World with no name. Green it was. Green and gravid. It lay supine in a sea of sibilant Jet, a festering emerald in the universe -- ocean. 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 thought -- not 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- 1 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 II 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 brave -- or 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 3 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 5 his scent to whatever was making its ponderous way downward. A last loud crunching of parted vegetation, and the vertical traveler showed himself -- a 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 apart 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. 6 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. 8 "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 10 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 11 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 bone -- just 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 grazer -- it was already beginning to smell -- from Ruumahum's back, slid the hulk onto the branch. 12 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 dead -- dry 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- 13 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... ?" 14 "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 do -- even 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 15 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 above 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 16 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 curiosity -- or madness, if one believed many of his fellows -- pulled 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. 17 III They reached the barrier well before darkness. In front of them, the hylaea seemed to become a single tree -- the 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 Level -- the village level -- forming 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 law -- and a good law for survival -- that 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 20 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- 22 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. 23 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 24 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 man -- perhaps 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 25 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 beyond 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?" 26 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 leaf -- no, 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 Man -- then 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 29 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 30 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 party -- six 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 originator -- Born -- 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 31 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 cumulus -- the blue of the Upper Hell. Below -- he gripped the liana ever tighter -- below 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- 32 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 twins -- Talltree, 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 33 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 34 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 resolve 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?" 35 "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. 36 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! IV 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 37 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." 38 "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 serve -- a 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. 39 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