The Primitives
Galaxy – April 1966
(1966)*
Frank Herbert

It was the kind of crime a man could take pride in—hoisting a diamond from Mars with a girl from the past!

-

I

	The sinking of the Soviet propaganda ship for the sole purpose of stealing the Mars diamond was a typical Conrad Rumel (alias Swimmer) crime: a gigantic nose-thumbing for profit. And Swimmer had the gigantic nose for it, plus a hair line that crowded his eyebrows, small gray-green eyes, a chin that almost vanished into his neck and a wide thick-lipped mouth like a hungry sea bass.

	When he was seventeen, Swimmer had decided his physical ugliness left him only one suitable career—crime. He came from a family noted for professional specialists—mathematicians, surgeons, physicists, teachers, biochemists. It was no surprise then that Swimmer chose to specialize. His specialty was underwater crime.

	He'd had his first gill mask and equalizer suit at the age of five (the gift of a father who preferred him out of sight) and there'd soon been no doubt that Swimmer was at home in his chosen element.

	Good breeding had marked him, though: he drew the line at bloodshed and murder. If there was any single modus operandi stamp on Swimmer's crimes (beyond touches that betrayed physical cowardice) it was bizarre humor. It's noteworthy that he sank the Soviety ship in shallow water when only five men of the anchor watch were aboard (the others being ashore at an official Mexican fiesta-reception) and the five were all on deck. Swimmer had thoughtfully provided an open carton of a product called "Flotation Palsies" which bobbed to the surface and provided the buoyancy on which the five Russians made their way safely to a nearby beach.

	By the nature of the crime and his subsequent actions, Swimmer had hoped to involve a professional mobster named Bime Jepson. Disposal of the Mars diamond was going to be no easy matter and Swimmer's sense of honor insisted he owed this to Jepson. Their last mutual enterprise had gone exceedingly sour, costing Jepson a bundle which he quoted at $288,764.51.

	Jepson's reaction then came at a surprise.

-

	"This is a diamond?" he sneered, staring at the object in his hands. The stone was bluish-white, cloud-surfaced, about the size and shape of a medium cantaloupe. "Are you nuts or something?" Jepson demanded. "This is ... is ..." His one-track mind struggled for a suitable word. "This is a rock. This is a chunk of nothing!" His narrow blue eyes glared with anger.

	They stood in the bedroom of Jepson's suite on the 324th floor of the Mazatlan Hilton. Corner windows opened to a view of the ocean and city, colors blaring and gaudy in the bright Mexican afternoon.

	Jepson lifted his attention from the stone. He fixed his gaze on the dark-haired oversize gnome of a man who had brought this unpleasantness. The man was a walking reminder of their last encounter—all that money sunk into an invention by one of Swimmer's professional uncles, Professor Amino Rumel.

	Uncle Professor's project was a time machine of uncertain function. Apprised of the device by Swimmer, Jepson had conceived the idea of a sortie into the past backed by a crew with modern arms, the object being to raid the treasury of Knossos. (One of Jepson's mistresses had read a work of fiction in which this treasure figured.)

	After all those megabucks, Uncle Professor had pronounced the machine as requiring "much more development."

	"It didn't work," was Jepson's summation. And he was a man who did not like to be thwarted. Only the fact that Uncle Professor was "one of them" (legitimate) and the latent hope that the device might yet be made to work had prevented Jepson from committing bloody violence. Now, here was this creep-nephew, Swimmer, back with more trouble.

	Swimmer had read the signs of anger. He said: "Jep, I swear that's ..."

	"You swear nothing! This ain't no diamond! A diamond's something with ... something you can ..."

	"Jep, let me explain about ..."

	"Ain't you been warned never to interrupt me. Swimmer?"

	Swimmer retreated a short step toward the door. "Now, don't go getting excited, Jep."

	Jepson threw the stone onto the unmade bed behind him. "A diamond!" he sneered.

	"Jep, that rock's worth ..."

	"Sharrup!"

	His heart pounding, Swimmer took two steps backward, stood pressed against the door facing Jepson. This was not going at all as he had anticipated.

	"I should call in the boys and teach you a little manners," Jepson growled. "How many times I gotta tell you don't interrupt?" Jepson scowled. "Only reason the boys let you in was you told 'em you heisted a diamond too hot for you to handle. Everybody knows how big hearted I am. I'm here to help my friends with little matters like that. But I ain't here to help my friends with ... with ... I ain't here to be woke up every time some beachbum finds a big pebble what's good for nothing but tying around somebody's neck so they should sink!"

-

	"Can I say something, Jep?" Swimmer pleaded.

	"Say anything you want, but say it somewheres else. I want you should get outa here and—"

	"Jep!" Swimmer pleaded.

	"Interrupt me once more, Swimmer, and I lose my temper."

	By its lack of inflection, Jepson's voice managed to convey a profound menace.

	Swimmer nodded silently. He hadn't anticipated instant rage from Jepson. Everything depended on being able to explain.

	"You think I don't recognize this rock?" Jepson asked.

	Swimmer shook his head from side to side.

	"This is the Mars diamond," Jepson said. "Diamond! It's the rock them Ruskie's brung back in their spaceship. It was in their floating museum out in the harbor just yesterday. I seen it there myself. Does that answer all your questions, Swimmer?"

	"But it's worth maybe ten million dollars!" Swimmer blurted. "Everybody said ..."

	"It ain't worth ten Mexican cents! Didn't you see all them charts and things in with it?"

	Swimmer patted a breast pocket of his permadry suit and a dollop of water trapped there spurted out onto the rug. He gulped, said: "I brought them, too. The diagrams, everything."

	"Then you shoulda known better," Jepson snarled. "There ain't no diamond cutter in the world'd touch this thing. Ain't no cutter wouldn't recognize it in the first place. And in the second place, them charts show why this diamond can't be cut without it breaks into chips worth maybe two-bits apiece. It's impossible to cut this thing, you dumbhead! And in the third place, this is what they call a cultural relic of Mars what the Russkies and every cop in the world's gonna be looking for soon's they find it missing. And you hadda bring it here!"

	For Jepson, this was a long, speech. He stopped to collect his thoughts. Stupid creep Swimmer!

	Swimmer stood trembling with the desire to speak and the fear of what might happen if he did.

	Jepson looked out the window, returned a speculative stare to Swimmer. "How'd you heist it?"

	"I sank the boat. While everybody was splashing around topside, I went in with a gill mask and burner, opened the case and took off across the bay. It was easy."

	Jepson slapped his forehead with the heel of his right hand. "You sunk the boat!" He sighed. "Well, I'm gonna do you a favor. Not because I wanta, but because I hafta. I'm gonna see this rock finds its way back into the bay near the Russky boat like maybe it fell overboard. And you ain't never gonna mention this thing again, right?"

	"Jep," Swimmer said, speaking with desperate urgency, "maybe I know a cutter."

-

	Jepson studied him, interested in spite of the lessons from past experiences with Swimmer. "A cutter who could handle this rock? A cutter who'd even try it?"

	"She'll work any rock, Jep. And she won't recognize it and she won't care where it came from."

	"She?"

	Swimmer wiped his forehead. He had Jepson's interest now. Maybe Jepson would come along after all.

	"That's right, she," Swimmer said. "And there isn't a cutter in this world can hold a candle to her."

	"I never heard of no dame cutter," Jepson said. "I din't think they had the nerves for it."

	"This is a brand new one, Jep."

	"A new cutter," Jepson mused. "A dame. Is she a looker?"

	"I' doubt it, but I've never seen her."

	"You've never seen her, but you've got her?"

	"I've got her."

	"Awwww," Jepson said. He shook his head. "I find it interesting you have a new cutter on the string, but nobody can cut this rock. You seen them charts. The Russkies don't make mistakes like that. This rock is for nobody. It can't be cut."

	"I think this cutter can do it," Swimmer said.

	The stubborn set to Swimmer's mouth whetted Jepson's interest. It wasn't like Swimmer to be stubborn in the face of determined opposition.

	"Where you got this cutter?" Jepson asked.

	Swimmer wet his lips with his tongue. This was the ticklish part, Jepson's temper being what it was. "You remember my uncle Amino and his advice for you to be patient about ..."

	"Ahhh, hah!" Jepson barked. He pointed to the door. "Out! You hear me, creep? Out!"

	"Jep, the time machine works!"

-

	Silence dragged out for a dozen heartbeats while Swimmer wondered if he had timed that revelation correctly, and while Jepson reminded himself that this possibility was one of the reasons he hadn't obliterated Swimmer.

	Presently, Jepson said: "It works?"

	"I swear it, Jep. It works, but the controls aren't too ... well, accurate. Sometimes my uncle says it balks and ... it doesn't go precisely where you want."

	"But it works?" Jepson demanded.

	"It brought back this cutter," Swimmer said. "From perhaps twenty or thirty thousand years ago."

	A muscle twitched on Jepson's left cheek and his jaw line went hard. "I thought you said your cutter dame was a expert."

	Swimmer took a deep breath, wondering how he could explain paleolithic culture to a man like Jepson. The patois of the underworld didn't fit the job.

	"You ain't got nothing to say?" Jepson asked.

	"I'm quoting my uncle, who's a very truthful man," Swimmer said "According to my uncle, the people of this dame's culture made all their tools out of stone. They have what my uncle calls an intuition about stones and working with them. He's the one said she could cut the Mars diamond."

	Jepson frowned. "Did Uncle Professor fall off the legit? He put you up to this job?"

	"Oh, no! None of my family know how I ... ahh, make my living."

	Jepson groped backward with one foot, found the edge of the bed, sat down. "How much more loot does Uncle Professor need to fix his machine?"

	"You have it all wrong, Jep. It isn't a matter of loot. My uncle says there are local anomalies and force-time variations and that it very likely will be impossible ever to steer the machine very close to a time mark." 

	"But it works?"

	"With these limitations."

	"Then why ain't I heard about it? Thing like this, seems it'd be more important than any Mars diamond. Why ain't it big news?"

	"My uncle's trying to determine if his force-time variation theory is correct. Besides, he has a plan to present his stone-age woman before a scientific meeting and he's collecting supporting evidence. And he says he's having trouble teaching her how to talk. She thinks he's some kind of god."

	"I'm beginning to be very interested in what you tell me," Jepson said. "So say some more."

	"You're not mad any more, Jep?"

	"I've said unkind words. So? Maybe I'm entitled. Leave us now say that interest has overcome my unhappiness. You sure your uncle didn't plan this little job?"

-

	Swimmer shook his head. "Uncle Amino wouldn't take any part of action like this. He's cubed. No, this was mine. After our—you know—I was on the shorts. I figured to do this one for the ready and cut you in because ... well, I owe it to you. You'll get your bundle back with interest. And this is a job with style, Jep. The Mars diamond—impossible to cut. But we cut it."

	"And who's to believe?" Jepson said. He nodded. "You think this gal of your Uncle Professor's can do it?"

	"I ran into Uncle Amino up in Long Beach. He was there buying equipment when the Russian ship made port and the Mars diamond was big news. Uncle Amino read this part about it being impossible to cut and he laughed. He said his gal could cut it into a watch fob for Premier Sherdakov if she wanted. That's the first I knew about the gal and about the machine working. He's been keeping it pretty secret, as I explained. Well ... what he said, that's what gave me the idea. I questioned my uncle; he was serious. This stone-age gal can do it. He insists she can."

	Jepson nodded. "If he says this cutter can do it, perhaps ... just perhaps, mind you, we could do business. It don't go until I see for myself, though."

	Swimmer allowed himself a deep sigh. "Well, naturally, Jep."

	Jepson pursed his lips. "I tell you a thing, Swimmer. You ain't done this entirely outa kindness for me. You heist this rock, you maybe start a international incident, but you ain't got no way to get the rock outa Mexico."

	Swimmer stared at his feet, suppressed a smile. "I guess I didn't fool you a bit, Jep. I have to get the rock up north. I have to get the cutter away from my uncle and I need a place where she can work. I need organization. You have organization."

	"Organization is expensive," Jepson said.

	Swimmer looked up. "We deal?"

	"Seventy-five and twenty-five," Jepson said.

	"Ahhh, Jep! I was thinking fifty-five, forty-five." At the look in Jepson's eyes, he said: "Sixty-forty?"

	"Sharrup before I make it eighty-twenty," Jepson said. "Just be glad you got a friend like me who'll help when you need."

	"There's a few million bucks in this thing," Swimmer said, fighting to keep the hurt and anger from his voice. "The split's—"

	"The split stands," Jepson said. "Seventy-five and twenty-five. We don't argue. Besides, I'm nuts even to listen to you. Every time you say dough I buy trouble. This time, I better get some of my investment back. Now, you go out and tell Harpsy to slip the dolls some coin and send 'em packing. We gotta concentrate on getting this rock over the border. And that is gonna take some doing."

II

	The chalet nestled furtively wren-brown within the morning shadows of pines and hemlocks on a lake island. The lake itself was a sheet of silvered glass reflecting upside down images of the island and a dock on its south shore. Two airboats had been brought up under the trees and hidden beneath instiflage netting. 

	Seated in shadows above the dock, a man with a blast-pellet swagrifle puffed nervously on an alerto cigaret. Two other men, similarly armed and similarly drugged to eye-darting sensitivity, patrolled the island's opposite shore.

	The sounds of an argument could be heard coming from within what had been the chalet's dining room and now was a jury-rigged workshop. It was only one of many arguments that had consumed considerable time during the past five days of harried flight northward from Mazatlan.

	Swimmer, for one, was sick of the arguing, but he knew of no non-violent way to silence his uncle. Things were not going at all as he had planned. First, there had been the disconcerting discovery that a Mexican boy had identified him from mug files as the man who had walked out of the water wearing a normal business suit (permadry) and gill mask and carrying a "white rock."

	Jepson's organization had smuggled Swimmer over the border concealed in a freight load of canteloupes. One of the canteloupes had been hollowed out to hold the diamond.

	Next, Swimmer's uncle—alerted by the front-page hullabaloo—had absolutely balked at cooperating in anything his wayward nephew wanted.

	Jepson had lost his temper, had given terse orders to his boys and here they all were now—somewhere in Canada or northern Minnesota.

	Arguing.

	Only one of the dining room's occupants had failed to participate in the arguments. She answered to the name of Ob (although her own people had called her Kiunlan, which translated as Graceful Shape).

-

	Kiunlan-Op stood five feet one inch tall. Professor Amino Rumel's lab scales had placed her weight at one hundred twenty-seven pounds nine ounces. Her blue-black hair had been drawn back and tied with a red ribbon. She had a low forehead and large, wide-set blue-gray eyes. Her nose was flat and with large nostrils. Both chin and mouth were broad, the lips thick. Fifteen welted red scars down the left side of her face told the initiated that she had seen fifteen summers and had not yet littered. A simple brown pullover dress belted at the waist covered her heavy-legged body, but failed to conceal the fact that she had four breasts.

	This feature had first attracted Swimmer's fascinated attention. He had then noted her hands. These bore thick horn callouses over palms and fingers and along the inner edges of the fingers—even occasionally on the backs of the fingers, especially around the nails.

	Ob stood now beside a bench that had replaced the chalet dining room's table. One of her hands rested on the back of a high stool drawn up to the bench. The Mars diamond lay on a cushioned square of black velvet atop the bench. The stone's milky surface reflected a faint yellow from the spotlight hanging close to it on a gooseneck.

	As the argument progressed, Ob's attention shifted fearfully from speaker to speaker. First, there were many angry noises from Gruaaack, the super devil-god who was called Proff Ess Orr. Then came equally loud and angry noises from the big stout devil-god called Jepp, the one whose eyes blazed with the threat of unknown terrors and who obviously was superior over all the others in this place.

	Sometimes there were softer sounds from the smaller creature who had accompanied the devil-god Jepp. The status of this creature was not at all clear. He appeared to Ob to be vaguely human. The face was not at all unpleasant And he seemed to share some of Ob's fears. She thought perhaps the other creature was a human snared like herself by these terrible beings.

	"Yes, she's a genius at shaping stones!" Uncle Professor blared. "Yes! Yes! But she's still a primitive creature whose understanding of what we want is definitely limited."

	He paced back and forth in front of Ob and the bench, a bald, skinny little man trembling with indignation.

	Thieves, assassins, kidnappers, he thought. How could Conrad have become associated with such a crew? Coming on him in his lab that way, crating his equipment without a by-your-leave and spiriting him off to this remote place.

	"You through yakking?" Jepson asked.

	"No, I am not," Uncle Professor said. He pointed to the diamond on the bench. "That ... that is no ordinary diamond. That is the Mars diamond. Turning such a priceless stone over to  ..."

	"Sharrup!" Jepson said.

	Creeps with their stupid arguments, he thought

-

	Uncle Professor glanced at his nephew. There's been some bad moments during the past few days of their furtive journey. Again, the Professor wondered about nephew Conrad. Could the boy have been deceived by Jepson? The man was a criminal and that obviously was where all his money came from—all the money provided to develop the time machine. Was it possible this Jepson had dragged poor Conrad into this nefarious scheme through some terrible threat?

	In a quiet voice, Jepson said: "Did you or din't you tell your nephew the Swimmer here that your gal could cut this Mars rock?"

	"Yes, I said that; I said she could cut any stone, but ..."

	"So awright. I want she should cut."

	"Will you please try to underhand?" the Professor pleaded. "Ob undoubtedly can cut your stone. But any idea of facets and deriving the maximum brilliance from a given gem—this probably is outside her understanding. She's accustomed to functional artifacts, to simpler purposes in her ..."

	"Simple. Schmimple!" Jepson snarled. "You're stalling. What's it, huh? D'you lie about this dame? Alla stories I ever see 'bout creeps like her, the guys did the stone cutting and the dames sat around caves hiding from tigers they got teeth six feet long."

	"We're going to have to revise our previous hypotheses about stone-age divisions of labor," the Professor said. "As nearly as I can make out from Ob, women made the tools and weapons while the men did the hunting. Their society was matriarchal with certain women functioning somewhat like priestesses. Cave-Mothers, I believe it would translate."

	"Yeah? I ain't so sure. What about them things?"

	"Things?" The Professor peered at Jepson with a puzzled frown.

	"She's got four of 'em!" Jepson barked. "I think you're trying to pass off some freak as ..

	"Oh," the Professor said. "Four, yes. That's very curious. About one in fourteen million human female births today demonstrate a condition of more than two mammaries. Heretofore, there've been three major hypotheses: one, mutation; two, absorbed sibling, and three, ahh ... throwback. Ob is living proof of the third case. Multiple births were more frequent in her time, you see? It's quite simple: female were required to suckle more infants. A survival characteristic that gradually disappear-as multiple births declined."

	"You don't say." Jepson growled.

	"George was particularly elated," the Professor said, "since he had maintained the third case."

	"George? Who is George?" Jepson demanded.

	"My associate, Professor George Elwin," the Professor said.

	"You didn't tell me about no George," Jepson said. "When I was sinking all that loot in your stupid machine, there wasn't no George around. Who's he, your new mark?"

	"Mark?" The Professor glanced at Swimmer back to Jepson.

	Swimmer tried to swallow in a dry throat, sensing how near Jepson was to a violent explosion of rage. Swimmer found it odd that his uncle couldn't see the danger.

	"I don't really see where my associate is any concern of yours," the Professor said. "But if ..."

	"How many people know about that time machine—" Jepson pointed to the large crate in the corner behind him—" and about this Ob dame?"

	"Well, you know, of course, and ..."

	"Don't get smart with me, creep! Who knows?"

-

	The Professor stared at him, aware at last of the suppressed rage. Professor Rumel's mouth felt suddenly dry, Criminals such as this could be most violent—murderously so, at times.

	"Well, aside from those of us here in this room, there are Professor Elwin and very likely two or three of George's assistants. I didn't impose any special strictures of secrecy other than to suggest we'd wait for the complete investigation before publishing our ..."

	"How come this George?" Jepson demanded.

	"Well, my dear sir, someone with the proper training had to go to Northern France and seek the archeological authentication. Inevitably, there will be cries of fraud, you know."

	Jepson screwed his face into a puzzled frown. "Archeo ... What's this Northern France bit?"

	The Professor's face came alight with the glow of a man launched on his favorite subject. "You may not know it, Mr. Jepson, but paleolithic artifacts bear markings that are, in some respects, as distinctive as the brushstrokes of a master painter. Now, under strictly controlled archeological conditions, we're seeking some of Ob's work in situ—where she originally made it."

	"Yeah?" Jepson said.

	"You see, Mr. Jepson, as nearly as we can determine, Ob came from the region just east of Cambrai in Northern France. This is something more than an educated guess. We have several pieces of evidence—a scrap of obsidian which Ob—you see how I got her name ... my little joke: Ob for obsidian ... well, this piece of obsidian she carried on her when we picked her up is of a type common in the region we've selected. There was also plant pollen on her person, types of clay soil in the mud on her feet and a photograph of the background landscape which we took as we snatched Ob from ..."

	"Yeah," Jepson said. "So only a few of us know about her."

	"Quite," the Professor said. "I'm sure you can see why we decided to delay any publication and prevent idle speculation. Nothing destroys the essential character of scientific endeavor more than Sunday supplement romanticizing."

	"Yeah," Jepson said. "Just like you tol' me."

	"And there's the ethical problem," the Professor said. "Some people may question the morality of our bringing this human being out of her natural habitat in the past. I, personally, incline to the theory that Ob's time-stream diverted from ours at the moment of her removal from her—and our—personal past. However, if you ..."

	"Yeah, yeah!" Jepson barked.

	Keerist! he thought. The old creep could yak all day about nothing. Big words! Big words! Didn't mean a thing.

III

	Swimmer looked from one to the other and marveled at the low level of communication between his uncle and Jepson. The Professor might just as well be talking to Ob for all the sense he was making. Swimmer fingered the gill mask in his pocket, thinking of it as a back-door way of escape should things get completely out of hand here.

	"As I was about to say," the Professor said, "if you consider the equation of historical interference as one element of your total ..."

	"Yeah!" Jepson exploded. "That's very interesting. But what I wanna know is why can't I show this Ob dame a rock and say I want some other rock cut likewise and such and so? She could do the thing like that, ain't it?"

	The Professor sighed and threw up his hands. He'd thought he'd penetrated Jepson's strange jargon, conveyed some of the problems to the man, but not a bit of it appeared to have gotten through.

	"Din't you say she was a expert?" Jepson demanded.

	"Given time," The Professor said in a patient, long-suffering tone, "I do believe Ob could make one of the finest diamond cutters in the world. We've a few industrial diamond chips in the lab and part of our examination of her involved seeing what she could do with them. She needed no more than a glance to see the natural cleavage lines. No fumbling or mistakes. Just one practical glance. But I wish to warn you—the measure of her understanding may be seen in the fact she thought the diamonds too hard for practical purposes."

	"But she worked them rocks okay?"

	"If that's what you want to call it."

	"Did she have any better tools than we got here?" Jepson motioned to the rack at the rear of the bench, the cutter's vice clamped to one end.

	"Not as good."

	"She know how to use them tools?"

	"She has a natural tool sense and she's quite awed by our equipment. She's an intuitive worker. You might say she lives the stone. Indeed, she appears to project ideas of life and animism into the stones she works."

	"Yeah," Jepson said. "So left get busy." He turned and studied Ob.

-

	She lowered her gaze under the pressure of that stare from the angry devil-god. Ob felt she understood what was wanted of her. She had a much better grasp of the language than she had permitted the devil-gods to suspect. The training imparted by her Cave Mother fitted well here: "When dealing with devil-gods and spirits, give them the obedience and subservience they demand. But dissemble, always dissemble."

	A pang of homesickness shot through her and her lower lip trembled, but she suppressed the emotion. A female trained to the cave-motherhood and the creation of living tools did not give way, even before devil-gods. And there was work to do here, creation for which she had been trained. Beyond her understanding of the devil-gods' words, there were much more direct ways of divining their desires. They had brought her into the presence of their wondrous tools and they had set up the stone as for a sacrifice. The stone was one of the difficult, very hard ones, and its grain had been criss-crossed and twisted by unimaginable forces. But Ob could see the points of entry and the manner in which the work should progress.

	"Tell her what she should do," Jepson said.

	"I refuse to have any more to do with this," the Professor said. Swimmer blanched. "Nobody," Jepson said in a low, cold voice, "but nobody refuses what I say do. You, Uncle Professor, will get across to your cutter dame what it is she should do. You will do this or I will permit you to watch my boys cut up your creep nephew here into exceedingly small pieces. We wouldn't want the fishes should choke while they are disposing of him. Do I make myself plain?"

	"You wouldn't dare," the Professor said. But even as he spoke he sensed that Jepson would indeed dare. The man was a criminal monster ... and they were at his mercy.

	Swimmer stood trembling. Now, he regretted ever having started this exploit. The gill mask in his pocket was useless. Jepson would never let him get off this island alive if there were the slightest upset in his plans.

	Grudgingly, the Professor said: "Just what is it you want me to do, Mr. Jepson?"

	"We been through all that!" Jepson snarled. "Get your dame started on this rock. The big-domes say it can't be cut. So let's see her cut it."

	"It's on your head," the Professor said.

	"Yeah," Jepson said. "So do."

-

	Swimmer took a deep breath as the Professor turned toward Ob. It was obvious to Swimmer now that Jepson had plans of his own concerning the cutter dame. The Mars diamond was merely a preliminary. Swimmer suspected he shortly would have no place in Jepson's plans. And people who had no place in Jepson's plans sometimes disappeared.

	As these thoughts went through Swimmer's mind, Ob looked at him with such a weight of shared understanding that he wondered if the ancients had possessed a telepathic faculty which had been lost in the genetic ebb and flow of the ensuing eons. And he wondered suddenly at the terrors this poor creature must be undergoing—and hiding so well. She'd been snatched from her place and time, taken forever from her friends. There could be no sending her back; the time machine couldn't be controlled that well. And here she was now, in Jepson's hands.

	Something would have to be done about Jepson, Swimmer thought. He shivered with fear of what he had to do ... and the fear of what would happen if he failed in any step.

	"Ob," the Professor said. Ob looked at Gruaaack, trying to convey by her waiting silence the almost frantic desire to please. Thank whatever benign spirits might hover near this place, the devil-gods were through fighting, she thought.

	"Ob," the Professor repeated, "look at this stone." He pointed to the Mars diamond on its bed of black velvet.

	Ob looked at the stone. The Professor spoke slowly and distinctly: "Ob can you work this stone?"

	Such a difficult stone, Ob thought. But there was a way. The devil-god Gruaaack must know this. It was a test then. The devil-god was testing her.

	"Ob. Work. Stone," she said.

	Swimmer marveled at the throaty quality of her voice.

	"First, you must cut off a small piece of the stone," the Professor said.

	Yes, it is a test, Ob thought. Everyone knows the work progresses a small chip at a time. This was such a difficult stone, though. The first cut would be somewhat larger than usual. Still, the cut would remove a small enough piece.

	"Small Piece," she agreed.

	"Do you have the tools you need?" the Professor asked. He indicated the vise, jeweler's mallet and wedges on the bench.

	Another test, Ob thought

	"Need. Wa. Ter," she said. "Need. Ongh-ongh."

	"What the devil's a ong-ong?" Jepson asked. "I never heard no cutter ask for a ong-ong."

	"I've no idea," the Professor said. "She's never used the term before." He turned a puzzled frown on Jepson. "Surely you must see now how limited our communication really is. There exists such a wide gap in ..."

	"So get 'er a ong-ong!" Jepson barked.

	Ob looked from one devil-god to the other. They must have ongh-ongh, she thought. Wherever there was fire there was ongh-ongh. She looked at Swimmer, seeing only the fear in him. He must be another human like herself. She turned her attention to Gruaaack. Could this be another test? It was very puzzling. She picked up the Mars diamond in one horn-calloused hand, drew a finger along it. "Ongh-ongh."

	The Professor shrugged. "Oh, you get ongh-ongh," he said.

	Ob sighed. Another test.

	She clasped the Mars diamond in both hands headed for the chalet's living room. There was a fire-hole in the living room; she had smelled it and seen it.

	The living room had been furnished with heavy rustic furniture and Mexican fabrics. The colorful upholstery filled Ob with awe. What manner of animal could have produced such skins? she wondered. Devil-god land must possess many terrors.

	Two of Jepson's boys sat at a round table near the windows, overlooking the lake. They were eating and playing poker. A fire had been layed in the stone fireplace and Ob headed directly toward it, trailed by Jepson, the Professor and Swimmer.

	The boys looked up from their game and one said: "Get a load of that shape. Gives me the creeps."

	"Yeah," his companion said, and looked at Jepson. "What's she doin' with the rock, boss?"

	Jepson spoke with an offhand, casual tone, keeping his attention on Ob. "Sharrup."

	The boys shrugged and went back to their game.

	Ob knelt at the fireplace, scooped out a small handful of ashes. "Ongh-ongh," she said. She rested the diamond on the hearth, spat into the ashes, kneaded a bit of black mud which she transferred to the diamond. Her horny hands worked the mud into the stone's surface.

	"What's she doon?" Jepson demanded.

	"I'm sure I don't know," the Professor said. "But ongh-ongh appears to be ashes."

	Jepson fixed his attention on the diamond which was now a black-streaked mess. Ob picked it up, walked to the room's east windows. She lifted the diamond to the sun, studied it.

	Yes, she thought, the light of Mighty Fire passed through this stone and was dimmed and cut into strange patterns by the ongh-ongh. She rubbed the stone, removing some of its black cover, wiped her hands on the brown dress, again held the diamond to Mighty Fire. It was as she had expected, the technique taught her bv the Cave Mother. Lines of ongh-ongh on the stone's surface betrayed tiny flaws and these lines provided a fixed reference against which to study the interior contours.

	"I believe this must be some sort of religious prelude to the actual work," the Professor said.

	Swimmer looked at him, glanced at Jepson, then moved up behind Ob. He bent, peered up at the stone in her hands, seeing the coruscating light and the patterns revealed by the ash coating.

	Ob turned, seeing him close there. She ventured a shy smile which was quickly erased as she darted glances at Jepson and the Professor.

	Swimmer straightened, grinned.

	Again, he was rewarded by that shy smile. It gave a momentary lightness to her heavy features.

	"Strange," the Professor said. "Sun worship, very likely. I must delve into her religious beliefs more ..."

	"When's she gonna cut out this crap and get to cutting?" Jepson demanded.

	"Ob. Work," she said.

	She turned, led the way back into the workroom, returned the stone to its square of velvet.

	Swimmer started to move up close, was stopped by a hand gripping his shoulder. He turned, looked up at Jepson.

	"I want you should stay back outa the way, boy," Jepson said.

	Swimmer shivered. He had sensed ultimate rejection in the man's voice.

	A bird chose this moment to sing outside the room's south window: "Willow, will-will, willow."

	Ob looked to the window, smiled. The birdsong was familiar, a voice she understood. He was saying: "This is my ground, my bush." She turned, met Jepson's harsh stare.

	"Cut that damn rock!" Jepson said.

	She cringed. There was death in that voice. She had heard it distinctly.

	The Professor adjusted the spotlight above the bench, touched Ob's arm.

	She looked up, surprised to find fear in his eyes, too. Gruaaack afraid? All was not as it appeared with the devil-gods! Her mind churning, she bent to the stone, rested it in the vise-stand, turned it—gently, precisely—locked it in place. Such wonderful tools they had, these devil-gods.

	Jepson moved around beside the bench where he could command a clear view of her work. He wiped his hands against his sides to remove the perspiration. He had watched cutters at their work before. Time always seemed to stretch out during that first cut—dragging, dragging—while tensions mounted and the cutter drew on the nervous energy to make the single tap ... just right Expecting this, Jepson found Ob's actions stupefying.

IV

	She searched a moment among  the wedges racked on the bench, selected one and rested it on the diamond. She lifted the mallet in her other hand.

	Jepson waited for the long drawn-out positioning and shifting of the wedge. He jumped as she brought the mallet down without changing that first, apparently casual placement.

	Crack!

	A long narrow piece of the Mars diamond fell to the bench. 

	Crack!

	Another, slightly smaller this time. 

	Crack!

	Jepson came out of his shock as a third chip clattered to the bench. "Wait!" he shrieked.

	Crack!

	Ob eased the vise, turned the diamond slightly. 

	Crack!

	"Tell her to wait!" Jepson bleated. Crack!

	The Professor found his voice. "Ob!"

	She turned, still holding mallet and wedge firmly, waited for Gruaaack's command.

	"Stop work," the Professor said.

	Dutifully she lowered her hands.

	Jepson pursed his lips, made a low sound: "Whooooeeee." He picked up the largest chip, turned it in the light. "The rock that couldn't be cut, eh? Whooooeeee." He dropped the chip to the bench, drew a dart pistol from a shoulder holster, pointed it at Swimmer.

	"No hard feelings, Swimmer," he said. "But you are excess baggage. And Uncle Professor needs a lesson that he should do like he's told."

	"You wouldn't!" the Professor whispered.

	Jepson darted a glance at the Professor.

-

	In this instant, Swimmer acted from desperation, leaping sideways and kicking at the gun hand. Muscles hardened from years of swimming slammed the toe of his shoe into Jepson's hand. The gun went pffwt! as it left the hand. A dart buried itself in the ceiling. The gun clattered across the room.

	Ob stood for a frozen second, horrified by Swimmer's action against the devil-god. But she had heard the death in the devilgod's voice and she knew that even the will-will willow bird would attack a human if given enough reason. Why then couldn't a human attack a devil-god?

	As Jepson opened his mouth to call his boys, Ob brought a fist crashing down onto his head. There was a sound like the dropping of a ripe melon and a sharp snap of Jepson's neck broke. He collapsed with a soft thud.

	Swimmer dove for the fallen dart pistol, scooped it up, crouched facing the door to the living room, listening with every sense for a sign that the disturbance had been heard.

	"My word!" the Professor said.

	Only the ordinary sounds of the house penetrated the room—footsteps from one of the bedrooms overhead, the creak of bedsprings, a faucet being turned on, somebody whistling.

	Swimmer turned.

	Ob stood staring down at Jepson. A look of dawning wonder covered her face.

	Swimmer crossed to Jepson, bent, examined him.

	"Dead," he said. He straightened, smiled reassuringly at Ob. It was a reassurance he did not feel, however. "We're in the soup, Uncle," he said. "If any of the boys come in ..."

	The Professor fought down a shudder. "What shall we do?"

	"We have one chance," Swimmer said. "Ob, help me get this carcass behind your bench." He bent, started to drag Jepson's body.

	Gently, Ob brushed him aside, lifted Jepson's body with one hand through the belt. The dead man's head lolled; his arms dragged on the floor.

	Swimmer swallowed, indicated where he wanted the body deposited. They propped Jepson in a corner, moved the bench to conceal him.

	"My word," the Professor whispered. "She's strong as an ox!"

	"Now listen carefully," Swimmer said. "Ob must go right on working as though nothing had happened. I'll try to get into the lake. If I can, once under water, I can get away and bring help." He passed Jepson's dart pistol to the Professor. "Keep this in your pocket. Don't use it unless you have to."

	"This is dreadful," the Professor said.

	"It'll be more dreadful if you don't do this just the way I say," Swimmer rasped. "Now, put that gun in your pocket."

	The Professor gulped, obeyed.

	"Now get her back to work," Swimmer said.

	The Professor nodded, faced Ob. "You ... work ... stone," he said.

	She remained motionless, studying him, wondering at the tone of command the human had used against this devil-god. Could a human command devil-gods?

	"Please, Ob," Swimmer said. "Work the stone."

-

	Something near worship was in her eyes as she looked at Swimmer. "You. Want. Ob. Work?" she asked.

	"You work," Swimmer said. He patted her arm.

	Again, that shy smile touched her mouth. She turned back to the bench and the diamond. "Ob. Work?" she asked.

	Swimmer looked at his uncle. The man's eyes appeared glazed with shock.

	"Uncle?" Swimmer said.

	The Professor shook his head, met Swimmer's eyes with something like attention.

	"If anyone asks for Jep," Swimmer said, "he went for a walk and left you to supervise Ob cutting the rock. Got that?"

	The professor gulped. "I quite understand, Conrad. I must dissemble, tell falsehoods. But do hurry. This is most distasteful."

	Crack!

	Ob chipped another piece from the diamond. 

	Crack!

	Swimmer permitted himself a deep breath. He had no time to be afraid or remember that he was a physical coward. The lives of his uncle and this strangely attractive primitive woman depended on him. He composed his features, slipped out of the room and down the side passage to the kitchen. It was empty, but someone had left a pot of water boiling. A spicy steam odor followed him across the room as he left himself out the back door.

	A soft breeze rustled the pines overhead. He looked up, checked the position of the sun—still forenoon. There was motion along the shore to his right and left—two guards.

	Swimmer forced himself to a casual, strolling pace toward the lake, aiming for a point midway between the guards. A fallen tree reached across the sand into the water there, its dead limbs sprayed out into air and water. He sat down on the sand beside the tree and within inches of the water, tossed a cone into the lake as though in idle play.

	The guards ignored him after one searching glance.

	Swimmer waited, wondering why he found Ob so attractive. He decided at last that she was the only woman who'd ever really looked at him without some degree of revulsion.

	The guards strolled toward him, turned and patrolled away. Both had their backs to him now. Swimmer whipped out his gill mask, brought it down over his head, slipped into the water among the tree's branches, submerged. Years of practice made the action almost noiseless.

	Slowly, he worked himself out into the lake, staying close to the bottom. His permadry suit billowed around him, and he pulled the hidden cords to tighten it.

	Presently he was in deep water. He twisted his shoe heels. Flippers emerged from the toes. With a strong, steady stroke, he struck out for the opposite shore, guiding himself by the compass on the back of his wristwatch.

	Strange emotions churned in him, not the least being a sense of cleansing at the realization that he was cutting himself off from his criminal past. The code was explicit: you did not inform on your fellows—no matter the provocation.

	But he had to inform. Otherwise a woman who was suddenly very important to him might die.

V

	When Swimmer looked back on it, that afternoon which the authorities referred to as "the day we broke up the Jepson Gang" contained shadows of dreamlike unreality criss-crossed with currents of profound immediacy.

	There was the comparative quiet of the lake crossing under water. That was routine and hardly counted. He emerged around a point hidden from the island and there was a brief dogtrot through trees and buckbrush to a dirt track, its sides piled high with duff blown there by skimmer fans. The track led to a rural road where he was picked up by a farm truck with outsize aprons and a hover-blast like a hurricane.

	The face of the farmer failed to register—but his voice, a whining twang, lingered for years, and there was a dark brown mole over the second knuckle of his right hand. It seemed important to Swimmer, reflecting upon it later, that the farmer was hauling a load of cabbage which smelled of fresh dirt.

	Worry over Ob kept Swimmer jittery and on the edge of the truck's seat. The farmer called him "neighbor" and complained about the price of fertilizer. The man asked Swimmer only one question: "Where y' going, neighbor?"

	"To town."

	Town, according to a sign at its edge, was Ackerville, population 12,908. The farmer dropped Swimmer across the street from a tall building which obviously dated from before the turn of the century: It presented a monotonous face of glass and aluminum. A plaque over the entrance revealed that it was the administrative center for Crane County.

	A whistle hooted for noon as Swimmer entered the building and followed arrow signs to the Sheriff's Office. He was to remember the place afterward chiefly for the smell of its halls (pine disinfectant) and the tall, skinny sheriff in a conservative business suit and western hat, who said as Swimmer entered the office:

	"You'd be Conrad Rumel. Ralph Abernathy just called from his truck and said he brought you into town."

	The fact that a farmer in Northern Minnesota could identify him that easily helped Swimmer to understand the terrifying efficiency in which he was abruptly immersed. Armed deputies appeared in the door behind him. They appeared surprised that he carried no weapons. He was hustled into a maple-paneled office that looked out through a wall of windows onto the street corner where the farmer had dropped him.

	Ralph Abernathy. There was no face in his memory to go with the name. Swimmer wondered how he could've ridden in the truck with the farmer and not remember the face.

	Ob! The danger!

-

	The Sheriff wanted to know about the Mars diamond.

	Swimmer had to repeat his story three times for the Sheriff and deputies, another time for a bald, white-bearded fat man identified as the County Prosecutor. They seemed unconcerned about the urgency, kept dragging out new questions.

	Abruptly, there were many more men in the room. Sheriff and County Prosecutor faded into the background.

	The newcomers deferred to Wallace MacPreston, a thin little rail not over five feet two inches tall, iron gray hair and a wide mouth set in a perpetual half-smile that never reached his large blue eyes.

	"I am a special assistant to the President," MacPreston said.

	Swimmer didn't have to ask President of what?

	MacPreston then launched into his own line of questioning. Some were the same questions the Sheriff and deputies had asked, but MacPreston was also concerned about how Swimmer had sunk the Soviet propaganda ship. Was Swimmer aware he'd cracked the ship in half? Had that been his intention? What had guided him in placement of the explosive charges? How large was each charge? Why? What type of detonator? How far had he retreated to avoid the compression shock? What clues in the ship's design had betrayed its weak points? What particular burner had he chosen to cut open the diamond box? Why had he selected that particular time for the operation?

	Gradually, Swimmer grew aware of faces in the crowd around MacPreston. One particularly caught his attention: a square-faced hulk of a man at MacPreston's left—eyes like brown caverns above a hooked nose, dark straw hair wisping away to twin bald spots at the temples. This man betrayed an obvious interest in the details of how Swimmer had sunk the ship.

	But none of these people appeared to grasp the urgency, the danger to Ob ... and Uncle Amino.

	MacPreston went over Swimmer's story ... and over it ... and over it ... and over it.

	The position of the diamond box—how had that guided him in placement of the explosives?

	"Look!" Swimmer suddenly raged. "Don't any of you realize what'll happen if Jepson's boys find out he's dead?"

	"Jepson's boys aren't going anywhere," MacPreston said.

	"But they'll kill Ob  ... and my uncle," Swimmer said.

	"Doubtful," MacPreston said. "Now, about this Ob. You say your uncle picked her up with a time machine?"

	Swimmer had to explain then about the time machine, Jepson's money, about the break-through, the inaccurate controls. With every new question to answer, he could feel time running out for Ob and his uncle.

	"Time machine," MacPreston sneered.

	The hook-nosed man tugged at MacPreston's sleeve. MacPreston looked up, said: "Yeah, Mish?"

	"Outside," the man said. "Wanta talk." They left the room.

-

	More time raced past Swimmer began to lose all hope. MacPreston and his companion returned followed by an Army general and a Ranger colonel. The Colonel was speaking as they entered: "Three hundred and eighty men, counting the single-scooters and manjets, plus the twenty-five flying tanks the Marines are sending; that should do it"

	"What about him?" the General asked, and he nodded toward Swimmer.

	"Rumel goes with us," MacPreston said. "You heard what the President said."

	"We still have three hours of daylight," the Colonel said. "That's plenty of time."

	"Do you need transportation?" the General asked.

	"We'll use our limousine," MacPreston said.

	"Stay high and out of it until we send the signal," the General said. "I don't suppose you're armored."

	"A Presidential limousine—you're joking!" MacPreston said.

	"Yeah, well I still want you out of it until the shooting's over," the General said. "No telling what armament a mob like that'll have."

	"What shooting?" Swimmer asked.

	"We're going in and rescue your uncle and your stone-age woman friend," MacPreston said. He shook his head. "Time machine."

	Swimmer took two deep breaths, said: "You know where they are?"

	"We have a plan of the house from the architect," MacPreston said. He started to turn away, looked back at Swimmer. "One of Mish's boys just handed me the damndest report I've ever seen in my life—from a Professor Elwin in Cambrai, France. You know this Elwin?"

	"I know who he is," Swimmer said. And he stilled his own questions in the hope these people would launch themselves into their promised action.

	"Time machine," MacPreston muttered, but there was awe rather than doubt in his voice.

	Swimmer felt something grab his left wrist, looked down to find the wrist connected by handcuffs to the right wrist of the hooknosed companion—Mish.

	"I'm Mischa Levinsky, CID," the man said, staring hard at Swimmer. "Wanta talk to you sometime, Rumel, about that Mazatlan operation. For one man, that was a dilly."

	CID, Swimmer thought. The President. Army. Rangers. Marines. He had the feeling that he was lost in a mad pinball machine, about to be bounced from bumper to bumper while MacPreston shouted. "Tilt! Tilt! Tilt!"

	"Let's roll it," Levinsky said.

VI

	The combined force dove into the lake island out of the afternoon sun, screaming in like a swarm of angry insects onto an enemy hive. Army armored single-scooters formed a solid ring around the beach perimeter. Marine flying tanks darkened the sky. Leaping Rangers in man-jets popped up and down through the pines.

	To Swimmer, watching from the rear of the limousine which hovered at about seven thousand feet southeast of the scene, the orderly pandemonium was an insane game. He found it difficult to associate any of his own actions with this result. Had it not been for his fear over Ob, Swimmer knew he'd have found the whole thing ludicrous.

	The limousine dropped down to three thousand feet, moved in closer.

	Swimmer glanced at MacPreston on his right. "Are they ...?"

	"Dunno yet," MacPreston said. "Pretty good operation, eh, Mish?"

	"Too damn many of 'em," Levinsky growled. "Wonder they aren't falling all over each other."

	'What do you think, Rumel?" MacPreston asked.

	"What?"

	"Is it a good operation?"

	They're nuts, Swimmer thought. He said: "I agree with Mr. Levinsky. Jepson couldn't have had more than twenty of his men down there ... from my count. I'd have held the armor out farther and gone in with fifty men."

	"Where would you have hit?" MacPreston asked.

	"Right on top of the house."

	Levinsky nodded.

	The limousine dropped to five hundred feet above the lake's southeast shore. Swimmer could hear scattered rifle shots. Each one sent an agony of fear through him.

	Ob ...

	A man-made serenity returned to the island, a shocked silence broken only by faint shouts heard across the hush of water. A line of men with their hands in the air was marched onto the Island's dock through a cordon of single-scooters.

	Something buzzed from the limousine's dash.

	"That's it," MacPreston said. "Let's go."

-

	The limousine slanted in to the patch of open ground beside the chalet. Its hover jets raised a cloud of pine-needle duff that settled slowly after the motors were silenced.

	MacPreston opened his windown, sneezed from the dust.

	A Ranger captain ran up, saluted, spoke through the window. "All secure, sir. Professor Rumel and the—ah—woman are safe in the house."

	Swimmer allowed himself a deep sigh.

	"What were the casualties?" Levinsky demanded.

	"Sir?" The Ranger captain bent to peer in at Levinsky.

	"The casualties!" Levinsky snapped.

	"We have ten wounded, sir. Eight from our own cross-fire. Nothing serious, though. And we killed two of the—uh—men here. Wounded four others."

	MacPreston touched a button beside him. The limousine's bubbletop swung back with a hiss of hydraulic mechanism.

	"Fifty men right on top of the house," Levinsky muttered. "Would've been plenty."

	"Well, Captain," MacPreston said, "bring Professor Rumel and the woman out here. I'm anxious to meet them."

	The Ranger captain fidgeted. "Well, sir ... you know we had orders to handle her and the Professor with kid gloves and we—

	"So bring them out here!" 

	"Sir, the woman refuses to leave her work." 

	"Her work?"

	"Sir, Professor Rumel says she'll take orders only from his nephew there." The Captain nodded toward Swimmer.

	Swimmer absorbed this silently, but with a strong upswing of good humor. He liked this Captain. He liked MacPreston. He liked Levinsky and all this damn fool mob of fighting men. Swimmer was surprised to come out of this reverie and find Levinsky and MacPreston staring at him.

	"What didn't you tell us?" Levinsky asked.

	About Ob working on the diamond, Swimmer thought. He swallowed, said: "I think she likes me."

	"So?" MacPreston said.

	"So that's good," Swimmer said.

	"From the description, she sounds like a freak," MacPreston said. "What's good about it?"

	Swimmer suddenly did not like MacPreston. The emotional reaction was apparently quite evident in the glare Swimmer turned on the Presidential assistant. "Maybe the description's wrong," MacPreston said.

	"Wally," Levinsky said, "why don't you shut up?"

-

	In the embarrassed silence which followed. Swimmer looked at Levinsky, reflecting: Ob a freak? She's no more a freak than I am! So she has extra equipment. In her day, that was an advantage. And it isn't her fault she was snatched out of her day. She didn't ask to be brought here and have people sneer at her. Just because of the way she looks. She's a normal and healthy human female. Probably a lot more normal and healthy than this MacPreston jerk!

	MacPreston, his face flushed with anger, turned to the Ranger captain, said: "She refuses to come out here?"

	"Sir, the Professor insists she'll only take orders from his nephew. I'm ... I hesitate to use force."

	"Why?" MacPreston demanded. "Don't you have enough men for the job?"

	"Sir, there's a bench in there must weigh four hundred pounds. They hid this Jepson behind it. We wanted to move the bench to see if Jepson was really dead. Sir, she lifted that bench with one hand."

	"A four hundred pound bench? With one hand?"

	"Yes, sir. Oh ... and Jepson was really dead, sir. Skull crushed. According to the Professor, she did that with one blow of her fist."

	"Her fist?" MacPreston turned his outraged stare onto Swimmer. "Rumel, what kind of female is that in there?"

	"Just an ordinary, normal woman," Swimmer said.

	"But—"

	"Nothing unusual at all about her!" Swimmer said. "In her day, she may even have been a ninety-seven-pound weakling. She didn't ask to be brought here, MacPreston. She didn't ask to have people pronounce stupid judgments on her appearance."

	MacPreston studied Swimmer's face, noting every detail of it from the low hairline to the vanishing chin. Presently he said: "Sorry, Mr. Rumel. My error."

	Swimmer nodded, thinking: She'll only take orders from me. A crazy elation filled him. He felt his left wrist being lifted by the handcuffs, looked down to see Levinsky unlocking the cuff.

	"Mish, what're you doing?" MacPreston asked.

	"Isn't it obvious?" Levinsky asked.

	"Now, wait a minute, Mish," MacPreston said. "I sympathize with your request, and the President does, too. But there are large obstacles. This man has committed crimes which no other man—"

	"He's the best demolition man I ever met," Levinsky said.

	"But we have the Russians to think about!" MacPreston said unhappily.

	"Well give 'em Jepson," Levinsky said. "Jepson's dead. He can't object ... or dispute our story."

	Swimmer massaged his wrist where the handcuff had been, stared from MacPreston to Levinsky. Their conversation made no sense to him. The Ranger captain, still standing beside the limousine, appeared equally puzzled.

	"But Rumel has been identified!" MacPreston said.

	"So?" Levinsky said.

	"So the Russians'll know he was involved. What use can he be to you after that? He has a face—excuse me, Mr. Rumel, but ifs true—that a Minnesota farmer could identify after seeing it only twice in the newspapers. How could you hide that from the Russians?" 

-

	"Don't be stupid, Wally! I never wanted to use him that way. I want his knowledge, his experience. I want him in the academy."

	"But if we don't hand him over to prosecution with the rest of that mob—"

	"What if we claim he was our agent all along? What if we say he infiltrated the Jepson mob for us?"

	"You said it yourself, Mish. They know who the expert was. They know who sank that boat."

	"So?"

	MacPreston frowned.

	"You heard what the President said," Levinsky said. "If Rumel proves cooperative, and if we deem it advisable after our field investigation—"

	"I don't like it."

	"The Russians won't like it, either. Especially when we give them back their diamond and the Jepson gang, what's left of it."

	"The boat!"

	"We'll apologize about the boat."

	Give them back their diamond, Swimmer thought. Oh, God! And Ob's in there cutting that rock into little pieces!

	"I'll have to think about it," MacPreston said. "Discomfiting the Russians would give me just as much pleasure as it would you. But there are other considerations." He looked up at the Ranger Captain. "Well, what're you standing there for?" 

	"Sir?'

	"Take us to Professor Rumel and this ... woman."

	"Sir, I've ... I think we'd better hurry."

	"Why?"

	"Well, sir, ifs what I've been trying to ... sir, this work she won't leave—she's cutting up that Mars diamond."

	Swimmer had not suspected MacPreston could move that fast. The limousine's door was slammed open. MacPreston grabbed his arm, and they were out and running—up the chalet's front steps with armed men in uniform leaping aside, through the door and into 'the living room.

	Overturned chairs, broken windows, a bullet-splintered wall: all testified to the violence of the attack. A cordon of guards was opened to the hall leading into the workroom.

	MacPreston stopped short. Swimmer bumped into him, was bumped in turn by Levinsky who was right on their heels.

	"That sound," MacPreston said.

	Swimmer recognized it. The sound came from the hallway. 

	Crack! Crack! Crack!

	MacPreston released Swimmer's arm, advanced on the hall like a bull preparing to charge. A nudge from Levinsky sent Swimmer following after. He felt he was being escorted to his execution, and found it odd how their feet kept to the rhythm of Ob's chipping.

	Into the workroom they paraded.

	The place appeared untouched by the military's violence except for a shattered window at their left. Professor Amino Rumel stood beside the window. He turned as his nephew entered, said: "Conrad! Thank heaven you're here. She won't do a thing I say."

-

	MacPreston stopped a good six feet from where Ob was working. He stared at the square brown figure, noting the intense concentration in every line of her back, the play of muscles. Swimmer and Levinsky stopped behind him. 

	Crack! 

	Crack!

	The Professor advanced on Swimmer. "There's been the most dreadful confusion," he said.

	"In heaven's name, Rumel, stop her!" MacPreston rasped.

	"I've tried," the Professor said. "She pays no attention to me."

	"Not you!" MacPreston roared

	Crack!

	The Professor drew himself up, stared at MacPreston. "And who," he asked, "might you be?" He turned oddly pleading eyes on Swimmer. It was obvious that MacPreston had remembered about the four-hundred-pound bench being lifted with one hand.

	Swimmer tried to find his voice. His throat felt as though it had been seared with a hot poker. Slowly he brushed past MacPreston, touched Ob's arm.

	Ob dropped mallet and wedge, whirled on Swimmer with a glare that sent him retreating one quick step. At sight of him, though, a smile stretched her mouth. The smile held a radiant quality that transfixed Swimmer.

	"Ob, you can stop the work now," Swimmer whispered.

	Still smiling, she moved close to him, put a calloused forefinger to his cheek in the silent invitation of the cave, testing the emotion she read on his face. There were no scars on the cheek to count his years—and the skin was so sweetly, excitingly soft ... like one of the Cave Mother's babies. Still, he appeared to understand the fingerplay. He drew her aside, brushed a lock of hair away from her cheek, touched her scars.

	Ob wanted to take his hand, lead him to the bench and show him the work, but she feared to break the spell.

	"Even with the bullets flying around," Professor Rumel said, "she paid no attention. Just went right on, as though—" His voice trailed off. Presently he said: "Dear me. She wouldn't know about bullets."

	Swimmer heard the voice as though it came from a dream. Part of him was aware that MacPreston and Levinsky had gone to the bench, that they were bent over it muttering. What he read on Ob's face made all of that unimportant.

	The words of the Cave Mother came back to Ob: "It's all right to play with the males and sample them, but when the time comes for permanent mating, my magic will tell you which one to choose. You'll know at once."

	How wise the Cave Mother had been to know such a thing, Ob thought. How potent was the Cave Mother's magic!

-

	Swimmer felt that he had come alive, been reborn here in this room, that behind him lay a whole misplaced segment of nonexistence. He wanted to hug Ob, but suspected she might respond with painful vigor. She'd have to be cautioned about her strength before she broke his ribs. He sensed also that she might not have the inhibitions dictated by current culture. He could imagine her reacting with complete abandon if he should kiss her.

	Slowly he pulled away.

	Ob saw his reluctance, thought: He thinks of the devil-gods. We must distract the devil-gods, occupy them with other things. Then perhaps they'll take their thunder-magic elsewhere, and leave mortals to the things which interest mortals.

	But Swimmer had just begun to think about consequences. He found himself filled with wonder that he had never before worried about the legal consequences of his actions. The Mars diamond had attracted him, he realized, because it was a romp, a lark, a magnificent joke. But after what had happened to the rock, MacPreston and Levinsky would have to throw him to the Russians. They couldn't just hand over a mess of chips and say: "Sorry, fellows ... it came apart." Everything had come apart—and Swimmer was struck speechless by fear of what might happen to Ob.

	Consequences no longer could be ignored. Levinsky and MacPreston were engaged in a heated argument.

	"This is a catastrophe, I tell you!" MacPreston said.

	"Wally, you're being an ass," Levinsky said.

	"But what can we tell the Russians?"

	Exactly, Swimmer thought. What can we tell the Russians?

	"That's just it," Levinsky said. "This prehistoric female has solved that problem for us. She's made us a propaganda weapon we can parade before the whole world!"

	"You'd just—'

	"Certainly! There isn't a person in the world who'll fail to get the point." Levinsky lowered his voice. "The uncuttable diamond, don't you see? And we can say we planned it this way. We give 'em the Jepson gang and—" He pointed to something hidden by MacPreston's body. "... and an object lesson."

-

	Swimmer found himself overcome by curiosity. He headed for the bench, but Ob darted ahead, shouldered MacPreston aside and turned with something glistening in her hands.

	"Ob. Work," she said. "For ... you."

	With a sense of shock and awe, Swimmer accepted the object from her, understanding then what Levinsky had meant by "object lesson."

	The thing Ob had fashioned from the Mars diamond was a spearhead—delicately balanced and with exquisite workmanship. It lay in Swimmer's hands, warm and glittering.

	"You ... want?" Ob asked.

The End