruumahum brought pow-

erful forepaws together. They closed on one wing, and

the flier screeched, crumpling to the raft. The long

jaws snapped frantically till Geeliwan shattered its skull

with a single swipe of a clawed paw.

No sooner had the carcass been disposed of than

something that resembled a pineapple with sixteen long

thin legs tried to crawl onto the deck. Axes rose and

fell on articulated limbs until the crippled carnivore

slipped back into the slime.

“Internal lights can attract others of the same spe-

cies for purposes of mating,” Logan mused, “as with

certain deep-sea fish on Terra and Repler. They can

also draw predators. Born, Losting, put out your

torches.”

The hunters looked doubtful. A man caught at night

in the hylaea without light had no chance to see his

enemy, but Logan and Cohoma managed to persuade

them to try it. Reluctantly they removed the protective

globes and dipped the torches in the water, but not

before two fresh ones were readied just in case.

They were not used. With the torches out, their

eyes adjusted to the lesser light emanating from the

glowing life around them. There was still enough to

make out their course between the tree boles which

supported the world above. And they were not at-

tacked again.

They had been traveling on the raft for several hours

when Born discovered he was thirsty. He dropped to

his knees and bent his head to the murky water.

“Wait, Bom!” Logan yelled. “It might not-”

She need not have bothered. Bom’s nose wrinkled

as the noxious smell struck him. He had no advanced

degrees, no knowledge of biochemistry to draw on. His

nose was sufficient to tell him that the substance they

were gliding on was not fit to drink. He told the

others as much.

*s,.

“Hardly surprising,” Cohoma commented. He turned

his gaze upward. “The bacterial count in this swamp

must be nothing short of astronomical. When you con-

sider how many tons . . . tons of already decomposing

animal and vegetable matter fall on every square ki-

lometer of the surface every day . . . Then consider

the stifling heat down here.” He mopped his forehead.

“And the daily rainfall. You can figure this world is

built on a sea of liquefied peat and compost the

Church only knows how deep!”

“Obviously these trees, despite their enormous re-

quirements, can’t handle all the rainfall,” Logan ven-

tured thoughtfully. She leaned back on the drifting raft

and stared at the bole of the growth passing on their

right. It was not quite as big around as an interstel-

lar cargo carrier. “I’d like to know how some of these

half-ldlometer-high emergents draw water from the

surface and pump it to that height.”

“I’d hate like hell to paddle this thing past the sta-

tion before we climb again,” Cohoma suddenly

mused. “We know our direction, but we’ve no way of

estimating our daily progress.”

“Born and Losting know how to judge distance.”

Cohoma smiled. “Sure, through the treepaths. Not

on this.” He indicated the raft, then turned to face

Born. “What do you think?” he asked the hunter.

“Don’t we stand a better chance in the canopy than

down here, as long as we don’t chose the wrong

hidey-hole the next time we feel like a nap!”

“I have been watching for a good way up ever

since we left the dwelling place of the surface demon,”

he replied. “We must begin our return to the world

soon anyway. See?” He pointed ahead and downward

while Losting paddled on grimly, scanning the mam-

moth roots and buttresses for one the giants could

climb.

As Cohoma and Logan stared, Bom dug down into

the orange log with his heel. A shallow groove ap-

peared. Then he drew his leg up and brought his heel

down on the log. It disappeared, his foot vanishing up

to the, ankle in the orange punk. When he tugged it

free, a yellowish-brown suppuration oozed from the

break. The hole did not fill in.

“What was it you said about bacterial action and

decomposition here, Jan?” Logan muttered sardoni-

cally. She turned to survey the slowly passing, glowing

dreamscape. “Bom’s right; if we don’t find a place

to land soon, this raft’s going to dissolve right under

us.”

The murky, thick soup of the surface was lapping

their ankles when Losting finally located a possible

stairway leading them. upward. A wooden peninsula

was formed by the twisting bulk of a great root, which

extended horizontally into the water before disappear-

ing. Instead of shooting a hundred meters skyward in

precipitous vertical assault, the root curved gently into

the central trunk.

Some hard paddling grounded the shaky craft on

the hardwood beach. None too soon, for instead of

resisting or splintering, the front fifth of the raft col-

lapsed on contact. A quick study showed that it could

not have carried them more than a kilometer or so

further. Nearly all the logs were rotted at least half

through. More damaging was the fact that most of the

gray lashings Born had found were completely gone.

Had they remained on the raft much longer, they

would have come to an abrupt, not gradual, end, as

the lashings gave out and the logs came apart beneath

them.

Once up the easy ramp provided by the great curved

root there were knobs and protrusions which would

make climbing manageable. Even so, going up was

going to be quite a different proposition from their

rapid descent.

Cohoma voiced Logan’s sentiments as well as his

own. “We’re going to climb that?”

“All men can fly,” Bom mused, “but sadly, only in

one directiondown. I’m afraid we must. Losting and

I will go first and search out the easiest way, so that

even a child might ascend in confidence. You will

follow.” He turned to the furcots. Geeliwan yawned

noisily as he spoke. “Follow the friends closely. Do

not let them fall,” he ordered.

“Understand,” Ruumahum snorted. “Follow close.

Will care for.” The massive skull swung around for

a last thoughtful look, white tusks gleaming in the

144

misty phosphorescence that surrounded them. “Go

now. Something comes.”

K either Logan or Cohoma had entertained thoughts

of arguing for another avenue of ascent, perhaps one

still less perpendicular, Ruumahum’s curt warning was

enough to send them hurriedly up the chosen route.

“We’ve been left alone since extinguishing our

torches,” Logan puffed. “Why would anything sud-

denly attack us now? I thought we had made ourselves

pretty inconspicuous.”

‘”Your eyes have grown used to the light here,” Bom

shouted back to her. “Look down at yourselves.”

Logan stared down at her protesting legs, and her

breath drew in sharply. She was flickering like a thou-

sand tiny lasers. Legs, feet, torsoall glittered crimson

and yellow with light of their own. Life of their own.

She held her hands out in front of her and even as she

watched, the photonic effluence spread to her arms.

Then she could feel a faint, feathery tickling spread

across her face, and she brushed frantically at eyes,

nostrils, and mouth.

She fought down the panic when the feathery touch

remained no more than that. Born was shining now,

too, and Losting. She saw Jan staring at her, his elec-

trified face a mirror of her own. Behind them, Ruuma-

hum and Geeliwan were rippling streaks of light.

A spine-quaking moan reverberated in the distance

behind them. They redoubled their efforts.

Actually the climb was not that difficult from a tech-

nical standpoint, merely nerve-wracking and arduous.

It seemed to Logan that they had been climbing for

days instead of hours.

Once it grew darker for long moments as the lumi-

nescent fungi and lichen and mosses grew fewer and

fewer. Another dozen meters and the first light from

above reached them, feeble, tenuous probing of a far

distant sun. Their acquired illumination left them at

the same time. Logan slowed long enough to examine

her glistening palms. The infinitesimal lights shifted

and flowed, then began fading in a cloud from the

skin. Tiny, incredibly tiny fliers, living light specks.

That single soul-freezing moan had now faded be-

hind them, but it was no wonder they had suddenly

145

become quarry for a while. For the billion glowmites

that had slowly gathered to them must have turned

the moving forms of man and furcot into fiery silhou-

ettes in the darkness, flickering, brilliant beacons beck-

oning to photosensitive predators. Another symbiotic

marriage, she mused. This world offered hundreds

and hundreds of such, in places unexpected and

unique.

They rose into thicker and thicker growth, not fungi

now, but the stygian precursors of real plants. The first

pale shadows formed by sunlight were like answers to

prayers.

First they climbed the air-roots that dangled from

the larger parasitic trees and vines, then those of the

lesser epiphytes and bushes. Eventually they emerged

into the first leavesenormous disks barely kissed with

green. Some were more than five and six meters wide,

designed to catch even the slightest hint of sun from

above.

Fungi still flourished here, but reduced to a friendly,

unthreatening sizenot the nightmare colossi of the

Seventh Level. Gigantic ferns, ivies, and unclassifi-

able bryophytes still crowded out flowering plants.

“Please, let’s stop here,” pleaded an exhausted Co-

homa, settling down on a wide vine overgrown with a

diamond-patterned ivy. “For a minute, just a minute,

please.” Logan collapsed alongside him.

Born cast a questioning glance back at Ruumahum.

The furcot was looking back along their precipitous

path, long ears cocked forward and down, listening

intently. Then he turned. “Not climber, not follow.

Danger gone.”

What seemed to Cohoma only seconds later. Born

tested a dangling root. A gratifying tug and he was

pulling himself up the helical formation. Losting fol-

lowed behind, his snumer clattering against his cape.

Cohoma looked at his partner, muttered something

else Born would not have understood, and started to

follow. Logan sighed, stood up and tried to stretch

the kink from her neck. She found it led only to strains

in other muscles. She grabbed the root and began

climbing. Ruumahum and Geeliwan chose their own

path.

146

Additional hours of hard climbing carried them

into something approaching a foggy twilight, where

one finally could see without squinting. This time it

was Logan’s turn to announce she could not move a

step farther. Bom and Losting consulted as the two

giants collapsed in a bed of rectangular leaves so thick

they looked like little boxes.

“Very well,” Bom told them, “we will stay the night

here.”

“The night?” Cohoma wondered aloud. “But when

the silverslith chased us out of that tree, it was already

night.”

“You must leam to read the light,” Bom told him.

“The sun is dying, not budding. We have traveled the

rest of that night and run the following day. There is

little enough time left for preparing a fire and shelter.”

“Wait a minute. How do you know the sun’s going

down and not rising?”

Bom waved at the surrounding forest. “One has

only to emfol.”

“Never mind,” Cohoma grunted. “I’ll take your

word for it, Bom.” His expression changed. “Are you

and Losting going to hunt, or are we going to have to

masticate that boot material you call dried meat

again?”

Bom was unpacking his axe. “No time left to hunt,

unless you would prefer fresh meat to shelter?”

“No thanks,” Logan cut in. “I’d rather be dryyou

have enough time?”

“There are many dead branches and dying leaves

here,” Bom told them. “And as low as we are in the

world, drip water will not penetrate till late at night.

Besides, this is still a region unfamiliar to us, this Sixth

Level. Some of the forest growth is familiar, but some

is not. The same is true of the sounds, and probably of

the sound-makers. Not a good time to go exploring,

the evening.”

“We will eat what we brought with us,” Losting

said. “Tomorrow we can climb to the Third Level

and hunt for fresh game, find fruit and nutmeats. For

now, be glad of what you have.”

“Look,” Cohoma explained, “don’t get the idea I

was complaining or anything.” He remembered that

147

they were here due to Bom’s recHessness and curi-

osity, not Losting’s. “The steady change in our diet

these past weeks has been kind of a shock to my in-

nards.”

“Do you think this is a feast for us?” Born re-

minded him, and he and Losting moved off to search

for any of the platterlike green disks they had passed

that showed signs of blight or disease.

Cohoma leaned back in the foliage until the two

hunters had disappeared into the green wall. Then he

rolled over and watched Logan, who was busy with

the compass. ‘”Still on course?”

She shrugged. “As near as I can tell, Jan. You

know, what you said before is true. We have to hit the

station dead on. We’ve got three chances to miss it

by going under it, too far right, or too far left.”

He picked at the leaf they were sitting on. “I wish

we hadn’t had to make that surface detour, damnit.”

“Could hardly be helped. What’s the ma tter, Jan,

didn’t you find it interesting?”

“Interesting?” He let out a sinister chuckle. “It’s one

thing to study alien aberrations from the skimmer in

back of a laser cannon. Being eaten alive by an entry

in the catalog is the kind of experience I can do

without.”

“We’re going to have a problem soon, you know.”

“Oh, you’re full of surprises, Kimi, you are.”

“Seriously. If we’re not going to risk missing the

station, we’re going to have to convince our friends of

the need of traveling near the treetops. With their sense

of distance thrown off by our little raft ride, the

sooner we move up in the world, the better.”

“The station’s built only a little ways into the can-

opy, true.”

“And Bom and his people,” she continued, “are

deathly afraid of the sky. Not as much as they are of

the surface, though.” She looked thoughtful. “With that

successfully survived now, maybe he’ll be a little less

reluctant to move upward. Remember, he doesn’t

know the station is located at the top of the First

Level. He may have come to half believe we do come

from a world other than this one. I think that’s more

likely to find place in his imagination than the possi-

148

bility we might chose to live here in his Upper Hell.”

Cohoma shook his head. “I still wish I understood

what this emfol business is all about. It would seem to

be some kind of adaptive worship of the undergrowth.”

Logan nodded. “Is it surprising they’d look under-

foot for succor and supernatural aid? The bottom of

their world is hell, and so is the upper. That leaves

them neatly sandwiched in between, with no way out.

Naturally their development would proceed along re-

stricted, unorthodox lines. It’s too bad, in a way. Born,

the chiefs Sand and Joyla, and several others have a

kind of nobility about them.”

Cohoma snorted, rolled over. “The biggest mistake

an objective observer on a world like this can make is

to romanticize the primitive. And in the case of these

people, even that’s not valid. They’re not true primi-

tives, only regressed survivors of people like our-

selves.”

“Tell me, Jan,” she murmured, “is it really regres-

sion, or is it progression along an alien path?”

“Huh? What’s that you said?”

“Nothing … nothing. I’m tired, that’s all.”

The meal of tough dried fruit and tougher meat was

long concluded when the sleepless Logan finally edged

over to where Bom was sitting. The hunter was rest-

ing close to the fire, his back pushed up against the

bulk of the snoring Ruumahum. Losting was already

asleep at the far end of the large, crude lean-to.

Wrapped awkwardly in his brown cloak, her partner

dozed fitfully.

There was one important question she wanted to re-

solve now. “Tell me, Bom, do you and your people

believe in a god?”

149

“A god or gods?” he replied interestedly, at least

not offended by the question.

“No, a single god. One all-powerful, all-seeing intel-

ligence that directs the affairs of the universe, that ac-

counts for and plans everything.”

“That implies the absence of free will,” Bom re-

sponded, surprising her as he sometimes did with a

very unprimitive reply.

“Some accept that, too,” she admitted.

“I accept nothing of it, nor do any I know,” he told

her. “There is far too much in this world for any one

being to keep account of it all. And you say there are

other worlds as complex as this, too?” He smiled. “No,

we do not believe such.”

At least she could go to Hansen with that much,

now. It was too bad. Belief in the existence of a single

god would imply a fixed set of ethical and moral pre-

cepts on which to base certain proposals and regula-

tions. Spiritual anarchy made dealings with primitive

people more difficult. One couldn’t call on a higher au-

thority to serve as a binding agency. Well, that was a

problem for Hansen and whatever xenosociologists

the company chose to send in to deal with Bom’s

people. She started to turn away, then hesitated. K she

could at least-plant that seed in Bom’s mind …

“Born, has it occurred to you that we’ve had incred-

ible luck on this journey?”

“I do not call sleeping in a silverslith’s tree good

luck.”

“But we escaped it, Bom. And there’ve been any

one of a dozen . . . no, several dozen times we could

all have been killed. Yet we haven’t even suffered a

minor injury, beyond the usual nicks and scrapes.”

That caused him to think a minute, as she had in-

tended. Finally he murmured, “I am a great hunter.

Losting is a good hunter, and Ruumahum and Geeli-

wan are wise and experienced. Why should we not

have been as successful as we have?”

“You don’t think it strange, despite the fact that five

days’ journey is the longest any of your people have

ever traveled from the Home before and returned?”

“We have not yet reached our destination, or re-

turned,” he countered quietly.

150

“That’s so,” she admitted, edging back toward her

own sleeping place. “So you don’t think this implies

the intervention of a guiding, watchful presence, like

a god? One who always knows what’s good for you

and watches over you?”

Born looked solemn. “It did not watch over us

when the Akadi came, but I will think on it.” And he

turned away from her.

She had planted the seed. Satisfied with that and

with what Hansen would have to say about it, she

rolled up in her cloak and closed her eyes. Not that

there were any missionaries at the station who would

thank her. The station was hardly a Church-blessed

enterprise. The steady drip of rain trickling down to

this level through a million leaves and petals and stems

formed a lulling rhythm on the lean-to roof, allowing

her finally to fall asleep.

“We’ve got to go up to the top of the First Level,

Born,” Logan insisted the next day.

Born shook his head. “Too dangerous to travel so

much in the sky.”

“No, no,” she went on in exasperation. “We don’t

have to stick our heads out into open air. We can

stay a good twenty-five meters,” and she translated

that into percentage of level for him, “below the top-

most leaves. No sky-demon is going to dive through

that much brush to get at you.”

“The First Level has dangers of its own,” Born

countered defensively. “They are smaller than those

of the Home level, but faster, harder to find and kill

before they strike.”

“Look, Born,” Cohoma tried to explain, “we could

miss the station completely if we travel below that

point. It’s constructedlike our skimmerout of ma-

terials set down into the forest top, but not far into

it. If we miss it and have to try and backtrack, we

could get so confused as to direction that we’d never

be able to find it. We could wander around in this

jungle for years.” For emphasis, he grabbed the com-

pass, showed it again to Bo and Losting as though

they could comprehend its principle. “See this direc-

tion finder of ours? It works best the first time you

151

hunt with it for a place. It grows less useful with each

successive failure.”

Eventually Born gave in, as Logan suspected he

would. Their iconoclastic hunter had only two choices

take then- advice now, or abort the journey. After

all they had been through, she did not think he

would suggest the latter.

So they continued upward. Gradually this time, not

in a muscle-killing vertical climb, but on a slant. In

this manner they moved forward as well as higher,

through the Fifth Level, the Fourth, and Third. She

could sense their reluctance to leave those comforting,

familiar surroundings for the danger and uncertainty

of the upper canopy. Both she and Cohoma had grown

so hylaea-wise by now, however, that neither hunter

attempted to fool them into believing they had reached

a higher level.

Up they mounted, through the Second Level, where

the sunlight was brilliant yellow-green, where it struck

most vegetation directly and not with the aid of mir-

ror vines. Where the day was bright enough to resemble

the floor of a north temperate evergreen forest on

Moth or Terra. Logan and Cohoma expanded, while

Born and Losting grew steadily more cautious.

Then they were in the First Level itself, climbing

amid a profusion of riotously colored flowers, etched

and engraved and painted by a nature delirious with

her own beauty. Logan knew that any of the botanists

restricted to the station and to studying specimens

recovered by the skimmer teams would give an arm to

be here with them now. Company policy forbade it,

given the inimical nature of this world. Botanists were

expensive.

All the basic shadings and hues merged together

with more exotic coloration. Logan passed a maroon

bloom half a meter across, its pigment so intense it

was nearly purple in places. The petals were striped

with aquamarine blue, and it rested on a bed of

metallic gold leaves.

Nor was drunken variation limited only to color.

Or’e blossom boasted petals which grew in interlock-

ing, multiple spirals of pink and turquoise and almond.

Cohoma promptly dubbed it the clown plant. There

152

were flowers that grew like a phalanx of pikes, green

flowers springing from green stems, and green branches

that sprouted green grapes. There were flowers inside

flowers, flowers the color of smoky quartz, flowers with

transparent petals that tasted of caramel.

And these were matched in glitter and evolutionary

exhuberance by a swarming multitude of nonvegetable

life, which crawled, hopped, glided, buzzed, and

swung about like animated dreams before the spell-

bound gaze of the two skimmer pilots. Born was

rightthey were smaller and they moved faster, some

darting across their pathway too rapidly to be seen

as other then a blur.

Hunters and gatherers here would have to work

four times as hard to gather the same amount of

food. There was greater natural competition here and,

according to the hunters, greater danger as well. Which

ex plained why the survivors of the trapped colony ship

had chosen to forego this aerial paradise for the less

competitive regions of the Third and Fourth Levels.

Having observed the thunderous nightly storms from

the comparative safety of the station, Logan assumed

the protection the depths offered from violent weather

was another factor in the decision to descend.

The noise might have been still another factor. It

was deafening here. Much of it seemed to emanate

from huge colonies of little six-legged creatures about

the size of a man’s thigh. About half-a-meter long, they

were slimly built and moved rapidly through the thin-

ner branches with six-clawed legs. Hard-shelled limbs

joined to a furry cylindrical body, one end of which

tapered into a long, whiplike tail, the other ending in

a snout like an aardvark’s. The familiar triple oculars

were set back of this, and behind them rose a single,

flexible ridge of flesh, which appeared to be a sound

sensor.

They were the mockingbirds of this world, the hex-

apodal kookaburras, uttering everything from a high-

pitched whistle to a tenor cackle. Tribes of them ac-

companied the party as it made its way through the

vinepaths, offering unintelligible insults and sugges-

tions. Occasionally one of the furcots would snarl men-

acingly at them and they would scatter, only to reap-

153

pear when communal courage grew strong enough,

to berate and admonish once again. Only boredom

drove them off.

Yet another reason for living lower down offered it-

self. Even here, many dozens of meters below the

crowns of the trees, the branches and cubbies were

thinner, less roadlike. Vines and lianas and creepers

thinned in proportion. More often than they liked,

Logan and Cohoma found themselves using their arms

instead of their legs to move from one place to the

next. When Bom asked if they were tiring and wished

to drop to more easily negotiable paths, both gritted

their teeth, wiped the sweat clear from eyes and

forehead, and shook their heads. Better to expend all

one’s reserves here than risk passing below the sta-

tion.

They continued on that way, now and then dipping

downward when the forest top thinned too much for

Bern’s comfort, rising again where the hylaea bulged

into the sky.

It rained early that night. For the first time since

their skimmer had crashed, both giants were subjected

to a thorough drenching before the two hunters could

erect suitable shelter. Without hundreds of meters of

intervening foliage to protect them, they caught the

full force of the nightly downpour. The volume and

fury they had anticipated from having observed similar

storms from inside the station. It was the noise that

was surprisingthe station was effectively sound-

proofed against it. They had descended a good thirty

meters more in hopes of securing a little protection.

Even here the forest shook and rattled. Real, steady

wind up here, not the lost, dallying zephyr they had

encountered at the Home’s level.

There was no soundproofing to shut out the lightning

and thunder, which rattled their brains in counterpoint

to the flogging rain. Logan sneezed, reflected miserably

that the first colonists here could have perished from

pneumonia had they not chosen to live at more shel-

tered depths. It was only a momentary chillthe

humidity and constant warmth made it hard to catch

the serious cold she feared. But when the sun rose

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steamily bright the following morning, both pilots re-

mained soaked to the skin.

Under the concerned directions of Bornand Lost-

ing’s more taciturn commentsthey underwent a re-

education in the following days. This world nearer

the sky was as deadly as Born had indicated; only

here the methodology of murder was matched in dead-

liness by the subtlety of execution. Without the ad-

vice and protection of Born, Losting, and the furcots,

both giants would have been dead within a day.

The danger which remained sharpest in Logan’s

mind was a brilliant yellow fruit. Hourglass-shaped

and about the size of a pear, its blossoms exuded a fra-

grance redolent of spring honeysuckle. The epiphytic

bush was top-heavy with this fruit. Born pointed out

how tokkers and other fruit-eaters assiduously avoided

it.

“Bitter taste?” Cohoma asked.

Bom shook his head. “No, the taste is wondrous,

and the pulp nourishing and rejuvenating to a tired

wanderer. The danger is in separating the fruit from

the seeds within.”

“That’s a problem with most fruit,” the pilot ob-

served.

“It is a particular problem with the greeter fruit,”

Bom told him, as he reached up and casually plucked

one free. After staring silently at the plant for a long

minute, Logan notedemfoling again. “No animal of

the world has been able to solve the problem,” the

hunter continued, turning the attractive, harmless-

looking fnut over and over in his hand. “Only the peo-

ple.”

He hunted around until he found a long, thin, dead

branch growing from a nearby bush. Breaking it off

cleanly, he sharpened one end with his knife. Then

he slid the point into the fruit, taking care not to

pierce the center. Laying the impaled fruit on a branch,

he used the knife to make a multiple incision on the

side away from the stick. Then he lifted the branch

high overhead and began tapping the incised area

firmly against the protruding knob of a small cubble.

On the sixth tap there was a bang of such unex-

pected volume that Logan and Cohoma ducked. There

155

was a violent snarl from their left. Ruumahum stuck his

head out from a clump of wire bushes. Seeing that

no one was injured, he uttered a snort of derision at

such foolish goings-on and vanished once more.

Bom drew the stick downward, showed it to the

giants. The whole left side of the fruit, where the

incisions had been made, bad been blown away as

though there had been a small bomb within it, which

was exactly the case.

“This is how the greeter spreads its seed,” Bom

explained needlessly. Peeling off sections of the re-

maining undamaged fruit, he extended them to Co-

homa and Logan. Logan slipped it hesitantly between

her lips, the recent demonstration having dampened

her appetite somewhat. As soon as her taste buds

made contact with it, she sucked in the whole piece and

rolled it around in her mouth, squeezing the juices

free. It was exquisite, sugary, yet tart, like grenadine

and lemon.

“What finally happens to the seeds?” she asked,

when the last drop was drained, the final scrap of

pulp swallowed.

By way of reply Bom directed them upward and

to the left of the parasitic bush. Bom studied the

trunk of the tree nearby, finally pointed. The pilots

stared close. Arranged in a tiny, neat spray pattern on

the trunk were a dozen small holes, penetrating the.

solid wood for several centimeters. At the bottom of

each hole they could barely make out a tiny, dark seed.

Six spines protruded from each. Each seed was per-

haps a half-centimeter in diameter, including spines.

With his knife, Bom dug one of them out. Logan

reached to touch it, and Bom had to block her hand-

had she learned nothing of the world these past many

seven-days? She and Cohoma studied the minute seed

with interest. Closer inspection revealed that the edges

of the six spines were razor-sharp and lined with mi-

croscopic, backward-facing barbs.

“I see,” Cohoma murmured. “The seeds germinate in

the trees. But how do they get spread? Does the fruit

dry up to the point where internal pressure sends them

flying?”

“Can’t, be, Jan,” Logan objected. “If the fruit dries

156

out, where’s the source of this kind of pressure? No,

it has to be-”

Born shook his head. “The greeter does not root in

a plant. When an animal which is old or ill has lost

its judgment, hunger may drive it to eat a greeter.” He

resumed the march.

Logan paused long enough for another glance at the

little spray pattern where the seeds had bored holes

in the thick hardwood, then followed the hunter.

“An animal tries to eat one of the fruits, bites

through the pulp until it punctures the inner sac and

gets the whole barrage right in its face,” Cohoma

theorized grimly. “H it’s lucky the seeds kill it out-

right. Otherwise it probably bleeds to death. Mean-

while the corpse serves as a ready-made reservoir

of nutrients.”

“Jan, the plants have struck an even balance on

this world. No, I take that back. They have the upper

edge. The animals are outnumbered, outsized, and

outgunned. I wondered how Bern’s ancestors could

have lost so much technology so fast. I don’t wonder

any more. How can you fight a forest?”

The discovery came days later, announced in the

usual phlegmatic fashion of the furcots. “Panta,”

Ruumahum called back to them. Both furcots were

sitting at the end of a long, relatively clear cubble.

Bern’s spirits rose. “A Panta is a large open space,

a depression in the world. Of course,” he added

hurriedly, seeing the look on the giants’ faces, “it might

be a natural Panta. There are half a dozen within

two days’ walk of the Home.” He turned back to

Ruumahum.

“How big?”

“Big,” the furcot replied softly. “And in the middle,

thing of axe metal like sky-boat.” Triple eyes stared

suddenly at Logan.

Without knowing why, she looked away, concen-

trating instead on Born. “The station! It’s got to be!”

“It is done, then. Quickly.” He turned to jog down

the cubble.

This time it was Logan who put out the restrain-

ing hand. “Not too quickly, Born. There are mecha-

nismslike our compasswhich protect the station

from marauding forest-dwellers and sky-demons. No

creature of the hylaea world can reach it.”

“Silverslith?” asked Losting with uncertainty.

“No, Losting, not even a silverslith.”

The hunter persisted. “Has your station-Home ever

been attacked by a silverslith?”

Logan had to admit it had not, but she was ada-

mant in insisting that even that gigantic animal could

not stand up to a gimbaled laser or explosive shell.

Both hunters were forced to confess they had no idea

what these magical weapons were. Cohoma assured

them with a barely supressed smile that they were more

toxic than jacari thorns.

“Then the demons of your own worlds must be

far, far greater than even those of Hell,” Born sur-

mised, “for you to need such weapons.”

“They are,” she admitted, without bothering to ex-

plain that the demons in question were two-legged.

Besides, now that they were within hailing distance

of the station, there was an experiment she had been

waiting all this time to try. She looked straight at

Ruumahum. “All right,” she said in a commanding

tone, “take us to the Panta, Ruumahum.”

The furcot eyed her strangely for a moment, then

tamed and trotted into the greenery ahead. Born said

nothing. Perhaps in his mind the event held no sig-

nificance. But it indicated to Logan and Cohoma that

the furcots would respond to the commands of hu-

mans other than those of Bom’s tribe. That could be

most important in smoothing certain things over.

A few more lianas, some two-meter-tall leaves,

and a couple of branches eased asideand they were

standing on the fringe of what looked like a vast

green circle paved with green, beige, and brown.

The floor of the Panta was composed of the tops

of hundreds, thousands of trees, cubbies, and epiphytes

which had been sheared off to provide the station

with a protective “moat” of open space devoid of

concealment. In the center of the green-walled amphi-

theater the station itself rose on the cut-off crowns of

three Pillar trees grown close together. They supported

the whole weight of the station. The structure itself

consisted of a single vast metal building with a sloping,

158

domed top. A large blister of transparent acrylics

emerged from the apex. A wide porch, protected by

a waist-high mesh fence, encircled the entire structure.

At each point of the compass, a covered catwalk ex-

tended from the central edifice, terminating in a bubble

of duralloy and plastic. The narrow, blunt end of a

laser cannon projected from each of these turrets.

The independently mounted cannons could swivel

so that three could be brought to bear on any one

point as near as twenty meters to the station. Any im-

partial observer surveying this awesome array of fire-

power might have calculated that the modest explor-

atory outpost was expecting an invasion in force from

the surrounding forest. Actually, they were also there

to protect against assaults from other than local pred-

ators.

The “sky-demons” the founders of the station were

really worried about would attack at high speed,

backed by intelligence, and armed with writs, ordain-

ments, ordinances, and regulations. These last-named

were more to be feared than the teeth of roving

carnivores.

Halfway between the bottom of the station and the

top of the cut-off forest, a series of interlocking struts

laced with thick cable mesh surrounded each Pillar-

tree trunk. A steady electric current Bowed through

those cables, sufficient to discourage any curious meat-

eater, which might somehow have evaded starlit eyes

and electronic surveillance systems.

That explained. Born inquired as to the purpose of

the flat disk of metal set off to their right. A fifth

catwalk, slightly larger than the others, extended

from it to the station. A smaller-topped tree was suf-

ficient to support this lesser weight.

Born did not recognize the oblong shape resting on

the platform as a larger cousin of the giants’ skim-

mer. The shuttlecraft differed sufficiently in shape to

remain unidentifiable to both hunters, as did the web

of grids and antennae which projected from the sta-

tion’s sides and from the observation dome at its top.

Behind the gimbaled gun placements and metal

catwalks, behind the encircling double-meshed fence

and walkway, lay living quarters, laboratories, admin-

159

istrative offices, quartermaster’s stockrooms, a com-

munications center that would be the envy of any

operator on a planet with a million-plus population,

skimmer hangar and service bays, solar energy con-

centrator and power plant, plus a host of peripheral

chambers, alcoves, and rooms. Even a casual traveler,

with minimal outplanet experience, instantly would

have recognized the extraordinary expense that had

gone into the construction of this first station.

“Here goes,” said Logan.

In theory everything had been thoroughly pretested,

and nothing in the way of automatic weaponry would

vaporize her before a thorough check on body and type

was run. In theory. She had never had the chance

to verify it personally. She had it now.

There was a half-cut cubble leading in the general

direction of the station. She stepped out of the green

wall and into the open. Two stubby nozzles immedi-

ately swung around to cover her. She hoped whoever

was on shift at the computer board was not sleepy,

doped up, or just itchy for a little target practice.

Nothing happened for long moments. She waved, made

flapping motions. Cohoma waited expectantly, while

Born and Losting kept wary eyes on the open sky and

fingered their snufflers.

Other thoughts fought for attention in Bom’s mind.

The half-dream of the giants station-Home was real.

It existed, sat solidly before him. Whether it held all

the wonders promised remained to be seen. For now,

while exposed to all manner of sky-demons, they would

put their trust in the efficacy of jacari poison and

not promises.

Figures could be seen moving rapidly and care-

fully toward them. As they neared, Logan looked down

at her feet, then up, and saw that a pathdoubtlessly

one of manyhad been traced out across the forest

top. She had been briefed about the existence of such

pathways but had not committed them to memory,

since she never expected to have to use one.

The figures carried handguns and were clad in the

same kind of gray jumpsuits Born had first seen on

Cohoma and Logan. As they drew nearer their eyes

grew wide. There were three of them. The one in the

160

lead pulled up before Logan, looked her slowly up

and down. His expression was half hysteria, half as-

tonishment.

“Kimi Logan! I’ll be damned!” He shook his head

slowly. “We lost all contact with your skimmer weeks

ago. Sent out scouts and didn’t find a thing. You missed

a nice burial ceremony.”

“Sorry, Sal.”

“Where the hell did you come from?”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself, Sal.” She

tamed and called back into the brush. “All clear,

come on out, everybody.”

Cohoma stepped clear of the treetops. At the ap-

pearance of Born and Losting, the man with the gray

sideburns and cleft chin temporarily ran out of ex-

pletives. “I’ll be double-damned,” he muttered finally.

After a glance from Logan he bolstered the hand-

gun. His gaze went back to the two hunters. Born

fought down the urge to fidget nervously under the

evaluating stare. Besides, he was occupied studying

the three new giants. The biggest one, the one Kimi-

logan called Sal, was no different from Cohoma,

though slightly taller and heavier. The other two giants

were Logan’s size, though only one was female.

“Pygmies, no less!” He eyed Logan inquisitively.

“Natives.” She smiled back at him. “Too many

similarities for parallel evolution. We can’t be posi-

tive, of course, until they’ve been given a thorough

run-through in Medical, but except for a few minor dif-

ferences I’ll bet they test out as human as you or I.

Jan and I figure they’re the remnants of a century’s-

lost colony ship. Maybe even pre-Commonwealth.

Incidentally, they speak excellent, if sibilant, Ter-

ranglo.”

Sal continued to stare in wonderment at Born and

Losting. “Sounds right. There were enough of those

first colonizers who ended up in the wrong place. Might

not have met the thranx for another millennium if

it hadn’t been for a lost ship.” He grunted. “Minor

differences . . . you mean those toes and their size?”

Logan nodded. “That and their acquired protective

coloration. Look, Jaa and I have been going through

that theoretical hell you just mentioned. I’ve spent

161

weeks programming the kitchen in my head to turn

out everything from steak to afterdinner mints. And I

haven’t had a real bath since we left.”

“And some decent clothes,” Cohoma added fer-

vently. “Oh Lord, for clean underwear!”

“Hansen will be glad to see you both back,” Sal

smiled. “I wish I could see the old man’s expression

when you walk in with your two friends, though. Price-

less!”

“You ought to see him when we tell him some of

the discoveries we’ve made. You ought to get out and

walk around, Sal. It’s the only way to learn about a

world.”

“Yeah? If you don’t mind, I’ll leave the hiking

and grubbing to you two enthusiasts.” Cohoma took a

playful swing at him. “Tell me about ’em?”

“Sorry, Sal.” Cohoma grinned. “Province of the dis-

coverers, you know.”

“Oh Churchfire, Jan, I wouldn’t try to mad any of

your bonus money. How could I prove any of it,

anyway? But it’s good to hear you had a profitable

little walk. The old man’s been under some heavy

pressure from the home office, story has it, ever since

Tsing-ahn killed himself.”

Cohoma and Logan weren’t too tired to be shocked.

“Popi killed himself?” Logan whispered, using the

biochemist’s nickname.

“That’s the chat they’re handing out. Nearchose

you know, the security whale who was a friend of the

profswas the last one to see him alive. Report from

Nick was that the guy was depressed about some-

thing, but hardly suicidal. Went vibrato and blew up

everything in his lab. ‘Course, when a guy gets as

dependent on the silly stuff as Tsing-ahn was, you can’t

tell what he’s liable to do. Company assumes a cal-

culated risk hiring guys like that. This time it didn’t

pay out.”

“Too bad, I liked the little joe,” Cohoma muttered.

“Everybody did.”

An awkward silence followed, each absorbed in his

own thoughts and fully aware that he or she was on

this world because of some serious weakness of their

ownmoney, drugs, or something best not mentioned.

162

Whenever the subject surfaced, it was quickly

dropped. Discussion of such things was avoided by

mutual consent.

They walked in silence halfway to the station when

the something that seemed to be missing finally sur-

faced in Logan’s mind. She looked behind them, then

over at Bom. “Where are Ruumahum and Geeliwan?”

“Both said they would feel uncomfortable away

from the forest,” Bom replied truthfully. “They do not

like open space. You didn’t say you wanted them to

come with us.”

“Well, it’s not important.” She stared longingly back

toward the emerald, flower-speckled rampart. To

parade the pair of omnivorous hexapods like a couple

of lap dogs before the excitable Hansen was a pleasure

she had been looking forward to. But she was halfway

to that bath and steak, and she was not going back

into the jungle now. That could wait.

Omnivorousshe had assumed the furcots were

omnivorous. Come to think of it, she had never seen

either of them eat anything. Oh well, as Born said,

they felt uncomfortable in certain situations. Probably

they liked to eat in private as well as make love

away from prying eyes. Still, it seemed odd she had

never seen either of them take a bite out of anything.

Further speculation was interrupted by a cry from

Bom. He spotted the demon first. “Losting! ‘Ware

zenith!” Again she felt that shock at words which

didn’t seem to fit Bom’s way of life.

Losting looked overhead, reaching simultaneously

for his snuffler. Then she saw the tiny brown spot cir-

cling far above. There were many such spots, always

clear of the station. Apparently, Bom had somehow

detected belligerent motion in this one. He was right.

The spot became a recognizable shape, one she had

hoped never to see at close range again. Broad wings,

clawed feet, long jaw armed with razor-sharp teeth.

She could not entirely repress a faint smile of

superiority as she noticed them hurriedly going for

their primitive airguns. “Don’t worry, Bom, Losting.

Relax and watch.” Bom eyed her questioningly, but

managed to force down his natural inclination to

load and set.

Logan studied the diving demon. It drew nearer in

a tightening spiral, mouth agape.

She could not see which of the weapons on the

perimeter had turned to cover that particular section

of sky until the red beam lanced out and up from one

of the gimbaled turrets. The sky-demon disintegrated

in a brief flare of carbonized flesh and powdered bone.

Bom and Losting stared quietly at the sky where

the demon had been plummeting toward them only

seconds before. Equally silent, Logan watched them.

So did Cohoma and Sal and the other two.

“It’s something like a very advanced kind of snuf-

fler, Bom,” she explained finally. “How to make

you see … Well, it uses a kind of light to kill with.”

Bom turned and pointed to the spherical turret

which housed the cannon. “In there?”

“That’s right,” said Cohoma. “There are others

placed around the station. With them and the electrical

shielding on the supporting trunks, we’re quite safe

here.”

“Remember, Bom,” Logan told him excitedly, as

they resumed the walk to the station, “how your

people arrayed themselves to meet the Akadi? A

system of weapons like that one,” and she indicated

the motionless turret, “could be set up around your

village to protect the Home. You’d never have to

worry about the Akadi or silversliths or anything else

again.”

“Have to fire very fast, and move it quickly at

such close distance,” Losting commented.

“Oh, that’s no problem,” a self-assured Cohoma ex-

plained. “Once you’ve cleared a space around the

Home like we have here and set up a decent detector

system, a predator couldn’t even get close without

being spotted.”

“Clear space?”

“Yes, you know, cut away the close-in vegetation

like I originally proposed to stop the Akadi. Just leave

a few cubbies or vines to serve as a kind of draw-

bridge. It would be easy. We can give you tools similar

to these light weapons, which would make the cutting

a simple job. You could obtain them for the asking,

and for helping us find our way around your world

164

and locate certain substances, you’d earn the goodwill

credits in no time.”

“Cut away,” Bom murmured. “Clear space.”

“Yes, Bom.” Logan looked puzzled. “Is something

the matter? Can’t you just emfol first and then?”

“Nothing’s the matter.” The hunter’s expression

brightened. “So many wonders all at once. I’m a little

overwhelmed. I would like very much to learn more

about such things as light weapons and defensive sys-

tems and what we must do to get them.”

“The details of the last part aren’t for us to decide,

Bom. We’re only minor employees of a great con-

cern, of the people who established this station here.

A man named Hansen will decide those particulars.

You’ll meet him soon. But I don’t see any trouble work-

ing out an arrangement that will be advantageous to

both our peoples. Especially after what you’ve already

done for Jan and me.”

There was a lift waiting for them. It took them

through a gate in the underside of the charged grid and

up into the lower floor of the station. As they passed the

grid, the ever curious Bom asked again about the prin–

ciple behind it. Cohoma had a hard time making him

understand, but references to lightning seemed to sat-

isfy both hunters.

The lift pulled Bom and Losting into a world of

new wonders. First among them was the sudden, al-

most physical shock of color change. The all-pervasive

green, necked with bright colors and every shade of

brown, was abruptly replaced by a stiff, straight-

angled world of silver and gray, white and blue. The

only touch of green in this section of corridor was

provided by a row of parasitic bushes growing in a

long deep planter, which served as a divider between

sections of corridor.

Bom saw that the chaga was not well. The flowers

were big and colorful, but the leaves were not straight

and were not reaching for the sun the way they should

be. He had time for only a quick glance. There were

too many new things here to see and try to under-

stand. More giants, engaged in various inexplicable

tasks, hurrying on alien errands, filled the corridor.

165

Some were clad in garb even stranger than the gray

suits worn by Logan, Cohoma, and Sal.

A man saw them, came over to speak in a whisper

to the one called Sal. Born heard him clearly. “Hansen

wants to see the two natives immediately. He’s up in

his office.” He looked over at Logan and Cohoma.

“You two also.”

Logan groaned. “Can’t we at least get cleaned up

a little first? Andre, what we’ve been through, these

past months!”

“I know. You also know Hansen. Orders.” He

shrugged helplessly.

“Hell, let’s get it over with,” Cohoma grunted.

“This Hansen person,” Born asked as they walked

toward an interior lift, “he is chief of your tribe?”

“Not chief. Born, and not tribe,” Logan explained

with a hint of irritation, which was caused by the or-

der, not Bom’s question. “This station houses people

who are engaged in similar hunts. But it’s not the

same kind of organization as you have in the Home.

You might regard the people in this station as a hunt-

ing party, with Mr. Hansen the leader. That’s the best

I can do. I’m not sure I could explain what a corpora-

tion is if I had a month.”

“It is enough,” Born replied as they turned a corner

and started down a white, brightly decorated tunnel.

“He is the one we must ask for light guns and other

wonders for our people.”

“You understand, Born. I knew you would,” she de-

clared cheerfully. “Help us in exploring your world

and finding a few things you don’t use yourselves,

and wonders will be granted gladly in return. It’s

an old principle among my people. Among your own

ancestors.” And just a touch illegal in this one instance,

that’s all, she thought, but did not say to him.

“What sort of man is your hunting party leader?”

“That depends on where you’re coming from,”

Logan told him enigmatically. She seemed ready to

explain further, but they had reached a door, and

Sal beckoned them to be silent. He held it open for

them and then remained behind while the other four

entered.

Hansen sat behind a narrow, curved desk which he

166

managed to give the appearance of wearing, like an

enormous plastic belt. The desk was piled high with

tape spools, cassettes, reams of paper, and dozens of

separate reports bound in simulated leather binders.

The walls were given over to shelves lined with books

and tape holders. The rear of the room was filled by

a floor-to-ceiling window which offered a panorama

of the Panta and the suffocating forest beyond.

As they entered, Hansen was staring at the screen

of a tape viewer mounted on a flexible arm. “Just

a moment, please. Jan, Kimi, good to find you alive.”

He spoke without turning, his voice mellow, reassur-

ing.

His stature enhanced his middle-aged pudginess. He

was not much taller than Bom. Hair started halfway

back on a forehead that seemed to be made from

dark putty and fell to his shoulders in long waves. Save

for the thick brush mustache which clung to his up-

per lip like a hibernating insect, his hair had turned

completely gray.

He was sweating despite the air-conditioning. In-

deed, that was the first thing Bom had noticed upon

entering the stationan apparently deliberate, abnor-

mal chill. Even on cool nights in the world, it rarely

got this cold.

Neither hun ter minded the extended wait. They

were fully occupied with studying the room and its

contents. Bom did not miss, however, the respectful

silence with which the tired, impatient Logan and

Cohoma waited.

Hansen touched a switch on the side of the viewer,

then pushed it back and away on its arm. It locked

into place out of his way as he turned to eye his

visitors. His right arm rested on an arm of the chair

and he rubbed at his perspiring forehead with the

other. He looked tired, and he was. Running this

station had prematurely aged as experienced and

toughened an old hand as Hansen. If it was not

something breaking down that he could not get re-

placements for because of the risk of a supply ship

running afoul of a Church or Commonwealth warship,

it was some nonmechanical crisis. It seemed like ev-

ery time one of his people put a foot on this world

167

they were promptly stung, bitten, punctured, nibbled

at, or otherwise set upon by the local flora and

fauna.

Nor had he recovered from the loss of the life-

prolonging burl extracts, the burl itself, and Tsing-

ahn, the man who knew most about them. If only

that poor madman had not been so thorough in the

destruction of his notes and records! The news of

the biochemist’s suicide and concurrent destruction of

everything relating to what had come to be called

the immortality extract had not gone over well with

Hansen’s superiorsnot gone over well at all.

He did manage a slight grin as he examined the

two returned members of the skimmer team. The

mental lift provided by their miraculous survival had

come at a badly needed time.

“We’d given you up for sure, for sure,” he told

them. “Couldn’t believe my ears when Security re-

ported four people standing at the edge of the forest.”

A comer of his mouth twitched at the remem-

brance. “You two’ve caused me no end of trouble,

you know. Now I’ve got to re-call all the paperwork

detailing your deaths, the requests for replacements,

everything. Somebody in Budgeting’s not going to like

you two.”

“Sorry, Chief,” Logan said, smiling back.

“Now,” Hansen puffed expansively, leaning back

slightly in the chair and folding his hands over his

slight paunch, “tell me about your aboriginal acquaint-

ances, here.” ‘

“They saved our lives,” she replied, matter-of-factly,

“and I doubt they’re aborigines, sir. Near as we can

figure, they’re the descendants of the populace of a

colony ship that lost its way and wound up here.

They’ve lost the memory of that origin, all Common-

wealth and pre-Commonwealth knowledge, and nearly

all their technology. They have developed a rudimen-

tary tribal social structure. As a result, our friends

Born and Losting are convinced that they are in truth

natives of this world.”

“And you’re pretty certain they’re not.”

“That’s right, sir,” Cohoma chipped in. “Too many

similarities, an axe made of ship alloy, other things.

Same language, although they’ve developed a dialect

all their own, family structure is”

“Yes, yes,” Hansen cut him off with a casual wave.

“Saved your lives too, did they? And brought you all

the way back through that rooted Hades out there-

how far did you say you’d come?” He cocked a quer-

ulous eye at Logan. She named a figure and the chief

of station whistled. “Just the four of you then, that

many kilometers through that?” He gestured over his

shoulder toward the window.

“Yes, sirand a couple of very domesticated ani-

mals.”

“It was a very gutsy thing for them to try, sir,”

Cohoma added. “Up until this trek none of their tribe

had been more than a couple of kilometers from their

home village.”

“All of which is most gratifyingand utterly im-

plausible. How the Churchwarden did you survive?”

“Sometimes I wonder myself,” Logan responded.

“Chief, could I sit down, please. I’m a little worn.”

Hansen shook his head dolefully. “I forget prior-

ities. Excuse me, Kimi.” He called and Sal appeared

at the door. “Salomon, bring in some chairs for every-

one.”

The chairs were brought. Born and Losting imitated,

rather hesitantly, the sitting motions of their two giant

companions.

“We pulled it off with a combination of good luck

and the skill of these two.” She indicated the hunters.

“Born and his folk know their forest world. They

live with it. in the truest sense. Their village is set

in a single tree. The adaptations on both sides exceed

anything I’ve ever heard of. Frankly,” she said cast-

ing a speculative glance at Born, “I think the tree

gets the best of the setup. Bom’s people would dis-

agree, of course.”

Bom felt no anger at her words. There was no

shame in being considered inferior to one’s Home.

Even after many seven-days in the forest, many long

hours of patient explanation, it seemed that the giants

still did not understand. From what he had overheard

in this station-Home thus far, he doubted they ever

would. The casualness with which “cutting” and mak-

169

ing “clear space” were mentioned had left him with a

lingering numbness. He returned his attention to the

graybeard.

“It seems that some kind of reward is in order.

Something beyond our deeply felt thanks, Mr. . . .

uh. Born.” He smiled in a fatherly way. “Tell me,

Born, Losting, what would you like?”

Bom looked across at his companion. The bigger

hunter squirmed uncomfortably in his chair and

mumbled, “The sooner we leave this cold, hard place

for the Home, the better I will like it.”

Bom nodded and turned back to Hansen. “I too

would like to leave. But first I would like to know

more about the light weapons and electrical vines and

such things.”

Hansen leaned forward, studied the unblinking

hunter. “An aborigine you’re not, Born. Oh, it’s just

as well. The less primitive you’ve become, the simpler

it will make negotiations. As to advanced weapons

systems, well, we’ll have to think about that a little, I

believe. You’ll get them when we’ve worked out some

mutual assistance agreements even a priest couldn’t

break in Commonwealth court.”

“They can be very helpful, sir,” Cohoma put in.

“We’ve lost so many people in the forest that”

“I’m aware of that, Jan.” Hansen dismissed the

others from his mind to concentrate fully on Bom.

“What this is called. Born, is an initial survey out-

post. It’s the first home for my people on this world.

It’s been established at great expense and with much

secrecy because there’s so much at stake here. Do

you retain knowledge of what a mine is, Bom, a

mill, a processing plant?” Bom remained blank-faced,

his expression unchanged.

“No, I can see you don’t. Let me try to explain.

There are many things we can make, like the material

for this station and the acrylic of this desk. There

are many we cannot. This world, insofar as we’ve

been able to determine, appears to be a storehouse

of such valuable things. Obtaining these substances

can makelet’s seecan make a better life for all,

my people as well as yours. Your help in developing

all this would make things much simpler for us.” He

170

took a deep breath. “In particular, there is one sub-

stance we’ve discovered which can”

“Excuse me, sir.” The interruption came from the

man named Sal, who had remained with them. “Do

you think it’s-?”

Hansen made a quieting gesture. “Our friend Bom

isn’t going to return to his tree and get on the deep

space tridee to report to the nearest Commonwealth

peaceforcer. Besides,” he continued, looking back at

Bom, “I believe in being straightforward. I want our

new friends to understand the importance of all this.

“There is a drug, Bom, which can be derived from

the heart of a certain burl.” Bom looked blank. “A

burl is a woody growth that forms on a tree to con-

tain the spread of a foreign infection or parasitic in-

festation. The burl forms around this foreign material.

When the pulp at the center of this particular burl

is removed and properly treated, a liquid is produced

which appears to have the ability of prolonging hu-

man life-span tremendously. How about you, Bom?

Wouldn’t you like to live twice as long?”

“I do not know,” Bom replied honestly. “To what

end?”

“What end indeed?” Hansen murmured. “Well!” He

rose and slapped both palms hard on the smooth desk.

“Enough philosophy for now. Would you like to see

some more of the station?”

“I’d like that very much.”

Losting merely grunted his indifference.

“You two,” Hansen said to Logan and Cohoma, “go

back to your quarters. They’ve been cleared, but I’ll

see that your personal effects are returned immedi-

ately. You’ve got twenty-four hours off-duty and blank

credit at the commissary and cafeteria. Tell Sergeant

Binder you’ve got an open key for your next three

mealsorder anything you want.”

“Thank you, sir,” they chorused together.

Hansen nodded toward the dense forest encircling

the station. “Don’t thank me till you’re out there

again, trying to figure out what’s eating your leg off

at the ankle and how to kill it. I’ll take charge of

your friends.” He came around the desk, gave Logan’s

171

shoulder a friendly squeeze. “You’ve got a full shift

to enjoy yourselves and a second to relax. After that,

if Medical checks you out okay, I expect you to req-

uisition a new skimmer and be back on the job.”

XII

As they traveled through the place of wonders Bom

noted that all the other giants deferred to the Hansen

person as one would to chief Sand or Joyla. From

this he inferred that Logan’s description of him as a

hunting team leader considerably understated his au-

thority.

Hansen showed them the living quarters inhabited

by the station’s staff, the communications equipment

up in the polyplexalloy dome, which kept the station

in contact with the swarm of skimmers that scoured

the forest world, and the receiving hangar which the

skimmers returned to to disgorge their ca rgoes of maps,

reports, and new alien material.

“What of the skimmer out there?” Bom asked,

pointing through a thick window to the shuttlecraft

platform. “Why is it so different in shape and so

much bigger?”

“That’s not a skimmer, Bom,” Hansen explained.

“That’s a shuttlecraft, for traveling from here to our

supply ships out in spacea place above your Up-

per Hell. The big supply ships which visit individual

worlds can only travel in nothingness.”

“How can one travel in nothing?”

“By making a little artificial world out of metal-

like this stationand taking food, water, and air with

it.”

The two hunters stoically partook of the marvels of

the cafeteria, where local proteins were combined

172

with colors and flavors and then altered to produce

food more familiar to the giants.

Bom’s interest perked up at this explanation. “I

understand, now. What kind of local foods do you use

to make yours?”

“Oh, whatever’s available. The instrumentation is

very versatile. We send out a scoop-equipped skim-

mer, and it brings back the requisite number of kilos

of raw materialvegetable and animal.”

“Could I see where this wonder happens?”

“Sure.”

He took them through the cafeteria to the processing

room, showed them the hopper where plants and ani-

mals gathered from the forest were reprocessed with

expensive offplanet nutrients, vitamins, and flavorings.

Bom studied the bales of shrubs and bushes. The

majority were herbaceous succulents, the woody ma-

terial removed and discarded as scrap. None of those

gathered were decayed, none were blighted or dying.

These giants did not emfolthey took what they

needed, efficiently, easily, blindly. His face remained

an enthusiastic mask, despite his thoughts.

They moved on to the recreation chamber, where

even Losting was awed by the marvels devoted to

idle amusement. Eventually, after this extended tour

calculated to impress, Hansen conducted them to the

laboratories where research on the fruits of many

skimmer trips took place.

Bom and Losting were introduced to earnest teams

of preoccupied men and women engaged in intense,

incomprehensible tasks.

“McKay!” Hansen called to a tall, thin woman

dressed in a dark lab frock, hair tied in a thick bun.

“Hello, Chief.” Her voice was low, her black eyes

piercing. She examined the two hunters. “Interesting

something local that is exactly what it appears to

be, for a change.”

“This is Bom and Losting, great hunters. Gentle-

men, Gam McKay, one of our very bestwhat was

your word, Bom?shaman, yes shaman.”

“I heard Jan and Kind made it back. With the help

of these two?”

“You’ll see the whole report as soon as they get

173

around to making it out,” Hansen declared. “Right

now I’d appreciate it if you’d show our friends what

you and Yazid got out of that conch bulb.”

She nodded and they followed her down a narrow

walkway between benches stacked high with glittering,

light-catching devices, until they reached the end of

a table. To one side lay three large crates made of

a transparent material like the station windows. These

were filled with the branches of the chaga. The bushes

from which the branches had been taken. Born noted,

had been in full bloom. Each branch was heavy with

red-bordered, white-throated flowers, now beginning to

wilt noticeably.

The woman McKay opened a small cabinet and

carefully removed a tiny clear vial. “This is the distilled

extract of about two thousand blooms.” She unscrewed

the tiny cap and offered it to Hansen. With a smile,

he declined. “Born, how about you?” She extended

the vial toward him and instructed him to sniff at the

open top. Born did so. The scent that rose from the

vial was that of the chaga, but intensified many, many

times. He reeled slightly, but his expression did not

change.

“I am familiar with it,” he told them. McKay looked

disappointed and turned to Hansen for encourage-

ment.

“Familiaris that all he can say?”

“Remember, Gam, Bom lives among such aromatic

blossoms, hunts among them daily.” The chemist con-

tinued mumbling to herself as she locked the vial back

in the cabinet.

“Why is this done?” Bom asked Hansen as they

left for the next lab.

“Properly thinned and blended with other enhanc-

ing and stabilizing chemicals, Bom, the little container

will serve as a base for a brand new fragrancewhat

we call perfume. It will be worth a great deal of . . .”

Once more he tried to explain that awkward concept.

“I still do not understand. What can such a thing

be used for?”

“Women will use it, Bom, to make themselves more

attractive, to make themselves seem more beautiful.”

“They clothe themselves in the odor of death.”

“Isn’t that putting it a little strongly, Bom?” Hansen

wondered, taken aback by the grimness of the hunter’s

comment. He was trying to Sympathize with the

hunter’s natural lack of understanding. However, his

explanation seemed to do little to improve Bom’s un-

derstanding.

Bom was trying to see, he honestly was. So was

Losting. But the further they went through this house

of strangeness, the more they saw of its purpose and

intents, the harder understanding became. For ex-

ample, there were the three crates filled with mutilated

chaga. The branches had been taken unemfoled from

the mature parent plants. Thousands more would be

similarly torn to make a little concentrated chaga smell.

For what? To heal the sick or nourish the hungry?

No, it would be done for amusementa kind of

amusement beyond the comprehension of the two

hunters.

It took Losting no longer to see these things than

Bom. When the bigger man finally realized, though,

he was less subtle in his opinions than his companion.

“This is a horrible thing you are doing!”

Hansen had already evaluated and recovered from

Bom’s outburst. Now he fielded this second admoni-

tion accordingly. “I can sympathize with your position,

but surely you can see the long-run advantages, can’t

you?” He looked from Losting to Bom. “Can’t you?”

“It is not the taking of the chaga’s blooms and

branchesit is the way of the taking and the time of

taking that are bad,” Bom replied slowly. “If you

had emfoled the chaga”

“That word Logan mentioned to me. I don’t know

what it means, Bom.”

The hunter shrugged. “It is not something which

can be explained. You can emfol or you cannot.”

“That doesn’t make it easy for us, does it?” Hansen

said, somewhat testily.

“If you steal the young of the chaga it will not

seed, and the parent growth itself will die.”

“But there must be lots of chaga in the forest, Bom,”

Hansen argued quietly, oddly” quiet. “Surely a few

will not be missed?”

“Would you miss your arms and legs?”

175

A look of comprehension spread across Hansen’s

face. “I see. It’s the plant you’re worried about, then.

I hadn’t realized you felt so strongly about such

things. We’ll certainly have to see what we can do

about this. Naturally we don’t want to pick the

blooms if the plant’s going to suffer, do we?”

“No,” Bom concurred guardedly.

“It’s a minor thing, not at all necessary,” Hansen

continued, waving off the look of astonishment that ap-

peared on a chemist’s face. “It’s a minor market we

can do without.”

He escorted them outside and toward the next and

last lab. “There’s one more thing I’d like you to see

Bom. This is where some local knowledgeyours

could really be of help to us. It concerns the kind

of burl that produces the life-prolonging extract.” They

rounded a corner. “We’ve only been able to find

two such burls so far, despite extensive searching. The

tree that produces them isn’t rare; the burls them-

selves are. My plant experts tell me the rarity is ex-

treme. Either the trees are extraordinarily healthy, or

else burling’s not their usual way of combating in-

festations, infections. If you could find a plentiful sup-

ply of such burls. Born, I can promise you we’d

listen very strongly to your opinions on which plants

to leave alone and which to cut.” Hansen admired

his own suave professionalism and the facility with

which he wielded the scalpel of deception.

They passed between two large, quiet men and en-

tered a chamber slightly larger than the one they had

just left. Like the others they had seen, this one was

filled with the inexplicable devices of the giants.

Hansen’s introduction of the dark, solemn Chit-

tagong and the always agitated Celebes was perfunc-

tory. “How’s the work coming, gentlemen?” he con-

cluded.

Celebes replied, his tone a mixture of nervous ex-

citement and confidence. “You read our first report

two days back, sir, about what we think it was that

caused Wu to go over the edge?”

“I’m in the habit of reading even the meal requests

that come out of this lab. They don’t add up yet, but

yes, I can see how a man with Tsing-ahn’s habits

176

could be affected violently by an improper interpreta-

tion of the evidenceassuming his burl displayed the

same anthropomorphic mimicry this new one does.”

“We think that way also, sir. It’s back here.”

The two white-frocked researchers led them to a

broad workbench set at the back of the room. Fresh

paint shone with false dampness in the overhead flu-

orescent lights.

This burl had been cut neatly down the middle.

The halves had been separated. One lay propped up

against the back wall of the lab, while the other was

vised firmly to the bench. A plethora of shining in-

struments of metal and plastic were scattered on the

table and around the halved sections like a swarm of

silver spiders. Portions of the burl’s interior had been

excised and placed in containers of varying sizes. The

scene itself conveyed the impression of a frenetic yet

studious scientific activity, which had suddenly been

halted.

In cross section one could easily see the outer layer

of black bark, followed by the first woody layer, which

was dark like mahogany. Then it lightened to a deep

umber and turned eventually as light as redwood. But

after the first half-meter it became something that

looked like no wood born of Earth. Weaving black

lines ran through a horrid reddish-yellow pulp. Pecul-

iar nodules of gray formed where clumps of the wind-

ing black threads joined. At the center of the burl lay

several ovoid lumps of brownish-pink, like the seeds

of an apple. Here the concentration of jet-colored web-

bing grew thickest. Most bizarre were the numerous

irregular lengths and humps of some pure white sub-

stance, which lay scattered throughout the interior of

the burl, seemingly at random. Some appeared hard

and smooth; others on the verge of powdery dissolu-

tion.

Bom knew exactly what the burl was, though not

its puzzling interior. So did Losting. “This is what you

take your life-drug from?” Born asked.

“That’s right,” Hansen admitted. “Have you seen

these kinds of growths before anywhere?”

“We have.”

Chittagong and Celebes were immediately and

177

simultaneously all over the hunters with their ques-

tions. “Where . . . How many . . . You mean

you’ve found more than one on the same tree . . .

How big were the ones you saw . . . What about

the color . . . You’re certain they’re the same shape

… The fibrosity of the bark … ?”

“Easy, easy. I’m sure our friends can find such trees

for us whenever they want. Couldn’t you, Bom?” Han-

sen broke in.

“We know of such trees and growths. Some have no

burls, as you call them. Others have many.” The

two scientists whispered between themselves. “How

many such burls would you wish?”

Now it was Hansen’s turn to stumble in his excite-

ment. “How many? As many as we can find! We

can derive a great deal of the drug from one, but

there are a lot of aging people in this galaxy, and I

doubt enough burls exist to satisfy more than a frac-

tion of them. All you can locate for us we’ll make use

of. You’ll have just about anything you want in return,

Bom.”

“We will not do this thing for you!” Losting shouted

suddenly. He put a hand on the axe slung at his hip

and took several steps backward. “Bom is mad and

may do anything, but not I.”

“Nor I, Losting,” Born muttered bitterly. “And it’s

true I’m subject to spells of madness. Especially with

those who do not choose to think.”

“What does he mean by that, Bom?” Hansen asked,

his manner far from fatherly now. “You can under-

stand my position.”

Bom spun around and tried a last time to make

the giant chieftain understand. “And you must under-

stand it is we who live with this world. Not on it,

but with it.” He was straggling with barely comprehen-

sible concepts. “We take nothing from this world that

is not offered freely, even joyously. We take only

when time and place is right. You cannot live with a

world by taking when and where it suits only you,

or eventually your world dies and you with it. You

must understand this, and you must leave. We could

not help you even if we wanted to. Not for all your

light weapons and other wonders. This world is not a

178

good place for you. You do not emfol it, and it does

not emfol you.”

Hansen sighed deeply. “I’m sorry, too, Bom. Sorry

because you see, this isn’t your world. You didn’t

evolve here, despite all your carefully nurtured super-

stitions about emfoling and everything else. Your

whole ancestral line here reaches back only a few

hundred years at most. You’ve no more claim here

than we do. No, you’ve less than we do. When the

time comes we’ll file correctly for possession and de-

velopment with the proper authorities.

“As long as you don’t interfere with our operations

here, we won’t trouble you or your people. We’d prefer

to keep relations between us as friendly as possible.

If that’s not feasible”he shrugged”we’re quite pre-

pared to do whatever’s necessary to ensure felicitous

working conditions. I’d hoped we could work together,

but-”

“You’ll not find any more of these burls. Not with-

out our help.”

“It will take longer, cost more, but we’ll find them,

Bom. They’re worth whatever it takes, you see. And

I’m not yet convinced we’ve lost your cooperation

either. Some additional argumentation remains to be

tried.” He shook his head sadly. “More paper work,

more delays. They’re not going to be pleased.” He

turned and called back to the single doorway. “Santos

. . . Nichi?” The two guards entered immediately,

sidearms drawn. “There must be an empty room in

the new quartersthat wing’s still not up to strength.

See that our two new associates are set up comfort-

ably there. They’ve had a long hike and need a good

rest, something to eat. Program something nice for

them.”

Losting had his knife out. “I am tired of this place

and the giants. I’ll stay here no longer.” He eyed

Hansen. “I’ll talk to you no longer.” As the knife

was drawn, Bom saw one of the guards point a

transparent-tipped handgun at the big hunter.

“No, Losting. We must, as the Hansen-chief says,

have time to think reasonably on this.”

“Madman! Denier!”

“This is not the time for muscle, Losting!” he said

179

sharply. “It is difficult to make decisions when dead.

Consider the sky-demon and the red light.”

Losting looked at the two men blocking their exit,

then questioningly at Born. His expression shifted, his

eyes dropped. “Yes, Born, you’re right. This needs

thinking on.” He put the knife slowly back in its leaf-

leather scabbard.

Hansen managed a grin of reassurance. ‘Tm sure

everything will be clearer after you’ve had some time

to consider all that’s been said and shown to you,

You’re both excited, Bom, Losting. A strange place

like this station. You’ve seen more new things in this

past half-hour than all your people Have seen in the

last hundred years, I’m sure! No wonder you’re react-

ing emotionally instead of rationally! Relax, eat your-

selves full.” He peered hard at Bom. “Then I’m sure

we can talk about all this again.”

Bom nodded, smiled back. It was good the Hansen-

chief could not see into his mind as his machines

could see into the Upper Hell.

The two armed giants led them to a room which

was spacious and comfortablecomfortable by the

standards of the giants. To the hunters the chamber

and its furnishings were hard, angled, and oppressive.

Bom tried the bed, the chair, the single narrow desk

and finally settled himself cross-legged on the floor.

Losting looked up from where he had been staring at

the crack under the door.

“They are still out there. Why did you stop me?

Red light or not, I still think I could have killed them

both and slit the fat one’s throat.”

“You would not have lived for a second step, Lost-

ing,” Bom countered softly. “You might have killed

one, but”

“I remember the sky-demon, I remember,” Losting

shot back irritably. “That is why I did not act as I

felt though I think we are destined to go the way of

the sky-demon eventually. I know thisI will die

before I will aid these monsters.”

“As would I,” his smaller companion confessed re-

luctantly. “The giant called Logan was right. She could

not explain this all to us. We had to see to under-

stand. And I do understand, but not the way she and

180

the others would have us understand. I am saddened,

in a way. A part of them is missing, Losting. They

are incomplete. The great pity of it is they are ignorant

of their own deficiency.”

“They will do great harm in their ignorance.”

“Perhaps. We must think hard on this. We cannot

fight the red light of the giants. Soon the Hansen-chief

will desire to talk with us again. He may not be so

courteous this time. The giants have strange ways of

killing. The Hansen-chief hinted they have equally

strange ways of persuading. If they do not persuade

usand they cannotI cannot see them permitting us

to return to the Home.”

“I have held myself back out of respect for you,”

Losting rumbled. “And because you so often seem to

be right in such matters. Why then do you hesitate

now?”

“Give me some time, Losting, some time. This must

be carefully and rightly done the first time.”

Losting mumbled something inaudible and sat down

with his back against the door. Pulling out his bone

knife, he began steadily to sharpen it against the metal

floor.

“Very well, thinker-tinker enemy mine. Take your

time. But when they come for us again, if all your mad-

ness suggests nothing, I will kill the Hansen-chieftain

lirst, though they make a stew of me with their red

light.”

Bom slowly shook his head. “Can you not see be-

yond the first rage, Losting? Killing the Hansen-chief

will do no good. When Sand and Joyla return to the

world, another couple will be chosen. The giants will

simply chose a new Hansen-chief.” The syllables

flowed sharply now. No, somehow we must kill them

all and destroy this place.”

Losting’s seething anger was temporarily displaced

by total bewilderment. “Kill them all? Ws cannot even

kill one to save ourselves. How can we kill them all?”

“Kill the giants’ machines and the giants will die.

First we must get out of here.”

“I will not dispute that,” Losting snorted. “The

doorway is latched and this”he stabbed at the floor

181

with his knife and it skidded away with a whine”is

tougher than ironwood.”

“You still do not think beyond your guts, hunter.”

Born crossed his legs and commenced evaluation of

the floor. “Give the world time and it makes its own

solutions.”

“Mad,” whispered Losting.

It was quiet at night within the station as its occu-

pants dreamed away the long wet night outside. Noth-

ing moved save the security personnel who manned the

scanning and detection monitors which kept the forest

at bay. Outside the station proper, eight of Salomon

Cargo’s staff manned the gimbaled guns. With the

automatic alarms quiet, these isolated representatives

of corporate enforcement found nonlethal diversions to

pass the time.

In one turret the crew amused itself with another

round of cribbage, using a board carved from beryl

wood by thranx artisans on Hivehom. Nearby, an-

other pair lost themselves in manuals detailing the

joys of vacations to be had on a certain ocean world

many parsecs away. In the third, gunners of opposite

sex engaged in active dereliction of duty.

While their function was quasimilitary, the station

was not a military operation, though their superior,

Cargo, regarded it as such. Yet no invading squadron

of punishing peaceforcers was expected; no armada

mounted by a sly competitor was anticipated over-

head. And nothing could approach across the cleared

treetops without triggering half a hundred alarms.

So the eight marksmen remained at easy readiness

and enjoyed the somnolent casualness of night duty,

secure in the knowledge that angels with guts of silver

and copper watched over them.

From within, mechanistic atheists plotted to deny

these gunners’ gods the ohmage due them.

Homesickness electronically assuaged, the last idler

dropped off to sleep within the station. No footfalls

echoed in the corridors. Only the occasional click of

a relay closing, the hum of untiring machinery, the

soft sussuration of the vital air-conditioning broke the

reign of silence.

182

There were none to grow curious when a small hole

appeared in the middle of a corridor floor. Even if

anyone had been passing nearby, chances were they

would have passed off the noise as the echo of thunder

that somehow penetrated the station’s soundproofing.

The gap grew larger as the metal floor was peeled up

and back like foil. A close observer would have been

able to see the hole that extended below the floor

through a meter of ferrocrete.

Two massive paws emerged from the gap, widened

it until it was big enough for more than a man to

pass. A blocky, thick skull protruded, upthrust tusks

gleaming in the dim nighttime illumination. Triple orbs

shone like lanterns as they made a slow inspection of

the empty corridor. The head vanished and a low

snuffling that sounded like mumed conversation came

from the cavity. It was cut off by a single grunt. Two

massive, furred forms squeezed like paste from the

hole into the station.

Geeliwan contemplated the alien surroundings and

shivered slightly at the unaccustomed chill in the air,

while Ruumahum sampled it for something other than

temperature.

“Hear no giants, see no giants,” Geeliwan mum-

mured in the gentle gutteral rasp of the furcot folk.

“Many are near, behind these walls,” replied

Ruumahum in a cautioning tone. After a final, thor-

ough sniff to pinpoint a very faint, but unmistakable

scent, he said, “This way.”

Hugging the metal walls and cloaking themselves in

shadow, the furcots padded silently down the corridor

they had entered, turned a comer into another. A

last comer turned, and they drew back at the sight

of the single giant seated before the final door. The

giant was not moving.

“He sleeps,” Geeliwan murmured tightly.

“Behind him the scent is steady,” agreed Ruuma-

hum.

Leaving the comer they padded toward the portal.

Ruumahum located the crack at the door’s base. Triple

nostrils breathed in the smell of person.

Inside the door, Bom had not moved from his sit-

ting position on the floor. At the gentle snuffling from

outside, his eyes came fully open again. Losting was

stretched out asleep on the far side of the chamber,

but came awake as Born moved.

“What is-?”

“Quiet.” Born made his way to the door on hands

and knees. Dropping his face to the floor, he sniffed

once, then whispered cautiously, “Ruumahum?” There

was an affirmative grunt from the other side. “Open

the door. If possible, quietly.”

The furcot growled. “There is a guard.”

The low conversation finally woke the man in ques-

tion. Despite the nap, the man was good at his job.

He came awake instantly, already prepared for the

fantasized jailbreak. What he was not prepared for

was the sight of a grinning Geeliwan, massive tusked

jaws opened to display a formidable array of gleam-

ing cutlery, breathing into his face. The man fainted.

“Is he dead?” inquired Ruumahum.

Geeliwan snorted a reply. “He sleeps deeply.” The

furcot joined his companion in studying the doorway.

“How does this open. It is not like the doors the

persons have made in the Home.”

Bom’s whisper reached them from under the sealed

entrance. “Ruumahum, there is a handle near you,

shaped like the grip of a snuffler. You must move it

down and then pull to open the door. We cannot do

so from inside.”

The big furcot examined the protrusion carefully.

Gripping it in his teeth, he turned his head according

to Bern’s instructions. Bom neglected, however, to

mention that the handle would stop at the proper

place. There was a pinging sound, loud in the quiet-

ness.

“It came off, Bom,” Ruumahum reported, spitting

out the metal.

Losting rose and took a couple of steps toward the

back of the room. “I’ve had enough of this place,

mad-on-the-hunt. Come if you will.” Giving Bom no

time to argue, he ordered, “Open the door, Geeliwan,

now!”

Geeliwan rose on his rear feet, his head nearly

touching the corridor ceiling. Falling forward, he

pushed simultaneously with fore- and midpaws. There

184

was a groan, accompanied by a pinging sound like the

broken handle had made only much louder. The pre-

formed section of alloy bent at the middle and folded

over into the room, hanging loosely by its bottom

hinge.

Bom and Losting leaped over the barrier and fol-

lowed the furcots down twists and turns in the cor-

ridor neither man remembered. Distant mutters and

shouts of confusion rose around them like a nest of

Chollakees. All at once a man confronted them, ap-

pearing at the end of the corridor like a bad memory.

He reached for his belteven as his jaw dropped

and started to pull something small and shiny from it.

Ruumahum hit him with a paw in passing. The

glancing blow lifted the man off his feet and slammed

him against the wall. He was still crumpling to the floor

as they passed.

The furcot rumbled terribly, “This place needs kill-

ing,” and showed signs of returning to finish off the

guard.

Bom argued otherwise, and they ran on. “Not

now, Ruumahum. These creatures kill without think-

ing. Let us not fall prey to the same frailty.” Ruuma-

hum muttered under his breath, but led on.

Moments later they reached the wide corridor that

encircled the station. Both Bom and Losting had their

axes out now, but there was no need to use them.

The station was still half asleep, the source of the dis-

turbance behind them as yet unknown.

Another minute and they were at the hole Ruuma-

hum and Geeliwan had ripped in the station floor.

Ruumahum led the way. Bom jumped in after, feet

first, followed by Losting. Geeliwan was right behind.

Like a flotilla of fluorescent bees, lights around

the station began to wink on erratically; alarms began

to sound. In the outlying torrents, curses replaced idle

comments as the gun crews rushed to man instruments

of destruction. Alert, well-trained eyes, both human

and mechanical, scanned the open area round the

station, minutely examined the unchanged forest wall.

Within that tensely monitored region nothing threaten-

ing moved, nothing unexpected showed itself.

Suddenly something appeared on the computer

185

screen, filling a fair-sized section within range of the

north turret. The triggerwoman engaged her electronic

sensors and let fly. The burst totally demolished a

small cloud of flitters which had left the hylaea for

the beckoning station lights. That had unnerved the

inhabitants of the station until the central detectors

report what had been destroyed.

Still blinking sleep from his eyes, a disheveled Han-

sen- struggled to untangle robe and hair as he was

conducted by a guard to the hole in the floor.

“A centimeter of duralloy over a meter-thick fer-

rocrete base,” someone in the little crowd that had

gathered muttered. The group parted as Hansen ar-

rived. He fought to keep incredulity from his face

when he saw the size of the cavity.

“I thought they weren’t supposed to have any

advanced tools.”

“They don’t.” Everyone turned to see who of-

fered the answer.

Logan joined them, pulling her hair back away from

her face as she bent to examine the gap’s interior. Her

expression was drawn. “The furcots must have done

it,” she concluded tiredly.

“A singular pronouncement,” Hansen declared.

“What is a furcot, Logan?”

“It’s an associate animal Bom’s people live with.

A hexapodal omnivore. At least we assume it’s an

omnivore.” She turned her gaze back to the hole.

“When night came and their human companions

didn’t return or send for them, they must have de-

cided to come looking on their own.”

“Interesting,” was all the station chief murmured.

Reports and people came and went. The population

of the little crowd changed without shrinking. After a

while equipment was brought and a designated “vol-

unteer” lowered into the cavity. He was not gone too

long before he had secured the information Hansen

required.

Nodding and listening intently, Hansen received the

explorer’s report. He patted the man on the back, then

returned to the edge of the hole. The group gathered

around it now consisted of section heads, men like

Cargo and Blanchfort.

186

“Can any of you imagine where this hole goes?”

Hansen demanded. Cautious silence. Woe to the bu-

reaucrat who volunteered inaccurate information! Be-

sides, they would know in a minute. “Don’t any of

you even know where you’re standing?” Puzzled

glances all around. “The h ole continues on downward

into one of the three trunks this station is set upon.

It appears this one tree isn’t quite solid. It appears,”

Hansen continued, his expression and rising fury suf-

ficient to make his underlings recoil, “that there’s some

kind of native animal that runs burrows through such

trees! All these furcots had to do was locate such

a burrow below the level we cleared off and walk

within digging distance of this floor. This floor, ladies

and gentlemen!”

His voice dropped slightly. “They didn’t have to

worry about our monitors and guns. They didn’t have

to worry about the charged screens encircling the

trunks. The only thing that puzzles me ishow did

they know they didn’t have to worry about such

things?”

Cohoma had joined the others. “They’re a bit more

than animals, sir. They can talk, a little. Enough

to make conversation. I talked to them myself. They

don’t like talking, as I under”

“Shut up, you idiot,” the station chief said hi a

quiet voice that was worse than a shout. He continued

muttering, “And they expect me to run a clandestine

operation like this, on an inimical world like this, with

a crew like this”

“Excuse me. Chief,” the head of engineering of-

fered quietly. “Do you want me to round up some

people to plug this thing?” He gestured toward the

gap.

“No, I don’t want you to round up some people to

plug this thing,” Hansen shot back, mimicking the

engineer’s querulous tone. “Cargo, where’s Cargo?”

“Sir?” The head of station Security stepped through

the group.

“Leave this opening untouched. Mount a rifle over

it with a four man crew, and rotate the crew every

four hours.” He put hands on hips and rubbed ab-

sently at the brown robe. “Maybe they’ll try and come

187

back this way. No more talk this time, not with one

man already dead. We’ll find this Home and start

fresh with these folk.”

“Sir?” Cargo hesitated, then asked, “The turret

crews are a bit skittish. They’re not too sure what

they’re supposed to be watching out for.”

“A couple of short, swarthy men accompanied

by” He looked over his shoulder, snapped at Logan,

“What are these things supposed to look like?”

“Six-legged,” she explained to Cargo, “dark green

fur, three eyes, long ears, a couple of short thick

tusks sticking up from the lower jaw, several times the

mass of a man …”

“That’ll do,” said Cargo drily. He nodded to Han-

sen, spun smartly on one heel and strode away to

communicate with his people.

“Tell me,” Hansen queried Logan, “did you ever

get the impression that your friend Bom might not ap-

prove of our aims in coming here?”

“We never went into specifics about our activities,

Chief,” she replied. “There were times when one

could have read his questions and answers several

ways. But since he was in the process of saving our

lives, I didn’t think it expedient to argue motivations

with him. I felt our primary objective was to get back

here whole.”

“Yet despite this uncertainty about how he might

react, you let him leave these two semi-intelligent

animals free to mount a rescue.”

Logan couldn’t keep herself from showing a little

anger of her own. “What was I supposed to do? Drag

them along bodily? It seemed to me best at the time

to stay on friendly terms with Bom and Losting. The

furcots saw what a laser cannon can do. None of

Cargo’s brilliant assistants located any passageways in

these support trunks! How could I guess that”

“You could have insisted he bring his pets along.”

“You still don’t understand sir.” She fought to make

it plain. “The furcots aren’t pets. They’re independent

semisentient creatures with extensive reasoning powers

of they own. They associate with humans because

they want to, not because they’ve been domesticated.

If they want to do something like remain behind in

188

their forest, there’s no way Bom or anyone else can

force them to do otherwise.” She glanced significantly

at the hole in the floor where the metal had been

peeled back like the skin of an apple. “Would you

want to argue with them?”

“You debate persuasively, Kimi. It’s my own fault.

I expect too much of everyone. And those expecta-

tions are always fulfilled.” He looked broodingly at

the dark tunnel. “I wish there were some way of avoid-

ing a confrontation. Not because it would make our

operation here any less illegal if we have to kill a

few natives.”

“Not natives, sir,” Logan reminded him, “survivors

of-”

Hansen cocked his head and glared at her, his

voice steady, hard. “Kurd, back in spoke twelve I

saw a maintenance subengineer named Haumi with his

face pushed in and his back broken. He’s dead, now.

As far as I’m concerned, that makes Bom and Lost-

ing, and any of their cousins who feel similarly about

our presence here, natives, hostile ones. I have an

obligation to the people who put up the credit for this

station. I’ll take whatever steps are necessary to pro-

tect that. Now, is there any chance you could find

your way back to this village, or Home?”

Logan paused thoughtfully. “Considering some of

the twists and turns, ups and downs we took, I doubt

it. Not without Bom’s help. Our skimmer must be

nearly covered by fresh growth by now. Even if we

were to locate it, I don’t know if we could find the

Home from there. You’ve no idea, sir,” she half

pleaded, “what it’s like trying to move through this

world on foot. It’s hard enough to tell up from down,

let alone horizontal direction. And the native carnivo-

rous life, the defensive systems developed by the

flora-”

“You don’t have to tell me, Kimi.” Hansen jammed

his hands into the robe’s pockets. “I helped clear the

Space for this station. Well, we’ll still try to take at

least one of them alive when they come back.”

“Your pardon, sir,” Cohoma said, his expression un-

certain. “Come back? I’d think Bom would tend to

hightail it back to the Home to organize resistance to

us and warn his fellows.”

Hansen shook his head sadly, smiled condescend-

ingly. “You’ll never be much more than a scout, Co-

homa.”

“Sir,” Logan began, “I don’t think you’re being en-

tirely fair”

“And the same goes for you, Logan. Goes for the

two of you.” His voice sank dangerously, all pretense

of fatherliness gone. “You’ve both been guilty of under-

estimating your subject. Maybe their smaller stature

made you feel superior. Maybe it was the fact that

you’re the product of a technologically advanced cul-

turethe reasons don’t really matter. You probably

still think you talked this Bom into making this trip.

You think you kept him in the dark concerning the

station’s true purpose. Instead, look what’s happened.

Why do you think Born wanted advanced weaponry

above all else? To fight off local predators? Patrick

O’Morion, no! So he could eventually deal on even

terms with us!

“Now he knows the nature and disposition of our

defenses here, the station layout, has a rough idea of

our numerical strength, and sees how really isolated

from outside help we are. He’s also divined our in-

tentions and decided they run contrary to his own.

No, I don’t see that kind of man running for help.

He’ll take at least one crack at us on his own.”

Cohoma looked abashed. “None of which would

matter,” Hansen went on, “if he was still sitting back

in that room, under guard. It pains me to have to

kill so resourceful a man. The trouble is this spiritual

attitude they apparently take toward the welfare of

every weed and flower. That’s what you two have

failed to perceive. With your Born, our announced ac-

tivities here are grounds for a holy war. I’ll bet my

pension he’s out there now, sitting on some idolized

thornbush, watching us, and thinking of ways to make

the blasphemer’s way into hell fast and easy. Now,

tell me more about these furcots of theirs.” He

kicked at the bent metal around the hole. “I’ve got

the evidence of one dead man and a breach in the

station proper to testify to their strength. How invul-

nerable are they?”

“They’re flesh and boneflesh, anyway,” Cohoma

corrected himself. “They’re quite mortal. We saw

several of them slain by a marauding tribe of local

killers called Akadi. The time to worry is when they

throw nuts at you.”

Hansen eyed Cohoma oddly, decided to press on

with his questions. “What about weapons?”

“Something called a snuffler, kind of like a big blow-

gun. It shoots poisonous thorns. Otherwise all we saw

were the usual primitive implementsknifes, spears,

axes, and the like. Nothing to worry about.”

“I’ll remember that,” Hansen said grimly, “the first

time I see one sticking out of your neck, Jan. A club

can kill you just as dead as a SCCAM shell. Anything

else?”

Logan managed an uneasy smile. “Not unless they’ve

learned how to tame a silverslith.”

“A what?”

“A large local tree-dweller. It’s at least fifty meters

long, climbs on several hundred legs, and has a face

only an AAnn nest-master could love. According to

Bom, it never dies and can’t be killed.”

“Thanks,” Hansen replied tartly. “That encourages

me no end.” He started to leave, turned back.

“There’s also the chance nothing at all’s going to hap-

pen. So we’re going to continue with normal opera-

tions under more than normal security. I can’t afford

to close up shop waiting for your little root-lover to

proclaim his intentions. You’ll both report for duty

tomorrow as usual and check out a new skimmer,

pick up new assignments.”

“Yes, sir,” they chorused dispiritedly.

Hansen took a deep breath. “For myself, I’ve got

another report to make out, more than usually nega-

tive. Get out of my sight, the both of you.”

Cohoma seemed about to add something, but Logan

put a cautioning hand on his arm and drew him

away. Hansen continued to hand out directives. One

by one, the crowd dispersed, each to his or her as-

signed task. The station chief was left alone. He

191

stood staring down the hole for a long time until the

rifle crew arrived.

When they began to set up the powerful, slim weap-

on on its tripod, he spun around and stalked off to-

ward his office, trying to imagine the phraseology that

would explain to his shadowy superiors how the sta-

tion perimeter was violated by two aborigines and a

pair of oversized, six-legged cats.

The director would not be pleased. No, most defi-

nitely not pleased.

XIII

Beneath a broad curved panpanoo leaf which served

as shelter from the steadily falling night-rain, man and

furcot rested on a wide tuntangcle and held a council

of war. Hansen was right. To Born and Losting,

Ruumahum and Geeliwan, the actions of the giants

were grounds for a jihad.

“We can conceal ourselves in the trees below the

level where they have killed,” Losting suggested, his

voice sharp against the constant pit-pat of rain, “and

pick them off as they come out.”

“In their sky-boat skimmers as well?” Born coun-

tered. “With our snufflers, no doubt.”

“Gather the brethren,” Ruumahum growled terribly.

Bom shook his head sorrowfully. “They have long

eyes for seeing and long weapons for killing, Ruuma-

hum. We must think of something else.”

It was silent then save for splash and spray and

occasional shuffling below the panpanoo. Once Bom’s

half-lidded eyes opened and he muttered to the wood,

“Roots . . . roots.” Other eyes gazed at him hopefully,

till he turned quiescent again.

“I have an idea of how this may be begun,” he

finally announced without looking at anyone in par-

192

ticular. “It scratches at the edge of my mind like a

wheep hunting for the entrance to the brya burrow.

Roots . . . roots and a parable.” He got to his feet,

stretched. “Where is the power of the giants anchored?

From whence do the marvels attributed to them

come?”

“From Hell, of course,” Losting mumbled.

“But which Hell, hunter? Our world draws strength

from the Lower Hell. These giants, from what they

say, derive theirs from the Upper. Their roots are

locked in the sky, not the ground. They have cut

their way into our world by digging downward. We

will cut into theirs by digging up.”

“How can one dig up?” Losting wondered aloud.

By way of reply Bom walked to the edge of the

sheltering panpanoo and stared up into the tepid rain.

“We must find a stormtreader.” He turned back to eye

Ruumahum questioningly. “How many days till the

next big rain?”

The furcot uncurled himself and padded to stand

next to his person. The blunt muzzle probed the night

air. As water dribbled off his face, he sniffed deeply,

inhaled through his powerful mouth. “Three, maybe

four days, Bom.”

The stormtreader was not too rare, not too common,

and no two were ever found near each other. But

moving on the Third Level, they had located the silver-

black bole rising in the forest on the far side of the

station. It was not close to the cleared area, but the

long, chainlike leaves reached downward all the way

to the Sixth Level. They would reach upward as

easily.

There was only one way to handle the leaves of

the stormtreader. By covering hands and paws, arms

and legs with the sap of the lient, it was possible

to safely draw up hundreds of meters of interlocked

leaf and coil it in readiness.

“I still do not understand,” Losting admitted, as

they nibbed the sticky black sap from their hands.

“Remember, the giant-made vine web we first passed

through when they took us into their station-Home?

Remember the Sal-giant explaining what it ate? I once

saw a cruta eat so much tesshanda fruit it exploded.

Its insides flew all over the branch it had been sitting

on. I’ll never know whether I looked as surprised as

the cruta did, but I’ll not forget the sight as long as I

breathe. This is what we do here, I hope.”

Losting was appalled. “We may only make the

giants’ roots stronger, firmer.”

Born shrugged. “Then we will try something else.”

Despite Losting’s impatience and uneasiness, they

waited through the storm that raged the third night.

Born knew he had made the right decision the

fourth evening, when Ruumahum scented the air and

rasped, “Rain and wind and noise aplenty, this night.”

“We must move quickly, then, before it howls at

us, or even the sap of the lient won’t save us.” He

spoke as the first big drops began to set the forest

humming.

In near total darkness they started toward the sta-

tion, moving beneath the cleared area covered by mul-

tiple electronic sensors and light amplifiers and the

red light death. They had three of the long silvery

leaves. Each of the furcots wrestled with one. Born

and Losting with the third. Thickly coated with lient

sap they dragged the ever-lengthening strands be-

hind them, until they reached the dark wall formed

by one of the station-supporting trunks. Bom touched

it, peered close. The topped tree was already begin-

ning to die from loss of its leaf-bearing crown and

infection of the heartwood.

Moving slowly they started upward, parallel to the

colossal trunk. Thunder boomed down to them now,

as the still distant lightning cracked the sky like dry-

ing mud beneath a summer sun. Already Bom was

drenched. Ruumahum had been right. Rain aplenty,

this night.

The black lient also helped conceal them when they

emerged into the open air. Wind still carried the rain

to them, but here, directly beneath the shielding bulk

of the station, it was still relatively dry.That was for-

tunate, since there were no friendly cubbies and

creepers to mount there. They had to make then- way

with the heavy leaves up the vertical shaft. But though

security was no less lax and those who studied the

monitors and scanners no less intent on their tasks,

the tiny blots that moved up the trunk were not

seen. The station’s defenses were aimed out, not

down. Nor did Bom make the mistake of trying to

mount the tree Ruumahum and Geeliwan had used

to rescue them. That bole, at least, still commanded

plenty of attention.

Bom waited till all were ready just below the metal

web that prevented further ascent. Lightning split

the night-rain steadily now. They had to hurry. Above

him, the web crackled and sputtered with each at-

mospheric discharge. He nodded. Together, man and

furcot carefully draped the three silver-black leaves

over different strands of the web. Bom held his breath

as the leaf touched metal. A few tiny sparks, then

nothing.

“Down and awayquickly!” he called to the furcots.

Within the sealed outpost, an unexpected movement

caught the eye of the third engineer on duty at the

generator station. He frowned, walked over to the

dials in question. There was nothing radically wrong

about the slight fluctuations in current that were reg-

istered, but there should have been no such flutterings

at all. The variations were more than the most violent

storm was expected to produce. For a brief moment

he considered waking the chief engineer, decided

against chancing that worthy’s temper. Probably there

was some minor malfunction in the monitoring equip-

ment itselfthe B transformer had displayed a tend-

ency to act up from time to time. And it could hardly

be due to normal shifts in the power produced by

the solar collectornot in the middle of the night!

The monitoring chips checked out operational one

after another. He was still searching for the source

of the disturbance when a huge lightning bolt struck

near enough for the sound to penetrate the station’s

dense soundproofing.

Several things happened simultaneously.

The ear-splitting discharge struck a tree in the hylaea

to the southeast of the station. There was no shatter-

ing of wood, no brief flare of flame. The crown of

this particular tree was not split or blackened. Instead,

the naked apex of the stonntreader drank the lightning

like a child sucking milk through a straw. The metal-

195

impregnated wood quivered visibly under the impact,

but was not damaged as the tremendous concentration

of voltage was distributed by the tree’s remarkable

inner structure.

Momentarily, the mild defensive charge the tree

usually maintained was increased a thousand million

times. Under normal circumstances the entire charge

would have been dissipated into the distant ground

by the stormtreader’s complex root system, creating

oxides of nitrogen and heavily enriching the surround-

ing soil. But this time something else commanded the

full force of that jagged disruption, diverted it through

the defensive screen formed by the tree’s long, deadly

leaves.

The puzzled engineer would never know that his

meters and dials had registered correctly, would never

leam the source of those first enigmatic fluctuations in

current.

Born did not know what to expect. He had hoped,

as he had described to Losting, to overfeed the pro-

tective webs which guarded the station’s underbelly.

Instead, the three grids exploded like pinwheels a

nanosecond following the deafening draw by the storm-

treader. They flared like burning magnesium for long

seconds before wilting and melting to slag.

Distant explosions sounded across the dark Panta,

and lights flared within the station, reaching out to

the tiny knot of stupefied watchers crouched in the

forest wall. Modulators sparked and exploded, unable

to regulate the stupendous overload. The storage bat-

teries simply melted like ice, depriving the station of

back-up power.

Thirty million volts at 100,000 amperes poured

into the station’s generating system, melting or short-

ing every cable, every outlet, every bulb, tube, and

appliance within. One overriding eruption sounded

from the far side of the station as the central trans-

former and solar plant were blown wholesale through

the outside wall.

Over the steady rhythym of the indifferent night-

rain, the sc reams and shouts of the confused, the

stunned, and the burned began to sound. But there

were no cries of the slowly dying. Those who had

196

been killed, like the engineer, had been electrocuted

instantly.

Losting started forward. “Let us finish it.”

Bom had to reach to restrain him. “They still may

have the red light, which kills before a snuffler can

be loaded, hunter.”

Losting indicated the twisted, smoking gun turrets.

Though the cannons within could still be repaired,

they were momentarily useless. The turret mechanisms

were thoroughly burnt out.

“Not those,” Bom explained. “The tiny ones the

giants wear like axes may still work.” He sat back

on the damp branch and eyed the sky. “What will

the violent and unusual noises bring by the morning,

hunter? Think! What can several men shouting in

unison attract?”

Losting searched his thoughts, until his eyes widened.

“Floaters. Not Bunas … Photoids.”

Bom nodded. “They must be stirring already.”

“But surely since they’ve been here, these giants

have seen Photoid floaters?”

“Perhaps not,” his companion argued. “Their skim-

mers are quiet, and Photoids are rare. Only prey large

enough for a Photoid can make enough noise to attract

one. I did not think of this.”

Losting sat back and clasped his hands together in

front of his bunched-up legs. “What will it matter,

anyway? The floaters will see no prey and depart.”

“They may well do just that, Losting. But think of

how the giants react, how the Logan and Cohoma per-

sons first reacted to me, how they reacted in the world.

They fear without trying to understand, Losting. And

they must be nervously fearful now. We will see how

they react to the floaters.”

Hansen kicked at the still smoking fragments of

metal and polyplexalloy that speckled the buckled

floor and surveyed the gaping hole where the power

station had once sat. Puddles of hardened slag were

all that remained of the complex, expensive installa-

tion. It was not brokenit was gone.

A very tired Blanchfort appeared. Like everyone

else, he had not slept in many hours.

197

“Let’s hear the rest of it,” Hansen sighed.

“Everything which drew power is burnt out or

melted, sir,” the section chief reported solemnly.

“There isn’t a circuit, a solid- or fluid-state switch,

a linked module left in the place. We’re going to

have to rebuild the entire system.”

Hansen allowed himself several minutes to reflect on

this, then asked, “Did they find out what caused it?”

“Mamula thinks so. It’s . . . well, it’s pretty straight-

forward, once you’ve seen it.”

Hansen followed the other man through the sta-

tion, passed exhausted crews working at blackened

sections of walls and floor. Before long they reached

the access hatch through which an open elevator low-

ered explorers to the roof of the cut-off forest below.

The elevator, naturally, had been burnt out. Someone

had cut the melted wiring and other electrical con-

nections and rigged a makeshift winch. The elevator

was in use now, suspended halfway between the sta-

tion and green world beneath. Suspended right at the

level where the charged grid had once been.

Hansen peered through the gap. From the point

where the grid had been bolted to the tree, a ring

of still hot metal ran like candlewax down the trunk.

Wisps of smoke from the scorched bark still rose

into the air.

“Do you see it, Chief?” Blanchfort asked.

Hansen squinted against the brightness of day, stared

harder. “See what? I don’t”

“There, to the left a little and below where Mamula

and his people are working. There are two more fur-

ther around the trunk.”

The station chief stared. “You mean that long

silvery chain that extends down into the treetops?”

“That’s it, sir, only it’s not a chain. Not of metal,

anyway. It’s a leaf, or many interlocked leaves.”

“What about them?”

“Mamula thinks they were laid into the grid before

the storm last night. We sent a party out1 hoped our

two native boys would show themselves, but they

didn’tto trace it back. All three leaves go straight

down into the forest for about fifteen meters, then off

198

to the southeast. They link up to the parent tree about

thirty meters back from the clearing.” He turned and

gestured out an uncracked window. “That way.

“It’s one of the smaller emergents. Bare crown,

mostly black and silver-coloredbark, leaves, every-

thing. Very little brown or green in it, except in some

subsidiary growth.” He glanced down at the clip-

board he always carried with him. “A woman named

Stevens was in charge of the tracing party. According

to her report, the tree itself maintains a lethal charge.

Anything that brushes against one of its long leaves

is killed instantly. Mamula theorizes that when the tree

is hit by lightning, as it apparently was last night,

the charge is somehow handled and carried off. Only a

tiny recharge is necessary to maintain the tree’s defen-

sive system. And it’s an isolated speciman, though he

says if we look, we’ll find more of them around.”

“I see. A few of these serve as lightning rods for

the whole forest, protecting the other trees from the

nightly storms. Except,” and he had to fight to keep

from shouting, “last night that charge was directed

elsewhere.”

“Not directed sirdrawn.”

Hansen looked grim. “No wonder it blew out every

circuit in the place. And of course, nobody saw any-

thing unusual prior to this?”

Blanchfort looked unhappy. “No, sir. Cargo is still

chewing out some of his people, I’m told.”

“That’ll do us a lot of good. Black Horse, it’s

done.” He quieted, kicked at a scrap of curdled acrylic.

“What does Murchison say about this?”

“Murchison’s dead, sir.”

Hansen muttered to himself. “All right. Mamma’s

in charge then.”

“Yes, sir. He thinks he can eventually repair some

of the leads, and we’ve got replacements for about

twenty percent of the wiring and circuitry, but we need

a complete new generating facility.”

“Any cretin could see that. There’s a hole where

the old one was big enough to fly a skimmer through.”

“The big block of solar cells is crackedthat’s got

to be replaced. Climate control is completely gone

199

that means no air-conditioning, among other things.”

“Among other things,” Hansen echoed disgustedly.

“What have we got left?”

Another glance at the sheaf of hastily scribbled re-

ports. “All hand weapons and four uncharging rifles in-

tact, so we’re far from defenseless. Mamula’s canni-

balized a fresh transformer and all the small batteries

he could scavenge to keep the refrigeration units for

the hospital going. And we’ve got plenty of prepack-

aged emergency rations.”

“Communications?”

“Shot, of course. But the transceiver and tridee in

the shuttle still work fine. All its internal systems are

operating.”

“Pity it’s a shuttle and not a Commonwealth sting-

ship. When’s the next supply ship due?”

“Two and a half weeks, sir, according to schedule.”

Hansen nodded, walked to the nearest door and

strode out onto the porch that still encircled the sta-

tion. “Two and a half weeks,” he repeated, putting his

hands on the tubular railing and studying the distant,

rustling wall of green, the green-brown treetops be-

neath. “Two and a half weeks for a fully equipped first

surface station designed to stand off anything up to

and including an attack by a Commonwealth frigate to

somehow survive a siege by two half-pint loin-clothed

huntersthe bastard religious-fanatic offspring of a

bunch of misdirected colonists!”

“Yes, sir.”

Hansen spun at the voice, roared at the newly ar-

rived figure. “Think your people can handle that,

Cargo? Or do you think we’re outnumbered?!”

Cargo drew himself up stiffly. “I’ve got to do with

what I have, sir, specifically, the best personnel the

company could buy.” The intimation was clear there

might be certain things not even the parent corpora-

tion could purchase.

“If you wish, sir, I could assemble a pursuit force.

We could scour the perimeter until”

“Oh, come on. Cargo,” Hansen muttered, “I don’t

need a sacrificial lamb, either. Your suicide wouldn’t

salve anything. You’d never be able to tell them apart

from the rest of the fauna. They’d pick off your

people one at a timeor else just stay clear of you

and let the forest finish you Off.” He turned back to

the emerald ocean.

“I still can’t figure out what prompted them to

such violence, though. The desire to escape, sure. To

trouble us, surebut to counterattack? They’ve got

to be awfully confident, or awfully angry at some-

thing. I know that Born disapproves of our intentions

here, but he didn’t strike me as the homicidal type.

We’re missing something. I’d like another chance to

talk to him, just to find out how we’ve provoked him

so strongly.”

“I’d like a chance to cut his slimy little throat,”

Cargo responded briskly.

“I hope you get your chance, Cargo. But I wouldn’t

count on seeing him before he sees you.”

Cargo relaxed his stance but not the stiffness in his

voice. “Sir, I spent thirty years in Commonwealth

forces before deciding it was thirty years wasted with

no future. I’ve been with the company four years

now as a Special Projects Security Director. If this

midget gets within arm’s length, you can bet your

administrative certificate I’ll break his neck before

he can kill me.”

“I’m betting more than that on it, Sal.” He looked

skyward. “Going to be another hotmother of god,

what are those?”

Cargo’s head turned and he looked into the faint

blue-green of the southern sky. Three drifting shapes

were slowly nearing the station. Each of them was

half the size of the structure.

“Have we any turrets operational?”

“No, sir,” Cargo told him, still staring at those ap-

paritions. “But we’ve still got the rifles.”

“Set them up in the dome. Leave a few people to

watch the three support trunks and get the rest of

your people up there, too. Leave the guard on the

tunneled trunk, also. I don’t want any surprises from

that direction while we’re occupied with those. Move.”

Shouts and orders resounded throughout the dam-

aged outpost. Anyone with an operational handgun was

directed to report to the dome. No one had to question

201

whythe three Photoid floaters made no attempt to

camouflage their approach.

Logan and Cohoma were among those who found

themselves clustered beneath one of the now retracted

polyplexalloy panels. Three laser rifles were also set

up there, the long tubes aimed skyward now.

Hansen saw the two scouts arrive, beckoned to

Cargo and stalked over to them. “Ever see anything

like those before?”

Logan studied the bloated monsters, fascinated. “No,

Chief, never. I don’t recall Born ever discussing any-

thing like them.”

“Any chance your pygmy might be controlling them,

somehow?” asked Cargo.

Logan considered. “No, I don’t think so. If they’re

dangerous but manipulatable, I think Born would have

summoned them to protect us when we were travel-

ing along the treetop level.”

The floaters were gigantic gas bags, roughly ovoid

and showing rippling, saillike fins on their backs and

at the sides. The steady fluttering of the body-length

protuberances propelled them lazily through the air.

The gas sacs themselves were a pale, translucent blue

through which the sun shone clearly. Beneath each bag

lay a mass of rubbery-looking tissue that folded and re-

folded in on itself like knotted cables. Suspended from

this was a series of short, thick tendrils which shone

like the mirror vines Logan remembered from weeks

in the forest. Colors flashed from turning, spinning

organic prisms, giving the whole creature the appear-

ance of a balloon trying to hatch a rainbow. Longer

tentacles dangled well below this glittering, polished

conglomeration. These had a more natural appearance,

in hue a light blue like the gas sacs, and seemed to

be coated with a dully reflective mucuslike substance.

They continued to drift toward the station while a

little knot of scientists huddled by the mined deep

space transceiver debated whether they were primarily

plant or animal. ^

“Ready on those rifles!” Hansen commanded. So

far the creatures had made nothing resembling a hos-

tile move. But their sheer bulk was making him jittery.

202

The eerie silence with which they approached did

nothing to improve the state of his nerves.

“If they approach within twenty meters, fire,” he

told Cargo, “but not before.” The security chief

nodded.

One of the floaters shifted toward them, those trail-

ing cablelike tentacles twitching in the air. It stopped

outside Hansen’s critical perimeter and hovered there.

Despite the fact that it displayed nothing resembling

an organ of sight, Hansen could not escape the feeling

that it was studying them. It continued hovering there,.

long fins rippling rhythmically to hold it steady, while

the tension within the dome and the rest of the station

rose unbearably.

Someone shouted and all eyes went down and out.

The other two floaters were drifting over the shut-

tiecraftthe last remaining contact with the company,

with the rest of the universe, with help. One long

tentacle dipped, to curl around the shuttle’s bow. The

tentacle pulled curiously, effortlessly. There was a

screech as the shuttle slid a little within its flexible

moorings.

A pencil-thin beam of intense red light reached

across the intervening space to strike the curious

floater. Cargo spun and yelled at the rifle crews. “Who

fired? I gave no order to!”

The beam contacted the gas sac and seemed to

pass straight through at an angle. The floater dropped

slightly at the strike, then regained its altitude and

position. On impact a slight wisp of smoke had risen

from the point where the laser had struck. There was a

faint, barely audible whistling sound, that might have

been a sigh. The floater started to rise, forgetting mo-

mentarily to release the shuttle. Distant pings sounded

clearly across the cleared treetops as one mooring

cable after another snapped like piano strings.

Someone fired a pistol then, and the other rifles

opened up. Cargo raged among his people, but the

rising panicky cries within the station all but drowned

him out. Burst after crimson burst lanced out to strike

at the massive floaters. Whenever one struck a gas sac

the injured floater would drop slightly, then puff itself

up and regain its former height. Bursts which landed

203

among the forest of tentacles glanced off the reflective

stubs and mucus-covered tentacles.

From their position behind a tangle of singing

comb vines. Born Whispered, “They are very patient,

for floaters.”

“Perhaps they will not chose to fight,” Losting wor-

ried aloud.

Behind him, Geeliwan growled. “Floaters’ anger

comes slow, lasts long.”

Whether stimulated by the irritating, persistent stings

of the lasers or by the noisy milling of the tiny shapes

in the station, the floaters finally began to react. Their

shorter, almost quartzlike tendrils shifted, forming com-

plex patterns, instinctive defensive alignmentseven as

the red light from below continued to stab at them.

The sun was high and hot. But within the newly ar-

ranged complex of short tendrils the sunlight was

internally concentrated, reconcentrated, magnified and

remagnified, shuttled and focused and jimmied around

through a farrago of organic lenses, intricate enough

to put the human eye to shame.

From the two nearest floaters beams of immensely

concentrated sunlight struck the station. By and large

the walls of the outpost were honeycomb aluminum

and not duralloy. Where the angry sunlight struck, it

melted away, to bum what lay within.

Hansen fled the dome. So did Cohoma and Logan

and most of the other personnel. Cargo stayed with

his crews, cursing their inaccuracy and ineffectiveness.

He did not realize that the gas sacs of the floaters

were compartmentalized, did not recognize the speed

with which they were replaced, with which fresh gas

was generated in the newly rewalled cells. He failed

to recognize the futility of the laser rifles, which could

bring down a shuttle or major aircraft; failed to even

as the ultraintensified light projected by the third floater

struck the dome, melted away the tough polyplexalloy,

melted away the rifles themselves, melted or ignited

chairs, consoles, flooring, and instrumentation. He re-

alized the failure, however, just as he and the last

rifle crew were carbonized.

The angry floaters remained for half an hour, drift-

ing back and forth across the station. They continued

204

playing energy into the ruins long after the last flicker

of desperate red rose from the smoking wreckage.

Eventually they tired, whatever they possessed for

minds finally sated. Leaving the station pockmarked

with gaps and scorched slashes, fires consuming its

innards, they drifted off to the south whence they had

come.

“Now, let us finish it,” rumbled Losting.

“There may be some left,” Bom argued. “Let us

wait until the flames have finished their work and the

sun has begun its dying.”

As happened now and again, the night-rain began

before evening that day. It was still light enough to

see as they entered the ravaged hulk of the station,

water dripping around them. Droplets sizzled and

hissed where they struck the still superheated metal.

In places the corridor walls had run like butter under

the floaters’ assault. Recooled metal leaped and

plunged.

The hunters entered the outside corridor with snuf-

flers loaded and ready, though neither expected to find

anything alive within the smoking structure.

“Even necessary death is unpleasant,” Bom observed

solemnly, sniffing the penetrating odor of carbonized

flesh. “This is not a place to linger long.”

Losting agreed, pointing down the curving pathway.

“I will take this half and meet you on the other side.

The sooner we conclude this and start Home, the

better I’ll feel.” Bom nodded agreement and started

off in the opposite direction.

The big hunter waited until his companion was out

of sight before following Geeliwan. He did not en-

counter many corpses. Most had either been buried

beneath rubble and slag, or else burned beyond rec-

ognition.

Losting considered the annihilation wrought by the

floaters. Once he had watched while a curious one

prodded with a tree-thick tentacle at a sleeping hunter,

only to leave the dreamer in peace and proceed ami-

ably on its way. He had also seen one of the normally

gentle scavengers have a tentacle bitten in half by a

startled diverdaunt. The floater had proceeded to tear

the carnivore’s tree apart and reduce its upper trunk

205

to splinters before trapping and roasting its attacker.

He wished there had been another way. They were

passing through the far end of what had been the

big skimmer hangar. The swift exploratory disks it

had housed were hardly recognizable now. Most had

their transparent domes crushed in, their hulls re-

duced to slick lumps of fused alloy. One uptilted fuse-

lage held the melted remains of two giants still in

the small circular cockpit, their bones welded whitely

to the metal. Had the surviving giants not pressed the

fight as long as they had, the floaters probably would

have grown bored and eventually drifted off to their

nesting grounds in the south. Instead, these bulky,

panicked assassins had fought to the last, their weap-

ons of red light pathetically useless against the nerv-

ous systems of the translucent Photoids.

Geeliwan suddenly growled and leaped ahead. The

furcot had smelled the smelltoo late. It had been

masked by the miasma of the burning statio n. The

light caught him above the eyes in midjump. He fell

to the floor, a silent, crumpled heap.

Losting had the snuffler up and was firing before

the furcot fell. There was the distinctive soft phut of

the tank seed bursting. In the near dark, someone

screamed. Then it was quiet.

From behind a twisted, bent section of floor an un-

steady figure roseLogan. Swaying, she dropped her

pistol and reached down with both hands to pull the

jacari thorn from her right breast. A tiny blot of red

appeared, staining her tunic. She stared at it dumbly.

Losting had reloaded when the second beam caught

him in the side, ripped through skin, bone, nerves,

and organs. Usually the shock of such extensive,

abrupt destruction was enough to kill instantly. Lost-

ing, however, was not a normal man. He dropped to

his knees, then toppled onto his left side. Still alive,

he clutched with both hands at his side. The snuffler

clattered to the damp metal floor.

Logan staggered forward a couple of steps and

tried to say something to the hunched-up figure on

the floor. Her mouth worked but nothing came out.

Then her eyes glazed over as the potent nerve poison

206

took hold, and she fell like a tree. She lay there un-

moving, a broken toy doll, one arm bent grotesquely

under her.

From a black tunnel nearby two figures rose cau-

tiously. Cohoma walked to the still form of Logan

and knelt beside her. Hansen continued past with

barely a glance at her, toward Losting. Behind him,

finding neither pulse nor heartbeat, the scout pilot

muttered bitterly, “He’s got you there, Kimi.”

The station chief kept his pistol trained on Losting

as he approached. In the hollowness of the death-

filled corridor, the hunter’s breathing sounded loud.

Hansen had lost much of his clothing and all of his

bureaucratic demeanor. He was panting heavily. Kinky

gray hair formed a mat over the bulge of his stomach.

“Before I kill you, Losting, why?”

“Bom knew,” the hunter gasped painfully. A pro-

found numbness slowly blanketed him, creeping over

his body from the bumed side. “He told you. You

take without giving. You take without asking. You

borrow without returning. You do not emfol. Our . . .

world.”

“It’s not your world, Losting,” Hansen said tiredly.

Behind them, Cohoma suddenly looked thoughtful.

He murmured something about empathetic foliation

and forced evolution. Hansen didn’t hear him. “But

you refused to accept that. Too bad.” Hansen turned

and called. “Muerta . . . Hofellow . . . check his

animal.”

A man and woman, one armed with a pistol and the

other with a machete, emerged from the side access-

way. Taking no chances, the woman put another

burst into the head of the supine furcot, but Geeliwan

was already as dead as he would ever be.

“Damnation and hell!” Hansen roared, anger and

frustration finally coming together within him at the

same time. “No reason … no reason for any of

this!” He gestured around, then looked back down at

Losting, his voice full of sorrow at the waste. “Don’t

you seeyou didn’t stop us! I’ve got four people”

He glanced back at Logan’s motionless body. “No-

three people left.”

Every word caused a sharp pain to shoot through

Losting. Each one was a new surprise. “You are all

dead. All your little sky-boats are broken and so is

the big . . . shuttle. Your little weapons are dead and

so are your walls and webs. The stormtreader beat

the life from them. The forest will come for you, now.”

Hansen wore an expression of pity. “No, Losting.

It was a good try you made. You almost did it. But

we’ve plenty of food, and water from the sky every

night. I know how fast this hylaea grows. It may very

well obscure the station before our next relief ship ar-

rives. It’s true our shuttlecraft can’t fly again. But its

internal systems check out operational, including com-

munications. I don’t believe those gas-bag prisms will

come back, and I don’t think we’ll be attacked by

anything else capable of penetrating a ship hull. This

forest can bury us under an avalanche of green, but

our distress signal will still be picked up.

“You’ve managed to cost some people a lot of

credits and a lot of trouble. They won’t be pleased.

But they’ll rebuild this station, start over againbecause

of the immortality extract, Losting., You can’t begin

to imagine what ends people will go to to secure it.

“We won’t make the same mistakes again. We’ll

rebuild halfway around this planet, far from your

tribe. The new outpost will have aerial patrols, three

times as many guns and bigger, with independent

power-up systems. And we’ll make a clear space four

tunes as wide and twice as deep.

“No, we won’t make the same mistakes again.

You’re a brave man, Losting, but you’ve failed. A

great pity. I’d rather have been your friend.”

“Grv … rbber …” Losting whispered.

Hansen leaned close, the muzzle of the pistol never

wavering. “What’s that? I didn’t hear-?”

“You would steal everything,” the hunter rasped,

“even a man’s soul, even a flower’s smell.”

Hansen shook his head slowly, sadly. “I don’t un-

derstand you, Losting. I don’t know if we could ever

understand one another.”

He was still shaking his head when the jacari from

Bom’s snuffler punctured the side of his neck.

It was over quickly. Ruumahum brought down the

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pair bending over Geeliwan’s corpse. Bom’s axe

stopped Cohoma before the bigger man could pull

his pistol.

The hunter cut at the fallen giants more than was

necessary. He was still hacking away at the bodies

long after most of the blood had drained away, until

his fury had done likewise. Exhausted, he stumbled

over to slump down by the body of the man he had

hated most in all the world. Ruumahum was sniffing

at Geeliwan’s flank,, but there was no hope for the

fallen furcot. That remarkable system was not in-

vulnerable. Logon’s beam had cut the brain. A slow

trickle of dark green seeped from a severed vein in

the skull and stained the olivine fur.

The face of the fallen hunter was twisted with a pain

that was more than physical. “No luck . . . not for

Losting. You always . . . win. Born. Always one

branch ahead of Losting, one word, one deed. Not

fair, not fair. So much death … why?”

“You know why, hunter,” Born muttered awk-

wardly. “There was a disease, a parasite come new

to the world. It fell upon us to cut it out. It would

have killed the Home. You saved the Home, hunter.”

His voice cracked. “I love you, my brother.”

Born sat there and conjured solemn images while

Ruumahum squatted on hind legs and mourned with

the weeping sky. They remained like that until time

brought a new day and light.

The first wave of unchallenged cubbies, creepers,

fom, and aerial shoots was already pimpling the once

smooth edges of the clearing when Bom and Ruuma-

hum set on their way.

Two bodiesone human, one furcotwere secured

to Ruumahum’s broad back. To think of returning

all the way Home with such a burden was absurd.

It would slow them, hinder them, endanger them. But

neither Ruumahum nor Born for a moment thought

of returning without them.

Bom remembered the words of the Hansen-chieftain

as he had crawled near enough to kill him, last night

in the darkness and ram. The words were false. He

did not think the giants would try another station

elsewhere on the worldnot now. Not with all their

work here swallowed up whole, wordlessly, inexplica-

bly. Even if they did, they could not find the burls

they wanted. Not on the other side of the world.

If they tried here, they would never get their light

weapons and metals in place. The tribe would see to

that. Other tribes would be told. The warning would

be spread.

Brightly Go was the first to greet him on their re-

turn, when they staggered into the village exhausted

and half dead many seven-days later. She did not stay

with him for long after she saw Losting’s body. To

his mild surprise, Bom found he didn’t care.

Then he slept for two days, and Ruumahum a day

longer.

The tale was told to the council.

“We will guard against their coming. We will not

let them set their sickness in the world again,” Sand

declared when the relating was finished. Reader and

Joyla agreed.

Now there was only one last thing to be done.

The next night the people took their torches and

children and moved into the forest with the bodies of

Losting and Geeliwan. For this Longago they sought

out the greatest of They-Who-Keepthe tallest, the

oldest, the strongest. This tree was the final resting

place for the Home’s most honored returnees. Ignoring

the greater danger from nocturnal sky-demons and ma-

rauding canopy-dwellers, the procession climbed up to

the First Level.

The ceremony was chanted then, the words recited

in tones more solemn than any could remember. Then

the bodies were treated with the oils and herbs and

interred in the cavity, side by side. The humus and

organic debris were set in place over them.

Losting would have enjoyed that eulogy. His prow-

ess and skill as hunter, his strength and courage were

expanded upon and praised. By his fellow hunters, by

Sand and Joyla, by Bom, especially by Bom. So much

so that the madman had to be led away by two others.

It was done.

The ceremony concluded, the double file of men

and women and children began the long spiraling

journey back to the Home, flanked on either side by

their silent furcots.

The towering They-Who-Keep stood beneath wailing

clouds as the last trailing torch was snuffed out by

the all-encompassing dark greenery. Dark forest, green

and unfathomablewho knew what thoughts arose

in those malachite-colored depths?

Two days later a bud that grew near the base of

the They-Who-Keep ripened to maturity. The tough

skin shattered, and a small emerald shape spilled out,

its bristling wet fur reachi ng for the faint streamers

of sunlight. Three tiny eyes blinked open and small

ivory tusks peeped out from the still damp edges of

an as yet unopened mouth. Then the thing yawned

and struggled to preen itself.

Fighting and twisting, the last green rootlets on its

back pulled free from the lining of the seed-bud. They

lay back and became fur, drinking in the sunlight.

Photosynthesis began within the small body.

Mewling at the enormity of the world, the infant

furcot looked around to see bright orbs gleaming at

it in the day-shadows.

“I am Ruumahum,” the mind behind those eyes

announced. “Come with me to the brethren and the

people.”

The adult turned. Weakly, but with increasingly

confident steps, the cub followed the elder up into the

light.

Far above, a newbom child squalled at its mother’s

breast.

Forces stirred within the greatest of the They-Who-

Keep at the new intrusion. The tree reacted, secreting

a tough woody sap around the two forms to isolate

and shield the vulnerable organic material. The sap

hardened quickly, forming an impenetrable barrier to

bacteria, mold, and insects.

Within the high branch, sap and strange fluids

flowed and worked, dissolving and adding, reconstruct-

211

ing and preserving, reviving and reconstituting. Minute

derivatives of the new intrusion were distributed

throughout the whole seven-hundred-meter-high growth

while tiny portions of other, older intrusions were

carried to the new addition from other branches.

Bones were dissolved and carried off, flesh and

needless organs disappeared. They were replaced by

a network of patient black filamentswoody neurons.

Old neural links of human and furcot were plugged

into this vast network. New nutrients energized the

metamorphosed cellular structures.

The process of blending Losting and Geeliwan into

the soul-mind of the They-Who-Keep took forever

and not long at all. The world-forest was unceasingly

efficient. New sap moved, chemicals that should not

have been were produced. Stimulus was applied to the

new area. Catalyzation occurred.

Losting and Geeliwan became something more,

something greater. They became a part of the They-

Who-Keep matrix-mind, which in turn was only a

single lobe of the still greater forest-mind.

For the forest dominated the world with no name. It

evolved and changed and grew. It added to itself.

When the first humans had reached it, the world-

nexus saw their threat and their promise. The forest

had strength and resilience and fecundity and variety.

It was adding to its intelligence now, slowly, patiently,

in the way of the plant.

Losting, feeling the last faint trace of no-longer-

needed individuality fading away, feeling himself flow

into the greater mind formed of dozens of human and

many They-Who-Keep minds, all linked through the

minds of the tree-bom furcots, rejoiced.

“You didn’t win, Bom!” he cried triumphantly as

the greatness swallowed him. Then envy vanished and

he was a part of the greater whole, such human moods

and emotions sloughed off like a dead crysalis. The

forest-mind grew a little more. Soon it would add

Bom and Ruumahum and the others. Soon it would

reach the end of its Plan. Then humans and any

others would not be able to come and kill and cut

with impunity. Eventually, it would reach out across

the vast emptiness it now was starting to sense dimly,

and then…

In the forest, Bom emfoled a struggling sprout and

smiled with it at the goodness of the day. He glanced

upward at his beloved strange sky and was unaware

he was looking beyond it.

Universe! Beware the child cloaked in green bunt-

ing.